#and he's been waiting for this moment for a long time

[papayainsectorone]

Just The Two Of Us.

summary: a night of dancing and too much alcohol dredges up old (?) feelings and unresolved tension between you and lando, blurring the line between history and heat as a single moment threatens to unravel everything you’ve both been trying not to want

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, alcohol / intoxication, mutual (?) pining, soft angst, sexual tension, drunken vulnerability, thigh riding, drunk confessions, soft horny chaos

word count: 5,5k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

It’s been weeks.

Weeks since that night at the bar. Since you walked away with Charles and Lando just… let you. Since whatever that moment was between you all evaporated into the haze of alcohol, music, and unspoken choices.

Lando never brought it up.

Not once.

He never asked what happened with Charles, never made a comment, never let anything slip—except for the way he looked at you a little differently for a few days after. Like he was trying to piece something together and never quite figured out how to ask the question. Or maybe he just didn’t want the answer.

But after that? Things fell back into place.

Sort of.

The banter returned, light and easy. Familiar. You still teased each other over your tragic snack choices and made sarcastic comments about each other’s Spotify queues. There were late-night kitchen run-ins, the occasional movie half-watched together, and the same dumb inside jokes passed between you like muscle memory.

But everything now had Charlotte’s name quietly folded into it.

Her toothbrush was in the bathroom sometimes. Her perfume lingered in the hallway when she left. There were missed calls on his phone from her. Her laughter on speaker when he’d answer mid-conversation with you. She was never intrusive, never rude, always warm and friendly when you crossed paths but she was there.

And so you drifted again.

Still close, but no longer the center of each other’s gravity.

But one Thursday night, he brought it up casually, like it was nothing.

Lando leaned against the counter, half a slice of toast in one hand, his phone glowing on the table beside him.

“Oh—hey,” he said, glancing over. “Remember the DJ I wanted to take you to see?”

You looked up from your laptop, distracted. “The one from the night I violently started vomiting?”

That’s what you said out loud.

What you thought was: The one from the night you met Charlotte.

He nodded, grinning. “Yeah. He’s back this weekend. Playing that same club. Charlotte’s out of town—family thing—so I thought, you know… maybe you’d want to go?”

You blinked. “With you?”

“Well yeah,” he said, shrugging. “We haven’t properly been out together in a while.”

You opened your mouth to say no. You were ready to. The excuse was half-formed, something about being tired or having plans or just not being in the mood. But then you looked at him.

The way he was smiling, not the flashy kind he used with everyone else. Just quiet. Hopeful. Familiar.

It tugged something loose in your chest. Something softer.

And you realized how long it had been since it was just the two of you. Since the night was only yours, not divided by subtext or someone else’s presence. Just Lando. Just you.

“Okay,” you said, slower than you meant to. “Yeah, let’s go.”

His whole face lit up. “Yeah? Sick.”

He was already unlocking his phone, tapping away excitedly, like this was something he’d been waiting on for longer than he let on.

And for a second, you let yourself feel it too.

The anticipation. The comfort. The possibility of something that used to be yours.

Even if it wasn’t anymore.

And when Saturday came arround, you didn’t set out to get that drunk.

It started small. Innocent. A night out that felt overdue—just the two of you again, no lingering tension, no third presence hovering over your shoulder. Something that might feel like old times, even if it wasn’t.

The air was stiff at first. Not cold exactly, just... cautious. Like you both were waiting to see who would make the first move, who would laugh first, tease first, act like nothing had changed.

But the moment you really realized Charlotte wasn’t there and wasn’t even mentioned, something in you loosened. You let the tightness in your chest go slack. Just a little.

Lando’s voice was familiar. His jokes were predictable and comforting. His eyes, bright and warm and pointed only at you, felt like home again.

Then came the drinks. Just one each. Then a second. Then shared shots, the kind you never liked but took anyway, because he handed it to you with that grin and you didn’t want to be the reason it faded.

Then the music got louder. The lights got blurrier.

And you started to feel good. Really good.

The kind of good that makes you forget the ache in your chest. The kind that makes it easy to smile without thinking. Easy to dance without worrying where his hands aren’t.

Easy to believe that maybe none of this is as complicated as it’s become.

The place was packed, pulsing with heat and the blurred lines of strangers dancing too close. You moved through it all like someone trying to shake something off. The vodka burned, but it helped. The music was too loud, but it gave your thoughts somewhere to hide. People laughed, flirted, spilled drinks, and it all melted into a blur around the edges.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was him.

Lando looked stupidly good. The kind of good you tried not to notice anymore. His shirt clung in all the right places, curls damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from the mix of dancing and liquor. His laugh was even louder than usual, a little reckless. Real.

And you hated how much it got to you.

At one point, he leaned close to say something, and his hand found the small of your back. Familiar, casual. But you felt it everywhere. You didn’t pull away.

And maybe that was the beginning of the end.

You’d missed that version of him. The one who laughed without checking himself, who let the music move through him like it belonged there. The version of him that reached for your hand without hesitation, eyes bright and mouth already curved into a grin before you even made it to the dance floor.

“You remember this song?” he yelled over the heavy thump of the speakers, his fingers tightening around yours as he pulled you into the mess of bodies.

You stumbled forward, laughter bubbling up before you could stop it. The alcohol made everything feel slightly off balance, spinning, sliding, but somehow safer in his orbit. “Of course I remember. You played it on a loop that summer.”

“I did not,” he protested, already grinning like he knew you were right.

“You did,” you insisted, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Three weeks. Same stupid song. I wanted to break your speaker.”

He raised his eyebrows, spinning you once with a dramatic flair. You wobbled, giggling, and crashed into him. His hands caught your hips to steady you, lingering just a second too long. “It’s a classic. Can’t argue with art.”

“You’re so full of it,” you said, still breathless.

“Drunk me is confident,” he corrected, swaying with you as the beat shifted to something heavier, deeper. His body moved closer, hands hovering but not quite touching now, the ghost of muscle memory dancing just beneath the skin.

“I said cocky,” you teased, looking up at him through lashes that felt too heavy.

He shrugged with a crooked smile. “Same thing.”

The air grew thicker with heat and sweat and perfume, the kind of charged closeness that made it hard to breathe but impossible to pull away from. Around you, people danced in a blur of limbs and laughter, but your focus narrowed. Just him. Just this.

You didn’t notice when your body curved back into his, only that it felt right. Familiar. Like falling into a rhythm your body hadn’t forgotten, even if your mind had tried. His chest pressed against your spine, hands still tentative, but closer now. Testing the distance.

His breath brushed your ear. “You’re dangerous like this,” he said, low enough to be private, words already slurred from the alcohol “You dance like you know someone is watching.”

The words sent a ripple down your spine. You turned in his arms, slow and deliberate, until you were facing him, nothing but inches between you. You tilted your chin up slightly, meeting his gaze head-on.

“And you talk like you forgot we’re not doing this anymore,” you said, voice even, but your pulse was anything but.

For a beat, he didn’t respond. Just stared, expression unreadable except for the subtle flick of his eyes to your mouth. His fingers twitched where they hovered at your waist, like he was trying to decide if he could cross that line again. Just once.

The moment stretched, pulsing in time with the music. His eyes darkened, parted lips like he might speak, or do something else entirely.

And then someone stumbled past, jostling your shoulder. A splash of liquid hit your arm. Someone swore. You stepped back instinctively.

The spell broke. The music kept going, but something between you stopped.

It was already clear Lando had passed the threshold long before you'd left the club. Inside, he’d been leaning on you between songs, mumbling nonsense into your ear, slurring the end of every sentence like it was a secret. His eyes had lost their usual sharpness, replaced with that wide, glassy look that meant he’d stopped keeping track of how much he drank.

And when he threw his head back and yelled across the bar for “just one more round!”, you knew he was gone.

But it wasn’t until the cold air hit your faces that it really sunk in.

It slammed into you both like a wall, sobering and spinning at the same time. The night outside was harsh and too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring after hours of music pounding through your chest.

Lando blinked hard. Wobbled once. Then let out a groan so low and pitiful you almost laughed again. “Oh no,” he muttered, eyes big and terrified like he’d just remembered gravity existed. “I don’t like this.”

You swayed slightly, vision swimming, trying to focus on the street signs. “You’re fine. Just keep walking. It’s not that far to the taxis.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” he whispered urgently. “Are they still attached?”

“They’re attached. One foot in front of the other.”

“I feel like I’m floating. But in, like, a bad way.”

He sagged heavily against your side, nearly dragging you both off the curb.

“You’re the best,” he muttered, lips brushing your shoulder, “but I still want chips.”

“I know,” you said, pulling him toward the curb. “We’ll find you chips. And maybe an exorcist.”

You were barely holding it together yourself. Your head was full of cotton, your mouth dry, legs wobbly beneath you. But you kept going. Because someone had to. And tonight, it wasn’t going to be him.

The cab ride was a miracle.

It smelled like kebabs and stale beer, the kind of sticky, sour stench that clung to your clothes. Lando collapsed the second he was in, sprawling across the backseat like a drunk prince. His head found your shoulder automatically, and his arm flopped across your lap, heavy and hot.

He sighed, a deep, content sound that tugged at something in your chest.

Then he mumbled something “ketchup”, maybe “curry sauce”. Or maybe your name. You weren’t sure. You didn’t want to be sure.

His eyes stayed shut, but the faintest smile curled at the corners of his mouth. The kind of smile that only ever showed up when he felt safe. Like this. With you.

Your stomach twisted.

You stared out the window, streetlights blurring past like stars falling sideways. The world was still spinning, but slower now. Quieter. Almost peaceful, if you didn’t think too hard about the weight of his hand on your knee.

When the cab finally slowed to a stop outside the flat, you nudged him gently. “Lando,” you whispered, shaking his shoulder. “We’re home.”

He groaned in protest and buried his face in your coat. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled, then threw one arm dramatically over his eyes like he was playing dead.

You sighed, the kind of sigh that came from the soles of your feet. Exhausted. Amused. A little exasperated.

“Come on, Lando.”

He slumped deeper into the cab seat. “Nooooo.”

“Get. Up.”

“Carry me,” he said without shame, eyes shut, arms flopping out like a child asking for a piggyback ride.

You half-laughed, half-groaned, already climbing out of the car. “You are literally all limbs. You’re a human octopus.”

But despite his dramatic protest, he tried to stand—sort of. Wobbled to his feet with the grace of a baby deer and immediately swayed into you. You looped an arm around his waist, feeling the full, ridiculous weight of him as he leaned into your side like you were gravity itself.

Getting him across the pavement was a comedy of errors. Every few steps, he muttered something new: a complaint, a question, a half-coherent lyric. “It’s freezing,” he whined. “I’m dying. You know, I think I miss my bed more than I’ve ever missed anything. And do we have crisps? Wait—wait. Do you have crisps?”

“You’re ridiculous,” you hissed, breath fogging in the cold. “Shut up and walk.”

“I’m charming,” he corrected with great effort, slurring it into something closer to shar-ming as he bumped his forehead against yours. “Also… I love your hair.”

You faltered.

“What?”

“Just sayin’,” he said, the words thick and sweet. “It’s soft. Like—like clouds.”

Your mouth went dry. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Finally—miraculously—you got the door open. The apartment greeted you with dim, golden light and that faint scent that was always there.

Lando nearly fell inside, catching himself with one hand on the wall before staggering upright. “I’m good,” he said to absolutely no one, then gestured grandly down the hallway like he was a knight returning from battle. “Bed. Now.”

He took off with a crooked gait, zigzagging like he was dodging invisible obstacles. You followed out of instinct more than anything, watching him collapse face-first onto his bed, limbs sprawled at impossible angles. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes.

“Lando,” you mumbled, pulling at your own boots, swaying a little. “Shoes. Off.”

“I can’t,” he whined, rolling onto his back. His voice went high and needy. “You do it. Please? I’m just a little drunk boy.”

You dropped to your knees at the edge of the bed, hands fumbling for his laces with what limited dexterity you had left. The room tilted slightly around you as you tried to focus.

Above you, there was a soft metallic clink. Then the subtle slide of leather on denim.

You paused. “Lando, what are you doing?”

A beat of silence.

“You said to get undressed.”

You looked up, then immediately rolled your eyes.

His belt was halfway undone, his jeans unbuttoned, his shirt half-off in the most chaotic, tangled mess you’d ever seen. He looked like someone who’d lost a fight with his own clothing.

“I said take of your shoes, you idiot.”

But he was grinning now. Slow. Lazy. His elbows propped him up enough to look down where you knelt at the edge of the bed, between his legs. Curls messy, eyes half-lidded and locked on you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, soft and low. “What a view.”

You blinked, heart stuttering.

Because his voice wasn’t teasing. Not really.

And neither was the way he was looking at you.

Your hands were still tangled in the laces of his second shoe, knuckles brushing against the fabric of his jeans, your body swaying ever so slightly from the haze of alcohol. You were kneeling between his legs—flushed, breathless, hair falling over your face in loose strands. A mess. But not the kind you cared to fix right now.

You giggled, quiet and nervous, trying to shake off the tension wrapping around your spine like a coiled wire. “You’re drunk,” you said, voice unsteady, caught somewhere between amusement and something far more dangerous.

Lando groaned in response, collapsing back onto the mattress with all the weight of someone who’d decided that gravity was now in charge. His arms flopped outward, one draped dramatically off the side of the bed, the other dragging lazily down the middle of his chest. The mattress springs gave a long, creaking sigh beneath him.

Then his hand stilled—paused low on his stomach, his crotch to be fair.

You froze.

Your eyes followed the subtle shift of his fingers as they drifted downward, slow, unhurried, until they pressed against the front of his jeans. Just a simple adjustment. Natural. Absentminded. Adjusting the obvious buldge.

He exhaled, low and slow, like the weight of his own touch had ignited something he wasn’t ready to name. His fingers lingered, just for a second too long. And you were still kneeling there. Still watching.

Your breath caught like a tripwire.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “You know…” he began, his voice gravel-rough and dipped in sleep and liquor and something els, something unmistakably want. “I could just… see your lips wrapped around me. Right there.”

He said it like a confession, not a line. Not tossed with bravado or smirked with smug satisfaction.

It landed like a punch in the chest.

Your body went still. The air in the room shifted, sucked out of it and replaced with something dense. Electric.

You stared at him, stunned, not because of what he said, but because of how it made you feel. The way it shot straight through you, molten and reckless.

And without a word, you stood.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just slow, deliberate, your knees unfolding, rising to your feet with shaky grace. You stayed between his legs, your body towering over him now, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.

He didn’t move.

For a terrifying second, you thought maybe he had passed out. That all of it—all of him—was already slipping away again. Just another foggy memory you’d try not to touch later.

But then, his lashes fluttered. His head tilted forward. His hands found your waist like muscle memory, fingers warm and unsteady, gripping you like he didn’t trust the room to stay still. It took effort, but he sat up, blinking through the haze until his eyes locked on yours.

And then he was there.

Right there.

Face level with your chest, his chin resting between your boobs while looking up at you through his lashes. Your shirt had slipped lower than you realized, the neckline gaping just enough for his gaze to catch on bare skin. His lips parted, eyes dark and unblinking, and something in the air cracked under the weight of it.

This wasn’t the look of someone flirting.

This was hunger. Unfiltered. Slow-burning.

He tilted his chin up slightly, mouth open, like he was already breathing you in. And his hands—god, his hands—tightened on your waist, not pulling, just holding, like you were the only stable thing in a world that wouldn't stop spinning.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, voice hoarse and reverent.

Your stomach knotted. Everything pulsed.

The room felt thick, too hot, your heart hammering in your throat. You couldn’t tell if the heat in your cheeks came from the alcohol or the way his eyes were dragging over you like he was memorizing every exposed inch.

“Lando…” you whispered. It wasn’t loud. Barely there. Like even saying his name might snap the fragile thread of tension between you.

But he heard you.

His eyes snapped back to yours. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t look confused. He didn’t look careless.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. It was like he’d already decided. Like your voice saying his name only confirmed something that had already started unfolding the second the club door closed behind you.

His fingers—warm, unsteady—brushed up your back, trailing lazily over the thin fabric of your shirt. The motion was soft, almost absentminded, like he was just touching to remember what you felt like. Then he dragged one hand across your side, curling around your ribs. The contact made you shiver.

“You look so good in this,” he mumbled, voice rough and low—drunk, slurred.

Then his fingers dipped forward, brushing across your chest. Not grabbing. Just a slow sweep through the valley of your breasts, knuckles grazing delicate skin like he wasn’t even fully aware he was doing it.

You exhaled, sharp.

His eyes flicked up again, meeting yours.

You didn’t stop him.

There was a long moment where nothing happened and everything did, your breath shallow, your thighs tightening, your hands flexing uselessly at your sides.

He got impatient, hands sliding down to your hips before tugging you down onto his thigh. The motion was clumsy, uncoordinated, but it lit a spark in your gut all the same. Now straddling him, your legs bracketed his thigh, your body pressed close—closer than it had been in weeks.

His thigh pressed between yours, firm and warm, the denim rough against your skin. The pressure made you gasp, a quiet, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out. He heard it anyway. Smirked.

His eyes trailed from the neckline of your shirt up to your face, pupils blown wide and unfocused and then he was touching you again, fingertips brushing your cheek, slipping around to the nape of your neck. You froze, breath hitched, a pulse thudding between your ribs.

He looked at you like he was about to say something. But he didn’t. He just pulled you in, his mouth crashing against yours.

You kissed him back like you were starving.

His groan rumbled low in his throat as his hand tightened at your waist, pulling you flush to him. The kiss was messy, all teeth and heat and unspoken feelings bursting to the surface. His other hand threaded into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen it. You could taste the alcohol on his tongue, could feel the weeks of silence and missed moments pouring out of him and into you.

It was overwhelming and perfect and reckless.

You didn’t even realize you were moving at first.

It was slow—barely anything at all—but the friction caught instantly, your body shifting against the line of his thigh, your breath stuttering. His hands gripped you tighter, like he felt it too, a low sound slipping from his throat again, half moan, half curse.

You broke the kiss, lips parting as you pulled back just a little, your mouth still open, breathing him in. His lips were kiss-swollen, his eyes dark and glazed and fixed entirely on you.

What were you doing?

The thought flashed—brief, sharp—but it was buried under the weight of his hands, the warmth of him underneath you, the alcohol roaring in your bloodstream like a permission slip you didn’t need. All the silence. All the pretending. All of it collapsed into this moment that didn’t feel like a mistake yet.

And then—soft, urgent, not quite a plea—he said it:

“Don’t stop.”

It was barely more than a whisper, but it landed like a strike.

You didn’t.

Your hips tilted again, slow and uncertain, chasing that pressure, feeling the flex of his thigh through his jeans and the heat building in your own body.

His hands slipped lower—slow, possessive—until one settled firmly at your hip, the other sliding down to grab your ass, fingers curling in a way that made you gasp. He pulled you harder against him, guiding your movement with an unspoken rhythm that had your whole body humming.

The friction turned sharper, needier. Your breath caught in your throat.

You leaned in again before you could think better of it.

Mouths crashed. No hesitation now, no teasing—just tongue and teeth and heat, wet and messy and drunk. His hand gripped you tighter, pulling your body flush against his. You rocked down into him, your hips rutting against his thigh, the pressure between your legs maddening.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow.

But it was exactly what it had to be.

Neither of you spoke. There was nothing to say. Just the slap of mouths and the low groan in his throat as your nails scraped lightly over the back of his neck, as your lips dragged down to his jaw and he let out your name.

You barely noticed when you both tipped backwards, the mattress catching you in a clumsy sprawl. Lando grunted beneath you, his hands never leaving your body as your knee lifted, leg swinging over to straddle him properly now. You steadied yourself with your palms on his chest, breath ragged, hair slipping into your face.

For a beat, you just sat there, spine arching as your hips rolled down, your thin thong still catching friction against the rough denim of his jeans.

His hands gripped your waist harder.

You sat up slowly, heart hammering and peeled your shirt off, casting it somewhere into the darkened room. His eyes were locked on your body, mouth open, chest rising and falling fast.

Your skirt had already rucked up to your hips, forgotten. There was nothing left but that barely-there thong, stretched tight between your thighs, and the heavy line of him beneath you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice thick with disbelief, hunger, awe. His fingers flexed, holding you like you might vanish.

You leaned forward again, hands braced against his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart through your palms. Then lower. Fingers dragging down to the buckle he’d half-undone earlier in some drunken, distracted haze.

He twitched beneath you as your knuckles brushed over him, still restrained beneath denim but so obviously hard now. His eyes fluttered, head tilting back into the pillow.

“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes meeting yours again, all glassy and unguarded.

Your fingers moved slowly at first, slipping beneath the open leather of his belt and trailing down to the place where his warm skin met the rough denim. His breath hitched as you brushed along the line of his hipbone, teasing just above the waistband.

Then he lifted his hips with a drunken urgency, clumsy but determined, shoving jeans and boxers down in one go. The motion made you gasp, half in surprise, half in something deeper. He reached up, pulling at the sides of your thong at the same time, dragging the thin fabric down your legs with a groan, not even trying to be careful.

You helped, just enough. And then his legs kicked out beneath you, tangled clothes gone, skin warm against yours, bare now in a way that made your breath stall in your throat.

As he fell back again, you reached for his shirt—fingers fumbling with the buttons, working them free one by one, trailing your finger tips over the skin you uncovered. He was flushed, warm, and trembling slightly beneath your touch.

Then he stilled.

His hips settled again, and you were sitting fully on top of him now, the heat of your bare skin pressed down against him. His length nestled right between your folds, your lips parting on either side of him and it was obscene how clearly you could feel him.

Every inch. Every ridge. Every slow, pulsing throb.

You weren’t moving yet. Just breathing.

And he wasn’t saying a word. Just staring up at you with wide eyes and parted lips, like he couldn’t believe this was happening either.

You moved again, slow, unsteady, your hips tilting as the friction sparked another moan low in his throat. His hands gripped your waist tighter, dragging you down until your lips met again, even messier now, full of teeth and breath and need.

Then, in one dizzy motion, he rolled, flipping you beneath him with a half-laugh, half-groan, barely managing to brace himself on one elbow beside your head. The other arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you close, keeping you there.

His body hovered over yours, heat pressed to heat. You could feel him, right there, poised, waiting.

Lando looked down at you, eyes glassy and wide, his curls damp against his forehead. He searched your face like he wasn’t even sure this was real.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

He pressed forward, slow at first like he didn’t trust himself not to rush it. His hands gripped your hips like a tether, grounding him in the moment even as the rest of him trembled. You felt the stretch, the heat, the deep pull of him inside you, and your breath caught sharply. His mouth parted around a broken sound—barely a gasp, almost reverent.

And then he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

His eyes were glassy, yes, but there was something almost sober in the way he met your gaze.

You cupped his face, fingers slipping through sweat-damp curls, and he leaned into the touch like it was the only thing keeping him steady. “You okay?” you whispered, voice cracking around the edges.

He nodded, forehead pressed to yours, lips ghosting over your cheek as he moved deeper. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You?”

You nodded too. Because you were.

The rhythm was messy, offbeat and drunken but there was something devastatingly earnest in the way he held you, kissed you, clung to you like this was something he’d been starving for. Like your body was the first place he’d felt whole in weeks. His hands moved constantly: down your back, over your ribs, threading into your hair like he couldn’t touch enough, couldn’t get enough. Every time your breath hitched, every time you whispered his name, he answered like a prayer.

Not rushed. Not careless. Just undone.

Your hips rocked together, not perfectly, but with a building desperation that made it real. Your thighs trembled him, his grip tightening when you whimpered and he kissed you again, sloppy, open-mouthed, too much teeth. You didn’t care. You kissed him like you needed it to stay alive.

He whispered something then, your name, maybe, or a curse, or please. You didn’t catch all of it, just the weight of it, the way it split his voice open.

Your climax hit slowly, like your body was realizing it in pieces, rippling up your spine before washing through your limbs. You buried your face in his shoulder, breath breaking against his skin, clinging to him like you’d fall apart otherwise.

He came after, head thrown back, jaw slack, a sound falling from his throat like it had nowhere else to go. One hand held the back of your neck. The other wrapped around your waist, like if he let go you’d both come undone.

But he didn’t let go.

Not even when your bodies stilled. Not even when the heat ebbed into afterglow and your breath began to steady. He stayed with you, his chest pressed to yours, his hand curled at the base of your spine, holding you like something fragile. Sacred.

After it was over, the room settled into a heavy, almost reverent silence. You lay there, the warmth of his body molding against yours, his arm draped protectively around your waist while the other rested gently across your chest and shoulders. The rise and fall of his breath gradually slowed, matching the steady rhythm of your own.

He nuzzled his head softly into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. It was a quiet kind of intimacy—slow, unspoken, raw in a way that made your chest ache.

Not like the other nights.

Not like the hurried kisses and tangled sheets and the silence that always followed, when you'd slip away before the sun touched the windows. When he'd turn his back or mumble something half-asleep and you'd pretend it didn’t hollow you out.

Those nights were physical. Fleeting. Always burning out before morning.

But this—this closeness—was different. He hadn’t let go. Hadn’t pulled away. His arm stayed wrapped around your waist like a tether, his nose brushing against your skin like he needed to feel you to stay grounded.

You didn’t quite know what had just happened. Part of you understood perfectly, yet another part felt suspended, caught between clarity and confusion.

Your hand found his forearm, fingers curling lightly around the soft skin, anchoring you to the moment. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things.

Then, barely more than a whisper, you broke it.

“Lan.”

A low groan, almost sleepy, came as a response. “Hm.”

You weren’t sure if he was still awake or already drifting away.

Gathering a quiet courage, you whispered again, “I love you.”

No answer. Just the faint sound of his breathing against your neck, steady and slow.

i literally said sorry in advance, pls don´t come for me

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[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (9) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F ! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: You and Michael now live parallel lives—close in distance but distant as strangers. After a school field trip to the zoo, you get injured and are rushed to the Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center, straight to Michaels ER.

Word: 4971

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50s), Head Injury (Factured Skull), Bleeding from the ear, and Vomiting

Authors Note: Hello! Thank you for all the love on the last part. Lol I love seeing your guys comments and reactions. They crack me upppp. Couple more parts and this fic with come to a end🥲. Depending on season 2 maybe I'll write a spin off/Continuation of some sort 🤨??? or maybe I'll leave a good thing be. Idk this is all up in the air and just ideas. If I did continue it won't be until next year YIKES. Long way from now. But if you guys want it i'll prob do it lol very much a people pleaser 😭 also determined to finsihed eyes on me lol okay anyway. enjoy!!! - ryn

3 Months Later

Since that day—that morning where it ended—you and Michael had kept your distance. It wasn’t easy. Living across the hall meant you still saw each other constantly. You crossed paths in the elevator, passed in the lobby, caught glimpses through cracked doors. But it was different now. Cautious. Careful. The warmth was gone.

It was like reverting back to how things were in the beginning—only worse. Not acquaintances. Less than that. Strangers.

There were no more lingering glances, no more easy conversations or shared errands. No more moments where he helped you without being asked, like he just knew. Now it was all stiff nods and the occasional muttered “hey” or “hi,” as if everything between never happened or existed.

Your lives—once a single, tangled line—had split. Still running close, still crossing the same thresholds, but no longer connected. Now they moved in parallel. Close enough to feel, never close enough to touch.

You missed him. Not just being around him—but him. The version only you knew. The one who stayed late, who looked out for you, who let his guard down when it was just the two of you.

Now, it was like he barely looked your way. Just quick hellos, if that. And even those felt heavy.

Still, every time you saw him, you wondered if he missed you too.

And maybe—just maybe—you knew he missed you too.

But neither of you said a word.

Michael had been the first person to remind you what it felt like to be truly cared for. Losing that connection hurt deeply. But even without him, you were learning how to stand on your own. You are in a better place

After years stuck in a toxic, neglectful relationship with Aiden, you finally chose yourself. No more waiting to be seen or heard. You were rebuilding, piece by piece—stronger, quieter, more certain.

It was something Michael said the last time you saw him that stayed with you. His voice was calm but firm: “You need to figure yourself out. Really figure it out. What you want, what you feel… why you push people away when they treat you the way you deserve. Because if you don’t, you’re just going to keep hurting the people who care about you.”

Those words gave you the push you needed to walk away.

After breaking up with Aiden, the silence was deafening at first. No shouting, no blame, no empty promises—just quiet. And for once, that quiet felt like space you could breathe in, not suffocate.

You weren’t completely free yet. There were days when memories clawed at you, when loneliness crept in like a shadow. But with each morning you woke up without him, you felt a little stronger. A little more whole.

And Michael? Seeing him after everything—it wasn’t easy. There was a tension, a distance between you that hadn’t been there before. You still felt guilty for how things ended with him. But beneath it all, you knew one thing: his words had helped you find yourself again. Even if your connection had changed, that truth remained.

—

This morning, you had left your apartments at the same time, walking side by side in silence. No words. No eye contact. Just the sound of your footsteps echoing down the hallway—too close, too quiet.

He let you step into the elevator first, then slipped into his usual corner—like always. The space between you felt heavier than it should’ve in such a small box.

And every time you rode the elevator with him now, your mind drifted back to that morning. The one where everything shifted. The one where he had looked at you like he couldn’t wait another second. Where his hands trembled on your skin and nothing else existed. That morning where—for a moment—you both stopped pretending.

Now, you only pretended. Pretended not to miss it. Pretended not to look at him out of the corner of your eye. Pretended he wasn’t right there, close enough to touch, but choosing not to.

Then, suddenly—you don’t know why—you turned your head and glanced at him over your shoulder.

“Good morning,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, a small, uncertain smile on your lips.

Michael stood there, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, AirPods in. He didn’t respond. Didn’t nod. Normally, he’d say hello—or at least acknowledge you—but today wasn’t one of those days.

Maybe he hadn’t heard you.

But he had.

Because the truth was, he missed you. Every time he saw you, felt your presence so close yet unreachable, it tore at something inside him.

But talking—to break the silence—meant opening a door he wasn’t sure he could close. It meant risking everything he’d been trying to hold together.

The silence in that elevator was suffocating.

The doors slid open.

You stepped out first, heart pounding, words caught in your throat. By the time the two of you made it through the lobby and out to the street, you found yourself saying, “Have a good day.”

Still, he ignored you.

Without a word, he turned and walked in the opposite direction.

—--

It had been a good day.

There was a field trip to the Philadelphia Zoo, and the fifth graders had been buzzing with excitement since they got off the bus. They darted from exhibit to exhibit in loose clusters, calling out animal facts they half-remembered from class, pointing at the gorillas, giggling at the flamingos, and dramatically gagging when they passed smelly enclosures. 

You smiled through the chaos, constantly scanning the crowd, reminding them to walk—not run—while answering a steady stream of “Can we go there next?” and “Do we have to stay with our buddy?”

By the time the group began gathering near the exit to prepare for departure, the kids were hot, tired, and still somehow full of energy—trading animal facts, snacks, and complaints about the long walk back to the bus.

You turned to check on one of your students—and your foot caught on a backpack left sprawled across the pavement.

You didn’t even have time to brace yourself.

You went down hard.

Your head hit the ground with a sickening crack.

Everything went black for a moment.

You passed out for a few minutes before slowly waking up. When your eyes opened, your other 5th grade teachers and your students gathered around you, worried. 

A sharp pain pulsed through your head. When you touched the side of your face, your fingers came away wet—your ear was bleeding.

You tried to sit up, but your body felt heavy and unsteady. Panic flickered in your chest.

“Are you okay, Miss?” a student asked, voice trembling.

You forced a small, shaky smile. “I’ll be okay,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure.

One of the teachers noticed the blood coming from your ear when you touched it. They knew something was wrong—you needed to get to the hospital.

You tried to protest, insisting you were fine, but the other teachers wouldn’t hear it. Their concern was firm—they knew you needed medical attention. They called an ambulance, and took care of your kids as you headed to the hospital.

“Okay, we’re headed to PTMC,” the driver said to his partner in the back with you.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. No. You didn’t want to go there. Michael worked there.

“What? N-no, can’t you take me to Allegheny?” you asked, your voice shaking as you glanced up at the paramedic trying to stem the bleeding from your ear.

“Miss, PTMC is closer. Allegheny is too far,” the paramedic replied, his tone calm but unyielding.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit you hard. Before you could stop it, you threw up—your body reacting to the pain and shock.

The paramedics quickly handed you a bag, their expressions gentle but focused. Your head throbbed fiercely, and the thought of seeing Michael at PTMC made the room feel even more overwhelming.

You swallowed hard, gripping the stretcher tightly as the ambulance doors shut and the vehicle started moving. Outside, the world blurred past the windows, but inside, your mind spun with pain, fear, and an ache far deeper than the injury itself.

—-

It was busy in the ER today—loud, chaotic, the usual blur of motion and noise. Monitors beeped steadily in the background, gurneys rolled down hallways, voices called out orders and vitals in clipped tones. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with the sharper tang of adrenaline and urgency.

Michael worked hard and efficiently, his hands steady and his voice calm as he checked charts, issued instructions, and answered questions. Every task was precise and practiced. But despite his focused exterior, his heart wasn’t fully in it today. Beneath the surface, his mind drifted elsewhere.

For some reason, you were heavy on his mind—ever since he saw you that morning in the elevator. Though he went about his work with his usual efficiency, every time he glanced up or caught a quiet moment, his thoughts slipped back to you. That brief encounter stirred something beneath his calm exterior, making it harder than usual to focus.

Even as he moved through the chaos of the ER, you lingered in the corners of his mind—a quiet weight he couldn’t shake. Each task felt automatic, mechanical, like he was running on autopilot 

At the nurses’ station, Dana glanced toward Michael as he passed by, pausing briefly. His eyes scanned the triage monitor for a moment before he continued on his rounds.

“What’s his vibe today?” Dana asked, peering over the top of her glasses as she flipped through a stack of charts.

Jack didn’t look up from the computer. “Full-on rain cloud.”

Dana let out a quiet laugh. “That bad?”

Jack finally glanced up. “Yeah. Barely talking. Just doing his rounds like a ghost.”

Dana frowned slightly. She hadn’t had a real catch-up with Robby in a while.

“I don’t think I’ve heard him say anything beyond patient loads and charts in weeks,” she murmured.

Jack leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. He’s been keeping things tight. You can tell he’s holding something in… and it’s not just stress.”

Dana sighed, looking up from the computer. “It’s been—what? Three months since they stopped talking?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, watching Michael enter an exam room. “He’s doing okay. Better than a few months ago, for sure. But I think today’s one of those days where he’s really missing her.”

Jack added quietly, “It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. He’s always been good at hiding what’s really going on.”

Dana didn’t respond right away, distracted by the faint sound of sirens growing louder in the distance.

“Looks like a bus just pulled up,” she said, glancing toward the ambulance bay.

Jack turned, following her line of sight. Through the glass doors, he spotted the rig backing in, its lights still flashing. The paramedics moved quickly, unloading a gurney from the back, getting ready to wheel someone inside.

“I got it,” he said, already moving toward the doors.

“Alright, what do we got?” 

Jack reached the stretcher as the paramedic began briefing him. 

“Mid-20s female, teacher on a zoo field trip. She tripped over a backpack and hit her head on the pavement. She lost consciousness briefly after the fall. There’s blood coming from her ear. She vomited on the way here and reported dizziness and nausea and is currently somewhat disoriented.”

“Exam Room 13’s open!” Dana called out as she overheard part of the paramedics’ briefing.

The gurney rolled past the nurses’ station in a blur of motion—wheels rattling, footsteps fast. Dana glanced up from her charts and files to get a quick look at the incoming patient… and froze.

Her eyes widened, recognition flickering across her face as she stood up straighter, instinctively stepping out onto the floor. Her heart skipped. Her eyes narrowed, trying to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.

It was you.

You looked pale, out of it—a plastic bag clutched in your hand, vomit on your shirt, and a smear of dried blood trailing from your ear. But it was unmistakably you.

The same woman she’d seen, playing around with Michael in aisle 9 of the grocery store fighting over cookies. 

Jack was already directing the paramedics to Exam Room 13, calling for trauma supplies as he moved alongside the gurney.

Dana stood abruptly, eyes darting around the ER. Looking for Michael.

Shit. Where’s Robby? Which wing did he go? She thought.

“Jack!” she called, rushing after him. She fell into step beside him as they wheeled you. 

“What?” he asked, not slowing.

“It’s her!” she hissed, voice low but urgent.

“Who?”

“The friend-neighbor-almost-something-—her,” Dana said, eyes wide. “Robby’s girl.”

Dana watched as Jack’s head whipped to face her. His expression shifts—from confusion to clarity, then to something dangerously close to dread.

Jack stopped short, turning just in time to see the gurney disappear into Exam Room 13. His expression changed instantly.

He looks at Dana again “That was her? Are you sure?” 

“Yes!”

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“What do we do?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “We need to tell him.”

Dana’s brows knit. “Are you sure? After everything… you know how torn up he was…well still is” she trailed off, uncertain. “I mean, do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“Yes,” Jack said firmly. “He still cares about her, still feels things for her. You know he does.”

Dana hesitated, lips pressed into a line.

“He’s not over her, Dana. Not even close. No matter how messy the fallout was, he’d want to know. And if he finds out she was here and we kept it from him…”

“He’d never forgive us,” Dana finished, already nodding.

Jack’s jaw was tight. “Exactly.”

“Look I’ll take care of her, find him as soon as you can and tell him. Okay?” 

“Alright” they quickly went off in different directions. 

—

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead felt like too much—too bright, too sharp—cutting through the fog in your skull. Your stomach churned again, sour and unsettled. You’d already thrown up in the ambulance, the evidence smeared across your shirt, and the nausea still clung to you, heavy and unrelenting. It was like your body couldn’t decide if it was in pain or panic.

The nurse—Princess, according to her badge—helped you onto the exam table from the gurney, guiding you gently as you sat down.

“Let’s get you settled,” she said calmly.

You nodded, though the movement made your head throb and your stomach turn.

Princess moved with calm precision, wrapping a cuff around your arm to check your blood pressure and attaching monitors to track your vitals. She was already prepping the IV, her hands steady, practiced.

“Pressure’s a little low,” she murmured, mostly to herself, then offered you a small, reassuring smile.

You closed your eyes as the needle slid into your arm, trying to focus on her calm voice instead of the pounding in your head.

She grabbed a damp cloth and gently began wiping the vomit from your shirt, doing the best she could to clean you up while keeping you comfortable.

“You’re doing okay,” she said softly. “Just stay with me.”

Princess noticed the shift in your expression—the way your face paled. Without a word, she grabbed a plastic basin and placed it gently in your lap.

“Just in case,” she said softly.

A moment later, the door opened and a man stepped in, wearing navy scrubs and a calm, focused expression.

“I’m Dr. Jack Abbot,” he said as he approached. “I’ll be taking care of you today.”

Jack

The name stood out. Michael’s friend—he’d mentioned him a couple of times. Quick stories, casual references. You never met him, but the name stuck.

Now here he was, standing in front of you. And suddenly, it all felt just a little more real.

To Jack, you were more than just another patient. You were her—the neighbor, the teacher, the one Michael couldn’t stop thinking about. The one who shattered him.

He was torn. Part of him wanted to resent you. Another part couldn’t help but feel sorry—for both you and Michael. It hurt watching Michael suffer in silence, burying his feelings under layers of composure. But there was sadness for you too—because Jack knew you were still clinging to something broken. A relationship that should’ve ended long ago.

But none of that mattered now. He needed to take care of you—not only because it was his job, but for Michael. 

You and Jack locked eyes. Neither of you spoke, but something passed between you—an unspoken recognition. You both knew each other through Michael, even if you’d never met before. And in that silence, there was a quiet acknowledgment of everything that wasn’t being said.

“Let’s get you checked out,” he said gently.

“Can you tell me what happened?” He pulled on a pair of gloves and waited patiently as you gathered your thoughts.

“I tripped over a student’s backpack. I fell… hit my head on the side,” you said, your voice a little shaky.

Princess, at the computer nearby, typed quickly, capturing every detail.

“You passed out? For how long?”

“I don’t know. No more than 5 minutes?”

“And you feel nauseous?” Jack takes notice of the dried blood from your ear. 

“Yes” He brought his hands up, feeling your head, and then he felt it. A squishy part on the side of your head. 

Shit. 

Jack’s eyes narrowed as he gently pressed around the swollen area, careful not to cause more pain. His mind raced—without a CT scan, he knew the injury was serious. How severe, though, remained uncertain.

“Okay, stay still for me,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “We need to get a CT scan to find out exactly what we’re dealing with.” He says to the Princess, but also to you.

You nodded, swallowing hard, the dizziness and nausea pressing harder with every breath.

Princess looked up from her computer. “I’m alerting neurology and radiology now.”

Jack forced a steady breath, trying to stay composed though inside, worry tightened its grip.

Your stomach lurched, and you vomited into the plastic basin Princess had handed you earlier. Jack stepped back slightly, giving you room but keeping his eyes locked on you, watching for any sign of worsening condition.

Princess moved quickly to help, she handed you a clean towel and quietly assured you as you wiped your face.

Princess stepped over, grabbing a pair of gloves and a warm saline wipe.

You flinched as she dabbed gently at the dried blood near your ear, trying not to let it sting. 

“Sorry,” Princess murmured, careful and quiet.

Jack watched closely but because the signs were impossible to ignore. The dried blood near your ear, the squishy spot on the scalp, the nausea and dizziness—they all pointed to something serious. Possibly a skull fracture.

Until the scan came back, there wasn’t much he could confirm. But in his gut, he already knew this wasn’t minor.

He reached for a chart from the counter, flipping it open and beginning to write. His pen scratched quickly across the paper, but he kept looking up every few seconds—checking your breathing, your pallor, the way you struggled to keep your eyes open.

Princess adjusted the bed slightly, propping it up so you could sit comfortably. She hands you a new plastic basin. She takes the used wipes and throws it in the trash along with her gloves and goes to wash her hands. 

You glanced at him, searching. “Did… did Michael send you?”

Princess moved to gather the extra materials they hadn’t used, placing them neatly on the supply rack. Her movements were quiet, efficient, but her attention never strayed far. She listens closely. 

Jack shook his head. “No. Robby doesn’t know you’re here… at least not yet.”

At that, Princess froze for just a moment. She didn’t know the full story, but it was clear you and Michael were connected. Her eyes flicked to Jack, widening slightly. A silent exchange passed between them—brief, but unmistakable.

Jack sighed inwardly. He knew exactly what she was thinking—the bet she and several other staff had made a few weeks ago at the bar about Michael having a girlfriend. Now was not the time.

His eyes locked onto hers, sharp, silently warning: Don’t even think about it. He shook his head slightly.

You hadn’t noticed the exchange. Your eyes closed, feeling dizzy, your head throbbing. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “That’s the last thing I want.”

Princess gave an innocent, almost playful raise of her eyebrows, but beneath it was something calculating. She grabbed a chart out of Jack's hands and scurried out of the room, leaving a faint echo of footsteps behind her.

Jack remained still, watching her retreat. His jaw tightened, mouth pressed into a hard line. In the ER, whispers traveled faster than code blue alarms—money and rumors would be swirling in less than a few minutes. 

Jack exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief second. He’ll deal with it later he tells himslef.

Jack leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you—pale, clearly worn down.

You swallowed hard, the dizziness still buzzing faintly at the edges of your mind.

“I don’t want to make things harder for him.”

“He’ll know,” Jack said quietly, his voice flat with certainty. “He’ll come rushing in here once he finds out—I guarantee it.”

“He likes you—a lot, cares for you deeply” he said, matter-of-fact, like it was the plainest truth in the world. “I’ve seen him talk about people before—patients, colleagues, even exes. But never like this.”

Your eyes flicked open. Jack wasn’t looking at you anymore.

You didn’t interrupt. His words caught you off guard—soft but heavy.

“With you… it’s different,” Jack said. “He’s not the guy who makes big declarations. But his actions? Loud as hell.”

He stepped closer, eyes searching yours—not confrontational, just honest.

“That day—after everything fell apart—he barely said a word.”

Jack’s voice dropped. “He didn’t say much. But I’ve known him long enough to read between the lines. Michael’s the silent type. Shove it down, suffer alone. That’s always been his way. He doesn’t fall easily. And he sure as hell doesn’t bounce back quickly.”

And didn’t you know it—you ruined what you two had. You looked down at your hands.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you said.

Jack finally met your eyes. There wasn’t anger—just a tired kind of clarity. “Maybe not. But it still happened.”

There was no heat in his voice. No judgment. Just the truth.

“He’ll handle it. He always does.”

He backed toward the door.

“My instinct is to tell you to continue stay away from him... keep the distance. To protect him.”

A beat.

“But even with all that… there’s a part of me that still hopes it works out between you two.”

He held your gaze.

“If there’s even a small chance you feel the same—don’t waste it.”

Then, firm again, “But don’t show up in his orbit unless you’re sure.”

“I’ll be back to get you for the CT scan. If you need anything, press the call button.”

And with that, he was gone.

—

Dana had spent the last several minutes searching—looking for Michael. The constant rush of the ER had kept her moving nonstop, priorities shifting by the second as new cases rolled in. Between the noise, the pages, and the demands of back-to-back emergencies, she hadn’t had a spare moment—until now. Finally able to look, she peeked into each exam room as she passed, also scanning for Michael.

Finally, she spotted him. 

Standing in the doorway, she called out, “Dr. Robby?”

Michael was looking up from the chart he was filling out while Victoria Javadi, the med student currently shadowing him, checked the patient under his supervision.

“Can… I talk to you outside?”

Michael glanced at her, then back at Javadi.

“Hold it down here. I’ll be right back,” he said, giving her a nod before stepping out into the ER floor with Dana.

“What’s up?” he asked, arms crossing over his chest.

Dana swallowed. “Robby, she’s here. Exam Room 13.”

“Who’s here?” His brow furrowed, clearly not understanding.

“She’s here,” Dana said again, slower this time, her eyes locking onto him.

Then it hit him.

His stomach dropped.

You’re here.

“W–what?” he said, hard and sharp, disbelief cutting through his voice.

“The bus pulled in a while ago-"

“How long ago?!” His voice rose, sharp.

“Half an hour—she hit her head. Took a fall during the field trip—”

Michael’s heart skipped, then kicked into overdrive. He didn’t wait for the rest.

He turned on his heel and bolted, weaving through the ER, past gurneys, staff, and startled patients.

He barely registered people calling his name.

Didn’t care about the chart he’d left behind, the patient waiting for him at 7 with Victoria, or the conversation he’d been having seconds ago.

All he could hear was Dana’s voice echoing in his head.

She hit her head.

His hands were already trembling. Thoughts circled like vultures—loud, fast, frantic. He didn’t know how bad it was. Was it minor? Maybe. But probably not—Not if the ambulance brought her in.

And then another thought struck—hard and bitter.

He’d ignored you this morning.

You’d smiled at him. Said, “Good morning.” Told him to have a good day.

And he hadn’t said anything back.

He’d brushed past you like you didn’t matter. And now—now this.

His chest felt tight. His feet moved faster.

Room 13. Room 13. Room 13.

Nothing else mattered. Not now.

Because you were here.

And you were hurt.

 He rounded the corner too fast, nearly slipped—caught himself—nearly crashing into Jack as he stepped out of Exam Room 13.

“WOAH!” Jack exclaimed, throwing an arm out to steady them both.

“Robby—”

“I gotta get to her—I” Michael said breathlessly, trying to push past him.

Jack grabbed his shoulders, holding him in place. “Stop, she’s gone.”

Robby froze. His heart plummeted, eyes going wide as the blood drained from his face. He couldn’t breathe—he just stood there, stunned, like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

Jack’s eyes widened as he realized. “Oh—shit—no! Gone as in, not in the room! I took her to her CT scan!”

Michael’s breath shuddered out of him. He stumbled back a step, dragging a hand down his face.

“FUCK, Abbot!” he snapped, voice hoarse. “Next time, maybe lead with that!!!”

Jack winced, “Yeah. Okay. Fair. Sorry!” He says quickly.

Michael looked like he was about to break. Without hesitation, Jack grabbed his elbow and pulled him inside your exam room, closing the door behind them.

Jack softened. “You want to sit for a second?”

Michael shook his head, jaw tight. “No. Just… give me a minute.”

His chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. He turned away from Jack and leaned heavily against the wall, one hand braced flat against it while the other gripped his thigh. For a long moment, he stayed like that—bent slightly at the waist, eyes squeezed shut—trying to catch his breath and slow his racing heart.

Then, with a trembling hand, he reached under his scrub top and T-shirt and pulled out the gold Star of David necklace he always wore—small, worn, and mostly hidden. He rubbed it between his fingers, clutching it tight in his calloused palm like a lifeline.

With his eyes still closed, he drew in a shaky breath, as if trying to summon strength from somewhere deep inside—something steady, unyielding.

Jack said nothing. He didn’t need to. He just watched, quiet and still, letting Michael have the space to come back to himself.

Michael straightened slowly, collecting himself.

“She’s okay?” Michael finally forced out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s conscious. Talking. But I’m pretty sure she has a skull fracture—I just don’t know how severe yet. We’re gonna have ro wait on the CT to tell us more.”

Michael’s face went pale. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Jack softened his tone. “Listen, Robby… I know this sucks. It’s scary, but you’re not alone here. We’re doing everything we can, as fast as we can. She’s tough, and she’s got the best care possible.”

He paused, then added, “It’s us. This team, this hospital—we make it work. You know that. You’ve been part of holding it together more times than I can count.”

Michael’s jaw twitched, but his eyes flicked up—just for a second—as Jack continued.

“She’s in good hands. Our hands.”

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.” But there was no real conviction in his voice. 

Jack glanced at Michael, his expression firm but not unkind.

“There’s nothing you can do right now, Robby,” he said quietly. “I know that’s the last thing you want to hear, but it’s the truth.”

Michael’s eyes stayed fixed on the floor, jaw still tight, hands flexing at his sides.

Jack’s voice softened. “And as much as I hate to say it… you’ve got to pull it together and do your job. For now. Until she comes back from CT. We’ll know more soon.”

Michael closed his eyes for a beat, breathing through the heaviness in his chest. Then he nodded—barely.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

Jack glanced around. “It’s busy today. You know how it is—we’ve got to stay on top of everything, keep things moving.”

Michael knew Jack was right. As much as it tore at him, there was nothing more he could do right now.

So he did the only thing he could—he took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and began to shift the panic into focus. Into control.

He would see you when you came back from CT. Until then, he’d do his job. Just like he always had.

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @livingavilaloca @elkitot @annabellee88 @hagarsays @emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk @kmc1989 @whos6claire @harrysgothicbitch @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @silas-aeiou @k3ndallroy @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @ay0nha @404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy @steviebbboi @alliegc28 @catmomstyles3 @ardentistella @madprincessinabox @circumspectre @the-one-with-the-grey-color @thatchickwiththecamera @violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin @galmorizethechaos @capj-1437 @airgoddess @nah2991 @interestellarprincess @laurensfilm @peachjellyy @aj3684 @sorryimstupidrn @escapingjune

Across The Hall | (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9)

[jkwrites-m]

Daddy Kookie (2)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, idol au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 6.4k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, smut, angst, abandonment, young (teenage) pregnancy, unintentional parental neglect, resentment, fighting, boundaries, guilt, burnout, anxiety, confessions, reunions, slapping, anger, heartbreak, cursing, struggle, explicit: PRAISING, kissing, missionary, tension, pillow talk, unprotected sex

A/N: here’s what was originally the ending of part one but for some reason i can’t post that many blocks 😒 so here’s the “part 2”.

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

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═══════

I found Namjoon in the hotel gym that night.

He was alone, earbuds in, pacing the far side of the room with a water bottle tucked under one arm, muttering rehearsal notes to himself like he always did before a show. I stood in the doorway for a solid minute before I said anything.

He saw me in the mirror first.

Pulled out one earbud.

“You alright?” he asked.

“No.”

He nodded once and didn’t press me.

Just set down his bottle and motioned toward the bench press like, sit.

I sat.

And for a while, neither of us said a word.

“I met with her this morning,” I said finally, my voice rough from not speaking since the show.

Namjoon didn’t ask who.

He just waited.

“I asked for an hour. She gave me exactly that.”

I rubbed my hands together. My legs were bouncing, and I couldn’t stop.

“I thought I was ready to see her. But I wasn’t.”

Still, Namjoon said nothing.

“She has a daughter.”

His brows lifted just slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“She’s mine,” I added. “Her name is Eun Ae.”

That got him.

Namjoon blinked slowly and sat down on the bench across from me. “You’re a dad?”

I nodded. “I didn’t know. I- God, hyung, I blocked her. She tried to tell me and I just… I disappeared.”

He sighed but didn’t scold me.

I think that made it worse.

“She raised her alone,” I said. “Worked. Went to school. Everything. No help. And I was here, living my dream while she was raising my kid and barely surviving.”

“You didn’t know,” Namjoon said carefully.

“I should’ve.”

“That’s true.”

I buried my face in my hands. “She’s giving me one chance. Tomorrow. At the zoo. I get to meet her - meet my daughter - for the first time and I don’t even know how to breathe around the thought of it.”

He let me sit in the silence for a beat.

Then: “What are you most scared of?”

“That she’ll hate me.”

Namjoon’s gaze softened.

“That she’ll ask me where I’ve been,” I whispered, “and I won’t know how to answer.”

“You don’t have to have all the answers,” he said. “You just have to show up. That’s what matters now.”

“I want to be in her life,” I said. “I want to earn it. I want to be someone she can count on. Not someone she has to recover from.”

Namjoon nodded slowly. “That’s a good place to start.”

“And Y/N…” My voice cracked. “I still love her.”

“I know.”

“I don’t expect her to forgive me. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I want her to see that I’m not the same kid who left.”

“You’re not,” he said.

I looked up at him. “What if I ruin it again?”

“Then you don’t,” Namjoon said. “You show up. You listen. You apologize. You be present. And if they don’t let you in, you keep showing up until they do- or until they tell you to stop. Either way, you stay honest.”

I nodded, swallowing hard.

“Thanks, hyung.”

He gave a tired smile. “Get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

I didn’t sleep much.

But I dreamed of a little girl with my eyes.

And Y/N beside her.

═══════

It was her idea to wear her tiger hoodie.

“Because we’re going to the zoo,” she said, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

I tied her shoelaces twice- her feet wouldn’t stop bouncing- then stood up and stared at her for a moment too long.

“Mama?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you nervous?”

A pause.

“No,” I said. “I’m just thinking.”

It wasn’t a lie. I was thinking. About everything.

About how I swore he’d never meet her. About how easily I’d broken that rule yesterday. About how I’d watched his hands tremble when I said the word daughter.

He didn’t cry, not fully.

But he looked like someone who had finally understood what it meant to break something that couldn’t be fixed.

I kept that image close as I buckled her into her booster seat and drove to the zoo.

He was already waiting by the entrance.

Sunglasses. Mask. Hoodie. Head tucked down.

It should’ve made him look anonymous.

It didn’t.

Even behind all that, he looked unmistakably like him.

And when Eun Ae saw him, she didn’t pause.

She ran.

Full-speed. Straight up to him like she’d known him her whole life.

“Hi!” she chirped. “I’m Eun Ae. Are you the friend Mama said we’re meeting?”

He knelt down slowly.

I watched his fingers shake as he pulled the mask down from his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m… I’m Jungkook.”

“That’s a funny name,” she giggled. “Can I call you Mr. Kookie?”

He let out a short, stunned laugh.

“Sure,” he said, clearing his throat. “You can call me that.”

She grabbed his hand like it was nothing. Like it was normal.

Like this hadn’t been six years coming.

I followed a few steps behind them, unsure what to do with my arms, my heart, my breath.

They moved together easily.

Too easily.

He matched her pace. Let her pick which exhibits to visit. Lifted her onto his shoulders to see the giraffes. Bought her a pretzel and wiped the cheese off her face without hesitation. They laughed at the same things. Tilted their heads the same way when they were curious. Chewed the straw of their drinks when they were thinking.

They were mirrors.

And I was the frame- holding it all together, barely.

At the tiger enclosure, Eun Ae pressed her palms to the glass and gasped.

“They’re so cool!” she shouted. “I want one!”

“They’re a little big for a pet,” Jungkook said, crouching next to her.

“I’d teach it tricks.”

“I bet you would.”

There was a pause. Then she asked the question I’d been dreading.

“Did you know my mom when she was my age?”

Jungkook blinked.

I tensed.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I did.”

“Was she weird like me?”

“She was perfect,” he said. “Exactly like you.”

She grinned. “So… super weird?”

He laughed, and I heard something in it that sounded like mourning.

Later, while she climbed a small jungle gym near the café, I sat beside him on the bench.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched her, eyes full of things I didn’t want to name.

“She’s incredible,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“You already said that.”

“I’ll say it again,” he said. “As many times as you need.”

We sat in silence for a long time.

Then I heard my voice say something I hadn’t planned.

“You’re good with her.”

He turned to me, surprised.

“She doesn’t know who you are,” I added. “But she likes you.”

“I’m glad.”

“She’s never had… that. A male figure. Anyone to play like that with.”

He looked away. “That’s my fault.”

I didn’t correct him.

He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled something out.

A little stuffed tiger.

“I bought this on the way here,” he said, holding it up. “I didn’t know if I’d get to give it to her.”

She ran back to us just then, sweaty and smiling.

Jungkook knelt again and held out the tiger.

“For you.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Thanks, Mr. Kookie!”

She hugged him. No hesitation.

He closed his eyes like the moment hurt in a way he needed.

═══════

That night, after Eun Ae was tucked into bed, I sat on the couch with a blanket around my shoulders and my phone pressed to my ear.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Like the kind of quiet that presses in on your skin and makes your thoughts louder than they should be.

“She hugged him,” I whispered.

My best friend on the other end of the line didn’t speak. She waited. She always did.

“She hugged him like she’d known him her whole life. Like he hadn’t missed anything. Like he hadn’t disappeared.”

I wiped under my eyes with the edge of my sleeve.

“And he was… good with her. Gentle. Patient. Funny. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to meet her. Like he already loved her.”

“You sound surprised,” my friend said.

“I am,” I confessed. “I don’t want to be. But I am.”

There was a pause.

“You still love him,” she said.

I closed my eyes.

“Don’t,” I said softly. “Please.”

“Y/N-”

“I can’t afford to love him,” I whispered. “Not again. Not after what he did.”

The words came out raw and wet and cracked.

“I spent years hating him,” I said. “Years trying to forget the way he looked at me, the way he kissed me, the way he made me believe in things that never came true. And today, I watched him hold our daughter’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, and I…This could’ve been real. This life. This moment. All of it. If he had just… stayed.”

I swallowed the sob that threatened.

“I didn’t feel anger. I didn’t feel hate. I felt… sad. And full. And furious. And terrified. All at once.”

“You’re allowed to feel all of that.”

“I know. But it doesn’t make it easier.”

She didn’t say anything for a while.

Then: “Do you think he still loves you?”

I laughed. Quiet and bitter. “He says he does.”

“And do you believe him?”

I looked out the window. The city lights blinked back like stars caught in a snow globe.

“I believe he thinks he does,” I said. “But I don’t know if he loves me- who I am now. Not the girl he left behind.”

“You don’t have to decide anything now.”

“I don’t want to decide anything,” I said. “I just want to breathe again.”

I hung up after that.

Tucked my phone under the blanket and rested my head on the arm of the couch. My eyes closed. My chest ached. I felt heavy and hollow and full of fire all at the same time.

And then I heard it.

A shuffle.

A creak of the hallway floorboard.

I turned.

Jungkook stood there, just outside the door frame, his hand against the wall like he needed it to hold himself up.

He hadn’t knocked.

He hadn’t said a word.

He just looked at me like he’d walked straight into the center of a storm he hadn’t seen coming.

“You heard all that,” I said, my voice flat.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said quietly. “I was bringing back the little drawing she made. She left it in my jacket pocket. I was going to knock. I just… heard you.”

I sat up slowly.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.”

He didn’t budge.

“Y/N,” he said softly, voice shaking. “I love you. Not just the girl I left. Not some idea. You. Right now. All of it.”

And then he crossed the room.

Without another word, he bent down and kissed me.

Soft and sure and shaking all at once.

And for one second - just one - I kissed him back.

It was like breathing again for the first time in years. Like lightning. Like a heartbeat I didn’t know I missed.

But then I pulled back.

And I slapped him.

Hard.

He didn’t even flinch.

“You can’t just do that,” I said, my voice rising. “You don’t get to walk in here, say I love you, and kiss me like it erases what you did.”

“I know,” he said, eyes shining. “I know it doesn’t fix anything. I just needed you to know it’s real.”

A long silence stretched between us.

He finally set the folded piece of paper on the table.

It was a crayon drawing. Stick figures. A tiger. The word “KOOKIE” spelled backwards across the top.

“I’ll go,” he said, stepping back. “But… thank you. For today.”

He turned and walked out before I could say a word.

And I sat there, hands shaking, heart a mess, trying not to chase after him.

Because no matter how much I wanted to…

I didn’t know if I could survive loving him again.

═══════

I didn’t mean to kiss her.

I meant to leave.

I meant to say those words and walk away like a man who’d learned his lesson. Who knew better now.

But when I looked at her- sitting on that couch, eyes full of grief and strength- I forgot what I was supposed to do.

And when her lips touched mine back… for that brief, burning second, I thought maybe I wasn’t too late.

But then she slapped me.

And she was right to.

I walked out shortly after. The drawing Eun Ae made was still on the table. The door shut behind me like punctuation on a sentence I’d rewritten too many times in my head.

I didn’t go to my room.

I went to Namjoon’s.

He was still up, writing in a leather-bound notebook like always. When he opened the door and saw my face, he didn’t ask. Just moved aside to let me in.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands gripping the hem of my hoodie.

“She still hates me,” I said.

Namjoon didn’t reply. Just waited.

“I heard her talking to someone. On the phone. After the zoo.” I exhaled shakily. “She said it could’ve been real. The life. The moment. If I had just stayed.”

My voice cracked.

“She’s right,” I said. “It could’ve been. I destroyed everything.”

Namjoon sat in the chair across from me, elbows on his knees. “You didn’t destroy everything.”

“I kissed her,” I admitted.

That got a raised eyebrow.

“She kissed me back. For a second. Then she slapped me.”

Namjoon didn’t flinch. “You probably deserved it.”

“I definitely deserved it.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my thighs, head in my hands.

“She thinks I’m just showing up now because of Eun Ae. But it’s not that. I was going to try before I even knew. I swear. I just… I still love her. That never went away.”

“I know,” Namjoon said. “We all do.”

“She said she doesn’t know if I love who she is now. Not the girl I left behind.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” I said immediately. “She’s stronger. Sharper. She’s everything I wish I’d grown up fast enough to deserve.”

Namjoon nodded slowly.

“Then show her,” he said. “Not with words. You’ve said enough. Do something.”

“Like what?”

“Think,” he said. “What did she love? What mattered to her?”

I blinked.

“Wildflowers,” I said. “She always picked the ugly ones growing out of sidewalk cracks. Said they were survivors.”

Namjoon smiled. “Then that’s where you start.”

I nodded, a lump forming in my throat.

“I’m going to show up,” I said. “Every day. Until she tells me not to. Or until she believes me.”

“Good,” Namjoon said. “And Jungkook?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not a piece of shit. You were a scared kid who made a selfish mistake. Now you’re a man who has to own it.”

I nodded again.

I wasn’t running anymore.

Tomorrow, I’d bring her flowers.

Not roses.

Not something expensive or flashy.

Just wildflowers.

The ones that survive.

═══════

He didn’t text the next morning.

Didn’t call.

Didn’t knock.

But when I opened the door to take out the trash, there was a bouquet of wildflowers on the step.

No note.

No explanation.

Just color.

Simple and honest.

I stared at them for a long time before I brought them inside.

I didn’t put them in a vase.

Not yet.

Eun Ae noticed them instantly.

“Oooh, are those for you?”

“Yeah,” I said, almost under my breath.

“From Mr. Kookie?”

I froze.

She giggled. “He smells like sunshine.”

I blinked. “What?”

“His hoodie. It smelled like sunshine. And gum.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

She took one of the smaller stems from the bouquet and tucked it behind my ear before skipping off to play.

═══════

The next day, he didn’t bring flowers.

He brought her a book.

One of those thick picture books with a glittery cover and a dragon on the front. She shrieked like she’d won the lottery. He handed it to her without a word and let her read to him, even though she kept skipping pages and making up half the story.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t correct her.

He just smiled like it was the best thing he’d ever heard.

I watched from the kitchen, trying not to feel anything.

Trying to stay steady.

Trying not to remember the way his hand had felt on my cheek when he kissed me.

And the sting of my own palm after.

═══════

The third day, he showed up with both- flowers for me, a new stuffed animal (a bunny this time) for her, and takeout from my favorite noodle place.

He didn’t ask to stay.

Just handed it over, bowed, and walked away.

I didn’t stop him.

But I didn’t close the door right away either.

═══════

The fourth day, he didn’t come.

And I hated how I noticed.

How the absence felt like a missing rhythm in my day. A skipped beat.

I told myself it was good. Smart. Necessary.

That space was healthy.

But then he texted.

Jungkook: Didn’t want to crowd you today. Just… wanted you to know I’m here.

I didn’t reply.

But I stared at that message for a long time.

═══════

The fifth day, he came by again. This time he asked if we wanted to go for ice cream.

Eun Ae screamed like he’d asked her to Disneyland.

I tried to say no.

I did.

But my mouth betrayed me.

“Okay,” I said. “Just an hour.”

He didn’t smile like he won.

He smiled like it hurt to be that grateful.

We walked to the corner shop with her bouncing between us. He let her pick his flavor. She made him get bubblegum. He pretended to like it. I knew he didn’t.

He caught me watching him.

And didn’t look away.

That night, after she was in bed, I sat on the same couch, stared at the same wall, and whispered into the dark:

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

And I meant it.

I wasn’t ready.

Not yet.

But I also wasn’t closing the door anymore.

Not all the way.

═══════

I should’ve known it was too good to last.

The morning started perfect.

Too perfect.

Jungkook showed up with matching zoo t-shirts he found online. One for him, one for Eun Ae. Hers said “Mini Tiger.” His said “Big Tiger.”

She laughed for five straight minutes and made him wear it out in public.

I rolled my eyes and told him he was shameless.

He just grinned and handed me a coffee with two extra espresso shots- exactly the way I liked it.

“Trying to bribe me?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

I didn’t smile.

But my fingers brushed his on accident when I took the cup.

And I didn’t pull away.

We took Eun Ae to the botanical gardens. Let her feed koi fish and run across wooden bridges with her stuffed tiger tucked under one arm. Jungkook stayed close the entire time. Carrying her backpack, tying her shoe when it came undone, wiping ice cream off her face.

It almost looked like a family. 

Almost.

We sat on the grass to rest before lunch, and she ran over to the koi pond like it was a different world.

“She’s so comfortable with you,” I said, trying not to let it sound like an accusation.

“I’m glad,” he said. “I want her to be.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then he looked at me and said something that should’ve been sweet.

But it wasn’t.

“She’s just like you, you know.”

I blinked.

“She’s strong and stubborn and always needs to be right. She even talks with her hands like you do- ”

“Don’t,” I said, sharper than I meant to.

He froze. “What?”

“Don’t compare us like that.”

“I wasn’t- I meant it as a good thing-”

“She’s not a mirror, Jungkook,” I snapped. “She’s a person. Her own person.”

“I know that,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like- ”

“You weren’t around. You don’t know what she’s like. You’ve seen her for what? A week? You don’t get to analyze her like you raised her.”

His mouth opened. Then closed.

And I saw something shift in his eyes.

Something small and hurt.

Then a tiny voice interrupted us.

“I’m sorry,” Eun Ae whispered.

We both turned.

She was standing by the fish pond again, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” she sniffled. “I’ll be good.”

“No,” I said quickly, moving toward her. “Baby, no. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She clung to me like her little heart might explode.

I scooped her up and pressed her to my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice thick. “I’m not mad at you. I promise. You didn’t do anything.”

She looked over my shoulder at Jungkook. “Are you mad too?”

He shook his head, eyes glassy. “No, sweetheart. Never.”

“I just wanted to have a nice day,” she mumbled.

My throat tightened.

“I know,” I whispered.

We sat on the bench together for a long time after that.

No one said much.

═══════

Eun Ae fell asleep in the car on the way home, and Jungkook carried her inside like muscle memory. He tucked her into bed without needing directions, covered her with her favorite blanket, and kissed the crown of her head before stepping back like it hurt to walk away.

Neither of us said much after that.

He left for the venue early that night to prep for their final concert.

I stood in the hallway after he left, hand pressed against the door, heart aching like it was made of split seams and bad timing.

I didn’t cry.

But I wanted to.

Because I knew this was what I did.

Push away before I could be left again.

═══════

The stadium vibrated under my feet.

Screams rolled like thunder across the roof, and I could feel the beat of the music reverberating through the concrete backstage walls.

It was the final night of BTS’s residency.

Everything was fire.

Everything was electric.

Everything was right- except me.

I stood at the main comms table with a headset snug against my ears, spitting rapid-fire cues to the light techs, the camera ops, and the runners, my voice a metronome of control.

“Camera C, pan stage right. Cue smoke burst. Light rig alpha, wait two seconds on drop- no, two seconds, not four-”

My tone was clipped. My spine straight.

On the outside, I looked like I had it together.

But I could feel it.

The crack behind my ribs. The pulse behind my eyes. The way I flinched every time his voice cut through the speakers.

Every note he sang.

Every lyric he poured his soul into.

It hurt.

I told myself I didn’t care.

I told myself I was over it.

But every time the lights shifted and his silhouette appeared, I remembered the way he’d looked when he kissed me and the way he’d stayed when I slapped him.

I remembered how his voice broke when he said, “I love you. Right now. All of it.”

I remembered the way he meant it.

And I remembered how much that terrified me.

“Y/N?” someone called in my ear. “Spotlight three needs confirmation. We’re doing the slow solo bridge in thirty.”

I blinked, the fog in my head thick.

“Copy that,” I said quickly. “Cue in thirty. Confirm on bridge.”

I watched the monitors as he stepped up to the center of the stage.

Alone.

Golden lights haloed around him. Fans screamed his name from every direction.

And he sang.

Not just to them.

I knew that voice.

I knew when it was for the crowd…

…and when it was for me.

My hands curled into fists at my sides.

Stop it.

Don’t romanticize this.

Don’t soften.

But I did.

I always did.

Every time his voice cracked. Every time he hit a note like it cost him a piece of himself.

He looked straight into the lens during the final chorus- the one that streamed to every screen in the arena.

It was almost too direct.

Too intentional.

And in that moment, I knew.

He wasn’t singing to a sea of strangers.

He was singing to me.

The cue ended. The screen faded to black. Lights cut. Screams exploded.

My heart thudded harder than the bass.

I turned away from the monitor and pulled off my headset.

I needed air.

The crew backstage was already preparing for encore. The guys were offstage hydrating, catching their breath, prepping for the last two songs.

I slipped through a side door and stepped out into the shadowed corridor by the loading dock. It was cold. Quiet. The noise of the crowd muffled by thick walls.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

I didn’t want this to hurt.

But it did.

I didn’t want to care.

But I did.

And worst of all?

I didn’t want to want him.

But God, I did.

═══════

The cheers were still echoing in my bones.

My shirt clung to my back, soaked through with sweat. My hair was dripping. My lungs were still catching up.

But all I could think about was her.

I didn’t see her once during the show. Not backstage. Not in the wings. Not even in the flashes of tech crew darting through shadows.

But I felt her.

Like gravity.

Like silence.

Like a missing beat in the rhythm I couldn’t get right.

I sat alone in the dressing room while the rest of the guys laughed and recapped their favorite fan chants. Jimin had his feet on the table, Taehyung was dancing shirtless with a can of soda, and Jin was complaining about the confetti in his hair.

But I couldn’t join them.

I couldn’t even smile.

My hands trembled as I unlaced my boots. My knees bounced restlessly. My throat was dry, but I couldn’t drink anything.

Because all I could hear was her voice.

“You don’t know what she’s like.”

“You weren’t around.”

“You don’t get to analyze her like you raised her.”

She was right.

Every word.

I’d tried so hard to connect, I didn’t realize I was stepping on landmines she’d spent years trying to bury.

I messed it up.

Again.

“Yo,” Namjoon said, stepping into the room and tossing me a towel. “You good?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“You’re lying.”

I sighed. “I know.”

He sat down across from me, cracking open a bottle of water and sliding one my way.

“She didn’t talk to me tonight,” I said.

“You talk to her?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then maybe she’s waiting.”

“Or maybe she’s done.”

Namjoon didn’t say anything to that. He just leaned back and looked at me with those eyes that saw way too much.

“Do you regret it?” he asked.

I blinked. “Regret what?”

“Kissing her.”

I hesitated.

“No,” I said. “Not for a second.”

“She kissed you back.”

“Just for a second.”

“But she did,” he said. “And that means something.”

“Does it?”

He nodded. “It means she hasn’t closed the door. She’s just scared to open it.”

I stared at the floor.

“I don’t want to scare her,” I whispered. “I just want to show her that I’m not that kid anymore. That I’m not running. That I’m here. I’m here.”

Namjoon leaned forward. “Then tell her. Really tell her. Not to fix things. Not to beg. Just to say it. Say what you didn’t back then.”

I nodded slowly.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” I said. 

“Then tonight’s your last chance.”

“I don’t know if she’ll open the door.”

“Then knock anyway.”

I looked up.

“I’m scared,” I admitted. “If she sends me away, I don’t know if I’ll recover.”

“She won’t send you away,” he said. “Not if you’re honest. Not if you’re real.”

I took a deep breath.

I was real.

I was terrified.

But I was real.

═══════

I didn’t ask what he was doing here.

I didn’t ask why he looked like he hadn’t slept in days or why his fingers were twitching at his sides like they didn’t know how to be still.

I just watched as he stepped inside my apartment, slowly, like the floor might vanish beneath him and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

He stood there for a long time.

Like he couldn’t find the words.

Like if he said the wrong thing, I’d vanish.

I leaned against the wall and waited.

He finally looked up.

“I didn’t know how to leave this city without seeing you again.”

I didn’t reply.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he said. “Not your forgiveness. Not a second chance. Not some happy ending I don’t deserve. I just… I need you to know.”

His voice cracked.

“I need you to know that I never stopped loving you.”

My breath caught.

“I didn’t leave because I stopped. I left because I was scared. And young. And stupid. And then I was ashamed. So ashamed I couldn’t even look at myself. So I blocked you. I shut you out. Because every time I thought of you, I remembered what I threw away.”

My throat burned.

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he said. “And you raised our daughter without me. You built a life, a home, a future- and I wasn’t there. I missed her first words. Her first steps. Her birthdays. I missed everything.”

Tears welled in his eyes.

“I don’t deserve to be her dad. I don’t deserve to even stand in this hallway. But I’m here. And if there’s even the smallest piece of you that believes I could be more than what I was-”

He stopped.

Swallowed hard.

“-then I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it.”

The silence that followed felt like thunder.

And then I whispered, “You don’t get to walk back in and say the right thing and expect it to fix the past.”

“I know,” he said, hoarse.

“But…”

He looked up.

“But you said the right thing anyway.”

And then I stepped toward him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

Until I reached for him.

And he broke.

His hands cupped my face like I was something fragile, like I was glass, like he wasn’t sure if I’d let him keep holding me.

And when he kissed me- this time- I didn’t slap him.

I kissed him back.

Hard. Messy. Real.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t soft.

It was years of ache and regret and longing that had nowhere else to go.

His hoodie came off, tossed aside like it was nothing, and mine followed, sliding to the floor in a forgotten heap.

Hands found skin like they were remembering. His fingers traced the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, like he was mapping me again, reclaiming territory he’d lost. 

My back hit the hallway wall, the cold plaster a stark contrast to the heat of his body pressing against mine. He kissed down my neck, his breath hot and ragged, and whispered, 

“I missed you so much. I missed this. I missed you.”

I moaned into his mouth, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. We stumbled toward the bedroom, shedding layers like they were shackles, breathless and desperate. 

The bed creaked beneath us as he lowered me onto it, his weight hovering above me, his eyes searching mine like he needed permission.

“This okay?” he asked, barely above a whisper, his voice raw with need and uncertainty. I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest, but he needed more. 

“Say it.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. His lips found mine again, hungry and demanding, but his hands were gentle, reverent, like he was worshipping me. He kissed his way down my body, pausing at my breasts, his tongue tracing the curve of my nipples, his lips murmuring praises against my skin. 

“God, I missed these. So fucking beautiful.”

I arched into his touch, my breath hitching as his hands slid down my thighs, his fingers brushing the edge of my panties. He hooked them with a single finger, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. 

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Always were.”

He kissed his way back up, his lips brushing mine before trailing down my neck, his hands roaming over my body like he was memorizing every inch. 

“I’ve thought about this every day,” he confessed, his breath hot against my ear. “Every. Fucking. Day.”

I reached for him, my hands tracing the lean muscles of his back, the ink of his tattoo sleeve, the piercings that glinted under the dim light. He was solid and real, and I couldn’t stop touching him, like I needed to prove he was here, that this was real.

He shifted above me, his eyes dark with need, and I felt him, hard and insistent against my thigh. 

“I need you,” he growled, his voice rough, his hands gripping my hips. “Now.”

I nodded, my heart racing, my body aching for him. He didn’t waste another second. He entered me slowly, his eyes locked on mine, his breath catching as he filled me completely. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, his forehead resting against mine. “You feel so good.”

He began to move, slow and deliberate, his hips rocking into mine, his hands gripping my thighs like he was anchoring himself to me. 

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and demanding, and I obeyed, my eyes meeting his, holding his gaze as he thrust deeper, harder.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his lips brushing mine with each movement. “So perfect.”

His words sent shivers down my spine, his praise fueling the fire burning between us. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, meeting his thrusts with my own, our bodies moving in perfect sync. 

“Jungkook,” I gasped, my nails digging into his back, my voice breaking as pleasure coiled tight in my core.

He growled, his pace quickening, his hands gripping my hips tighter, his control slipping. “Cum for me, baby. Let me feel it.”

His words were my undoing. My walls clenched around him, my body trembling as my orgasm crashed over me, waves of pleasure washing through me, my breath catching in a sharp cry. “Jungkook!”

He whispered into my neck, his lips brushing my skin, his voice hoarse and desperate. “I love you. I love you so much.”

His words were a balm, a salve to wounds I didn’t realize were still raw. I clung to him, my fingers digging into his back, my body still trembling as he followed me over the edge, his thrusts becoming frantic, his breath ragged against my skin. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his voice breaking as he came, his body shuddering above me, his release a sharp, primal sound.

He collapsed onto me, his weight heavy but comforting, his breath hot against my neck. For a moment, we just lay there, our hearts pounding in unison, our bodies still joined, the silence thick with unspoken emotions.

He brushed my hair back and kissed my forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere this time,” he said, voice trembling.

I didn’t answer.

But I didn’t ask him to leave either.

And that was enough.

For now.

═══════

I woke up to the sound of his breathing.

Slow. Steady.

It filled the room like the soft hum of a song I hadn’t heard in years.

For a moment, I didn’t open my eyes.

I just listened.

Soaked in the weight of him next to me. The warmth of his arm draped around my waist. The rise and fall of his chest behind my back. His hand, large and gentle, resting against my ribs like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.

The light was pale through the blinds. Morning had barely begun.

But the ache in my chest already knew it was time.

I turned over slowly.

He was already awake.

Watching me.

Not smiling. Not saying anything.

Just looking.

Like this was the first morning of his life that made sense.

I searched his face for hesitation.

There wasn’t any.

Just quiet awe.

And something softer than I knew what to do with.

“You didn’t sleep,” I whispered.

“Didn’t want to.”

I blinked. “Why not?”

He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek.

“Didn’t want to miss this.”

My throat tightened.

I looked away.

“You’re leaving today.”

It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. “My flight’s in four hours.”

I swallowed.

“Will you tell her?”

He nodded again. “I want to. When you’re ready.”

“I don’t know when that’ll be.”

“I’ll wait.”

I looked back at him.

He meant it.

“I don’t know what this is,” I said softly.

“Me neither,” he replied. “But I want to find out.”

Silence stretched between us like thread.

“Can I see you before I go?” he asked.

“You’re seeing me now.”

He smiled. Just barely. “After I pack. Before the airport.”

I didn’t say yes.

But I didn’t say no.

He leaned in and kissed me once- just once- like he didn’t want to ask for more than I could give.

Then he pulled back, exhaled, and whispered:

“I’m so in love with you.”

I didn’t say it back.

But I didn’t need to.

Because he pressed his forehead to mine, closed his eyes, and stayed there for a long time.

And when he finally pulled away, when he slipped out of bed and gathered his things, I watched him with something heavy and quiet in my chest.

Not fear.

Not anger.

Something like hope.

And when Eun Ae woke an hour later and asked where Mr. Kookie was, I smiled, just a little, and said:

“He’s not gone. Not really.”

Because for the first time in years…

I believed it.

═══════

Post A/N: dont hate me 😭 there’s still so much to their story

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♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 06/24/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy-blog @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @elithenium @asyr97 @heyinwluv85s @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @granataepfelchen @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @blubird592 @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @mellyyyyyyx @yu-justme @bangtaniess @xmiaacxio @emmie2308 @magicalnachocreator @suker4angst @dragonflygurl4 @taetaecatboy @somehowukook @iiamnotsure @lavender2ari @busanbby-jjk @prilnextdoor23 @ecomidnight @cuntessaiii @jungshaking @nbjch05 @baechugff @jakiki94 @songbyeonkim

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru is terrible at keeping secrets.

especially when that secret is you finally, after two years of relentless, dramatic, embarrassingly persistent courting, agreeing to be his girlfriend.

he swore up and down he could handle it—“…sure, sure, lowkey, hush-hush, i got you, baby,” he said, practically bouncing in place like the golden retriever he is, his white hair a fluffy mess, bouncing with every nod, bright blue eyes sparkling behind his blindfold—because, yeah, okay, it made sense. things were complicated. it would be messy if people found out too soon.

but also? it was satoru.

it was the lovesick man who has been hopelessly, pathetically down bad for you since the moment he laid eyes on you, and turns out, yeah, he can’t hide shit.

he’s doing the most. failing the most.

he’s staring at you during work like you’re the moon, the stars, the air he breathes, and probably breakfast, lunch, and dinner, too. the kind of gaze that has hearts practically floating out of his head like a bad shoujo manga. his lips tug upward in a soft, lopsided grin every time you so much as sigh. and it doesn’t help that he smiles like an absolute idiot every time you speak—his fingers fiddling with his pen, twirling it with that restless energy, like he’s got nowhere else to look but you. sometimes he props his chin on his hand, elbow on the desk, feet swinging beneath his chair, eyes glimmering with obvious affection. sometimes he kicks his feet, like he’s writing your name in hearts all over his notes.

and when people tease him about it?

“uh…uh…she’s just…” he chokes, rubbing the back of his neck, his white hair falling into his flushed face. his sunglasses slide down his nose as he stammers, his fingers nervously drumming on the table. “she’s cool! yeah! a really… really… cool… coworker!”

uh huh.

people start noticing real fast. the way you bring two drinks into meetings, both his favorite. the way his jacket mysteriously ends up on your chair, like he’s perpetually cold even though he’s not. the way you two walk in separately but somehow always leave together. the way satoru is always hovering two inches behind you like he’s your personal security detail, or maybe just your lovesick guard dog, his long legs struggling to slow his stride to match yours. his glasses slips sometimes, revealing those ridiculously bright eyes trained on you and only you.

and when you whip your head slightly and whisper scoldings under your breath, lips barely moving—"“you’re gonna blow our cover, dumbass”—he just beams, a grin so wide his cheeks push up against his blindfold. his fingers twitch, aching to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind your ear. it’s the kind of smile that could knock the air out of your lungs if you weren’t already holding your breath trying not to combust. he tilts his head like he’s imagining sliding a ring on your finger already, the soft flush on his cheeks betraying how much he’s already too far gone.

it’s not just the staring. it’s the giddiness. the way he forgets to keep his distance when you’re around. the way his shoulders instantly straighten when you walk into the room, like his whole body is magnetized to you. the way his fingers tap against the desk like he can’t wait to talk to you again. the way he fumbles, dropping his pen or knocking over his water bottle, when someone catches him looking at you like you’re his entire universe. it’s the way he instantly brings you snacks he swore were “for everyone” but somehow always end up on your desk, the wrappers piling up as you pretend not to enjoy the attention.

it’s also the way you’re absolutely pissed when you realize he’s blowing the secret wide open. your jaw tightens, your foot taps the floor, your arms cross, and your glare sharpens to a laser beam. you’ve warned him. you’ve scolded him. you’ve threatened to dump him—half-joking, half-very-much-not—if he keeps being so obvious. you press your palm to your temple in frustration as you whisper, "you're killing me here, satoru."

and suddenly, he’s panicking. his hands flail, baby blues orbs widening . his voice cracks, desperate. his fingers clutch the air like he's trying to grab the right words before they scatter.

“no, no, no, babe… please don’t dump me. i’ll do better, i swear. i’ll look less. i’ll… i’ll stare at the wall instead. i’ll wear sunglasses indoors. i’ll look at the floor forever. i’ll… i’ll even switch departments. please, please don’t leave me. i won’t survive it. i’ll just crumble into dust. i’ll haunt you. but like… in a hot way.”

he's clutching his chest dramatically, leaning into the nearest table for support like he’s seconds from collapsing. his bottom lip juts out in a pitiful pout, and his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you but knows he can’t—not here, not now. his feet shuffle in place like he’s trying to root himself to the ground, but his whole body screams to be closer to you.

“you’re so bad at this,” you deadpan, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, pretending you’re not melting inside because you’re emotionally constipated and you like to act like you’re not just as whipped. but your ears are pink. you know they are. you can feel the heat blooming across your skin. you shift your weight onto one leg, tapping your finger against your elbow in mock annoyance, but your foot has already inched closer to his.

“but you still love me right?” he pouts, voice softening, tilting his head as he leans closer like a puppy waiting for a treat. his hair flops forward over his blindfold, his grin tentative, hopeful, like he’s staking his entire existence on your next words. his toes point toward you, his shoulders curling in, like you’re his center of gravity.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” you grumble, rolling your eyes, but you’re already reaching for his hand beneath the table, already letting him lace his fingers with yours, his thumb stroking soft circles into your skin like it’s instinct, like it’s home. he squeezes your hand like he never plans to let go.

he brightens instantly, a soundless laugh puffing from his chest, his white hair bouncing with the force of his excitement. his entire body relaxes, his feet kicking slightly under the table. “i’ll be better! i’ll be so sneaky, baby! like a ninja! you won’t even see me coming! i’ll be a ghost! you’ll be so proud of me!”

spoiler: he does not, in fact, get any sneakier.

he gets worse. because now he’s trying so hard to “be sneaky” that he ends up staring harder. he waves at you across the room with a smile that’s way too fond, his hand flopping in a lazy, unmistakable greeting that lingers just a second too long. he trips over his own feet when you so much as glance in his direction, scrambling to play it cool like his heart didn’t just somersault into his throat. he texts you from three desks away: “do you miss me?” like you’re not in the same building, like he hasn’t seen you in five minutes. he sends you selfies from the next room with captions like, “thinking of you” and “missing my girl.”

he's a terrible liar. but he’s the best boyfriend.

so you let him. you let him slip up. you let him look at you like you’re his whole world. you let him wear that stupid grin. you let him love you loudly, even when he’s supposed to be quiet about it. you let him text you unnecessarily, bring you snacks with your name written on the wrapper, and you let him keep leaving his jacket on your chair.

you’re just as hopeless, aren’t you?

[salemrph]

Salt on your Skin

Summary: You’ve lived your whole life in a sleepy coastal village where nothing ever changes until he arrives. A stranger with silver hair. He shouldn’t matter. He’s just another tourist, just another passing face. But the way he looks you, the way he listens… it makes you feel seen in a way that terrifies you. Between the salt air, the mango-sweet afternoons, and his voice whispering promises you’re not ready to believe, you start to wonder: what if this forgotten place isn’t where your story ends, but where it begins?

Character: Sylus x f!reader / you

Gender — ☆ AU, romantic, fluff, intimacy, slow burn, slice of life, summer romance, sexual content (nsfw), smut with feelings, light angst, Hurt & Comfort

Word count: 19.7k | Reading Time: 77 min | AO3 Sorry that this thing is so fucking long.

🎧 "Salt on your Skin" Spotify Playlist -> A/N: You’ve waited long enough, I won’t keep you. I’ll be hinting at songs I listened to while writing certain scenes. If you don’t feel like pausing to click on each one, no worries—just hit play and enjoy. Sorry that it got so fucking long. It was my intention to create such long fanfic. *In this story, the character referred as "Reader" or "You" is from an unnamed cost village, the specific location isn't relevant to the story. While Spanish is the character's native language, and they mainly will speak it in the story, most of the dialogue will be presented in English for ease of reading. I just display thing in Spanish with translation, for funny moments and relevant emotional dialogue. Also I tried my best to catch the grammatical errors. (＞﹏＜)

Taglist: @blessdunrest @xxsyluslittlecrowxx @voidsylus @thechaoticarchivist @leftpoetrymoon @madam8 @stxrrielle @terriblesoup @mansonofmadness @leftpoetrymoon @jadeloverxd @nutshellera @zaynessdarling @sylusgirlie7 @mothlillies @deathrye @mansonofmadness @peascribbles @pdacex @eolivy

Salt on your Skin

🎧 "Salt on your Skin" Spotify Playlist

You grow up in a small fisherman village, south, nothing spectacular, nothing loud. Sun kissing your skin, salt tangled in your hair, the smell of the ocean was your everyday. Palms swayed lazily in the wind. Cactus grew wild by the roadside. The earth was dry, cracked in places, but always warm. Sand found its way into everything: your shoes, your sheets, your soul. Nothing ever really happened here. Nothing special, at least. Not many people cross this place, just the occasional wanderer and backpacker, drawn in by the silence, the stillness, the illusion of escape.

And it is beautiful. To the outsider, it’s paradise. A hidden postcard painted in blues and golds, for all who pass by and leave, carrying the souvenirs, the sand, and probably a peeling sunburn back to wherever they came from. But you? You never left. Maybe for college and for short trips not far away. You picked a degree because someone said it was practical—but what’s practical in a place where everything moves slowly and nothing ever changes? So you came back with a diploma in hand, a broken heart from some idiot and little by little, you buried your dreams. Right there beside the notebooks you used to fill with sketches of faraway cities and impossible futures. Right beside the plans you whispered under your breath when you still believed your life could unfold somewhere else.

Now you help your parents at the store or your work at the beach bar. You tell yourself it’s not so bad because it isn’t. This place raised you and cradled you. But sometimes… When the sun dips low and the air turns heavy with memory… You wonder what else your life could’ve been. You try not to want too much. Having dreams, in a place like this, is the first way you start to go crazy if they're too big. It feels so difficult to find the right way to break free. 

Your days follow the rhythm of the tide. You wake with the sun, light slipping through the shutters in pale golden stripes, warming the terracotta tiles before your bare feet even touch the floor. Coffee first, always strong, slightly bitter, brewed in a tinny bialetti older than you. You sip it slowly in the kitchen where the radio was always on. The village is small enough that everyone knows your name, your business, and what you looked like in every awkward stage of growing up. You can’t walk five steps without a nod, a wave, or someone shouting: 

“¡Dile a tu mamá que tengo listo su pedido” (“Tell your mom I have her order ready.”)

You smile and keep walking. You help out at the family store during the hotter hours. Selling sunscreen, postcards, cold drinks, cheap towels for tourists who forgot theirs. Sometimes you sit in the doorway fanning yourself with an magazine while your father tries to fix the old A/C and your mother swears in the background. And then there was your second job, unofficial but necessary. Since you've returned, you've been saving, for that eventual emergency plan, if your heart finally found the courage to leave. So you stand in that beach bar almost every day during the high season. 

Plastic chairs half-buried in sand, a fridge that hums louder than the music, and drinks poured from memory. You know who likes extra lime. Who never tips. Who only comes to watch the sunset alone. It’s simple. Predictable. There’s comfort in that. But sometimes, when you’re rinsing out glasses or wiping sand off tables, you catch yourself watching the horizon. Something out there is calling you, something that still believes in the girl who once drew maps of cities she’s never seen. But then you shake it off. Because this is home. This is yours and if nothing ever changes…

Until that one afternoon. 

Is hot like always, so you are wearing shorts and your bikini under the top. Ready to cool off whenever you need. Preparing some drinks, getting ice cubes and cleaning tables. That’s when you notice him. A tall man with sunglasses sitting at one table with an umbrella. He’s definitely going to get roasted with that skin color, you think. You know how tourists are so, you sigh but still you approach with cold iced water and place it in front of him. “If you stay long, please don't forget to use sunscreen. We have some here if you need.”

He just lifts his head slowly behind the lenses. And somehow, you feel like you’re the one under the sun now. He lifts the glass slowly, takes a sip, and sets it down and keeps watching the ocean. A moment later, you hear a soft, almost too quiet “Thank you”. That’s it. 

Weird. You shrug it off. Tourists are strange sometimes. Some just want peace. Others… are well yeah just strange. You go back to refill the drinks fridge and emptying trash cans. Around this time of the year it can be a bit busy, but mostly on the weekends.

A breeze sweeps through, bringing the scent of seaweed and coconut sunscreen. You hum a little, a tune only half-formed, and focus on your tasks. Sometimes you dance behind the bar to some songs. Is a easy way to make the hours pass by and keep yourself busy. But today, a strange feeling doesn’t leave. That sensation that someone’s watching you. Not in a creepy way but more out of… curious. 

Later, you bring drinks to another table, and when you glance back toward him, he’s still there. A notebook sits on this lap in front of him, he’s sketching or writing. You can’t quite tell. Odd choice for this heat. You observe him a bit longer, taking in the silver hair, the shape of his nose, the sharp jawline. The defined muscles along his arms; clearly a sporty guy. In the heat of the day, he’s wearing a black linen button-down shirt and long white pants. The view of him sinks deeper into your mind. One of the fancy tourists, no doubt. But… What does he do here?

A small smile appears on his face. Did he write something funny? You pause mid-step, pretending to adjust the tray in your hands, but your eyes flick toward him again. The pen in his hand stills for a heartbeat. It stirs something in you. Curiosity takes over you with persistent. You wonder what kind of thoughts live in that notebook. You’re about to turn back when he lifts his eyes from the paper and shifts slightly toward you, propping one elbow on the table and resting his head against his hand.

“¿Creciste aquí?” (“You grew up here?”)

It catches you off guard. Did he just speak your language? 

“Sí” (“Yeah, I do,”) you reply, the words came out slow, drawn out by your confusion.

He closes the notebook, the pen slipping between the pages. His sunglasses stay on, but you can feel the weight of his gaze.

“Debe ser genial” (“Must be nice,”) he says, almost wistful. “Crecer con el océano como tu patio trasero.” (“To grow up with the ocean as your backyard.”)

The comment was harmless but… your eyes were still on him, searching for an accent you don’t hear. No, there wasn’t any. It was like he’d lived here his whole life, like he’d sat on these plastic chairs a hundred times, melting under the sun, playing cards with the elders, gossiping with the ladies, and running barefoot through the sand as a child. But you’ve never seen him before.

The air shifts. There’s something about him you can’t place. Maybe you should take a break and get some water. You cross your arms, standing your ground. “Are you just passing through?”

He smiles “Something like that.”

That wasn't an answer, definitely not a straight one. 

“Honestly, you look more like someone who belongs at a luxury resort than in a remote place like this.” Ups… That was a bit too direct. You tilt your head, trying to be a bit more polite this time. “Well, there is not much to see here. I hope you enjoy the quietness though.”

He laughed, and finally takes off his sunglasses. You get lost in his eyes: red, deep, impossible. Like twilight caught in glass. The world seems to slow. The wind rises slightly, brushing against your skin like a whisper, stirring the salt and sunlight around you. You got trapped for a moment that felt more like an eternity. The intensity of his eyes. You blink a few times. You decide to ignore whatever is fluttering in your chest. Your shift just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

“You got a name?” you ask with an arrogant tone, your chin tilted just enough to make it a challenge.

He smirks. “Depends who's asking.”

You roll your eyes. Of course he’s flirting. You know how this goes, always some smooth-talking tourist thinking the local girl is part of the experience: “Wild, free and exotic women.” You could throw up.

Not going to insist if he is that kind of guy…

You huff and turn away as the manager calls you, yelling for more napkins or limes or whatever crisis the little storage shed has today. By the time you come back, the man is gone. A bit irritated, you finished your shift. You wanted to know his name, because those eyes will be hard to forget. But in the end, it's another tourist that comes and goes, so who cares? 

Only… The next day, he’s there again. Same chair. Same sunglasses. Same notebook.

You try not to react. Just grab a tray of drinks and keep your head down. But you feel it, the burn of his attention. The strange, steady way he watches you without saying a word, like he’s reading a story only he can see written on your skin. You can’t exactly kick him out. To be fair, he’s not doing anything wrong. Just sitting there, quiet and scribbling in a worn leather-bound notebook. He never bothered you with more words than necessary, just with his simple order. 

He returns the day after, and the next one too. Day after day. 

You’d notice another group of girls, tourists with their bright bikinis and confident smiles, approach his table once more. Was it already the third time today? They'd lean in, their voices a little too loud, trying to flirt, trying to get his number.

Bored behind the bar, the clinking of glasses and the distant murmur of waves providing a dull backdrop, you'd watch the scene unfold. You'd find yourself absentmindedly munching on some salty peanuts, watching how the girls creatively or rather uncreatively tried to get from him some kind of reaction. But he never paid them much attention. He'd just offer a polite, almost distant smile, and then his gaze would drift past them, straight across the sunlit space, directly to you. It was as if he knew you were enjoying the theater.

This time, he finally gets up, placing the exact amount for his drinks on the counter. He could at least tip me… Asshole. With a casual wave, he said, “See you tomorrow,” before disappearing into the shimmering heat of the afternoon. You hate how that makes something flicker in your chest.

By the fifth day, it’s getting under your skin. You don't even know why it bothers you so much. More than one tourist has spent several days in a row at this bar, but he's different somehow. They can call you crazy, but you have the distinct feeling that he's coming to see you.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself after drying off your arms behind the bar. “What’s your deal, big guy?” you turn around to him. He catches your eyes. Notebook in hand walking toward you.

“I'm just enjoying the sunshine. Is that a crime, sweetie? ” His voice is smooth, playful. He’s testing you.

You straighten your back. “Don’t call me that.”

He grins, tilting his head. “Then tell me your name.”

You don’t blink. “No.”

He chuckles and shrugs, like that settles it. “Sweetie, it stays.”

“Does that line usually work on all girls?”

He raises a brow, leaning one elbow casually on the bar. “Which girls?”

“Like the ones from yesterday,” you scoff. “Bet you tell all of them they’re special.”

His smile falters for half a second.

“I don’t like wasting my time,” he states, a hint of challenge in his tone. “Are you jealous?” 

You want to roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. You want to mock his question. But the unexpected flutter in your gut throws you off. Instead, with a frustrated sigh, you toss a dish towel onto the counter and turn away. Organizing the glasses on the shelf. “Order something or move, I’ve stuff to do.”

“You always talk to your clients like that?” he asked casually.

You pause for a moment. Damn him. “Well, you don’t have to flirt with me to get your coffee.” You muttered, your tone as flat as you could manage. There’s a beat of silence. Then, you hear the faintest scoff, more breath than sound. You glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch the slow curve of his mouth. His eyes glint with amusement.

“Who said it was flirting?” He tilts his head. You were already regretting giving him a reaction.. “But…” His voice dips lower, velvet and sin. “...would you like to see the difference, sweetie?” 

Your heart stutters. You scoffed and you pretended not to hear the pet name. And marched off to clean a nonexistent stain on the espresso machine before he could see the flush climbing up your checks. For the rest of the day, you cursed him. And cursed yourself most of all for almost wanting to ask what the difference would feel like.

On your day off, you try not to think about him. Really. You swear you don’t care. You’re just… curious. That’s all. Wondering, maybe, if he showed up again. You imagine him sitting there, legs crossed, sunglasses on, notebook open like always. Maybe he’s gone. Maybe he finally got bored of this sleepy place and your uneven service. That would be good, right? Maybe that means your brain can shut up now. 

I shouldn't care.

You grab your towel, a bottle of cold water, and your favourite pair of flip-flops and head out. Not to the main beach where the kids yell and the old ladies gossip under their hats. No. You take the winding dirt trail, sun on your back, cactus needles lining the path like prickly guards. You duck under hanging branches and hop down the rocky slope, slipping once like always and catching yourself just in time. It's a longer walk, but getting there is...

...is, your little secret. The cove. Small, quiet, framed by cliffs and half-hidden by palms. It feels like a pool but big enough to swim. The ocean is glass today, turquoise and endless. You drop your towel on the warm rock, kick off your flip flops and remove your clothes. This… this is yours. No tourists. No bosses. No strange men with sharp smiles and too many secrets. You dive in, the water cold and perfect, wrapping around you like silk. You swim out until the world goes quiet. Just the splash of your limbs and the lull of the tide.

You turn toward the shore, slick hair clinging to your neck, water dripping down your back. You’re just about to wade out... You freeze. There he is. Sitting on the rocks, on your rocks. You grip the edge of a stone, still in the water. You can't be serious. Of all the places in this world, on this piece of earth, exactly at the same moment as you're here…

“How?” you demand, brows furrowed.

He barely moves, still perched like a damn king on your favourite spot, one leg stretched out, the other bent. White T-shirt and shorts this time, sea breeze tugging at the hem. Of course he looks good. Too good. Effortless.

“How what?” he asks, tilting his head just slightly so the sun hits the curve of his jaw. He doesn’t even take the sunglasses off.

“This place,” you snap. “How do you know about this place?”

“It’s easy when you can talk to people or…” He pulls out his phone and waves it lightly. “You know, you use social media.”

You click your tongue, annoyed. Probably some old tagged picture from a local, maybe even one of yours. Is it really just coincidence and bad luck?

“Fuck you,” you mutter, more at yourself than him. You can’t blame him. But gods, it stings. You embarrassed yourself yesterday, thinking he was flirting with you and now you have to see his face on your day-off. This is a punishment. 

He grins. “I could leave, if it bothers you but you’ll have to say please.”

“You’re such an asshole.” You say without hesitation.

He laughed lazily. “I have heard that a few times.”

You climb out of the water, dripping and fierce, and march right past him, snatching your towel. Drying off your face. “You’re ruining my sacred space,” you declare.

“Sacred, huh?” he murmurs, still watching you. “Didn’t mean to trespass on holy ground. Either way, since I’m here…” He flips open the notebook. “Mind that I stay a bit more? It was a long walk.”

You pause. Half wrapped in irritation and a very dangerous, very inconvenient curiosity. In all the years finding a tourist here, in your place was extremely rare. Some of your friends and people of the village used this place as well. But in the end, most of the time, you're alone here. 

“Do whatever you want,” you mutter, turning your back on him as you dig through your bag for your diver goggles. You don’t look at him again.

You slip the goggles over your head, adjust the strap, and wade back into the water. As soon as you dive, the world changes. The sun dims, the sea hums around you, and everything slows. Fish dart between rocks, flashes of silver and blue. You follow them deeper into the cove, letting the water strip away the heat of his gaze, the smugness of his voice. Down here, it’s just you. Every so often, you surface for air, and he’s still there. Legs stretched out, notebook resting on his knee, watching you like you’re some rare creature he stumbled across and hasn’t figured out if he should leave alone or chase.

The coral shimmered beneath you like a dream, sunbeams piercing the water in long, golden threads. Tiny silver fish darted between sea fans, and swaying anemones moved in slow, hypnotic rhythms. You floated there, suspended in the hush, arms outstretched, breath held tight in your lungs, letting the stillness soak into your bones. Being in the water makes you feel free. All these creatures can swim, leave, and be wherever they want. They migrate without fear, camouflaging themselves with the seabed. You are jealous of such a level of freedom.

Distracted by your own thoughts, you didn't notice the shadow approaching. You turned your head, and there, gliding just a few meters away, was a massive stingray. Its wings undulated as it passed, alarmingly close. You gasped for air. Big mistake.

Saltwater rushed in, burning your throat. You kicked upward, desperate for air, but your limbs felt slow, heavy, panic clawing at your chest. A strong hand wrapped around your arm. You broke the surface with a choking gasp, coughing hard as you ripped your goggles off. You barely noticed you were trembling, clinging to whoever had you, water spilling from your lips.

“Are you okay?” His voice was close.

You nodded through the coughing, breathing in hard, rough gulps. “Y-Yeah… yeah.”

When you finally look up, you don’t find the lazy smirk he always wears. Concern, drawn across his face like a shadow. His brows are furrowed, mouth slightly parted, as if he wants to say something but doesn’t know where to start. His gaze searched your face.

Your mouth parted, breath still shaky, and for a moment, you forgot how to form words. He tilted his head slightly, still holding your arm. You were too close. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. Close enough to see the drop of seawater sliding down his neck, tracing the sharp line of his collarbone. You almost lean in, just a little. The impulse hits you fast and stupid, heat rising too quick. You squirm in his arms, suddenly aware of every inch between you. 

You clear your throat and pull away. He lets go without a word, and you swim back toward the rocky entrance with the energy left you had. You haul yourself out, grabbing your towel and slipping on your shorts. Your heart’s pounding, angry and confused. You want to leave. Double strike. Not only did you embarrass yourself, but he had also saved your life from drowning. If he hadn't showed up… You stopped. 

Fuck… I owe him my life.  

That makes you turn in the exact moment when the sun catches his skin as he walks out of the sea. He runs a hand through his wet hair, squeezing the water out with a slow drag of his fingers. In his other hand, he holds a pair of diving goggles. You were damn right, gods, were you right. Now that he’s standing there in nothing but swim shorts, there’s no doubt about it. His body is sculpted.

Shoulders broad, chest defined, muscles honed from more than just casual swimming. The drops trace delicate lines down his torso, catching the light, glinting like it’s showing off for you. You blink. Your eyes shamelessly are scanning him. He has such a big ass and if that's big, what about his...? You glaze dropped briefly over his crotch. Just a glimpse and then you drag your eyes back up to somewhere safe, somewhere less dangerous at least. 

“Thank you,” you say almost too low “For helping me...” You hesitate.

“No need to thank me.” You started coughing again. He made you sit down and handed you your bottle of water. Having him so close, you realized he looked worried. So you hadn't imagined it before. You should worry about yourself, but your eyes couldn't stop scanning his features. Yes, his nose really was beautiful. The length of his eyelashes, the faint dark circles under his eyes. Was it because he didn't sleep well, or were they natural? What did he even do? Was he some kind of businessman? No, he looked more like a model. Thousands of questions crossed your mind…

It's not your business.

But still...

“How can I compensate you?” you asked, finally recovered.

He paused, then took his own towel, draping it around his neck. “Help me explore this place.”

“The village?” you asked surprised by such an absurd request. “There’s nothing to explore.”

“There is,” he replies, calm as ever.

You frowned. “What would that be? This place has like… three alleys and a very enthusiastic goat.”

“Sweetie, isn’t exploration what you do when you don’t know what you’re looking for?” There it was again, that smug little note in his voice. 

“You always talk like that?”

His smirk sharpened, eyes glinting with mischief. “Do you always look at someone’s crotch?”

Your mouth fell open, he noticed. You straightened, refusing to give him the satisfaction to admit that you did it. “Fine, I’ll be your guide.”

He smirked, unabashedly pleased. “Good. So, should I stick with Sweetie or start to calling you Miss Guide now?”

You shot him a dry look, already turning away. “Try it, and I’ll kick you off a cliff.”

He laughed, unbothered. A beat passed, your steps crunching against the sand. “How should I call you?”

“Sylus,” he said simply.

You nod, repeating it silently in your head. 

Sylus.

And for some reason, hearing it made something shift—this is like the opening page of a fresh new book. And you’ve never been great at turning down a good story.

Days pass like waves and a little too easy to get lost in.

At first, you meant to show him the typical tourist stops—the scenic overlook, the main plaza, that one beach every guidebook lists first. But after the second spot, he leaned close and said, “I’ve seen all of these before. Try harder, sweetie.” So you started to improvise.

You showed him the old boat wreck tucked behind the rocks, half-sunken, forgotten by time, but not by you. The kind of place only someone who’s grown up here would know. Then came the spot with the best grilled fish and amazing fresh fruit juice, and the owner who winked at you every time like she knew something you didn’t. You take him to the cliffs no one climbs but you, another one of your secret places to scream into the wind and feel free. He stands at the edge, hands in pockets, peering down like he’s measuring how far he’d fall. Asking if you were really going to kick off the cliff. “It’s still an option,” you muttered, but your lips betrayed you with a smile. 

Both walked down to the pier, where the old fishermen had already settled in for the morning, as they always were, lined up with their tattered hats and leathery skin, smoking, drinking cheap beer, swapping stories that blurred the line between memory and myth. It was also one of the best spots to jump into the water when the tide was right.

Sylus seemed genuinely interested in their fishing; leaning in, asking questions, even tossing out a few jokes that made one of the men laugh. You watched him exchange words with ease. If he was one of those rich types, shouldn’t he have more expensive hobbies? Golf, yachts, or something with polished marble and champagne? One of the old men turned toward you suddenly, his voice rough with years and sea air.

“Me agrada tu amigo” (I like your friend!) he shouted, grinning through missing teeth and raising his beer in salute.

Sylus, just slips into your days without ever asking to. It was stupid how easily he fit into the cracks of your life. He starts waiting until your shift ends, arms crossed, a lazy smile on his lips like this is normal. It's definitely making your days more entertaining, if it weren't for the fact that the neighborhood is starting to notice. Of course they do; someone always does. You ignore the comments as best you can.

“¿Quién es ese muchacho tan guapo con el que anda?” (Who is that handsome boy you are walking with?)”

“He’s paying me to be his guide.” You said to the people every now and then. It’s not a lie. It’s also not the truth. You don’t explain more. You don’t want to. This town is small and whatever this is between you and him, it’s yours. Reacting too much to the gossip spreading like gunpowder, would only lead to more of them. You really don't want to start a fire.

“Who said I'm paying you?” he leaned closer, an amused murmur in your ear as he caught your quiet deflection.

“Be quiet and let me handle the gossip,” you hissed back, not breaking your stride.

“I'm fine with that, but under one condition.” You stopped mid-stride, your heart giving a nervous jump. He smiled and tugged you a bit closer. “You can't lie to me.”

“Why would I do that?” You tried for nonchalance, but your voice felt thin.

“Well, if you lie…” He stopped, turning dramatically toward the group of old ladies playing cards. They were perfectly set up in the shade in front of one of their houses, colorful hand fans fluttering against the heat, their eyes already on you.

Oh no.

“¡Señoras, soy su nov—!” (Ladies, I'm his boyf—)

“Shut up!” You lunged, grabbing his shirt, the fabric bunching in your fist. Panic flared in your chest. You could see your entire calm world shatter, crackling into chaos, if he blurted out something like that. “Fine, fine! I won't lie to you.”

“Smart decision, sweetie.” His smile widened, all innocent charm, but his eyes held a glint of triumph.

You let go. “Asshole,” you murmured back. 

You pretended not to notice but it’s the little things. The flutter moments that sneak past your defenses and settle under your skin. The way he always calls you sweetie. He knows it annoys you, but says it anyway, just to watch that fire light in your eyes. How he's always too close. A finger under your chin, forcing your gaze when you try to escape his. You tell yourself it's annoying. You tell yourself you don't enjoy it.

You reminded yourself, every time he brushed against you “by accident,” every time he leaned just a little too close to whisper something entirely unnecessary. You reminded yourself of it especially when your heart started beating too fast in his presence, when your body began to crave that warmth. You were just enjoying the game while it lasted. A little spark. A little summer mischief. That was all this was. Because people like him… They didn’t stay. He was a tourist, and the charming ones always knew how to play his cards. They were all promises but vanished at the end of summer. And you? You wouldn’t be stupid about this. You weren’t going to fall. 

...Right?

One night, you're sitting on the sand, barefoot, toes buried, only a small flame between you, driftwood fire crackling soft, heat licking your knees. The stars are bright, the kind of sky you only get in places forgotten by noise. You tilt your head and catch him watching you. The shadows from the fire dance across his face, making it harder to read his expression.

“Do I have something on my face?” you ask.

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Starlight.”

“Sure...” You shift a bit. “Are you ever going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

He exhales, slow, like he’s been waiting for that question. But instead of answering, he says:

“What do you dream about?”

It doesn’t surprise you. He always does this, twisting the conversation back to you. You stare into the fire. You think about it and somehow he has this calm way to let you pour out your heart. Without judgement, he listens or asks how you feel about everything. About how you wanted to leave, once. How you almost did. About books you read and lifes you imagined. About how sometimes peace tastes like salt… And sometimes, it tastes like regret. 

You could talk with him for hours, discuss thousands of scenarios like you've never done with anyone before. It feels like the dirty gears of those buried dreams are being dusted off with each word he said. Sylus tells you some stories about what he has seen, eaten and experienced already. He points out the things you would like, places he would show you. The collection of vinyl he has, how he enjoys playing the piano. The familiarity he has with you is overwhelming. He teases you, makes you angry, he flickers his finger against your forehead when you say something stupid. He has been even helping you with everyday chores like the other day:

The market is buzzing. Colorful umbrellas flapping in the breeze, baskets full of delicious fruits and vegetables stacked in uneven towers, the scent of grilled spices and fish so rich it makes you hungry on the spot. You weave through it like you always do, with a tote bag swinging at your side. Sylus is less graceful, dodging kids with sticky fingers and getting bumped more than once by old ladies with strong elbows. He clearly doesn't like to be in the crowd. 

“You sure you know where you’re going?” he teases, glancing at your bag. “Or are we just wandering until you collect enough mangoes for a year?”

“I always know where I’m going,” you reply smugly. “And don’t judge my mango obsession. They're better than whatever bitter fruit you probably grew up with.”

“I prefer oranges.” He plucks one mango from a pile and holds it up, golden and soft. “This one’s bruised.”

“Don't be so picky. That means it’s perfect,” you snatch it from his hand. “Bruised fruits are sweeter. You know nothing.”

He laughed. “Teach me, then.” He buys one cup with fresh cut fruit at the same stall and spears a piece with a toothpick. He chews, then nods thoughtfully. “You’re right. They are perfect.” Your stomach growls, loud enough to make you wince. 

Sylus glances at you, then casually offers the cup, holding it out. “Do you want some?”

You hesitate for a second, somehow it feels more intimate than it should. But then you take the offered bite. Your fingers brush his and his gaze lingers, just a moment too long.

“You like it?” he asks, voice softer now.

You nod, chewing. You try not to smile as you pay for the mangoes. Before your hand even reaches your wallet, Sylus slips in, handing over the change to the vendor. You narrow your eyes, but he’s already walking. By the time you're heading back toward home, your tote is filled with groceries, the fruit cup now shared between you, and the sun is heavy over your shoulders. Sylus walks beside you, glancing at his phone for a moment, then back at you.

“I need a moment,” he says, stepping under the awning of a closed stall, voice already lowering as he answers a call. You nod and wait a few steps ahead, settling into the shade of a tree with a sigh, adjusting the straps on your bag. 

Minutes later a tourist approaches, clearly lost, holding a map and trying to look confident.

“Hi! Sorry… Em… do you know how to get to Playa Baja?”

“Yeah,” you say, automatically switching into your helpful voice. “Go back to the main road. Take the bus from there, near the bakery. Is a 20 minutes ride.”

He grins. “Thanks! You’re local, huh? Makes sense, only locals are this kind.”

You laugh politely. “Sure.”

But before he could say more, the tourist glanced over your shoulder, and he caught Sylus’s stare. He backed off quickly with a smile faltering, then cleared his throat and stepped back. “Enjoy your day.” And disappears as quickly as it appeared.

Sylus stands there, phone now tucked away. 

“Huh. That was fast,” you say.

He shrugs. “Wasn’t important.”

You finally reached your house and the family store below it, the familiar babble of domestic chaos greeted you before the front door even opened.

“Just buy another one, you stubborn old man!” your mother’s voice echoed from the back.

“No, this one’s fine!” your father snapped, followed by a loud Clank Clank, as he smacked the side of the ancient A/C unit again.

You sighed and pushed the door open. “Really? Still fighting over that thing?”

The store was warm, stuffy, and smelled faintly of dust and cleaning spray. You dropped the bags on the kitchen table with a loud thud before stepping into the shop. Sylus follows you silently, scanning the familiar chaos with calm eyes.

“¡No puedo más!” (“I can’t take it anymore!”) your mother snapped from behind the counter, wiping sweat from her forehead with a dish towel. “Tell your father to buy a new one before he sets the store on fire.”

You sighed. At the sound of another figure entering with you, both of your parents looked up. Your mother’s gaze immediately fixed on Sylus. She blinked, surprised, eyes traveling from his silver hair down to his clean, fancy clothes, pausing on his calm expression. A stranger in her home and he comes with you? Not common. But as always, she gathered herself fast. Her tone shifted. 

“Excuse us for the shouting,” she said quickly, brushing her hair back. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Her eyes met Sylus’s, just for a moment, and something changed in her face. A flicker of quiet recognition, curiosity… Then she turned to you, wandered over with a little smile playing on her lips. 

Oh no, she's already imagining things.

You rub your eyes. That mother smile. The one that knew too much and said nothing for now. Sylus very politely and kindly declined your mother's invitation, then he stepped closer to where your father stood grumbling beside the A/C unit.

“Mind if I take a look?” he offered casually, nodding toward the old machine.

Your father blinked at him, thrown off, giving space and the screwdriver. “¿De dónde sacaste a este muchacho?” (“Where did you get this boy?”) he whispered to you.

You smirked. “Me ha estado siguiendo como gato callejero. Creo que me ha cogido cariño.” (“He's been following me around like a stray cat. I think he likes me.”)

Your dad huffed a laugh, still eyeing Sylus like he wasn’t sure whether to be suspicious or impressed. He stays by your side, arms crossed, ready to judge every move Sylus made. The machine was old, rusted at the edges, and had a habit of rattling like it was possessed by a ghost. Most people wouldn’t dare touch it without at least cursing first. He knelt beside it, examined the wires and casing with quiet concentration, then reached into the toolbox without asking where anything was.

There was a soft click, a sharp spark, and then the hum. Not the loud, wheezing death-rattle it usually made. A smooth, low vibration and cool air drifted out. Everyone froze. Your father blinked and moved to press his hand to the front of the unit like he couldn’t believe it was real.

Sylus stood, brushing dust from his hands. “It’ll work for now,” he said casually, glancing at your dad. “But you should definitely buy a new one.”

Your father opened his mouth, probably to argue but stopped.

“¿Una cerveza, muchacho?” (“A beer, boy?”) he asked, already moving toward the fridge. “Por lo menos para agradecerte.” (“At least to thank you.”)

“And you’re staying for dinner,” your mother added before Sylus could respond, her voice final, already thinking about the menu she would display tonight. “Is there anything you don't like to eat?” 

“Mamá…” you said in a tired tone, shaking your head. 

“We need to thank him properly,” she chirped.

Sylus hesitated, looking between them, then over at you, as if silently pleading for a way out. But you just smiled, leaning against the counter with one eyebrow raised, thoroughly enjoying the moment. Your father was already asking for a detailed explanation of how the miracle worked. And if he also knew how to fix cars.

“Looks like you’ve been adopted,” you said sweetly. “Good luck.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, but there was a flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You expected him to fumble—thought he’d slip up on the names, or get awkward answering your dad’s too-bold questions. You wanted him to flinch a little, if only for your own petty satisfaction. But somehow, he didn’t. He was smooth and polite. Your mother was enchanted in less than ten minutes, practically glowing every time he addressed her with a soft “señora.” And when he mentioned liking fishing? Your father lit up like it was Christmas morning.

You sat there in quiet horror as your dad leaned back in his chair, nodding thoughtfully. “Lo quiero como yerno.” (“I want him as a son-in-law.”) You nearly choked on your water. Your soul left your body. 

“Papá…!” 

Sylus set his glass down gently and said, perfectly composed, “We don’t have that kind of relationship” Then, with the faintest trace of dry amusement, he added, “She actually threatened to push me off a cliff earlier.”

Your dad let out a booming laugh. “That’s love!”

Your mother gasped and you slumped in your chair, face in hands, absolutely done.

Later, when the plates were cleared and your parents had gone off to debate which neighbour had the best tomatoes this year, you tugged Sylus out onto the back porch. The sky was a soft indigo now, stars starting to blink awake. Crickets chirped. The kind of summer night that made everything feel special. 

You leaned against the railing, arms crossed. “Don’t listen to anything my dad said.”

Sylus leaned next to you, hands in his pockets, lips twitching with amusement. “What, about wanting me as a son-in-law?”

“Yes, that.” You groaned. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was... funny” His voice softened. “And... nice. Being around that much love. The way he looks at you. The way your mom knew you were lying about not being hungry.” He smiled faintly. “It’s loud, chaotic—and kind of wonderful.”

You glanced up at him, and something in his eyes made your chest ache.

“They raised you well,” he added quietly.

You tried to brush it off, but your voice cracked slightly. “How was your childhood?”

“Different.” He looked out into the trees. “I struggled to survive.”

You nodded, unsure what to say. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

"Don’t be." He patted you head, his voice was strangely comforting. 

“Well, you can always come back,” you offered, suddenly nervous, removing his hand embarrassed. “They’ll be happy to see you again.”

He turned, eyes finding yours.

“And you?” he asked.

“Eh?” 

“If I leave… would you be sad?” Your stomach flipped. But instinct kicked in, and you played it off with a shrug. True... He will leave... 

“Not unless you start tipping me at the bar.”

He chuckled. “Is that so?”

“And also, you shouldn’t drink every day either. You’ll die young.”

He turned to fully face you now, clearly amused. “Oh? So now you’re worried about me?”

You tried to hide your smile. Sylus laughed softly, but you could still see the warmth in his eyes.

Under all that tension. Your feeling is accumulating points of reward each time he leans in too close. When he hands you over a bottle of cold water. When he pulls out the chair before you sit in the restaurant or when he lets you use his lap as pillows to sleep on the beach. And in those moments when you see his smile, like now, under the flicking bonfire and his features are so soft as clouds drifting over the sky. You wish you had never met him because one day, probably soon… he’ll be gone. You should’ve known better. 

The ache in your chest is already blooming. Not sure if you won’t be able to bury it after he leaves, you choose the only thing you can. Make the moment yours before it’s gone. You stand, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt, peeling off layers of doubt with every piece of clothing. The air is warm, soft against your exposed skin. The flame crackles behind you, but the sea calls louder.

“I’m going to swim,” you say, calm, even if your pulse isn’t. You glance back over your shoulder, half naked by now. “Coming?”

He blinks, just once, surprised. But that smirk; god, that infuriating smirk; returns quickly.

“You’re bold,” he says, shacking his head but his hand catches your arm gently, his glowing red eyes hold you in place. “Are you sure?”

You raise an eyebrow. “About swimming? Yeah.” You know he is not asking about that. 

The last piece of clothing drops to the sand. You walk into the water, until it's covert over your naked body and you submerge yourself entirely. He follows, doing the same. You can feel him behind you before you even turn. His fingers, tracing the curve of your back, a feather light touch that sends shivers up your spine.

“What is your deepest desire?” You hesitate. You could lie. You’ve lied before but somehow, with him, it feels… pointless. He sees through it already. “Sweetie,” he says, his breath hot against your neck. “Don’t lie to me.”

“…I want to leave this place,” you admit. His hand holds yours beneath the water, while his arm wraps around your waist. 

“Why haven’t you?” he asks.

You stare out at the horizon, the darkness of the night merge with the ocean, and the stars shimmer almost on the water. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m afraid.”

“What would you do?” His voice is closer now. Lips brushing your wet hair.

“I want to see the world,” you whisper, lifting your free hand toward the sky as if you could touch the stars. “I want to know what it feels like to really live.”

He presses his lips on your shoulder. “I can give you that.”

You huff, half a laugh, half a shield. “Yeah, sure. Is that a promise… or just another pick-up line?”

His fingers tilt your chin gently toward him. His lips graze your cheek, your ear. You close your eyes briefly enjoying the prickling sensations of him, of your feeling surfing over your skin. 

“Don’t lie to me,” you echo back.

“I’m not,” he whispers, his thumb brushing your cheek, lingering as it slides over your lower lip with the faintest pressure. Your mouth parts instinctively, you feel the urge to chase his thumb with your tongue, but you hold back. His gaze locks onto yours. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

His thumb rests there a heartbeat longer, then trails down, tracing your jaw, your neck. You turn toward him slowly, pulse climbing, not sure if you're bracing for something or hoping for it. Sylus just pulls you a touch closer, fingertips resting at your waist, holding you steady. He leaned in, slowly, giving you a few agonizing seconds to pull away. You could still stop this. He’s giving you the chance.

The kiss it’s not like in the stories. It’s not gentle. It’s every unsaid thing burning behind your ribs. You melt into it before you even realize. Fingers gripping his shoulders, heart racing like it’s trying to escape your chest. You didn’t want this. You didn’t mean to want him. But his mouth fits too easily, and your resolve slips, undone by the sheer gravity of wanting. And your soul be damned, suddenly, all the rules you'd set for yourself over years: no feelings, no attachments, no hopes… Shatter with the fire inside your chest. Fuck. You don’t want him to leave and that terrifies you more than anything.

Sylus was hungry for you, that much was clear. He kissed you then with an intensity that doesn't match what you were expecting. You’ve met selfish lovers before. Men who touched you like a reward, a prize, like they earned your body just by showing up. Sylus let you lead. And when you kissed him deeper, testing limits, pressing your bare body against him in the water, feeling how hard he was. His grip tightened at your waist, drawing you closer until there’s no space left. Yet he still didn’t cross the line. He wanted to, you felt it. You reached out, your fingers brushing against his hard cock pressing on your belly, and your body burned with desire. Your hand wrapped around him, the impressive length and thickness of him filling your palm, even through the water. A soft gasp escaped your lips as you stroked him, pulling him further into the kiss. Your tongues met with a urgent dance as they swirled and tangled, exploring every curve of each other's mouths. His hand, now tangled in your wet hair, pulled your head back slightly, deepening the angle of the kiss even further.

Then, with a soft, ragged breath escaping him, he broke the kiss. His eyes were heavy with unspoken longing. “As much as I desire you. I want to give you more than just this…” His voice was low, aching with restraint, as he gently removed your hand from his length. Then he kissed you—deeply—like he needed you to know how much he wanted you, how much he was holding back. Yet, he still made you dress and walked you home in silence and left you at the door. He kissed your hands, then pressed another, lingering kiss on your temple, and whispered a soft “Good night”. 

The ceiling fan carved the silence in soft, slow turns. Outside, the ocean whispered secrets to the rocks. A dog barked once, far off, then silence settled again. The air carried the scent of sea and distant charcoal fires into his room.

Sylus sat on the edge of the bed in his rented apartment, your kiss still ghosting his lips. The notebook lay open in his lap, pages filled with observations only he would understand. His handwriting wound through sketches, your fingers curled around a drink, the curve of your smile when you weren’t watching, the weightless joy that flickered in your laugh. He stared for a while at the half-finished line, heart heavy with a feeling he hadn’t expected to grow so fast, so deep.

“You kissed me with your whole heart trembling in your chest, and I felt every piece of it trying to crawl into mine.”

Sylus hadn’t meant to kiss you tonight. His fingers dragged slowly across his lower lip. He closed his eyes, replaying the moment in silence. Your skin against his, the sound you made when his hand slid to your waist. The way you leaned in, offering more than kisses. You would’ve given him everything if he’d let you. But he stopped it. He breathed through the tightness in his throat. He wanted more than just the heat of a passionate night. More than a fleeting moment tangled in sheets and whispers. He wanted your yes in daylight. He wanted your smile with no hesitation behind it. 

The pen hovered. He turned to a fresh page.

“I wanted to give in. To drown in you, in that moment, in everything we both tried to silence. But if I touch you like that… if I let go… I want it to mean something neither of us can take back.”

His jaw clenched. His heartbeat had yet to settle.

“I don’t want to be a moment you regret. You deserve love that doesn’t ask you to run. So I’ll wait. Even if my hands ache from not holding you. I’ll wait, because I already know what I want. I want you.”

He set the pen down gently, running his thumb along the notebook’s inner spine. The ceiling fan is still slicing the dark above him. And though the bed was empty, every part of him was still holding you, still feeling the shape of your body against his. Sylus leaned back, letting the notebook rest against his chest. 

[Notebook]

“You called me arrogant today but your face was all red. Later, you walked closer. Closer than you usually do. You’re so cute.”

[pressed hard into the paper]

“If I ever could taste the salt of your skin on my lips…” 

[Margin note, stained with coffee]

“I tried not to watch your mouth when you called my name.”

[With a small cat sketch]

“Sometimes you act like a cat… Probably I can lure you with mangos and a feather. I should start to call you Kitten.”

He hadn’t planned to stay this long in your town. But his soul was already settled down to your side. He came here for a reason… Something he hasn't told you yet but he hopes to do soon. For now, you made the days longer in the best way. And the nights? They stretched on without you. His gaze drifted toward the dark window, where the reflection of his own silhouette blurred with the night beyond. How long could he stay here? Another week? Maybe two weeks? Could he pretend, just a little longer?

The phone buzzed softly against the table. Its glow carved a cold line through the room.

Kieran.

Work never stayed quiet for long. He looked down at the page again, absently tapping the pen against the margin. The light of the phone blinked again. He turned it face down. Let the darkness swallow it.

“Not tonight,” he murmured.

Tonight, Sylus wants to stay in the dream a little longer.

You didn’t sleep much that night. Your mind was racing, what a strange man. No, Sylus isn’t like other men. Since that night, not much has changed. He still shows up at the bar. He still ordered his usual, except that the amount of alcohol had decreased. He walks you to your home after your shift and takes you to some new corner of this forgotten coastline. Some days it’s a long lunch in a neighbouring village, sharing fried fish and watching old fishermen untangle their nets. Other days it’s a walk through ruins or abandoned train tracks where he tells you stories that feel like lies but you can’t quite call him out on them.

You'd spent afternoons together where he’d saved your life, snorkeling together in the cove. You'd watched fish drift by, swum alongside turtles. But beneath the surface of those moments, the intensity between you had grown, a horrible static electricity building, filled with desire and agonising restraint. Yet, you haven't kissed again or he hasn't tried it either. You really want to taste that fire once more on his lips, desperately, but the fear of getting hooked overwhelms you in those moments and yet, amidst all the tension, he keeps your close. 

A few days later, just after you’d flipped the last chair onto the table and wiped your hands on a dish towel, you found him leaning against the counter. “I need to head into the city tomorrow,” he said, voice casual, but something in his tone tugged at your attention. “Just some business. A couple of hours' drive. 

You look to the sides, confused. 

“Do you need my bless to leave?” you joke.

“No. You said last time you haven’t been there for a while.”

“Yes, I did...” you say still moving from side to side, cleaning up. He takes out his phone and pulls up an image of a poster he saved from who knows where. Then he slides his phone over to me. You stopped what you were doing, and you look at the picture even more confused than before. “Looks interesting. That kind of vintage bookshop really suits you. Would love to see it.”

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped a little, almost hesitant:

“I’d really like your company...” he stopped. He didn’t look at you right away. Just tapped his fingers lightly against the counter, like maybe he wasn’t sure what you’d say. And for a second, your heart stuttered, wondering why that small invitation suddenly felt so big. “I want to ask you out.” You stopped what you were doing, and you look at him even more confused than before. You opened your mouth, searching for words. Are he...?

“I— We’d stay the night,” he added quickly, almost stumbling over the words. “Would be a shame not to enjoy the city.”

You didn’t answer. Can that be a good idea? Going alone with him somewhere else? Spending a night... together? Wait... You're not sure about anything right now. Did he asked your for a date? 

“Can I think about it?” you ask, your voice softer than you intended. Your heart was beating a frantic thousand times per hour.

He nods once, a small smile tugging at his lips, as if he understands more than you’re saying. “I’ll be waiting for you here in the morning,” he replies.

You brought it up to your mother later that night, expecting a lecture, maybe a little Catholic guilt or dramatic sighing, or even a heartfelt monologue about reputation. Instead, she practically threw you out of the house. By morning, she’d stormed into your room, yanked the curtains and told you to get in the shower. Breakfast was already waiting, and by the time you were dressed. Your backpack was packed and waiting by the door. You stood there, speechless.

“Go,” she said, waving her hand like she was shooting a fly. “My beautiful and intelligent daughter… You’re a grown woman.” Then she gave you that nostalgic mom-look. The one that makes you feel like she’s seeing your five-year-old self and not the woman standing in front of her. “I’ve seen you around him. You light up.”

You gawked at her. She kissed your cheek and shoved two lunch boxes into your hands. “Just… be smart, okay? And use protection.”

“Mamá!” You laughed, heart pounding in that strange mix of nerves and excitement. 

She winked, shoved you toward the door, and muttered, “And if he hurts you, I will find him.”

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the open window, sunglasses hiding his eyes, hair tousled from the coastal breeze. The warm air rolls through, that kind of afternoon that tasted like freedom. You tapped through his playlist, surprised to find a mix of old ballads and moody instrumentals, jazz and classic. An old soul. 

“This is tragic,” you exhale. “Do you only listen this kind of music? Who are you, the Godfather?”

He shrugged. “It helps me think,” he said smoothly, as if brooding jazz was a requirement for plotting international deals or crimes.

With a small grin, you scrolled until you found something upbeat—something from your childhood that made your shoulders instinctively roll. The rhythm of the village, the kind of song that dragged you out of your chair whether you wanted to dance or not.

♫ Bachata en Fukuoka ♫

“You know this one?” you asked, teasing.

He didn’t answer. He sang. Badly. You burst out laughing because his voice was deep, slightly offbeat, and he only knew every third word. But gods, he was trying. Your chest ached in the strangest way.

“Please stop,” you gasped between laughs.

“I’m giving it soul,” he argued. “And you’re not any better.” You stick out your tongue and turn the volume up, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. 

When he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, grinning, you caught it—that angle of his jaw in the sunlight, the muscles of his forearm flexed against the wheel, veins drawn like rivers under skin. The line of his throat as he tilted his head back slightly, mouth curved around the chorus. His lips… again you felt your breath catch. Shit. You turned toward the window quickly, letting the wind cool the heat rising up your core and mind.

The city rose out of the horizon hours later. You hadn’t been here in a long while. You shifted in your seat, suddenly hyper aware of everything. Sylus pulled up to the hotel. You stepped out of the car and instantly felt underdressed. Marble floors. Velvet armchairs. Staff in suits. And the chandeliers were huge, golden things that looked like they belonged in a ballroom, not in a lobby. You wrapped your arms around yourself slightly as Sylus handed over the keys to the valet. At the reception desk, the woman behind the counter lit up the second she saw him.

“Mr. Qin. Welcome back.”

Welcome back? You glanced at him, but his expression was unreadable. Then she turned to you with a professional smile. “And welcome to you as well, Missus Qin.”

Your breath hitched. Missus Qin? You opened your mouth to correct her, but Sylus just smiled, clearly amused about your flustered expression with silent satisfaction. He didn’t correct her. Instead, he took the room key, slid your bag over his shoulder, and placed a gentle hand on your back, guiding you toward the elevator.

“Why did she call me that?” you muttered, trying to sound nonchalant. You weren’t sure if it worked. He didn’t answer. “Sylus?”

“Must’ve been a mistake, sweetie,” he said, voice rich with mischief. You gave him a look. 

The suite was stunning. High ceilings, city view, modern decor with soft touches of luxury, everything immaculate. 

“We’re staying in the same room?” you asked, half amused, half testing him.

“Since you’re Missus Qin today,” he said with a smirk, pulling off his sunglasses and setting them neatly on the table, “it’s only logical you stay here with me.” He gestured to the sofa, far too expensive to actually be comfortable. “I can sleep there, if it makes you more comfortable.” Then, almost teasingly, “Or I could book another room… if you’d prefer distance.”

You rolled your eyes, but the way your pulse stuttered was entirely unfair. “I will survive one night. Also you’re paying for the room.” Then, to break the tension threatening to tighten your chest, you added with a smirk of your own, “If you snore, I swear I’ll kick you off the bed.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “I’d expect nothing less.”

You turned away before he could see your grin. He checked his watch as you lounged near the window, sipping from the complimentary bottle of water. The city shimmered below, heat caught in the glass.

“I need to head to a meeting soon,” he said, checking his phone. “It won’t take long…” You looked up at him. “Would you like to accompany me?

Your brows lifted. “Why? Isn’t it a business thing? Nop. I’m not dressed for that.”

“That shouldn't be a problem.” Then, with a glint in his eye. “We can go shopping.”

Your mouth opened slightly. “I… I don’t—”

He stepped closer. “I asked you to come with me. Let me spoil you a bit.”

You blinked. “This feels like Pretty Woman… The rice guy who—” you avoid finishing the sentence, while you blush… You’re reading too much into it. He laughed but still he flicked his finger gently against your forehead.

“Hey!” you protested, rubbing the spot with a scowl that didn’t reach your eyes. “For what was that?” 

“Don't overthink it.” He smirked. “Come on. Follow me.”

The hotel’s boutique was quiet and elegant, tucked just off the main lobby. Every item looked carefully chosen. Every mannequin poised. Every price tag… conspicuously absent. You picked a dress—fluid fabric, a cut that hugged you just right, something that made you feel both effortless and elegant. He plucked a pair of heels from a nearby display, held them up with a faint smile, and nodded once, like it was obvious they were yours. Even if you had insisted, even if your hand had reached for your wallet, you both knew it was pointless. The dress, the heels, probably cost more than your savings account held. At the counter, while the attendant folded the items with gloved hands, Sylus leaned in, the heat of his breath grazing your ear. 

“Being Missus Qin,” he murmured, voice velvet-smooth, “means being more greedy. Can you handle it, my love?” That last word just rolled off his lips, and your cheeks instantly flared. You had to practically twist away to try and mask the grin threatening to take over your face. He chuckled softly, clearly pleased by your reaction. He carried the bag himself as you walked out, your heart still trying to recover from that one line.

“Go change,” he said, gesturing toward the elevator. “I’ll be waiting.”

By the time you returned, dressed and flustered, Sylus was already deep in conversation with two well dressed young men. His sentence slowed mid-syllable the second you stepped into view.

“You look…” His voice dipped lower. “…beautiful.”

The two men turned to look at you with perfectly timed curiosity. They introduced themselves as Luke and Kieran—identical down to the sharpness of their suits and the easy confidence in their smiles. But it didn’t take long to notice the difference: Luke had a warmer gaze and Kieran was quick-witted, his charm more playful, layered beneath sarcasm and quick glances exchanged between them.

Despite your confusion about who they were or what kind of business was Sylus doing with them. They treated you with quiet respect, never once making you feel out of place. Their ease around Sylus said more than their words, they trusted him. Completely. Which made you wonder again: what kind of man was Sylus really?

You sat together in a private business lounge. You stayed silent, hands folded in your lap, unsure where exactly to place yourself in their conversation. But Sylus didn’t miss a beat. Even while talking about contracts and acquisitions; about someone needing to sign off on a property, timelines, numbers that blurred together. And still, his attention didn’t drift far from you.

Without glancing, he reached out and pulled your drink a little closer, as if sensing you hadn’t touched it. A minute later while still speaking, something about closing dates and a stubborn signature, his hand slid the menu toward you with a gentle nudge. You looked up but he was still mid-sentence. The way his pinky brushed yours briefly. How, when your posture tensed just slightly, he shifted his knee until it touched yours. You weren’t sure if it made you feel more comfortable or more exposed.

At some point, a set of blueprints and renderings were spread across the table; floor plans, materials, and elegant, dark-toned interior designs. You leaned forward, tilting your head. It was sleek, yes. Sophisticated, expensive. But also… cold.

“Too much black marble,” you said, nose scrunching slightly. “Is it an apartment or a villain’s lair? Who is going to live there?”

The conversation paused for a breath. Sylus blinked, lips parting faintly. A beat later, Luke chuckled. Kieran raised a brow in amusement. Sylus turned his head slowly to look at you and the faintest smile ghosted across his lips. 

He adjusted one of the pages, letting you see the whole layout again. “How would you distribute it?”

And after maybe other two hours, Luke and Kieran stood up, gathering their documents with ease and that lingering air of familiarity.

“When will you come back, boss—?” Luke started to ask, but was promptly elbowed by Kieran, who gave him a look.

“Dude! Don’t you check the situation?” Kieran hissed under his breath, nodding slightly in your direction with an exaggerated arch of his brow.

Luke blinked, then followed the gesture, finally catching on. “Oh. Oh. Ooooh…”

Sylus exhaled through his nose then replied with that measured calm that somehow still carried authority. “I still have a few things to take care of.”

Kieran bit back a smirk. Luke straightened, saluted poorly, and muttered, “Message received.”

The way they deferred to him made it obvious, they weren’t just associates. They were his employees. Loyal ones. And the way he held their respect without needing to raise his voice or assert control told you everything about the kind of leader he was.

And just like that, they were gone.

♫ Grecia ♫

You smile “I like them.”

Sylus laughed, already loosening his collar as he sank into the seat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“That’s good” he said, with that familiar glint in his eye. He tilted his head, voice low and easy. “Now... what do you want to do?”

You didn’t have a plan, but Sylus seemed to know how to make the hours stretch. The city buzzed around you, alive but not rushed, soaked in golden light as the sun melted behind the towers. You’d already walked for hours, through markets full of spice and music, narrow alleys lined with vines and hidden bookstores, quiet plazas where street musicians played like they didn’t care if anyone listened. He bought you a tiny ring from a vendor who didn’t even take cards, “just to see if it fit”. 

At a corner café, he ordered two lemon sodas and claimed the tiny mosaic table beneath a jacaranda tree. The breeze carried soft music from someone’s open window, and for a moment, everything slowed down. He tapped his glass to yours, watching you over the rim with a look that made your skin feel warmer than the sun. You laughed at something he said—something dumb and half-flirty. He leaned back with a smug grin, the corner of his mouth tugged higher with every note of your laughter. His eyes sparkled.

“Are you flirting with me, Sylus?” you asked, aiming for teasing but missing the mark. 

His smile widened, then he tilted his head, one brow arched, a flicker of something triumphant in his gaze. “I told you you’d notice the difference,” he said softly.

Your heart jumped in your chest, as it had tripped over itself trying to catch up with the moment. You looked down, suddenly fascinated by the edge of your napkin. The heat in your cheeks gave you away, the quick breath you took, the smile tugging at the corner of your lips no matter how hard you tried to keep it in check. You felt embarrassed but also happy. So many emotions rushed through you at once it was hard to name them all. Something was clear as day, you wanted to hold onto this moment for a bit longer.

Sylus brought you to that small bookstore from the poster, and stepping inside, its quiet atmosphere and crooked rows of worn shelves immediately embraced you like a sanctuary. Dust floated in lazy golden stripes through the high windows, and the smell of old paper settled in your lungs. You wandered aimlessly, fingers brushing spines, pretending to read while your thoughts raced. You found Sylus in the poetry section. He hadn’t said a word, just stood there, back to you, his frame relaxed and strangely at home among the faded covers and soft silence. When he sensed your presence, he turned. His finger was pressed against the page, underlining a single verse in the middle of the poem.

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,”

“in secret, between the shadow and the soul.*”

You swallowed, something catching in your throat. Sylus finally met your eyes, reading the short poem in calm voice.

“So close, that your hand on my chest is my hand…”

“So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.*”

*(Pablo Neruda - 100 Love Sonnets) 

The book stayed open between you two, but everything else, the shelves, the world blurred around the edges. And then he added, softer still, “That’s what it feels like. With you.”

A few stray cats lounged on stone benches, and small paper lanterns had already begun to glow in anticipation of evening. You walked along the edge of a garden square after that. He slowed his steps to match yours. His fingers brushed yours once… then again… until, without ceremony, he reached down and took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. Your heart feels relieved when you feel his warmth.

A loud, unmistakable growl echoed between you, making you freeze. Your stomach betrayed you. “Dinner’s on me.” he said, thumb stroking across your knuckles in a quiet rhythm.

The restaurant he chose was tucked away, elegant without trying. Dim lights, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city’s slow descent into night. The staff greeted him with too much familiarity, calling him Mr. Qin with polite bows and smiles that told you this wasn’t his first time here. You looked around. Velvet booths. Every guest was a portrait of tailored wealth. But across the table, Sylus didn’t blink at the opulence. The waiter poured wine, announcing its origin with elegance. Sylus barely acknowledged him. 

You didn’t know how to hold yourself here. How to sip the wine without second-guessing the angle of your wrist, how to sit without wondering if you were taking up too much space. What am I doing here? The thought came uninvited. This wasn’t your world. You never imagined sharing a table with someone who ordered without glancing at the prices. 

“Do you want to leave?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Umm?”

He leaned in slightly, elbows resting against the tablecloth, eyes still locked on yours. “You’ve gone quiet,” he said. “You always get quiet when you’re overthinking.”

You hesitated, then offered a small, breathy laugh. “Is that so obvious?”

“To me? Yeah.”

“No, it’s fine,” you said, lifting your glass. “It’s just new. That’s all.” You took a sip, then smiled, a little crooked but warming. “And you did said you were going to spoil me… so I’m taking advantage. I plan on eating a lot of dessert.”

That finally made him smile. 

The food was exquisite. The wine had begun to soften the edges of your nerves. He made you laugh and in that moment, you let your guard down. You reached for your glass, felt the soft weight of his gaze settle over you, and let yourself believe it was okay. If you can stay in this fantasy a little longer, so be it. You've spent too much time avoiding long-term love affairs. Only short encounters with those who weren't going to call you when they left. After college, that jerk broke you into a thousand pieces, and since then, your heart has become an icy shell. Yet, Sylus had found a way to chip at it, digging into the ice and creating a space within the cracks where he'd slipped through.

Yes, maybe it was time to let down all the defenses, and let someone like him... really in.

And then she walked in. A woman who looked like she belonged on a billboard: long hair, perfect lashes, crimson lips, and the kind of curves sculpted by some cruel god. She paused near the bar, eyes scanning, and landed too long on Sylus. Your heart twisted, a sharp, unwelcome knot of something you refused to name. She didn’t glance at you once. Why would she? You could still feel the ocean in your hair, the faint scent of sunscreen still on your skin from earlier. You felt small. Ordinary. Like a summer girl dragged into a winter party.

Sylus was… He was someone in this world. You were someone who worked at a beach bar. Who folded towels. Who knew every corner of a sleepy coastline but had never walked in shoes like hers. You knew it was stupid to feel that way. You knew it. But that didn’t stop the doubts from crawling into your mind. Or the whisper in your ear that said: You don’t belong in this story. You’re not special.

If he wanted to be with someone else, you knew he'd just do it. He was too honest, too direct for anything less. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t made a mistake with you. Even if he had asked you to come with him. Planned this trip. Bought you a dress. Treated you like you were someone important to him.

You forced a smile and took a slow sip of wine. Pretended like nothing inside you was shifting and unraveling. Keep it together, you told yourself. Don’t let him see it. But deep down, the quiet part of your heart was already breaking off into questions you didn’t want the answers to.

What if I’m just temporary? What if I’m not enough?

And across the table, Sylus’s gaze lingered on you. That scared you even more. Because if he saw all that insecurity in your eyes and chose to walk away… You weren’t sure you could blame him.

Sylus noticed it the moment your smile shifted. The way your shoulders dipped just slightly, the flicker behind your eyes as you reached for your glass. He followed your gaze and found her. The woman at the bar.

When you stood and excused yourself, your smile polite but paper-thin, he waited only a moment before rising too and walked over. The woman blinked up at him as he approached, lips already parting in a smile. She clearly thought she’d won. After all, a man like him didn’t just glance at someone like her and do nothing. In her mind, men like Sylus always fall for her.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said smoothly, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to be polite. She offered her name like a gift, tilting her chin, lashes fluttering with well-practiced charm. Sylus was already typing with one hand in his pocket. A quick search. That’s all it took. Her name wasn’t just a pretty label wrapped in lipstick and entitlement. It came with strings. Connections. Family ties woven through business and media. An old-money name known for its reach, and also its scandals.

He nodded once. “Let me get straight to the point,” he said, his tone smooth but sharpened at the edges, “I find it hard to enjoy my dinner when someone is making my wife very uncomfortable.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed and with a scoff masked as a laugh, she tilted her head toward your empty seat. “That little thing is—”

“I’ll say this once,” he said, still polite but his eyes were already burning with a cold fury. “Don’t ever look at me… or my wife, again. If you want to keep your status intact.”

She adjusted her hair so that it fell over her back, and grimaced in disgust. “Who do you think you are?”

Sylus stepped in slightly, just enough to tower, casting a shadow that wasn’t there before. The soft light caught in his eyes, turning them darker. Crimson heat cooled into something unholy. His stare sharpened, he changed to a wolf, ready to kill. “I’m someone you don’t want to challenge,” he said quietly.

And in that silence, she took a step back. Sylus walked away and sat back down, sending a quick message to Luke. He replied with a thumbs-up emoji and an Already on it, boss.  

But when you returned, something in you was still pulled taut. And so the rest of the evening unraveled almost in silence. Now, walking through the winding streets back to the hotel, the heat of the day had faded into a softer warmth. The city hushed beneath golden streetlights. A tinny vendor’s radio spilled music into the night.

♫ Qué se siente que me gustes tanto? ♫

The lyrics landed first in the air, then in your chest. Sylus didn't wait long to bring up the subject. He couldn't leave it like that.

“You really think I’d look at other women when you’re across from me?” His voice was low. 

You stiffened. You kept your gaze fixed forward, on the uneven cobblestones, refusing to meet his eyes. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Silence stretched, and it made you squirm. You didn’t want to admit it, that spark of fear, the ache of never being enough. You were proud. You’d never ask to be chosen. 

His voice dropped even lower, “My beloved…” he called you, the words were softer than the fading music and gentler than the evening breeze that just barely stirred your hair. The sound wrapped around you, and made your heart be even more confused. You stopped walking, rooted to the spot. This was bad. Really, really bad. If you let yourself fall for him now, truly fall, there’d be no way for you to untangle yourself from his beautiful, complicated world.

And yet, when he reached for your hand, you didn’t resist. He pulled you into his arms, and pressed your face into his shirt, soft cotton that smelled like a special mix of wood, spices and leather. Is the first time you really noticed it. Is intoxicating. The music still played behind you. Your eyes stung. Sylus felt your breath against his chest, the tension running through your spine, so he pulled back just enough to look at you. 

“Dance with me,” he said, not really asking.

“Now?”

“Why not?” he murmured. His hands found your waist, pulling you close as you swayed in place gently with the rhythm. The world around you blurred. 

Warmth settled between your rips, your hands finding his with ease. For a moment, there was no one else. Just the hush between lyrics and the quiet longing. His thumb moved in lazy circles against your lower back. He could feel the tremble in your body and he held you tighter. You didn't know where to pour all the overflowing feelings. You wanted to lean in, to taste the comfort of his lips again. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then shot back to yours, holding you captive. In that moment, you wondered if, behind those intense crimson eyes, he also carried his own silent insecurities. And if he, like you, knew the fear of giving his heart away.

Sylus leaned in, hummed low with the melody, his mouth brushing near your ear. The verse slid back in, whispering as he echoed the lyric:

“¿Y si te doy mi vida?” (What if I give you my life?)

The words melted into your skin, and with them, the fear grew bigger. What if, for a moment, you put your fear aside? What if, for a moment, you dared to give in to all your emotions?

Please...

What would it feel like if your feelings were reciprocated? Your heart were hammering in your ears, beating so fast you hadn't felt like this in years.

Don't hurt me...

The moment stretched. You stepped a breath closer, and his hand pressed you more firmly against him. You had stopped dancing. Your eyes darted all over his face, searching for an opening.

Kiss me...

His phone buzzed loudly in his jacket pocket, shattering the moment. He didn’t move at first, his forehead nearly touching yours, but then he sighed and stepped back with a quiet, frustrated sound. The sudden space between you felt colder than it should have.

“Give me a moment,” he murmured. 

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly chilled despite the warmth of the night. Your mind is a mess. Even with the overwhelming urge to kiss him, your mind, predictably, had already strayed, lost in its own labyrinth of thoughts. Tonight was beautiful, but what did it mean tomorrow? And what if—what if this was just how he made any girl feel special? That thought struck harder than you expected.

By the time you reached the hotel, your mood had changed. The heat between you had been replaced with the chill of doubt, creeping in from all sides. You stand in the middle of the room. Barefoot, feeling small. You look over to the bedroom, then to him. You see your reflection and notice how the joy you felt this morning just disappeared with the day. You feel pathetic. 

“Are you upset?” You shake your head. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t lie to me.” he said softly, removing his watch, and placing down his phone on the table then opening a few buttons of his shirt. “Say whatever's on your mind.”

Your heartbeat echoed in your ears, louder than the silence between you. The distance wasn’t physical space; it was the weight of all the words that still hung, unspoken, in your chest.

“¿Y si te doy mi vida?”

His hand brushes yours. Your fingers twitched, desperate to reach for him. Your throat feels tight, as if you were suffocating. You're actually terrified. Because you want him, desperately. Not just the heat of his kisses, not just the easy laughter or the wild, thrilling mystery that he is. You want to actually love someone for once, truly. And it’s him. Fucking God, it’s him. But if he leaves… If he goes back to wherever he came from, with his smirk, his rich laugh and silver hair… Your heart will shatter and go straight back to that frozen, numb place. And you’ve only just started to thaw. You flinch. You meet his gaze in the low light. His expression is serious, no, even worse…  Disappointment, sadness or something in between. 

“I’m not… lying.” You lie.

He watches you a second longer, then slowly moves even closer to you. His movements are careful. His fingers wrap gently around your wrist, and he guides your hand to his chest, on his warm skin. A fast, steady rhythm beneath. His parted lips hover just above yours. The same lips you kissed a few nights ago, when you told yourself not to care. When you whispered: Let’s just have fun. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

But now…

Now, your thoughts are overflowing with him. Mornings, nights, in the quiet moments between customers, between dreams, you think of him. In his presence, somehow, you found the courage to admit out loud that you want to leave your home. The paradise with its palms and sleepy routines. That you want more. To go somewhere, do something, be someone. And still… even if he’s offered you all that, you’re terrified. Terrified he could simply use you. Terrified that things won't work out between you, and you'll be back to square one, heartbroken again. 

“What do you really want?” he murmurs. His gaze is piercing you, you want to avoid him. If you let him… if you let yourself. The knot in your chest seems to struggle your heart to death. It hurts so much. You blink fast, trying to clear the sudden blur in your vision. Your throat tightens, making it impossible to swallow. “Why aren't you saying anything?”

“I—” You take a deep breath, trying to reduce the growing anxiety in your chest. “We should sleep,” you whisper, you’re one breath away from breaking. 

“Don’t—” he starts, his voice rough, as if he’s about to say something that might shatter the last bit of distance between you but he stops. He swallows whatever it was, a visible effort, and just hugs you for a long time. 

The silence settles again, but this time it’s louder, pressing in on you. And for a long while, neither of you sleeps. You want to cry out all the pain, and ironically, let him comfort you, wipe the tears from your face, and promise you that everything will be okay. The bed feels too big and far too small at the same time. You close your eyes, trying to ignore how closer Sylus was. 

After that, every passing day carves the question deeper into your mind: What happens when he finally leaves? It gnaws at you more with each sunset. You keep telling yourself not to get attached. You’ve had flings before. Summer heat, wandering hands, promises made in the dark that vanish with the morning sun. You’re not new to that rhythm. 

However, Sylus remembers the way you like your coffee. That you hate papaya. That your first kiss wasn’t anything magical, just wet and awkward behind a middle school building. That you used to get bullied for being too loud, too intense, too weird. He knows that you chew your straw when you're nervous. That you hold your breath during horror movies. He knows you have a birthmark between your shoulder blades you pretend to hate but secretly hope someone finds beautiful. That you’ve never told anyone the exact moment you stopped believing love was safe. 

By now, it’s been fifteen days since you met him and in that time he knows more than you ever told anyone. Tonight, he’s sitting on his usual spot, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he skims a finger across the rim of his whiskey glass, he hasn't touched. You’re closing the bar tonight. There isn't anyone left on the beach. You join him wordlessly, sinking into the chair in front of him. You glance over. His eyes are fixed on the ocean, jaw tight. Something’s off. 

“…Sylus?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales through his nose. 

“I’m leaving…” he finally says. There it is. Your stomach knots. You knew this was coming, didn’t you? You swallow hard. 

“When?”

He looks at you then, and his eyes, those burning red eyes, look tired. No, they look unexpectedly sad. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

The silence that follows carries the heavy weight of all the unsaid things. You nod, pretending it’s fine. You’re fine. This is how it should be, how it always ends. You swallowed the bitterness of the coming farewell, the pain that had flooded your entire body, and the crushing sadness of never seeing him again. Maybe you'd screwed up. 

“At least I have one less customer to serve,” you quip, a thin attempt at humor.

He huffs a breath, a sound that's a tired mix of amusement and resignation. “I… didn't expect to stay so long.”

You nod again. He reaches for your hand, his fingers wrap around yours. 

“I told you I’d give you everything,” he says, and his voice is serious.

“What does that even mean, Sylus?”

Why me? Who are you really? What happens after this?

He lifts your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles. 

“It means,” he says slowly, his eyes holding yours, “if you want to leave this place. If you want to see the world, say it.”

You stare, breath caught in your throat. “You’re asking me to just… go with you?”

“I’m offering you a way out.” He smiles then, soft and utterly unreadable. “Your choice.”

The smell of herbs and something baking fills the air. You hear the soft clatter of your mother’s steps as she moves from counter to stove. You sit there in the dim light of the kitchen, elbows resting on the table, the ghost of Sylus’s offer still echoing in your chest. You want to ask her, but you can’t put your words together.

She passes behind you, then stops. Set something down gently on the table. You glance at it. A photograph. Slightly bent at the corners, colors a little faded with time. You are in a yellow swimsuit with flowers, front tooth missing, two uneven braids. One hand gripping a tiny shovel, the other clutching the hand of a boy, frowning, clearly not thrilled to be holding yours.

“Do you remember that summer?” your mother says, her voice light, amused. You don’t answer. Just stare at the photo like it might rearrange itself if you look long enough.

“You met that boy,” she continues, “and I remember you told everyone you were going to travel the world with him.” She chuckles under her breath. “You always wanted to go beyond the horizon. I don’t know what happened to that dream but…” she pauses, and her voice softens. “You know... Your father and I—we can live alone.”

You look up. She’s already turned her back again, kneading something, hands working like they always do. You huff. You even haven’t said anything but she already knows what is oppressing your heart.

“I just thought it was cute, how serious you were,” she adds. Then, quieter—like she’s saying it to the dough. “Who knew he’d grow up to be so handsome…”

Your breath catches. You look down at the photo again. At the boy. You hadn’t made the connection. Same frown. Same eyes. That stubborn, restless energy in his bones. 

Sylus. 

No wonder he could speak your language so well. You stare at the picture, fingers tracing the edges. Was that why he was here? If you have forgotten about that, has he too? Could it be...?  

You lay on your bed, eyes wide open, ceiling fan spinning slowly above you, offering no peace. How did you forget him? How did he slip through the cracks of your memory? You remember the summer, vaguely. You remember falling, scraping your knee, building sandcastles. But him? Not really. Maybe your brain, like your heart, had tucked it away for safekeeping.

You throw off the sheet when the first rays of sunlight appear behind your curtain. You take the photo and slip it into your pocket and walk out. The path is still etched into your bones, even after all these years. Past the old mango tree, down the narrow stretch of dirt between fences, and through the tall grass that tickles your legs until the world opens up. 

The beach. You find the spot. The place where your little hand held his. You sit down in the sand, cool grains sticking to your legs. The sky is bruised with the first light of morning, deep pinks and soft golds stretching across the horizon. The ocean glitters just for you. You pull the photo out, staring at it again. 

You don’t hear his footsteps at first. 

“I wondered if you’d remember.” You look over your shoulder. “You kept the picture,” he says, sitting beside you.

You hold it up. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The ocean murmurs beside you, waves licking the rocks with that slow, lazy rhythm that feels almost too intimate for this moment.

“Would you have looked at me the same way, if I’d said it on day one?” His gaze lingers on the horizon. His thumb brushes over his knee, slow and distracted. “You didn't seem to remember me at all.” He paused. “I thought… if I added more weight to all of this, you'd pull away.”

You stare at him, lips parted, heartbeat louder than the sea.

“I didn’t want to overwhelm you,” he finishes, finally turning to face you. “But I think I might have, anyway.”

You look down at the photo in your hand then at the man beside you. Maybe you stayed because some part of you was waiting. Hoping. Hoping he'd come back. And then it clicks. Like a lock turning after all these years. You did make a promise. You both did. You remember the salty wind in your hair, the scraped knees, the laughter. The little boy frowning at the sun, then reaching for your hand and whispering something like:

“When we’re older, let’s explore the world. You and me. I’ll came back.”

You huff. Then laugh, low and disbelieving.

“So you came here to find me?” you ask, glancing at him.

“No,” he says, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

You squint at him. “Then what was it?”

He’s silent for a moment. 

“I’ll tell you. But first… I want to here your decision.”

“Does my choice change your secret?”

“No,” he repeats.

You press your lips into a fine line. A choice. Yours. The word echoes through your chest. Panic rises in your throat, a quiet flutter of fear. You’re not sure what you’re waiting for, some sign or burst of clarity, but maybe the truth has been there all along. Leaving because of some old promise would be stupid, but... you had waited for an excuse, for something that would finally pull you out of your comfort zone. You’ve been scared. Of leaving, of staying. Of wanting something too much. But this… him. It hasn’t felt temporary in a long time. You exhale. The nerves are still there, fluttering like butterflies wings under your skin. But somewhere deeper inside of you, already knows the answer. 

“I want to leave and see the world,” you squeeze his hand. “But also... I want to be with you.”

His head turns slowly, and he looks at you with tenderness. His hand closes over yours. With the sun rising and the sea singing low beside you, you realize you’re choosing something that feels like destiny.

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“Now…” you whisper, “your—”

Sylus laughs under his breath, then draws you in. His mouth meets yours with a softness that steals the air from your lungs. You feel the tremble in his exhale, the way his fingers tighten slightly. Your hands find his chest. The world narrows to the taste of him, familiar, new and everything at once. He barely parts from you, his forehead brushing yours, his nose nudging yours.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “All these years. I wanted to find you.” A pause. “Coming here wasn’t planned, I almost gave up,” he admits. “I was just taking a few days off. And then… I found you.”

There’s a softness in his expression, an openness that makes your soul leave your body. For you, he’s not just a visitor anymore. Not just a beautiful man passing through. He’s the ache in your chest that finally has a name. He’s the silence that felt full instead of empty. You grip his shirt, holding onto him like he might vanish if you let go.

The sun crowns him in gold, dawn spilling across his skin, catching in his lashes, turning him into something you could never explain to anyone else. You kiss him again, this time with everything you’ve been holding back. He answers with equal fervor, hands cradling your face. The world tilts, and for a moment it’s just breath and warmth and the ache of something too big for words. The kind of kiss that means yes. He breaks the kiss with a soft, disbelieving laugh, eyes impossibly bright as if he can’t quite believe this was happening. Without warning, he rises, sweeping you into his arms effortlessly. Your laughter bubbles up, wild and breathless, muffled against the curve of his neck as he spins you around. 

The door barely clicks shut before you’re on him again, tangled in each other. Clothes fall in a trail behind you. His fingers slide under your shirt, tugging it over your head as his lips find your neck, dragging a sigh from your lips. The trail of clothes grows behind you, scattered and forgotten, urgency pulsing beneath every touch.

The relentless desire for the feel of your bare skin against his, already warm and damp with your rising heat, was getting both of you into an intoxicating high. A thirst as overwhelming as hours without water in the desert.

You kiss him slowly. First his lips, a deep, soft sigh shared between you, then lower, down the sharp line of his jaw. Your mouth drifts to the curve of his neck, tasting the warmth there. His breath hitches,when your tongue traces the hollow of his throat. You can feel the tension building, a taut wire humming through his body, every muscle pulled tight…

Sylus tilt your head, eyes burning in desire. You just smiled, making him sit on the bed. You knelt before him. He exhaled sharply. You kept going, placing soft, wet kisses down his chest, over each ridge of muscle, pausing to press your mouth against the places that made him twitch, and made him whisper your name. 

“You don’t need to…” he started, his voice thick with unspent lust, but your lips had already closed around his leaking cock. His head fell back with a low groan. Your mouth moved with intention. You wanted to savor this—him. You hollowed your cheeks just enough, letting your tongue glide along his length, feeling every small shudder ripple through him. His hand drifted to your hair only holding, enough to ground him as he unraveled.

“S-sweetie…” he murmured, his voice roughened, broken open by pleasure.

You didn’t stop. You owned this moment, every agonizing, beautiful second. The taste of him was rich, musky, utterly intoxicating, a flavor that filled your mouth and settled deep in your throat. The way he fought to keep control and still offered it to you completely, without reservation. He was yours like this—silent except for the sounds you pulled from him, the way his hips shifted with restraint beneath your hands.

Your lips wrap around his thick cock, feeling the slick heat. You split over him, taking him deeper in. Tears pricked at your eyes, because of the sheer effort and the overwhelming sensation. Yet you enjoyed it so much, you wanted more. 

Sylus can barely breathe, every nerve ending screaming. He feels his control fraying, a thin thread about to snap. His hips twitch, wanting to thrust into your mouth, but he holds himself rigid, a strangled sound catching in his throat as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm him entirely. You pull back, and a thin line of breathless laughter escapes him, as if he can’t believe what you were doing to him.

You wiped your mouth delicately, lingering for a moment to lick away his taste still on your lips. Then you kissed your way back up his body, over his taut stomach, up his chest, hovering just above his lips.

“Still think I’m not greedy enough?” you whispered, your voice husky. He looked like he wanted to worship you and surrender at the same time. His answer was a kiss that made the whole room spin.

He didn't give you time to continue. Sylus made you lay down on the bed, his knee nudging between your legs, creating a space just for him. His eyes, dark with fervent hunger, scorched your flushed skin as he leaned in. He kissed your collarbone, then the hollow of your throat, his lips playing with your breath, before his mouth drifted lower. He took your nipple between his lips sucking on them, making your back arch and a gasp in response to that. You felt the sudden gush of your own wetness, a hot, insistent tide rising, your whole body with a pulsing need to have him. 

“Let me... return the favor,” he murmured and then he disappeared between your legs. 

Your eyes rolled back in your head. His hot tongue danced over your swollen, damp pussy. The taste of you, sweet and musky, filled his mouth, a heady rush he craved more than air. It felt so terribly, impossibly good. “So wet...” he purred, the words vibrating against your sensitive skin. Your whole body tensed, an electric current shooting through you. He gorged himself on your wetness, every lick, every suck deepening his own hunger.

He kept you firmly in place, his hands on your thighs, devouring you with an intensity that stole your breath. Your moans grew louder, and uncontrollable sounds ripping from you. You grabbed fistfuls of his hair while your other hand clenched the sheets, twisting the fabric. “Sy— Fuck...!” Your breath was a mess, short-circuited, ragged gasps. You were going crazy, right on the edge, especially when he pressed his tongue deep inside you.

“Sy— I'm… aahh… mm…” Your words were broken sounds, lost in pleasure.

The vibration of his own moan against your dripping pussy was the cherry on top. You were about to cum on his face when he pulled back. You let out a small, frustrated whine.

“What…” he murmured, his tongue flicking hard against your clit. “...Do you…” again, a deeper, swirling lick that made your hips arch instinctively. “...Need..?” You couldn't form coherent thoughts; how could one man be so impossibly good at this? “Tell me.” He pressed a hot, claiming kiss to your inner thigh, sending a shockwave through your entire body. You couldn't even articulate if you wanted him inside you, or if you simply needed more of his impossibly talented tongue.

“Be honest,” he whispered, the words punctuated by tiny, insistent bites on your inner thigh. His nose then brushed against your clit, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat. "You smell so good," he purred.

He kept you on the edge, pushing you further with every lick, every suck. You writhed beneath him, your fingers twisting in the sheets, desperate to articulate the overwhelming need. Sylus continued to feast, drawing out your pleasure until your pussy screamed for something more, for him.

“I... want.. you…” The admission ripped through you.

“As you wish” he breathed, and the certainty in his tone was an aphrodisiac, sealing your fate.

Every breath, every motion feels etched in starlight. When he finally thrusts into you, the wet, full slide of him ignites a deeper fire, driving even further, lost in the vast extent of your desire. A whimper tears from your throat, your nails drag burning trails down his back, and then, without quite thinking, you sink your teeth gently into his shoulder, desperate, loving bites that pull a gasp from him. You murmur something incoherent against his damp skin, something silly that dies on your tongue. He chuckles, breathless. 

His entire body is on fire with the profound pleasure of being inside you, feeling you stretch around him, so wet, so impossibly tight. Sylus pressed harder, deeper inside you, with the urge to bury himself completely, never wanting to let go. His warmth floods you, mingling with your own burgeoning sweat, dissolving the last threads of hesitation. “Fuck,” he rasps, a rough, breathless sound against your ear, his voice full with his own spiralling pleasure, "you feel so incredible.” 

You feel every inch of him: solid muscle, steady breath, the faint shiver that betrays his own restraint. Letting out a long breath, you fully surrender to his embrace. Your legs wrap around him almost instinctively, drawing him in tighter. His mouth devoured yours, tongues tangling, wet and insistent, mixing tastes of hunger and the lingering salt from his skin, a flavour of absolut, undeniable devotion. You move together, slow at first, building a rhythm that pulls you both under.

He moans your name against your ear. The world narrows as the heat of his skin grows. The sound of your breathing tangled together is getting louder, and the steady rhythm he finds between your hips makes your vision blur. He feels you clenching around him, demanding more. His thrusts are smooth, sensual, purposeful. He’s trying to memorize the shape of your body from the inside out, imprinting himself onto you. 

Each movement sends sparks up your body, makes your chest arch, your breath catch, your thoughts dissolve into nothing more than him. “Sylus…” you whimper against his neck. Sweat glistened and rolled over the planes of his chest, catching in the silver hair that trailed down his lower stomach to the base of his cock.

The wet slap of skin echoed the deep, rhythmic thwack of his hips meeting yours, and the raw longing burning in his eyes is almost too much to bear. You cling to him, your hair sticky against your own body, as well as the weight of all your feelings: your fear, your yearning, your surrender, everything coiling tighter into every powerful roll of his hips.

His mouth brushes your ear as he promises you things you can’t quite hold yet, but desperately want to believe. “Please…” you gasp, the word lost in the rising tide of climax. “Sylus…”

“If… you keep saying my name like that...” he moaned, so shaky and broken it barely sounded like him. “I’m not… ah… going to last long.”

The desire rised between your bodies like a storm about to break. You couldn't hold back; the dam of all your emotions was seconds from bursting. And with a few more relentless movements, you came, shuddering violently over his cock, gasping for breath as if you’d been drowning. You cried out with a wild, untamed sound you'd never made before, a full-body surrender that spilled into a rush of shared liquid.

Your body trembled beneath him, and still he didn’t let go, maintaining the rhythm, anchoring you both in the eye of the storm. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard, his fingers brushing your cheek with tenderness. He could feel every tremor in your frame, hear the racing beat of your heart, echoing his own.

Sylus pulled back slightly, only to thrust in harder. His cock, already thick, hardened further, pulsing with a fierce demand inside you. He needed more. His own climax, so close just moments ago, was now a conscious chase. Each powerful plunge was a desperate claim, a primal need to consume and be consumed. 

He felt the nails of your fingers digging into his back and it only drove him further. The way your face twisting in pleasure, of your body arching in that first, explosive climax coursed through him, intensifying his own need. He hadn't expected to go so fierce with you the first time. But your tongue, your hands, your raw surrender had provoked him beyond anything he’d anticipated. He sighed. He needed to come. You were pushing him past every limit. 

You felt him hit your sweet spot, driving you wild again. Your body arched up to meet his every brutal, perfect demand, instinctively answering the raw desire in his every thrust.

“Sylus...” You cried out, and the sound of his name on your lips was a direct path to his soul.

“Relax. You can handle it,” he choked out, his hips driving relentlessly. The wet, furious slap of skin against skin became the only sound in the universe. Your legs clamping again around his waist. His muscles bunched and flexed beneath your fingers, shimmering with sweat, as he hammered into you, faster, harder...

Just as his body tensed for release, he pulled back a fraction, you hear his choked question against your ear: “Can I come inside you?”

“Mmm-hmm... yes!” you whimpered, your body arching. “ ’m taking... the pill...”

His body tensed with renewed power, and he slammed into you, picking up a new tempo with a desperate urgency. He was rock-hard inside you, pushing you toward a second climax even as your head spun with the intensity.

Until a desperate moan tearing from his chest as he poured himself into you, filling your core. You let out a load moan, your own climax exploding through you, pulling you violently with him into the sweet oblivion. He collapsed against you, heavy and spent, his breath ragged against your neck, his fingers digging into your hips, still clutching you. 

After, your bodies remained impossibly tangled, bathed in the hush of the room, slick with shared heat. You felt weightless and pinned at the same time, his leg tangled with yours, Your heart still raced a frantic rhythm barely believing what just happened. The sheets are a mess, but neither of you moves. His arm is heavy across your waist. His breath fans gently against your temple. You stare at the ceiling, too full of feeling to speak.

Then, his fingers found your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with feather-light care, he turned you toward him. You looked at him and found no trace of the usual smugness in his face but rather a profound softness you hadn't seen.

“I hope you know…” he said, his eyes flickering side to side, almost vulnerable. “…this wasn’t just for fun.”

You stared at him, the unexpected softness in his gaze disarmed you. The overwhelming tide of emotion swelled within you, a chaotic mix of the shattering intimacy you'd just shared, the fierce longing that had coiled inside you since that trip to the city, and the startling realisation that Sylus had been holding back too. You felt it now, in every inch of your body, lingering on your lips…

“Yes, I know, but—” you blurt, your thoughts instantly slipping out in a rush. “But I’m also a disaster! I overthink everything, and I say stupid things. I’m going to ruin this, I know it, even though I don’t want to. I’ll probably just cry and then analyse every breath we’ve shared because I can’t stop myself—and I won't be enough!”

Sylus blinks once, then twice, clearly caught off guard by the sudden rush of words.

“And maybe I’ll run or say something stupid because that’s what always happens when something actually matters and this...  You... You matter so much I can’t even breathe right and I— I love you so much…” Sylus’s eyes widened, freezing on your face. You haven't realised what you just said. “...and it’s terrifying because if you leave I won’t know how to be okay again. And I don’t think I’ll even know how to want anything else after this... after you... and, and...”

Then, his hand finds yours beneath the sheets, firm but gentle. He laces your fingers together and pulls you slightly closer, grounding you with his gaze.

“Leaving me is not an option,” he says, eyes steady. “I won’t accept that.” The intensity in his gaze sends your heart stumbling all over again. You feel your face heat up so fast it’s like someone struck a match across your skin. “After all,” he murmurs, and there’s the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips, “you love me…”

You froze. Did you say that…? The words echoed, loud and clear in your mind, burning with the fresh memory of the confession torn from you just moments before. Mortified, you yanked the covers up and over your head like a kid hiding from a nightmare. “God, why am I like this?” you mutter from underneath.

He laughs softly, leaning over the mound you’ve become. “Don’t hide under the blanket, Kitten,” he murmurs, leaning over the mess of linen you’ve become. “I remember everything you said.”

“I’m not hiding,” you protest, voice muffled and absolutely unconvincing.

“Oh?” His tone tilts into that familiar, playfully smug edge. “You’re not hiding. Enlightened me then…” his fingers pinch a corner of the blanket. “What exactly are you doing?” He gives the covers a tug, but you cling to them tighter.

“And why are you calling me Kitten, now?” you protest, struggling with him.

“It suit you” he laughed. 

A brief, silly struggle ensues and before you know it, he’s won. He slips beneath the blanket with you, pinning you down, his bare chest warm against yours. You yelp as his mouth finds yours again in the dark, laughter caught between kisses.

“Don’t be so fussy, Kitten,” he murmurs against your lips, smug and soft all at once. “You already said it.” You turn into his chest, breathing in his scent, your hand clutching the fabric of the sheets between you. He wraps his arms around you tighter. “Now let me show you what that means to me.” He murmurs, and before you can respond, his lips find yours.

A kiss that speaks in quiet declarations: I heard you. I see you. I’m not going anywhere. His mouth brushes over yours once, then again, softer, slower. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek, and you melt into him, the warmth of his chest, the strength of his arms, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palm. The moment stretches between heartbeats, soft and suspended. Then you sigh, the weight of reality pressing lightly on your chest.

“It’s a shame we can’t stay like this too long.”

“We have plenty of time” he said, pressing his again hard cock against you. 

“You’re not leaving today?” You lift an eyebrow, already suspicious. He keeps kissing your neck. “Sylus…” you warn, your tone dropping.

He pulled back, hovering over you. “I guess you can say I lied.”

“What?”

“Leaving today was… an option.”

Your mouth falls open in disbelief, you push him from you, scandalized. “Liar!”

“But,” he drawls, he caught your wrist effortlessly, tugging you back against the bed with ease. “I still need to get on a plane this week. Which means, my beloved…” he kisses your knuckles with infuriating calm, “we have the whole day to ourselves. And enough time to pack your things.”

Your heart skips, a flustered mess between outrage and joy. “You’re assho—”

“I know,” he smirks, utterly shameless, pulling you into a kiss that tastes like victory and sweet devotion. 

The days after, the sun rose just like it always did—but everything felt different. You packed quietly, folding memories between cotton shirts and worn-out sandals, tucking away pieces of your old life with a strange sense of calm. Your mother hugged Sylus tightly at the door, laughing as she told him, “You always were handsome, even back then as a boy.” He smiled, a little shy for once. Your father gave him a few heavy pats on the shoulder, nodding solemnly. Take care of her.”

And just like that, you left. With nothing more than a suitcase, enough to pack everything important to you. You had always known this place wouldn’t hold you forever. Your heart had been beating against its walls for years, aching for something just out of reach. But it was also a cage, painted in soft colours and built from everything you loved and yet couldn’t stay for.

Sylus didn’t rescue you. He gave you a reason, an option to leave. Before your courage could shrink back into doubt, before the weight of comfort could drag you into settling. He was a spark, and you were dry wood pretending not to be waiting for the flame.

You found out later, that the blueprint you once saw, the one that made you wrinkle your nose and tease him over his terrible taste in dark interiors… was a real apartment. A place he had already bought. For both of you. Just in case you said yes. He had designed it with the quiet precision only he possessed. Room for you to make it yours. 

You slowly began to accept every piece of him. His shadows. His impossible expectations. His infuriating smirk. His softest silences. And he, in turn, accepted yours. Your doubts. Your fear. Your stubborn heart that had always longed to run.

Months passed. Then years. And with each one, your love with Sylus deepened. He never tried to clip your wings, instead, he helped you build them stronger. He stood by you, through every new city, every strange adventure, every late-night doubt. He pushed you when you forgot how powerful you were. With him, you became the woman you were always meant to be: strong, radiant, free.

One day, when you were ready—truly ready—he knelt before you, eyes bright with unshed tears. You said yes, the word trembling from your lips like a vow the universe had always been waiting to hear.

The bell of the church rang across your small village, echoing through palm trees and sun. Rice flew through the air, laughter danced on the breeze, and petals rained down on two people irrevocably in love. You stepped out in white, hand in hand, heart in heart. When he kissed you under the sun, tears mixed with sweat and ocean memory, and he whispered against your lips: “I love you.”

A/N: If you’ve reached this part — congrats! I hope you enjoyed the story. I did my best to portray Sylus as true to character as possible in this scenario. It’s quite a challenge to take him out of the whole LADS universe.

Depending on how The Taste of Apple and Pomegranate evolves, I’d love to write an epilogue. I honestly feel like this story could easily have two parts.

But, well… work and life exist, so we’ll see.

Still — I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comment section, and I hope to see you in future stories!

What If "Salt on your skin" were a movie?

Want more Sylus in your life >> MASTERLIST

[eliasoir]

୭౿ AFTER HOURS ⠀── L. HEESEUNG !⠀

【 𝖨𝖭 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛 】 ⏖ 𝓈𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅. 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 . . .

⏜💬. 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 ﹙ 𝖬𝖣𝖭𝖨 𝟣𝟪+ ﹚ ⠀◞ ◟ 𝗰𝗼𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝗲𝗿!𝗵𝗲𝗲𝘀𝗲𝘂𝗻𝗴 𝘅 𝓯!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 ! 𓂃 𝖻𝖾𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗲 ／ 𝗎𝗇𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑 , 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗑 , 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 , 𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝒻. 𝗋𝖾𝖼 , 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒 , 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 , 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 . 𝘄𝓬 𝟤.𝟣𝗄

★ 𝓑𝖫𝖮𝖶𝖠𝗞𝗶𝗦𝗦 !

the office was almost completely still, dead quiet after eight pm. the lights were dimmed, halls empty, the last of the cleaning staff gone a little bit ago.

but you’re still here trying to catch up on some of your paperwork. apparently, so is lee heeseung. and god, you’ve been trying to ignore him for weeks. he’s too smug, too good at his damn job, and worst of all, too attractive.

always has his sleeves rolled up by the end of the day, loosened tie, tousled hair that always looks like he just ran his hands through it after winning a case. in your books he was disgustingly perfect. and it didn’t help that he was always around. flirting with you in passing like it’s a reflex, always saying your name with a tone that is anything but casual or coworker-like. almost like he knows it does something to you. and it does. but you were a professional. composed. however, heeseung was a walking sin in a three-piece suit.

you’re halfway through drafting a motion that was supposed to be done a few days ago, when a soft sounds hits your door. “hey.” his voice is low, annoyingly smooth.

you glance up and he’s leaning against the doorframe, sleeves rolled up per usual, pretty silver watch glinting. he holds a file in one hand, other tucked in his pocket. his tie loose around his neck but this time with the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

“got those docs you needed,” he says, stepping in closer to your desk.

you swallow hard. “thanks.”

you stand, reaching for the file, only for him to hold onto it a second too long, fingers brushing yours as you tug it to you. the silence stretches thickly.

“got a lot left?” he asks, eyes flicking over you. his gaze is blatant, hungry. score ripping them off you and looking at your paper cluttered desk.

“not really,” you mutter, hugging the file to your chest. “was just about to—“

“head out?” he cuts in, brows twitching. “or come by my office?” his tone is easy, but his eyes say something else. something darker.

“your office?” you ask, voice a little too breathy.

he grins slow, like he’s been waiting for this moment. “yeah. i owe you for those merger notes, right?”

you try not to let your breathing catch and stay calm. his presence alone made your skin heat up. “you could’ve just emailed me.”

“sure,” he shrugs. “but then i wouldn’t get to see you like this.”

he steps closer, your back hits the desk with the step you take back.

“like what?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

he eyes your legs, your black skirt, your matching pantyhose, your high heels on your feet.

“like this,” he calmly says. “you in this skirt. those pretty heels. standing there looking at me like you’re either gonna make out with me or hit me.”

you should stop this, make him leave. you know you should. but then he lifts a slow hand and runs the pad of his thumb just beneath your lip, tilting your chin up slightly.

“come to my office,” he murmurs, gaze locked on your lips like he was already pressing his to them. “please.”

you don’t remember saying yes, but you let your hand slip in his as you walk with him.

the second the door clicks shut, he’s on you.

you drop the file down on his desk, back facing him and he takes that for advantage. he presses up behind you, hands not on you yet, just lets his breath ghost over your ear and neck. whatever it was about him, it snaps the thread you’ve both been trying to keep up for weeks. you spin to face him and then you’re kissing.

the kiss was never once anything but hunger. it was deep, hard, months of sexual tension fulminating in one filthy, unprofessional mess. now his hands were everywhere. sliding down your sides, gripping your ass, pressing you even closer to him. then he’s pushing you back onto the edge of his desk.

“shit,” he mutters, yanking at your blouse, eyes locking with yours. “you know how hot you are?”

“heeseung—“ you gasp as he grinds his hips into your slowly, the hard bulge of his cock through his slacks pressing between your thighs.

“been thinking about this since you started here,” he breathes heavily. “every time you walked in here with those cute little outfits. so slutty—shit.”

he grabs at your blouse, yanking it open hard enough that you thought it broke. the buttoned top freeing your boobs and the black lace covering them.

“fucking finally,” he mutters, his mouth crashing down to your chest, tongue licking a bold stripe over the swell of your breast before he’s tugging your bra down roughly. the quick movement making your tits spill out of the, and he wastes no time, sucking one of your nipples straight into his mouth.

you gasp, arching your body into him, hands flying to grab at his shoulders. he groans against you, sucking hard, tongue swirling as his hands come up to the other, squeezing, kneading, pinching it. anything he could to make you whimper. he switches to the other breast with just as much desperation.

“so fucking pretty,” he growls, lips glossy, breath hot. “been dying to get my mouth on you.”

you try to say something back, but he grinds into you again, right against the heat of your pussy through your thin clothing. it’s filthy. he’s filthy. perfect. he ruts into you slow, yet still rough, like he’s trying to feel you through your clothes. he’s still groping your tits, licking and sucking and moaning into your skin.

“feel that?” he mutters, grinding harder. “s’how hard i get for you.”

all you can do is moan softly in response. as if something clicked in him, his hands hike up your skirt just enough to get to your pantyhose better. he doesn’t wait another second, bunching them in his fists and rips them, causing the cool air to float to your aching core.

“oh my god,” you breathe.

“don’t worry. i’ll buy you another pair,” he says, eyes glued to the run in the nylon. “or twenty. fuck—spread your legs.”

you do, heels sliding apart on the polished wood as he sinks to his knees in front of you. and his own breath catches when he sees what’s underneath.

“fuck,” he murmurs, fingers brushing over the thin black string cutting across your hips. his eyes snap up to yours, full of heat and thick lust.

“a thong?” he smirks, almost laughing. “fucking hell. you knew i’d be here tonight, didn’t you?”

his hand grip around to your ass, thumb sliding along the curve of it. he pulls the elastic away from your skin, hard, letting it snap back against your skin with a loud pop. the act causing a small whimper from you.

“nasty girl,” he mutters, mouth trailing up your thigh. “walking around the office like you’re so fucking innocent…but wearing this under your skirt.”

your heart slams against your ribcage. and suddenly, as if it hit you all at once what you two were doing, you speak up.

“heeseung—what if someone—“ “they won’t.” his voice is wracked with need. “office is empty. just us.”

and then he buries his face between your thighs. you gasp, a choked moan leaving you as his tongue meets your pussy. his hand gripping your thigh tight as he held the fabric of your thong to the side.

he groans deep into you. “fuck—you’re soaked,” he mutters, stuffing his face closer to get to your bare cunt. “can’t believe i waited this long.”

you can’t think, let alone speak. his mouth is too good. lips and tongue working you open like he knows your body already, like he’s done it a hundred times and committed it to memory. he slides two fingers into you without a warning. you moan out, clutching at the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

he curls them with perfect precision, sucking on your clit, murmuring, “so fucking tight,” like he’s losing it already.

when he finally pulls back, lips shiny, he stands and kisses you like he can’t be away from you any longer. his lips and tongue mingle with yours, letting you taste yourself. his fingers still buried inside you, still pumping you slow.

“you taste so good,” he whispers, voice gone gravelly. “think about this every time you say my name. imagine what you would sound like…let me hear you.”

his fingers reach the perfect spot just as he speaks, curling inside you just right. “f-fuck, hee—“ your moan breaks out of you before you can stop it, high and trembling, hips grinding against his palm.

he moans lowly, taking his fingers from your cunt as you whine. he’s unbuttoning his shirt now, working his tie looser. he pulls at it, frustrated and needy, yanking it off and throwing it aside.

“turn around,” he says, low and firm. “bend over the desk.” your knees almost give out at the sole tone of his voice but you do as he says.

his hand splays on your back, pressing you down to the cool wood, the other hand pulling your hips back toward him. you hear the unbuckle of his belt. the tugging of his zipper, and the low, shaky breath he exhales when he finally takes in your form bent over for him.

“you’re perfect,” he mutters. “absolutely fucking perfect.” smoothing his hand over the curve of your bare ass, licking his lips.

he slowly drags the head of his cock through your folds, spreading you open. he teases you leisurely, collecting slick on the tip.

“beg,” he says.

“please,” you moan in a breathy voice. “heeseung—need you.”

knowing he could hardly wait any longer either, he decides that was enough for him and pushes in. the moan you let out is a broken one, echoing off the high ceilings of his clean office.

he bottoms out, hips pressing to yours as his breath stutters. “fuck. you feel—fucking amazing, baby.”

he barely waits another second before pulling almost all the way out of you before snapping his hip forward. the motion making you jolt a giant the desk, hands grasping tightly. he fucks into you like he’s wanted to for months. like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense to do.

his thrusts are deep, and angled just right every time. he was relentless. one of his hands come around to rub your clit, fingers still wet from earlier. “you’re mine now,” he growls lowly into your ear, pounding into you harder. “understand?”

you nod frantically, crying out when he hits your sweet spot over and over.

“say it.”

“yours,” you sob. “i’m yours—ngh—heeseung, i’m—“

before you could register it, your orgasm hits you like a truck. you come around him hard, hole clenching tight, legs shaking. the heels you were wearing were the only things keeping your legs from giving out.

he curses under his breath, thrusts into you a few more times, then groans deep as ecstasy shoots through him in shockwaves, his hand gripping your waist grip almost bruising.

the air around you was thick and hot with sweat, sex, and silence, the office going still.

he leans over you, breath ragged, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“wanna do that again on the conference table next time,” he murmurs, grinning smugly against your skin.

you laugh weakly. “you’re unbelievable.”

he eases out, tugging your skirt back down. “and you’re irresistible. we should stay after hours more often.”

he eases back from you slowly, lips brushing your body again like he’s not ready to let go. you’re still pinned against the desk as you face him, blouse open, skirt wrinkled up, your pantyhose letting a cold patch of air float up to your cunt. he glances down, winces slightly, then meets your eyes with the ghost of a smirk.

“shit. i really did a number on those, huh?”

you blink at him, still breathless. “you ripped them. ruined them.”

“they were in my way,” he shrugs unapologetically. but then his face softens a little. “i’ll buy you more. promise.”

he steps back just a little, looking you up and down like he only just realized how wrecked you look. then he laughs, both admiring and amused.

“how the fuck are you gonna leave the building like this?”

you sigh, buttoning your shirt back up. “guess you’re walking me out.”

he grins, grabs his tie off the floor, and presses one last kiss to your lips. “c’mon,”

© ELIASOIR ⠀──all rights reserved.

[idkyetxoxo]

Four | Silky Lies | Shadow and Flame

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.5k

Warnings - Angst, pregnancy anxiety

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"You're hiding something."

The words slipped from Eris's mouth so casually that, for a moment, I thought I'd imagined them until I choked on the watermelon I'd just bitten into. I spluttered, coughing around the sweetness, eyes watering as I forced it down.

Eris only arched a brow, gaze far too sharp for this early in the morning.

We were having breakfast together, a rare event, and a strangely peaceful one. Morning sunlight filtered through the wide glass windows, warming the dark wood of the table. A quiet breeze stirred the silk curtains. It should have been serene. 

It was, until he opened his damned mouth.

The nausea had lessened over the past week, now that I'd crossed into my third month. 

Still, maintaining the glamour had become its own kind of exhaustion, one I could barely afford to slip. 

I was due to visit Criva later today to consult on another tincture, but I was running out of time. And apparently, luck.

"What exactly am I hiding?" I asked, setting my fork down with calculated calm. I leaned back in my chair, aiming for indifference.

Eris tilted his head, studying me with that same wolfish curiosity he used on adversaries across war tables. 

"That's the problem," he said, swirling his tea. "I don't know. But lately you've been—off. Secretive. Irritable. More than usual."

I gave him a look. "Says the male who throws tantrums like it's part of his morning routine."

He snorted, but the humour didn't quite reach his eyes. "You've been snapping at everyone. You sleep more. You disappear without explanation. And you're drinking juice instead of wine, which is frankly the most disturbing part of all this."

I rolled my eyes and raised my glass in mock salute before taking a sip of the carrot-orange blend that Criva insisted would "nurture vitality." Whatever that meant.

The juice was sweet, grounding, until, abruptly, it wasn't.

A hot wave of nausea rolled through me, and I barely managed to clap a hand over my mouth before the gag slipped free.

Eris sat bolt upright, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "What the—?"

I didn't make it far. Before I could even stand, I doubled over, vomiting violently onto the floor beside me. The sharp stench hit instantly, and humiliation bloomed hot in my chest.

So much for improving nausea, right?

Criva was already waiting by the time I arrived, always early, always composed, the very picture of patience in her long moss-colored robes. 

The scent of dried herbs clung to the air, sharp and grounding, and the faint clatter of glass vials echoed softly in the stone-walled space.

The moment the door shut behind me, I let the glamour fall. My breath left me in a quiet whoosh as the illusion collapsed, revealing the faint curve of my belly, the tired pallor of my skin. 

I rolled my shoulders and twisted my neck, the ache of it constant now.

Criva smiled gently, though something flickered behind her eyes. "You're glowing," she said, her voice warm but cautious.

I gave her a flat look. "I look like I've been awake for a week straight."

"You still glow," she said, her tone mildly reproachful, as if stubborn exhaustion were somehow charming. 

She motioned for me to sit and I gratefully obeyed, sinking into the worn cushions of the low-backed chair.

"You need to eat more," she added, not unkindly, her long fingers lightly pressing against my abdomen through the fabric of my dress.

"I am trying," I sighed. "But everything that goes in seems determined to come right back out."

Criva frowned, clicking her tongue softly. "You should be gaining weight—not losing it."

"I didn't exactly ask for this," I muttered. "I'm juggling court politics, dodging my father's ever-watchful eye, and doing everything short of running to keep my existence tolerable. And now—this."

My voice cracked, and before I could say more, Criva's hand shot out and covered my mouth with surprising swiftness.

"Breathe," she murmured, lowering her hand gently after a beat. "You're strung so tight I can feel it from across the room."

I inhaled, sharp and shallow, and forced myself to let it out slowly. 

"What have you learned?" I asked, watching as she moved to the workbench, sorting through vials and powders. Her hands stilled for a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but I caught it.

Something was wrong.

"To put it simply," she said at last, not meeting my gaze, "the pregnancy may be more dangerous than we anticipated."

I went still. The words settled like a stone in my stomach. My pulse ticked up, fast, shallow beats. 

I dropped a hand to my bump, brushing over the delicate rise of it, still barely visible beneath the folds of my dress.

Criva finally looked at me. Her burnt-orange eyes were steady, but kind. "The child is... Illyrian. Half, yes—but that part matters more than I'd hoped. The wings—"

"Are wings a bad thing?" I asked, my voice quiet, brittle.

She sighed and crossed the room, sitting opposite me, her hands clasped in her lap.

"It's not only the wings themselves. It's what they represent—structurally. Illyrian infants have different bone formation. Your body isn't built to accommodate that kind of development. Not without... complications."

I stared at her. I could hear her. I could understand the words she was saying. 

But the fear came slowly, quietly. Not in a rush of panic, not yet. Just a sense of something fraying at the edge of control.

"I'm not saying it can't be done," she added quickly, placing a warm hand over my knee. "Only that we're moving into uncharted territory. We'll need more care. More strategy. There's more I have to learn, and I will find solutions. But I need you to understand the stakes."

Stakes. As if I hadn't been balancing on a knife's edge since the moment I first picked up the scent.

My fingers curled around the fabric of my dress. I didn't trust my voice.

"Don't panic," Criva said softly, as if reading my mind. "You've already come this far. That means something."

But I saw the flicker in her gaze again. The way her fingers tightened on mine. She wasn't panicking. But she was worried.

And now, so was I.

Back in my chambers, the cold greeted me like an old enemy, sharp against my skin and biting at my bones. 

I didn't hesitate, just flicked my fingers toward the fireplace. Flame bloomed instantly, leaping to life from the wood with practised ease. The firelight bathed the room in warmth, flickering against the walls, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts.

Then I cursed under my breath. I was supposed to avoid my magic.

I sighed, more tired than scolding, and peeled myself out of my heavy coat. The dress came next, slipping off my shoulders in a whisper of fabric until I stood in nothing. 

Donning on a silk robe I padded across the room barefoot, the floor cool beneath my toes, and paused as I passed the full-length mirror.

My reflection stopped me cold.

I glanced over my shoulder at the closed door and slowly let the glamour drop. It peeled away from my skin like a second, false layer of myself, until what remained was the truth.

The scent hit me first. His scent. Faint, but there, embedded in me now, whether I wanted it or not.

I untied the sash of my robe and let it fall open, baring the slight, soft curve of my belly to the room. It wasn't much. Not obvious. Not yet. But it was there. Real. Tangible.

I stared.

Then, without thinking I pressed my fingers lightly against the skin, tracing the smallest arc of that curve.

"Hi, baby," I whispered. The words felt strange on my tongue. Foreign.

Was that weird? Talking to something that couldn't answer? I'd never done it before. I didn't even know why I was doing it now.

"I guess I'm your mother," I murmured. "Not I guess—I am. Gods, that sounds insane."

I let out a soft laugh. Nervous. Disbelieving.

"This feels weird," I admitted, stroking once more across the bump. "But I just wanted to—"

The door slammed open.

I yelped, wrenching the glamour back into place in a split second, the robe cinched shut with shaking fingers as I turned, fury sparking through me like lightning.

"What is wrong with you?" I snapped, half-breathless, stumbling toward the intruder.

Azriel stood in the doorway, calm as anything, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders. But his eyes, they were already assessing. Scanning. Reading too much.

"Do you not knock?" I hissed, clutching the robe tighter. My heart thundered in my chest. 

Had he seen? Heard? Smelled?

"What were you doing?" he asked slowly, his gaze narrowing as he studied me. His shadows slithered forward, brushing against my ankle like smoke.

I could've screamed.

"You don't get to barge into my room and interrogate me," I snapped, backing up toward the dresser. "What are you doing in Autumn? Why are you even in my room?"

He leaned a shoulder against the bedpost, too casual for my liking. Too observant.

"Rhys and I have business with your father," he said simply. "We're staying for a while."

My blood ran cold.

"So you just thought you'd stop by?" I shot back. "What—see if I'd fall into bed with you again like nothing happened? Are you truly that reckless?"

"If I was reckless," he said quietly, "someone would know I'm in here."

I turned away, unable to meet that gaze. I grabbed my brush off the dresser and began dragging it through my hair with more force than necessary.

"Azriel," I said, voice low, steely, "we are done. I told you that already."

He didn't move. Didn't speak. I don't think he even breathed.

"I don't know what you expected to happen when you walked in here," I continued, brushing through the same spot over and over again, "but whatever it is—forget it. It's not happening."

My hands were trembling. The silence grew heavy. Suffocating. Like it had weight and shape and teeth.

Azriel still hadn't moved. His shadows stirred faintly, as if even they were hesitant, unsure whether to linger or retreat.

Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and a little rough.

"At least give me a reason."

I froze mid-brush stroke.

The question was simple. Too simple. And yet it undid something in my spine. I straightened, slowly, turned to face him. My expression was ice when I spoke.

"No."

That single word, sharp as broken glass, landed like a slap between us.

He scoffed, his jaw tightening, and rolled his eyes like he was trying to act like none of this mattered.

The brush in my hand trembled. I clenched my teeth to keep it still.

"Don't tell me you're in love with me or something," I sneered, arms crossing tightly over my chest. "Because I really don't think I can stomach hearing that from you."

Something flickered in his eyes then, just for a heartbeat. Pain. Real and raw.

But he swallowed it down like poison, like he'd been practising. His voice when it came was flat, too neutral.

"Of course not."

But the words rang hollow. Like a cracked bell. Like a lie neither of us could name.

And still, they hit me like a blade to the chest. My breath hitched. Just slightly. But enough.

My hand dropped to my stomach, unthinking, instinctual, as if the child growing inside me could shield me from what his words had just shattered.

A quiet beat passed. Long enough for him to see where my hand landed. Long enough for the shadows to twitch.

"Perfect," I bit out, voice shaking now, not with fear but fury I couldn't direct anywhere safe. "So leave me the fuck alone."

His eyes dipped once to where my hand curled over my stomach. Then back to my face.

He didn't ask. Didn't speak. Just studied me like he already knew something was breaking. Something he didn't understand. Something I wouldn't let him close enough to see.

When he finally turned to go, his wings rustled softly in the still air. No goodbye. No parting words. The door clicked shut behind him.

Only then did I let my knees buckle. Only then did I let myself breathe again.

Dinner was agony.

Of course, my father had insisted Rhysand and Azriel dine with him. A show of civility. A performance for power. As if forcing the High Lord of Night to eat his food somehow made him the bigger male. 

And of course, Eris and I were dragged along like accessories—furnishings for the table.

I wore a deep red gown that clung to my body in elegant waves, every inch the portrait of Autumn's perfect daughter. My hair was slicked back, twisted into a crown of braids. 

Composed. Controlled. Regal.

But inside, I was wildfire.

I sat across from Azriel. I didn't dare look at him, not properly. Not after the way he'd left my room. Not with the phantom weight of my hand still tingling against my stomach.

The wine beside my plate glinted like a taunt. I hadn't so much as touched it. Gods, even the scent made my stomach churn. I clutched my water glass too tightly, knuckles white, willing myself to look bored. Normal.

Then my name was called, sharp enough to slice through the haze in my mind.

"Sorry?" I blinked, looking up. I didn't even know who had spoken.

Beron's jaw twitched, the muscle feathering as he narrowed his eyes at me. "Rhysand asked how the marriage prospects are looking."

I blinked again. "He what?"

"I was informing him of a potential match. Kallias's younger brother. A noble union between Autumn and Winter" he boasted.

I froze. The glass in my hand slipped slightly. I caught it—barely.

Marriage?

My throat constricted, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Across the table, Eris looked like he'd been slapped but only for a flicker. He schooled his expression so quickly no one else would have noticed. I knew him well enough to see the shift.

He hadn't known. If he had, he would have warned me.

I dared a glance at Azriel.

He was already looking at me. No, through me. His hazel eyes sharp with something that looked suspiciously like rage. His scarred fingers had gone white-knuckled around his fork, the metal groaning softly beneath the pressure.

I dropped my gaze.

"Yes," I choked out, forcing a smile, "Kallias's brother...uh—"

"Kain," Eris supplied smoothly, slicing in with calm authority. "It's still in early discussions. Far too soon for formal consideration."

Beron's eyes snapped to him and I knew Eris would suffer for that interruption later. But it was enough. The topic shifted. Barely.

My heart hadn't stopped pounding. Azriel still hadn't looked away.

I couldn't do this. I couldn't sit at this table, dressed in red silk and lies, pretending I wasn't drowning beneath the weight of everything. 

Pretending I wasn't three months pregnant with the child of the male sitting across from me while my father bartered my womb to strengthen his court.

I could run. I should run.

Day. Dawn. Maybe even the human lands. Helion had always taken an interest in me, he might hide me. Or Thesan. They valued compassion.

But the thought of my father's wrath was a noose tightening around my throat. Beron would raze everything in his path to find me. And if he found out about the child—

I swallowed hard, suddenly cold all over. I couldn't afford a misstep. I couldn't afford weakness.

And Eris... for all his flaws, for all the danger stitched into his every breath... was the only one who might protect me. Who might keep this secret. Who might... care.

I shifted slightly, pressing my palm to my stomach beneath the table. The bump wasn't showing through the gown but I knew. 

I felt it.

A/n - So we've established baby has wings, this is set before Nyx so both reader and Criva have limited knowledge. They know it's risky, but not howrisky exactly.

And then we've got reader about to have a little moment with baby for the first time only for Az to barge in, not fully understanding but unable to stay away. Poor, stubborn Az :(

Beron dropping a bomb out of nowhere asw—clearly a lot goes down in this part and I wish I could say things settle in the next one... but they absolutely do not. Buckle up xx

Thank you for reading, I hope you're enjoying so far <33

I really want to start posting this every other day instead of every third day because i'm having sm fun with all the feedback on all my platforms but I don't want to overwhelm or annoy anyone :/

Shadow and Flame tag list - @coffeebooksrain18 @jaybbygrl @slut4acotar @justtryingtosurvive02 @mortqlprojections @sheblogs @moonlitlavenders @windblownwinston @queenoffeysand @tothestarsandwhateverend @saamanthaag3 @metaphysicaldoom @natalijassav @bookishbishhh @yourenothingbutnottome @holb32 @etsukomoonbeam @fxckmiup @i-am-infinite @megwan @cuethedepession @rinalsworld @whoreforfictionalmen18 @asahinasstuff

[karikitdemonrp]

Kari sniffled, looking into her papa's eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks as she just sniffled and listened. She looked down for a moment, processing what the hero said and gave a nod while her eyes narrowed a bit in thought. "I... Think I get it." She muttered, voice still slightly trembling as she spoke. She looked back at the projection and sighed. The child slowly backed away from Hawks and went back to look at the journals again, one last time.

There she read a few more journals from her mother. A few from when she was pregnant with her siblings.

"Today is September 29th, I gave birth to my little boy Kitearo a few days ago. It's been exhausting but he's worth it. Lynx has been a huge help in taking care of our son. I looked into Kite's future and I saw he was going to have a lot of siblings. Not my first choice honestly. If you asked me five years ago I would have said two or three kids would be enough, not seven. But it feels right at the same time. While I saw his whole life unravel I couldn't help but feel helpless... But a part of me knows it can't be messed with, even though I want to save my son from an early grave. I'll have to wait until all my kids are born to get the full picture."

Kari frowned, figuring out pretty quick that her mother knew the whole time, or at least had an understanding.

"It's Febuary 23rd. Flo and Fino are a few days old now. I got a bit more of the picture since seeing Kitearo's future. They meet a similar fate. It hurts, but seeing them work hard to protect their youngest sister, a little girl with white hair, something isn't adding up. I know I can't stop it but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt a whole lot."

"It's been a rough few weeks, Shade has been a bit of a handful. Always curious but always quiet which is a bit unnerving. Sure she cries and makes noises but she's more quiet than not. The doctor says she has nothing wrong with her but I still worry. I was able to see into her future. Lynx has his work cut out for him that's for sure. So far I know all my kids and my husband die on the same day, doing the same thing. I can't say for sure where I am but I can make a few guesses. Again that little girl with white hair makes a big appearance. I'll name her Kari. Kari Kana Lee Himura, long name but it looks like it suits her. When she's born I'll hopefully get all the answers and try to write them down."

"Another pair of twins. I'm not super surprised, Lynx had twin younger brothers after all so I think that runs in the family. That and I saw them while looking into their siblings' futures. These two look mirrored, it's kinda cute. I've named them Boom and Beats cuz the symbols on their cheeks are cute music notes. They are the loudest that's for sure, it's funny. I've had so many kids and all of them are so different even though they're under the same roof and have me and Lynx as their parents. I know why they look so different and why their quirks are different, it's a side effect of my quirk after all. But their behaviors and personalities aren't tied to it, I don't think. It's so fascinating to watch them grow and develop... I know I probably only have a few more years to live. I've concluded I die in child birth when giving birth to Kari. I know I'll be leaving behind my family and my friends... But I noted that my nephew is the one responsible for the deaths of everyone, under the control of my sister given his pupils... Something isn't adding up but I'm guessing Kari develops my quirk. If that's the case then she needs to exist. It strengthens our quirk and hopefully she'll be able to help others like I did, in someway. Though that's her choice and I don't want to force it onto her. I'm glad dad talked me into writing that one entry about my quirk, I hope she can read it one day so she can meet me... Well, a snap shot of me. It won't be the same I know but it's better than nothing. I just hope she doesn't hate me or get mad. It's kind of a selfish reason but there's so much going on... I just hope she understands."

Kari sniffled, rubbing her eyes. "I... I don't hate you mom." She whispered after a few moments of silence, hugging herself. "I just wish I knew you." The child gulped and moved to look back at the journal about All of the Above and began taking notes. "But yea, I'm glad grampa talked you into writing about your quirk too... It's gonna help me a lot." She muttered then looked at Hawks. "You think we can go somewhere I can train? I... I wanna try doing this thing mom talks about. I'm not sure if I can get back into that weird mind space thing but... But if I can maybe you can meet my siblings, well a snap shot of them... This is kinda confusing." Kari puffed out her cheeks then went back to writing. "But we don't have to do it today if we can't."

Hawks didn’t speak at first. He just let Kari cry. He didn’t try to hush her or pull her away. He dropped down to one knee so she could lean into him easier, wrapping his arms around her small frame like he could shield her from every painful word she had just read. His wings even curled in slightly, a quiet gesture of shelter.

He held her gently as the sobs came out in waves—her pain wasn’t small, and it didn’t deserve to be treated like it was.

After a long moment, his voice finally came—soft, steady, low enough it didn’t try to overpower her crying but just… sat with it.

“I know, kiddo. I know it hurts. It’s not fair. None of this is. You didn’t get a choice in any of it.”

He tightened the hug slightly, one hand cradling the back of her head.

“But I need you to hear me when I say this next part, okay?” He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, his own golden ones steady and full of something more than just compassion—it was conviction. “She didn’t die because of you. That’s not how this works. She died for you. And that’s something only someone who loves their kid more than anything in the world would do.”

His thumbs gently wiped her tears.

“Your mom knew the risks. She was a top pro. She wasn’t someone who walked into things blind. She fought to bring you into this world anyway, Kari. That means she wanted you here. She made a choice—and that choice was you.”

[saoney]

Ocean's Fire

𖠋 Incubus! Rafayel ♡ Fem! Reader 𖠋

After two weeks apart, you return home to find your boyfriend missing and unresponsive. When you track him down, you discover he's been transformed by an experimental aphrodisiac—complete with horns, glowing red eyes, and an insatiable supernatural hunger that only you can satisfy.

⚠️ Please read responsibly - This story contains themes of dubious consent and penetrative sex, m → f that may be triggering for some readers.

🐚 Author’s Note: My smut debut!!! I’m so happy that I finally get to experience writing a proper smut with my beloved Sea God 🥹🎉 props to all of the smut writers because I almost went bald writing this fic (ﾉ´ｰ`)ﾉ

🫧 Comment and reblog are deeply appreciated ‹𝟹

The past two weeks had been torture disguised as duty.

Your field training assignment had you stationed in the wilderness, grinding through Wanderer combat simulations from dawn to dusk. Every muscle ached, every nerve was frayed, but the moment you collapsed into your cot each night, there was Rafayel—bathed in the warm glow from the studio lights, violet eyes heavy with longing as he asked about your day in that honeyed voice that made your chest tight with missing him.

"Did my sweet darling miss me today?" he'd purr into the camera, artistic fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "Tell me what you're wearing. Better yet, show me."

Those late-night video calls were your lifeline. Even with his own hectic schedule—flying across the country with Thomas for his upcoming exhibition, managing interviews and gallery visits—Rafayel always made time for you. He'd prop his phone against his easel during breaks, painting with one hand while the other traced suggestive patterns in the air, describing in exquisite detail what he planned to do to you when you returned.

"I've been sketching you from memory," he'd whisper during one particularly heated call, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave that made your thighs clench. "Want to see how I imagine you spread out on my silk sheets? How I remember the way you arch when I—"

"Rafayel," you'd breathe, already reaching for yourself.

"That's my good girl. Let me watch you come undone for me."

But on day ten, the calls stopped.

Your phone sat silent. Messages went unread. The absence of his teasing voice, his ridiculous pet names, his constant digital affection—it carved a hollow ache in your chest that grew deeper with each passing hour.

By day twelve, worry had transformed into hurt. By day fourteen, hurt had crystallized into anger.

Your transport touched down in Linkon City under gray skies, and finally—finally—your phone buzzed.

[Rafayel 📱: Welcome home, cutie.]

[Rafayel 📱: Still away for work. Don't wait up.]

The message was ice-cold. Clinical. Nothing like the man who usually greeted your returns with paragraphs of purple prose about how the city had been colorless without you.

Your fingers moved to Find My before you could stop them.

His location pulsed steadily: Mo Art Studio.

Home.

The betrayal hit like a physical blow. He was lying to you. After two weeks of radio silence, he was lying to your face.

Twenty minutes later, you stood before his door, keycard trembling in your grip. The evening air should have been cool, but heat seemed to radiate from behind the entrance like a furnace.

You knocked. Waited. Knocked harder.

Nothing.

Your keycard beeped softly as the lock disengaged.

The moment you stepped inside, the heat hit you like a wall. Suffocating, humid, wrong. Rafayel's home was always perfectly climate-controlled—he claimed his Lemurian blood made him sensitive to temperature fluctuations, though you suspected he just liked giving you excuses to warm him up.

"Rafayel!" Your voice echoed in the dim space. Curtains drawn, lights off, the air thick enough to taste. "I know you're here!"

Silence.

You climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, following the oppressive heat to its source. His bedroom door stood ajar, and through the gap, you could see a figure curled on the bed.

The room was an oven. Dark as a cave. And there he was—shirtless, trembling, breath coming in sharp gasps like he was drowning on dry land.

"Rafayel." All your anger dissolved into concern. "Why haven't you answered me? Why did you lie about being away?"

He didn't respond. Didn't even acknowledge your presence.

You reached for his shoulder, and the moment your fingers made contact, you jerked back with a gasp. His skin was burning—not fever-hot, but scalding, like touching a heated stone.

"Jesus, you're sick—we need to get you to a hospital—"

"Don't." His voice was barely a rasp. "Please, cutie. Don't touch me. You need to leave."

He tried to roll away from you, but the movement was weak, uncoordinated. When he finally turned to face you, your heart stopped.

His eyes—those beautiful amethyst eyes that sparkled with mischief and adoration—were nearly crimson. Glowing like embers in the darkness.

"What happened to you?" You knelt beside the bed, hands hovering over him, afraid to cause more pain. "Rafayel, talk to me. Please."

He squeezed his eyes shut, whole body shuddering. "Thomas's colleague. New bar opening in the arts district. They served us some experimental cocktail—said it was a prototype aphrodisiac for Valentine's Day. I thought it was just marketing nonsense."

Understanding crashed over you like cold water. "How long?"

"Three days." His laugh was bitter, broken. "Three days of hell. I can't eat, can't sleep, can't think about anything but you. Every nerve in my body is on fire, and the only thing that helps is—" He cut himself off with a groan.

You reached for his hand instinctively, and his fingers latched onto yours with desperate strength.

The contact seemed to send electricity through him. His breathing hitched, back arching off the bed.

"You have to go," he gasped, but his grip on your hand tightened. "I'm barely holding on. If you stay, I don't know if I can control myself. I don't want to hurt you, don't want to scare you—"

His words dissolved into a tortured moan, his whole body convulsing as if he were fighting a war within himself—and losing. "No, no, no," he gasped, clawing at his own chest as the transformation began to consume him. Dark markings erupted across his skin like living shadows, spreading from his heart outward in intricate, pulsing patterns that seemed to writhe and breathe with malevolent life. The black ink-like designs carved themselves deeper into his flesh, glowing faintly with each ragged breath he took.

His canines stretched into razor-sharp fangs with an audible crack, and you watched in horrified fascination as two elegant horns tore through the skin of his temples, curving back through his disheveled hair like a dark crown. Blood trickled down his face from where they emerged.

Then he laughed—a low, dangerous sound that was nothing like his usual warm chuckle. It was predatory, unhinged, utterly inhuman. When his eyes snapped open, they blazed with primal hunger, all traces of your gentle artist boyfriend buried beneath the creature that now possessed him.

His grip on your hand, which had been weak and trembling moments before, suddenly tightened like a vice, fingers digging into your skin with supernatural strength.

"Too late to run now, cutie," he whispered, voice layered with dark promise.

Then he yanked you down onto the bed with him, his strength making it effortless as he dragged you against his burning body. His lips crashed against yours with desperate hunger, hands tangling in your hair as he kissed you like a man drowning. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, scalding even through your clothes, his body trembling with barely restrained need. Despite the transformation, his touch was still reverent, still unmistakably him beneath the hunger that consumed him.

When he finally pulled back, you were gasping, vision blurred, completely at his mercy on the rumpled sheets beneath him.

"I'm sorry," he purred against your lips, voice dripping with dark amusement. "I'm not gonna stop until this fire burns itself out, and you're gonna take everything I give you right, cutie? Don't worry—I'll be gentle… mostly. Now why don't you be a good little hunter for me, yeah?"

His mouth found your throat, pressing hot kisses to your pulse point while his hands worked at your clothes with precision. Each piece of fabric that fell away earned you praise whispered against your skin.

"Perfect," he murmured, mouth trailing down to worship your exposed chest. "I've been dreaming of this. Sketching these curves from memory until my fingers cramped."

He took his time despite the urgency thrumming through him—lavishing attention on every inch of skin, building you up with touches and kisses until you were arching beneath him, completely pliant.

His hands smoothly unclasped your bra, fingers reverent as they traced your curves. Without wasting a moment, his mouth was on your breasts, tongue swirling around your nipples before he sucked them into his mouth, drawing desperate whimpers from your lips.

"Rafayel," you gasped, back arching as he lavished attention on your chest. "Please—"

"Shh, cutie," he murmured against your skin, mouth trailing hot kisses down your belly. "Let me worship you properly."

His hands urgently undid your pants, sliding them down your legs with agonizing slowness. When he finally settled between your thighs, he inhaled deeply, eyes rolling back in bliss.

"I can smell your arousal," he growled, voice rough with need. "So sweet, so perfect. I've been through hell trying to control myself. Do you know how many times I've imagined this? How many sketches I've ruined thinking about eating you?"

"Rafayel, please," you whimpered, hips bucking toward his face. "I need—"

"I know exactly what you need," he whispered, voice dropping to a dangerous octave as those burning red eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His expression was beautifully terrifying—tender love warring with predatory hunger. "Now I'm going to worship this beautiful cunt until you forget everything but my name."

He dove in with feral hunger, tongue dragging broad, possessive strokes up your slit before attacking your clit with relentless precision. His mouth devoured you—lapping, sucking, biting gently at your most sensitive flesh with desperate, animalistic need. Every sound he made was pure worship, muffled moans of satisfaction vibrating against you.

"Oh god, oh god," you cried, hands fisting in his hair as he pushed his tongue inside you, fucking you with wet, sinful strokes. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"

He moaned against your core like a starving man at a feast, the vibrations resonating through your bones and setting every nerve ending ablaze. Each desperate movement of his tongue was calculated to feed the supernatural hunger clawing at his insides while simultaneously destroying every defense you had left.

"Christ, you taste like heaven," he groaned between ravenous licks, pulling back just enough to watch your face contort with pleasure. "You're so addicting. I could spend eternity right here, drinking every drop you give me."

Your first orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, spine bowing impossibly as you screamed his name with raw, broken desperation. But he was merciless—couldn't be anything else—his mouth never leaving you as he lapped up every tremor, every aftershock, prolonging your climax until you were sobbing from the intensity.

"Too much," you gasped, trying to push his head away, but he caught your wrists.

"No such thing," he purred, and dove back in, making you cum again on his tongue until you were sobbing with oversensitivity.

When he finally pulled away, face glistening with your arousal, he cupped your tear-stained cheeks lovingly. "Look at you, already crying for me. We're far from finished, Y/N."

Rafayel rose to his knees, hands moving to unzip his pants with desperate urgency. When he finally freed his cock, it was flushed and angry, precum beading at the tip from hours of torment and anticipation. His burning red eyes locked onto you—taking in the sight of you panting and sprawled beneath him, eyes half-lidded and completely wrecked from his mouth. The vision alone made his cock twitch violently, demanding immediate relief.

"So beautiful," he breathed, voice thick with reverence and lust. "So ready for me."

He wrapped his hand around his lenght, stroking slowly edging himself while his gaze devoured every inch of your trembling form. The sight of you, so perfectly wrecked and waiting, had him practically salivating with anticipation.

With deliberate, torturous slowness, he dragged the head of his cock from your entrance up to your clit, collecting your arousal along the way. The teasing made you mewl desperately beneath him, hips bucking for more contact.

"Please," you whimpered, but he just smirked, slapping his cock against your sensitive cunt with wet, obscene sounds.

The heat radiating from your core, the slick wetness coating him, the way you clenched around nothing—it all made him hiss in pure pleasure.

"So wet for me," he groaned, continuing his torturous teasing.

"Think you can take me, cutie?" His voice was low and teasing as you felt him playing at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your opening. The stretch was burning and delicious—until he pulled out completely, leaving you feeling empty and desperate.

"I don't think so," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot on your skin.

You almost felt like crying from his relentless teasing. Without a second thought, you abandoned all pride and begged for his mercy. "Please, Rafayel... I want it. I want you so badly."

"Yeah?" He was still teasing, pressing soft kisses to your tear-dampened eyes with surprising tenderness.

"Yeah," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.

For a moment he held your gaze, studying your face as you gave him the most pleading look you could muster, hoping your puppy eyes would finally make him cave. Something shifted in his expression—desire winning over his need to torment you.

Finally, he positioned himself at your entrance again, the head of his cock nudging against your opening. Both of you moaned in unison as he began to slide into you slowly, savoring every inch as he filled you completely. The stretch was overwhelming after your orgasms, making you whimper and claw at his shoulders.

"That's it, take all of me," he breathed, bottoming out with a groan. "You're gripping me so tight. Like your body doesn't want to let me go."

"I don't," you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Never want you to leave me again."

He began to move, thrusts deep and reverent, hands mapping every curve of your body like he was committing you to memory for his next masterpiece. His own moans and whimpers filled the air, the desperate sounds making you even wetter.

"You're taking me so perfectly," he praised, voice breaking with emotion. "Like you were made for this cock. Gods, I missed how warm you are inside, how you flutter around me when you're close."

"Rafayel," you moaned, already feeling another orgasm building. "You feel so good, so deep—"

"That's my girl," he groaned, angling his hips to hit that spot that made you see stars. "Let me hear how good I make you feel."

You were cock-drunk fast, lost in the rhythm of his hips and the filthy praise spilling from his lips. When you came again, clenching around him, he nearly lost control.

"More," you gasped against his lips. "Need more of you."

Something primal flashed in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he flipped you onto your hands and knees, the sudden change making you cry out.

"You want more?" he growled, hands gripping your hips as he drove into you from behind. "I-ah-can't refuse you."

This angle was devastating—each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you while his hands roamed your body possessively. You could feel yourself getting wetter soaking the bed sheet underneath you, the obscene sounds of your coupling filling the room.

"Listen to how wet you are," he panted, one hand sliding up to cup your breast. "So fucking beautiful like this, taking my cock so well. You're mine, aren't you? Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," you sobbed, face pressed into the pillows. "Always yours, Raf— Rafayel!"

"That's right," he groaned, thrusts becoming more demanding. "My petite artiste, so messy and desperate for me."

But he needed more. Needed to see you fall apart in every way possible.

"On your back," he commanded, and when you complied on shaking legs, he pulled your legs up into a mating press, folding you nearly in half. The new angle made you scream, overwhelmed by how deep he could go.

"Look at me," he demanded, his glowing eyes boring into yours. "I want to see those pretty eyes when you cum for me again. Want to watch you fall apart."

The intensity was too much—the way he watched every expression cross your face, the desperate love and lust warring in his gaze. Your eyes rolled back as he hit that perfect spot over and over, tears streaming down your cheeks from the overwhelming pleasure.

"There you are," he whispered, voice filled with dark satisfaction. "Look at you, so beautiful when you're completely gone for me."

When your orgasm crashed over you, it was earth-shattering. You came with a broken scream, body convulsing around him as he moaned your name like a prayer. The intensity of watching you fall apart, of feeling you clench around him so perfectly, made blood drip from his nose onto your chest, the incubus potion overwhelming even his supernatural constitution.

"I can't cum anymore," you sobbed, thighs shaking from overstimulation, mascara running down your cheeks. "Please, Rafayel, I can't—"

But your pleas only seemed to spur him on. The sadistic part of the incubus potion loved seeing you so wrecked, so desperate, so perfectly ruined.

"Of course you can, cutie," he purred, pulling out only to maneuver you into his lap. "Look at this tear-stained face—so pitiful, so drunk on my cock. Makes me wanna fuck you even more."

"Please," you whimpered, but whether you were begging him to stop or continue, neither of you knew.

"One more," he coaxed, guiding you down onto his cock. "You have no idea what you do to me"

Face to face now, you could see every expression cross his beautiful, dangerous features. His hands roamed your body possessively while you rocked against him, completely lost in sensation.

"That's my good girl," he whispered against your ear, then bit down gently on your earlobe. "Taking everything I give you, even when you're crying from how good it feels. You're so perfect, so intoxicating when you're falling apart for me."

"Rafayel," you gasped, eyes rolling back again as he hit that spot that made you see white. "I'm going to—"

"I know, baby. Let go for me one last time."

Your final orgasm was devastating, your vision going white as your body convulsed around him. You came with a silent scream, completely overwhelmed by sensation, and watching you reach that peak of pleasure pushed him over the edge.

He came with a broken moan, holding you tight against him as he spilled inside you, nose bleeding more heavily now from the sheer intensity of the moment.

The last thing you remembered was his face above you, handsome and ethereal with his horns and glowing eyes, completely drunk on pleasure as he buried himself deep inside you, whispering your name like a benediction and the satisfaction of finally being able to touch you after days of torment. Your own face was a mess of tears and smeared makeup, eyes glassy and unfocused from being thoroughly claimed by your temporarily-incubus lover.

When consciousness returned, golden morning light was streaming through the curtains, and the softest lips were pressing tender kisses along your cheek like butterfly touches.

"Morning, my sweet darling," Rafayel murmured, his voice back to its familiar warm velvet. The horns had vanished, his eyes returned to that beloved amethyst shade, though delicate traces of the dark markings still lingered like watercolor stains across his skin. "Sleep well?"

You groaned softly, every muscle in your body singing a chorus of pleasant aches as you tried to stretch. "You're absolutely impossible."

He grinned with zero remorse, looking devastatingly handsome in the morning light. "And you love me anyway. Want to take a warm bath? I'll wash your hair and tell you about all the masterpieces I'm going to paint inspired by last night."

Despite your mock indignation, you couldn't suppress the smile tugging at your lips. "You're buying me breakfast first. The fancy kind. And coffee—really good coffee."

"Anything for you," he agreed easily, then leaned down to nuzzle into the curve of your neck, his voice dropping to that achingly familiar teasing whisper. "But first... want to hear about this incredible dream I had about you in my bathtub?"

You were glad Rafayel was back to normal, but if you were being honest with yourself, Incubus Rafayel was kind of hot… You wondered if he'd be willing to be one for Halloween this year.

[sharkbitten-sailor]

HOLY SHIT I , TOO , HAVE BEEN THINKING ABT A FORSAKEN X BLOCKTALES PLAYER ! READER ,,,,

perhaps if you could ,, maybe drop a 1x x blocktales player ! reader headcanon / drabbles ,,,, hehehheehhejags

I literally internally jumped for joy as i read that post LOL

THAT SMILE OF YOURS DISGUSTED ME.

sunrise is late!au - 1x1x1x x player!reader one-shot tw: blood, injury, minor gore and swearing.

a/n; tehee hope the meal hits the spot !! fyi , sunrise is late is the official name for this au,,, feel free to send your thoughts or requests anything he,,

you don’t know how you got here. no clue what this place even is.

then you learn- it’s a game. a fucked up game of survival and death. strangers thrown together, forced to cooperate just to avoid the one predator whose only mission is to kill. leave no one standing.

you quickly adapt and move forward. it’s not like you have a choice.

thankfully, you’re not alone. there are still others beside you, pushing you to keep going. and in this mess, that’s something.

the small, flickering warmth of that connection; it’s one of the few things left that even resembles good. so you cling to it, even while the dark coils just beneath the surface, waiting to swallow you whole.

you already know how it feels. once was more than enough. you’d never choose to go through it again.

-

you run. again, and again, and again. the world blurs around you. the pounding in your head is almost louder than your footsteps.

a quick glance over your shoulder. just one.

"this is, MASS INFECTION."

and that’s when it hits. you stumble. fall. the ground greets you with gravel and grit just as a black slash tears through the air. it catches your back: deep, burning, but not fatal. blood trickles down in thin, trembling lines. you’re lucky. if it had been your neck, you'd be scattered like discarded pieces on a broken board.

nevertheless, you wasted the opportunity to truly escape the wolf’s jaw. in this case, it’s 1x, the embodiment of hatred himself.

damn. you’re really dead this time. no healing items. no stamina. no call card-

wait.

call cards?

"well, look like your time's up, annoying pest."

you keep your distance, retreating despite the searing pain twisting down your spine. your hands fumble through the bag on your waist; frantic, clumsy, desperate. searching for something- anything that might keep you alive just a little longer.

and then, like a cruel reminder of how close you are to death’s door, 1x swings. the blade slices through the air, stopping just an inch from your face. close enough to make your breath hitch. close enough to impale your skull at any moment he wants.

"but go on. pull your little miracle. let's see how long it buys you."

…fuck. three whole minutes left. you’re her first target out of everyone else. you're bleeding, alone, and now very aware that your teammates are nowhere to be found.

in one reckless burst, you grab the daemonshank bare-handed; heat blistering your skin as you yank it wide. it screams past your jaw, grazing close enough to hum like a warning. your other arm lifts, instinct taking over. the second blade crashes into it, slicing deep. blood gushes out, hot and fast, soaking into your sleeve and dripping down like a countdown you can’t pause.

if you don’t figure something out now, blood loss is going to finish the job before 1x even gets the chance. damn it.

"tch. getting bold now, are we?" his voice drips with amusement; taunting. you can tell he’s holding back, and that means,. you’re so dead. well, at least you annoyed him. kind of a win.

a card slips free from your pack. cracked edges, faint glow. it hits the ground with a hiss.

then-

...

a burst of frost-laced smoke erupts on contact, swallowing everything in a wall of icy haze. the air turns sharp enough to cut. 1x stumbles back, blades twitching, vision muddied as frost scatters like glittering glass.

"so that’s your game," he spits, voice thick with venom. "smoke and mirrors. thought you’d have a spine by now."

from the veil steps cruel king.

he doesn’t speak at first. his face is unreadable. regal. cold. but his eyes sweep the battlefield like a predator. and when they land on you, he stops.

you’re on your knees, arm soaked red, breath rasping through clenched teeth.

he exhales through his nose. jaw tightens.

this is worse than any state he’s seen you in. or maybe it just hits harder this time. not that it matters. it's already getting on his nerves.

without a word, he lifts his wand. sigils shimmer along its length.

with a motion smooth as falling snow, he strips the blade from 1x’s grip like it’s nothing. metal clatters to the floor and stills.

"apologies for the delay," cruel king says, gaze fixed on 1x. his voice is soft, measured. a winter storm pretending to be calm. "i was under the impression they'd last longer."

"king.," you rasp. barely a whisper. you stumble, blood soaking through your sleeve and hoodie, hope clawing its way back into your chest.

he hums softly, "mhm. let me finish this. you’re bleeding on my patience."

but there’s that shift again. the way he places himself between you and the enemy. his hand tightening on the wand. not for style. or control.

he doesn’t say the words. but the fury sharpening in the air?

it’s not aimed at 1x, not fully. not yet.

it’s aimed at you. at the blood painting your arm, the sway in your stance, the choices that led you here. it’s the silent kind of anger, the sort that simmers behind cold eyes, not because he’s furious you’re hurt.

but because you acted like your life wasn’t worth as much as it is to him.

and once this is over? lecture’s coming, brace yourself.

-

bonus! - at the killers' cabin.

it’s a freaking sword in the wall, and nobody says a word. not because they don’t notice, no, everyone saw. but because 1x still has another blade in their hand, and she's in the mood where even eye contact might start a war.

noli stays quiet, eyes glued to the floor, pretending like his name wasn’t just nearly skewered out of existence.

1x isn’t looking at him anymore anyway. she’s still glaring at the wall. or, well... through it.

she’s seeing you.

specifically: you and your busted arm. you and your dumb, hopeful eyes when he showed up. and that smile.,,

that stupid, stubborn, reckless little smile you gave the frost king like he was your knight in snow-dusted armor.

disgusting.

their hands twitches.

next time, that smile?

they're going to wipe it off your face themself.

they’ll tear you down, piece by piece, until that stupid thing is gone.

they'll be your worst nightmare.

a/n; back in the survivors' cabin, you're casually bonking your teammates with no mercy. they still dont know about ck yet because that lecture is gonna be a private appointment. you’re sooo not ready lmaoo

[chososcamgirl]

(SHE’S) JUST A PHASE CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: it’s never over

masterlist

• listen while you read

cw: crude humour, mild language, hints of depression

The phone’s glow illuminated a mask of frustration on Megumi's face — a crinkled nose, deepening eyebags, a leg hammering against the floor. In a sudden, violent motion, he threw the phone. It wasn't enough. He pressed his palms into his eyes, his head collapsing into his hands as a wave of pure frustration crashed over him.

The clock on the wall was a relentless accomplice to the silence in the room. Each tick a small and sharp reminder of her absence.

Yn’s absence.

Outside, the rain had started again. A persistent drumming against the windowpane. Not the kind of drumming you would hear from the garage courteous of Yuji, no. It was the kind of drumming that mirrored the dull ache in Megumi’s chest.

He stared out at the streets, glistening as the city lights blurred into a watercolor of melancholy hues. It was a night for lovers, the kind of night that drives people together, seeking warmth and solace from the damp chill.

And yet, he was alone.

The bed was made, the sheets crisp and cool to the touch. He’d smoothed them over for the third time, a futile attempt to impose order on the chaos of his thoughts.

An open window let in the scent of wet asphalt and blooming jasmine, a fragrance that would forever be intertwined with her. In the corner, the soft glow of a single lamp cast long shadows, a solitary beacon in the dimness of his self-inflicted exile. He was a keeper of this lonely vigil, a man burning in a self-made pyre of longing.

He thought of her smile, the easy way it crinkled the corners of her eyes, and the sound of her laughter, a melody he’d trade all his worldly possessions to hear again. It was a fool’s bargain, he knew. He’d been too young, too reckless, too blind to the damage he was causing until it was done. Now, the weight of his own foolishness pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating.

His body ached with a weariness that sleep couldn't quench, a yearning for a peace that only her presence could bring.

He rubbed his temples, his mind replaying their last conversation, a fractured mosaic of sharp words and wounded silences.

He had let his pride build a wall between them, and now he was a king in a kingdom of one, his riches the bitter taste of regret.

“Yn, please” he whispered.

The line a desperate prayer to a god he wasn't sure he believed in anymore.

A car's headlights swept across the ceiling, and for a heart-stopping moment, he allowed himself to hope. He pictured her at the door, rain-kissed and hesitant, the space between them finally closing. The image was so vivid, so painfully real, that he could almost feel the warmth of her hand in his. But the light faded, and the room was plunged back into its familiar gloom.

His gaze drifted to his discarded notebook, lying open on the desk. He was drawn to it, a reluctant pull he could no longer resist. His own hurried script met his eyes, lyrics stalling mid-thought. A single, raw line stood out, a testament to his aching regret: To not hold your face or feel embrace, is why I waste... His fingers traced the words, the graphite a faint whisper against his skin.

He knew it was a long shot, a fragile wish cast out into the stormy night. But still, he waited. Because somewhere, buried beneath the wreckage of his mistakes, that unfinished verse was a stubborn ember of hope refusing to be extinguished. It wasn't too late. It couldn't be.

As the rain continued to fall, a pen found the empty space below the last line. He kept his lonely watch, a solitary figure hunched over a flickering promise, trying to write a dawn that might never break.

backstage!

• THE YEARNING💔💔💔 THE PINING💔💔💔

• megumiyn comeback!1!1!1!???? GASP?

• has yn finally came to her senses…. will they finally stop pussyfooting….

• toge doing something right for once in his life? hello?

• toge, yuji & panda definitely fell for the labubu propaganda and spent the bands budget on multiple boxes for the secret

• they didnt get it.

• when yuta found out how much they spent he was pissed (gojo wasnt because he was bribed with a labubu)

• the guy who maki ran into was kamo. & let’s just say he was busted.

• this is all in the same timeline (pretend this chapter wasn’t released 6 months later)

• one last show before they release their album :’) my babies have come so far

a/n: heh.. so who missed me????☺️☺️ was this a jumpscare guys lmk. i had to reread the whole thing bc i forgot what the fuck was happening LOL. maybe i miss my ex and thats why im posting this, maybe i just need to finish the fucking series. next chapter in another 6 months x (kidding…. it’ll be this week..) 3 more chapters guys… who’s nervy… #we’resoback

taglist: @shokosbunny @satoryaa @prozacprinc3ss @essjujutsu @therealsatorugojo @yeehawslap @gojodickbig @dawnisatotalqueen @j2upiters @nappingnai @burnishingbagels @totallytatum @3cst4syy @lysaray @saltypuffin1040 @standcom @makeshiftproject @kurtcobaingirlie @kokoiinuts @dashingaurries @slvttycorpse @cuupidsss @mochroialainn @tenjikusstuff4 @ichcocat @sugurubabe @allthestarsarecloserrrrrrr @tyigerz @yoyo-yui @megoomies @yizmiu @jasminasblog22 @marst4rz @guitarstringed-scars @kalulakunundrum @lovefrominaya @beepbopzlorp @itsdragonius @meguemii @chilichopsticks @starantulas @1l-ynn @sluttkuna @rcveriees @solaqes @starrysho @sukunaspillow @evry1luvssm @syxoki

*if i can't tag you please change your tag settings otherwise i will remove you from the list!

[belli5]

let me love you .ᐟ ೀWS²

And if it feels right promise I don’t mind and if it feels right promise I’ll stay here all night

╰ Synopsis After dinner with Will, Will pulls over on the way home. In the quiet of the car, things heat up in the backseat.

Tags/contains Fluff, smut, Will Smith x fem!reader, creampie, p in v, car sex, public-ish(??), reconciliation sex, 18+, NSFW content below.

➺ from Sera, to you📨. Decided to actually write part 3 for “glimpse of us” and decided to go for smut because this is the right way to make up with someone after being apart too long(jokes, actually talk it out, guys😭.)

masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it! Please do NOT rewrite/repost my work anywhere else without permission! ➜part two: So close, yet so far. ➜Part one:Hoping I’ll find a glimpse of us.

It had taken you hour and a half to decide what to wear. This was dumb. It was just dinner. Not a first date. Not a big deal, not a shiny life altering moment. It was just dinner.

With Will.

With Will, who once pulled you into a dark parking lot just to kiss you because he couldn’t wait. With Will, who once memorised your coffee order without asking. With Will, who you’d love. Who you still love.

You stood in front of your open closet, still barefoot, wrapped in a towel, hair half dry from the shower. Your bed was graveyard of discarded outfits, too casual, too cold, too desperate.

You hated how much you cared but then you wouldn’t be yourself.

In the end, you landed on skirt and a top that hugged your shoulders in a way you liked, and a delicate gold necklace. You touched it once as you looked at yourself in the mirror. It was the same one you wore the night Will first kissed you. You hadn’t done that on purpose, not really.

Your phone buzzed just as you were swiping on some mascara.

Smitty 🩷 outside when you’re ready.

Your chest tightened. Were you ready? No. Not even close. But you grabbed your coat anyway.

He was standing beside his car, dressed in a black sweater and dark jeans, hands in his pockets, shifting a little like he was nervous too. When he saw your, his face lit up in that quiet, thoughtful way he had, like the smile started in his eyes and made its way down.

“Hey,” he said, as you walked up. “You look… really nice.”

“Thanks,” you said softly. “So do you.”

It felt like old times. It felt like strangers. It felt like both, somehow.

He opened the car door for you, and you smiled despite yourself. Once he got in, you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. His hands on the wheel. The way his hair curled just a little behind his ears.

“You made a reservation,” you teased, lightly. “So formal.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “didn’t want to screw it up. Figured you deserved an actual table and not like takeout from the back of my car this time.”

You laughed. “To be fair, that takeout was really good.”

“Yeah, but you deserve better.”

That silenced you. It hung in the air between you both, soft and awkward and sweet. You turned to look out the window, hiding the little ache in your smile.

The restaurant was beautiful.

Dim lighting, warm wood accents, candles flickering in little votives at every table. He’d clearly asked for something quieter, more private, away from the front windows, back toward a corner. You sat across from each other, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.

“You’ve been here before?” You asked finally.

He nodded. “Yeah, once. Macklin picked it for his birthday. Thought it might be too loud, but it’s not bad.”

A beat passed. “You okay?” he asked, his eyes flicking up to yours.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… nervous, I guess.”

He leaned back slightly. “Me too.”

That surprised you. “Really?”

He gave a short laugh. “Yeah. You kidding? You’re the only girl who ever made me care if my shirt had wrinkles.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too big. “So you’re saying this is a high stakes evening?”

He looked at you then and something in his voice softened. “I guess it kind of is.”

Once the food came, the tension eased. It always did with Will. That was the thing about him, he made the hard things softer. The scary things manageable. He asked you about school, about your friends, about your new class schedule. He listened and he remembered details.

When he talked about hockey, it was animated but humble. He didn’t brag, he didn’t overshare, he just told you what you asked, and when you teased him for being too modest, he rolled his eyes.

“You realize I’m like, kind of good,” he joked.

“Oh, I’m aware,” you said. “Trust me, my professor made us do a current events presentation first semester and you were the headline. It was so awkward.”

He grinned. “You used me for school?”

“Only a little. I got an A.”

“Well, then you’re welcome.”

You both laughed, and for the first time that night, it didn’t feel weird. It didn’t feel like you were playing pretend. It just felt like you both.

After the plates were cleared and the server brought over two small espresso cups and a shared chocolate mousse, the conversation drifted into quieter waters.

“I’ve missed this,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Will looked up. His gaze was steady, almost too much. “I’ve missed you,” he replied.

You stared at him, heart thudding. “You don’t have to say that,” you said.

“I’m not saying it for no reason.” He replied pausing.“You don’t have to say it back,” he added quickly. “I know it’s… I know it’s complicated.”

It was complicated. God, it was messy. But as you looked at him, you didn’t see someone who had hurt you. You saw the boy who used to draw hearts in the fog on your car window. The boy who always checked if your water bottle was full. The boy who, even now, was watching you like you were the only thing in the room.

You could feel your old self reaching out. The one who used to love him freely. Who never second guessed.

“I do miss you,” you said finally.

Will’s shoulders dropped just slightly, like a breath he’d been holding finally left him. You didn’t need to say more.

As you both left the restaurant, the cold night air hit your cheeks,

You both walked toward his car in silence, but it was a comfortable one this time. When he opened the passenger side door for you again, you paused, your hand on the frame. He looked up at you.

“I don’t know what this is,” you said softly. “Or what it’s supposed to be.”

“I don’t either,” he said honestly. “But… I’d like to find out.”

You studied him, the sincerity in his voice, the quiet patience in his eyes. And finally you felt brave enough to let herself hope, sliding into the seat.

The car ride after dinner was quiet, but warm.

No awkward silences, no rush to get home. Just the sound of tires on the road. He didn’t say much, and you didn’t push him to but the glances you exchanged said everything.

Every time you looked over at him, his jaw clenched just a little like he was thinking. Holding something back. You were doing the same.

You were sure he wasn’t driving you home, but it’s not that you minded. Will turned the car down a quiet road that curved out toward the edge of the city. The lights dimmed behind you both, the hum of cars and people faded. All that remained was the low rush of the highway and the sound of tires rolling over gravel.

He pulled into a narrow lookout spot, one of those hidden little places above the water, where the stars felt closer and the world felt far away. There were no other cars, no streetlamps. Just the dark, the distant shimmer of city lights, and the ocean stretching endlessly below.

Your brows lifted. “You okay?”

He looked over at you like he was trying to memorize your face. “I didn’t want to take you home yet,” he said softly.

You turned toward him, heartbeat quickening. “Why?”

He exhaled. Looked over at you like you already knew. “Because the second I do… this ends. And I—I’m not ready for that.”

Her lips parted.

He shook his head slightly. “I know we’re not together. I know this isn’t some perfect moment where everything’s fixed. But I can’t—” He stopped, voice rough. “I can’t sit this close to you, look at you, smell you wearing that perfume, and act like I’m not losing my mind.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I missed you so much it made me sick,” he continued. “And now you’re here. In my passenger seat. And all I can think about is how badly I want to touch you again.”

Your stomach flipped. He reached over, cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. “You’re driving me fucking crazy.”

Then he kissed you and everything went quiet. Your hand curled into the front of his shirt. He tasted like heat and longing and something deeper than just lust. Something aching, familiar, desperate.

It wasn’t the first time you’d kissed but it was the first time in months. The first time since you stopped pretending you didn’t miss each other.

The first time it felt like this. When you kissed him back harder, he groaned softly into your mouth. “Back seat. Come here.”

You barely made it between the seats before you were climbing into his lap, knees braced on either side of him as he pulled you close. Your arms locked around his shoulders. His hands were already tugging your skirt up your thighs, lips finding your neck, kissing, then sucking just below your ear like he wanted to leave proof of this.

You gasped when he did, grinding down against the hardness in his jeans. “Will—”

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured against your skin. “How many times I’ve thought about this exact moment.”

His tongue flicked against the hollow of your throat before his teeth grazed the skin again, rougher this time. You moaned and tilted your head back, giving him more access.

He took it gladly, biting, sucking, leaving marks down your collarbone that made your thighs squeeze tighter around his waist.

Then you pulled back just enough to flip the script. You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, then you kissed down his jaw, slow and teasing, before sucking at the side of his neck, hard enough to make his hips jerk up against you.

He cursed under his breath. “You’re evil.”

You smirked against his skin. “You love it.”

And he did. Your hands slid under his shirt, pushing it up and off. You kissed down his chest, trailing your tongue along the lines of his collarbone while your hips continued to roll against him, taunting, unhurried.

He couldn’t help it. His hands gripped your ass harder, guiding your motions as you rocked against him, your thin panties rubbing over the bulge in his jeans.

You slowed down, like you wanted to torture him, like you needed to drag this out, just because you’d been apart for so long and now that you had him again, you didn’t want it to end too fast.

He felt it in the way you kissed him, the way you moaned into his mouth but held back just enough. You were savoring it, savoring him.

“Take your shirt and skirt off,” he whispered, voice wrecked. You did, slowly pulled the shirt over your head, revealing soft skin and a black lace bra that made him swear under his breath. You lifted yourself from his lap to pull down the skirt.

Then your panties followed, and then his jeans. And then he was finally free, hard and leaking, his hands trembling with restraint as you reached between you both to stroke him slowly.

“You’ve been thinking about this, huh?” You whispered against his jaw.

“I never stopped.”

You lined him up and sank down slowly, inch by inch, until you were seated fully in his lap, your thighs trembling as they adjusted to the stretch.

Both of you gasped at the same time. Your fingers gripped his shoulders, digging into his skin as you started to move—slow, dragging your hips in long, rolling grinds that made his head fall back against the seat. “Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned.

Your lips curved. “You missed this?” You only said it because you wanted to hear it from him.

He looked up at you with dark eyes. “You have no idea.”

You clenched around him deliberately, making him gasp. He grabbed your hips tighter. “You’re such a brat right now.”

You smiled, breathless. “I’ve had time to think.”

He grabbed you by the back of the neck, pulling you back down for a kiss that turned messy, open mouthed and wet, all tongue and teeth. You whimpered into him, hips moving faster now, thighs flexing as you rode him with more urgency.

The car windows fogged up, the air turned thick with moans and breath and skin slapping skin. Each bounce of your hips had him groaning louder, chasing the heat curling low in his gut.

You started to fall apart, soft moans turning to breathless whimpers as his hand slid between you both and circled your clit, fast and sure.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your lips. “Come on, baby. I’ve got you.”

Your body tensed and then shattered. You came with a high, broken cry, legs shaking, nails raking down his back as he held you close through it. The tight squeeze of you around him pushed him over the edge moments later, hips bucking up as he spilled deep inside you with a strained, guttural moan.

You didn’t move right away. You lay against his chest, both of you panting, slick with sweat. His hands stroked your back slowly. Your lips pressed soft kisses to his collarbone.

Neither of you said anything for a long time. Eventually, you whispered, “That didn’t feel like just sex.”

Will tilted his head, kissed your temple. “That’s because it wasn’t.”

[sturnioz]

‘UNFAITHFUL’ — CHRIS STURNIOLO

pairing. chris sturniolo x fem!reader genre. angst. word count. 3.1k

❝you don’t get to talk about love, chris. not after what you did. love doesn’t look like that.❞

content warning. cheating, insecurities, cursing, heartbreak, breakdowns, shit relationships and shit friendships.

authors note. still on a writing hiatus, just in my feels and wanted to do something. this is very angsty and yet again, no happy ending. no part twos either. (sorry)

You had always been wary of the closeness between your boyfriend and your best friend.

It wasn’t jealousy—at least that’s what you told yourself. You wanted them to get along as it would’ve been awkward if they didn’t. But sometimes, their smiles felt too private, their touches lingered just a second too long, and the way their eyes found each other in a crowded room made your stomach twist in knots.

Still, you ignored it. You had to. After all, these were the two people you loved the most in the world. You told yourself it was all in your head, that your own insecurities were painting them in such a bad light. And even when they started spending time with you, you silenced the small voice beside you that begged you to question it. 

You were too blinded by happiness. You were happy that your two favourite people in the world had not only cherished you deeply, but also got along so well.

But now, standing frozen in the bedroom doorway after returning from visiting your parents, your breath catches in your throat—ragged and shallow—as your eyes burn, the tears blurring your vision, but unfortunately not enough to hide the sight in front of you. 

Chris, the person you thought you’d spend forever with, is tangled up in the sheets with Ani, your best friend. Their naked bodies move together in a way that leaves no room for doubt that they’ve done this before, and the sounds that spill from their lips pierces through the air.

“Oh my god!” It’s Ani who notices you first, her face contorting in horror as she turns her head at the right moment. She scrambles to grab the blanket to cover herself as if that will erase what’s already been done.

Confused by her outburst, Chris props himself up on his elbows, his brows furrowing for a split second before his gaze finds yours. His eyes widen in panic, his face draining of colour as the realisation hits him like cold water.

“W-wait, wait, wait,” he stammers quickly, shoving Ani off him as he stumbles out of bed, his movements frantic and clumsy as his hands shake, reaching for you. “It’s not—it’s not what it looks like, I—please, let me just—I need to explain.”

“Don’t touch me,” you choke out, barely able to speak through the lump resting in your throat. You take a step back, your hands trembling as you push him away from you.

“Please,” he begs, his voice cracking under the weight of his regret. The tears begin to well in his eyes, but they only make you angrier. “Please, baby. Don’t—don’t do this. Just hear me out. Please—”

You can’t bear to look at him any longer, so your gaze shifts to Ani who is sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching the blanket to her bare chest. Her face is flushed and her eyes are glassy with bubbling tears, but she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. The guilt etched across her face says enough.

Turning away from both of them, you spin on your heel and walk out of the room, your legs trembling beneath you which makes it harder for you to move in a straight line. Chris calls out your name, his voice cracking, but you don’t stop. You can hear him fumbling behind you, the sound of his feet hitting the floor as he hurriedly follows while grabbing his boxers, pulling them on in a rush as he chases after you.

“Wait!” he cries, his hand catching your arm just as you round the corner. His touch burns, and you yank yourself free with a sob, slapping his hand away as the tears stream down your cheeks. 

You’re shaking now, your chest heaving with every breath as the weight of what you’ve just seen crashes down on you.

“Please… please, baby,” Chris pleads, refusing to let up. “Just listen to me, okay? Please. Don’t walk away from us—don’t throw this away.”

You freeze, his words hitting you like a slap to the face. “Don’t walk away from us?” you find yourself repeating, words riddled with disbelief. “Are… are you serious right now? You walked away from us the second you started fucking her!”

Chris flinches, his face crumpling as your words cut through him. “I-I’m sorry,” he whispers, breaking into a sob as he takes a step closer, his hands trembling as he cups your face. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean it, okay? I didn’t—please, just don’t go. I love you. I love you so much. I love you.”

The pain in his voice only deepens your own, and you shake your head repeatedly, your tears falling faster as you try to pull away from him, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he presses his forehead against yours, his own tears mingling with yours as his grip tightens.

You want to push him away, to scream and curse and hate him with every fiber of your being, but your body betrays you as the sobs wrack through you. Your knees buckle beneath your weight, and Chris catches you with ease, his arms wrapping around you tight as you collapse against him.

He holds you like he’s trying to piece you back together, to try and mend what’s been broken as his own cries echo yours. He strokes the back of your head and whispers apologies you don’t want to hear. 

Chris loves you—he swears it, over and over again—but love doesn’t fix anything.

He loves you, but he’s destroyed you too.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” Chris whispers softly as you stiffly sit across from him at the table in the café. The room feels too calm and chilled compared to what’s brewing inside you both. It’s been a little over a week since you last saw Chris, having pulled out of his arms and bolting out of the house in a rush after your breakdown. “I’m, uh.. I’m happy that you came.”

“You and your brothers didn’t exactly give me a choice,” you reply coldly, and the embarrassed flush that creeps up his neck tells you he knows exactly what you mean. His brothers had practically begged you to hear him out, to give him one last chance to explain himself.

You had agreed, but not because you wanted to. You had agreed because you needed the closure—you needed answers.

Your hands tremble as you rub them together for warmth as you can feel them tingle with numbness. Chris notices this instantly. Of course he does. He always did have a way of reading you—knowing what you needed before you even had to ask, and just like he would have done before, he reached out, his hand hovering over yours.

“C’mere, let me—”

“No,” you yank your hands back before his warmth can touch you, despite craving the heat that emits from his palms. You refuse to let him soothe you. Not now. Not after everything.

Chris flinches at your harsh words and actions, “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I just… I didn’t—”

 “Can you just tell me what you wanted to say?” you interrupt, your tone a lot colder than you meant it. 

“Everything that happened that day… it didn’t mean shit,” Chris jumps straight into it, his voice raw and desperate as he leans forward on the table. “It was a huge fucking mistake, okay? And—and I don’t even know how it got that far. I fucked up. Bad. I know that. I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I didn’t want it to happen. You… you’ve got to believe me.”

You let his words hang in the air, only hearing the distant clatter of cups and the coffee machines humming. Then, you speak, your voice steady but ice-cold. “How did Ani get into the house?” 

Chris freezes, his face paling. His lips part like he’s about to respond, but no words come out.

You press on, “How did her clothes come off? How did she get naked in our bed? How did you end up inside her?” Your breath hitches for a moment, the bile rising in your throat. “Did she do it all by herself?”

Chris’ expression crumbles, and you believe he might actually break down right here in the middle of this café. But instead, he shakes his head quickly, his hands trembling on the table.

“Ani means nothing to me. Nothing. But you mean everything to me, you always have,” he says, licking his lips nervously. “You’re the first woman I ever fell in love with, okay? And I swear to god, you’ll be the last.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them back, unwilling to let him see you cry. Chris, on the other hand, makes no effort to hide as his shoulders shake slightly, his bright blues red-rimmed and glassy.

“I just… shit, baby. I love you so much, and I can’t forgive myself for what I did. I’ll never forgive myself. Ever.”

“Chris,” you speak his name, and his eyes snap up to meet yours, something desperate and hopeful swimming in his irises. “You don’t get to talk about love, Chris. Not after what you did. Love doesn’t look like that.”

Chris opens his mouth to respond, but you hold up a hand to silence him. “You don’t get to apologise either. You don’t get to tell me it was a ‘mistake’ and that it ‘doesn’t mean shit’ because you made that choice in the first place. You chose her.”

He shakes his head quickly as his tears fall freely. “What? No... no, I didn’t choose her, baby. I—”

“And you can’t say you love me when you were in bed with another woman. In the same bed where we shared our first kiss. In the same bed where I gave you my virginity. In the same bed where we made promises about our future together.”

“W-we can still do that,” Chris stammers, filled with fragile hope. “Baby, look at me. We can still keep those promises, okay? We can still have that future,” his hand twitches on the table like he wants to reach for yours. “We can fix this, I swear—”

“What are you not understanding?!” you cut him off, your voice rising in a way that startles even you. Chris flinches back at your volume, his wide and tearful eyes locked on yours. “That promise was broken the second you got into bed with Ani. You fucked up everything we had. Everything.”

“I…” his voice cracks as he tries to speak. “I’m so sorry,”

His shoulders sag, and he wipes his nose and eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, looking like a pitiful man who’s just lost everything—and he has. 

You shake your head, tears now spilling from your eyes as you bite down hard on your bottom lip, trying to ground yourself. You turn your head away from him and toward the window, watching the world outside as it moves on without you, and your stomach churns as you spot couples strolling by; their hands intertwined, their faces lit up with the kind of love and happiness you used to know.

One couple walks past, laughing as they nuzzle into each other’s arms, and the sight makes your chest tighten, their joy feeling like a slap in the face to remind you of what you’ve lost too. 

It feels cruel, like the universe is mocking you.

You swallow hard as the bitterness consumes you. The thought of someone else’s love life makes you feel sick. It’s as if their happiness is rubbing salt into a wound that’s already bleeding you dry. 

You want to run. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to disappear.

Actually, you just want to go home. To go home and to shut the world out.

“I’m gonna go,” your voice is quiet, but Chris hears it loud and clear as you push yourself up from your seat, zipping your coat as your hands tremble.

His eyes widen in panic, and he shoots to his feet. “Wait—wait, please,” he begs. “Don’t go. Please just… just stay a little longer. I—”

“Don’t contact me again,” you say, watching as he blinks, taken aback. “We’re done. For good. We… we’re never getting back together, Chris… not after this.”

Chris’ tears fall harder as he chokes out, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Before you can stop him, he grabs your arm and pulls you into a hug. You freeze as his arms wrap around you tightly—desperately—and you let him hold you, only because you know it’ll be the last time. You pat his back awkwardly, the gesture hollow and distant, but you don’t pull away. You let him cling to you as he sobs into your shoulder, his body shaking against yours.  

Finally, he loosens his hold, his tear-streaked face tilting to meet your gaze. His eyes are all red, swollen, pleading. 

“I love you.”

“Goodbye, Chris.”

And with that, you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the café, refusing to look back at him as you push open the door—not even when you hear his broken sobs behind you.

“Chris hasn’t been sleeping well. He’s not eating either,” Nick says as soon as he walks through the front door of your apartment. He doesn’t even stop to take off his jacket as he heads straight for the sofa where you’re curled up under a blanket, a pint of ice-cream nestled in your lap. “He comes out of his room with bags under his eyes. Sometimes he doesn’t come out at all. It’s… it’s getting concerning.”

“Shame,” you mutter, scooping a spoonful of vanilla ice-cream and shoving it into your mouth. You keep your eyes glued to the TV as you pretend Nick isn’t even there. “Did you know the actor in this is forty? He looks twenty-seven at most… insane.”

Nick glances at the screen. “Haven’t you already seen this episode?”

“Yep.”

Your attention stays fixed on the TV as the main character and her love interest bicker back and forth over something stupid, and you let out a soft scoff, spooning another mouthful of ice-cream into your mouth.

It’s so much easier to focus on fiction problems than your own.

However, Nick doesn’t take the hint.

“Chris said you’re completely done with him, like, I’m talking there’s no chance of you two getting back together,” his words come out slow and cautious as he eyes you. “I think you should reconsider, you know? Maybe just give him one more chance to fully explain himself. Just the two of you—no distractions.”

You glance down at your phone, ignoring the knot tightening in your chest. “I think it’s supposed to be really sunny tomorrow,” you say lightly, opening your weather app. “I might head down to the park or something.”

Nick blinks, baffled. “Are you even listening to me? Chris is—”

“Oh my god, Nick. Just stop!” 

The words explode from your mouth before you can stop them, and Nick physically recoils, his eyes widening in shock with his hand firm against his chest. You throw the blanket off your lap and rub your palm against your forehead, exhaling heavily as the frustration burns through your veins. 

“You do this all the time… Chris did that, Chris did that. Chris feels like this, Chris feels like that—I don’t care!”

“Hey… calm—”

“Look, I know he’s your brother. I get that, but you’re constantly talking about him. You bring him up in every single conversation we have now, and you’re pitying him like he’s the victim in all of this!” The tears begin to well in your eyes as your voice cracks, but you don’t stop as you feel the anger bubbling up, making you powerless to contain it. “Chris wasn’t the one who got cheated on, Nick. Chris wasn’t the one who had to find a new place to live. Chris wasn’t the one who walked in on the love of his life balls deep in his best friend!”

Nick raises his hands in a defensive gesture, his voice softening. “I’m just trying to—”

“You know, you haven’t even asked me how I’m feeling. Not even once,” your voice wavers now, raw and broken as you stare at him with tears dripping down your cheeks. “You come over just to shove information about him down my throat. You… you’re making it impossible for me to breathe. It’s like I can’t even catch a break from him even though we broke up four weeks ago. Four weeks, Nick.”

“I just wanted to—”

“So, what do you even tell him when you see him?” you cut him off, your tone sharp. You’re aware that interrupting him all the time is starting to affect him as his jaw tightens a little, but you don’t care. “Do you tell him how shitty I’ve looked or felt? Do you tell him that I cried for days until I was too numb to cry anymore? Do you tell him that I spent weeks wallowing in self-hatred wondering when I had become such a shitty girlfriend that he felt the need to cheat on me? Do you tell him that I blamed myself for all of it? That I thought I wasn’t good enough?”

Nick stares at you, stunned into silence. He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze as he looks down. “It’s not like that,” he mutters. “I try to cheer him up, okay? He’s a—”

“You try to cheer him up,” you repeat with a bitter, humourless laugh. You sniffle, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. “That’s great, Nick. That’s all I needed to know.”

Nick frowns as he takes a step toward you, “You’re taking everything I say the wrong way—”

“You’re a really shitty friend, Nick,” you cut him off once again, and the words hit him like a punch to the throat. You can see it in the way his shoulders slump and his face falls. “It’s good to know where I stand with you on your friendship scale. Or are you only acting this way because it’s your brother? He gets a free pass?”

“I…” he opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out as he looks at you helplessly.

“Just get out of my apartment,” you say firmly. “Go console your brother… make sure he’s all fine and well,” you turn on your heel, heading toward your bedroom with every intention of shutting the door and locking the world out. 

But before you turn the corner, you pause, glancing back over your shoulder to see Nick who hasn’t moved an inch; standing there frozen with his eyes filled with tears and guilt as he stares at you.

“I don’t want to see any of your faces again.”

©STURNIOZ 𐔌 . all rights reserved

[bitofanupsidedowner]

we're past the appropriate rejection window honestly. remember how steve is rejected by robin in the same season he develops feelings for her? or how dustin is symbolically rejected by max in the season he develops feelings for her? that's because it would have been a super weird choice to build it up for a really long time and then end it with a rejection.

there's a reason why in season three when joyce rejects hopper, we all immediately know it isn't a real rejection, even though they're fighting, she's grieving and planning to leave, and he's being unreasonable and unfair. there's reason after reason to think it's not going to happen, but because he's had feelings for her since season one we know it's going somewhere.

who waits on the edge of their seat to watch someone get turned down? who stays subscribed to netflix for that? that kind of thing would not be interesting, it would just be a confusing way to spend the increasingly limited time right before your show ends. penultimate season. every scene has to mean something bigger, all the way down to lucas talking about new coke or mike trying a new kind of pizza.

in writing you primarily only want to wait and build up to things if the result is going to be worth waiting for. rejection of the perpetually tortured gay kid is predictable and doesn't function to do much at all story wise. easy to write around, too, but they did the opposite. they built will's character around this.

they also have no need to dip back into the rejection pool narratively, doesn't add to the story. especially this late into the game. (sidenote, weird how people were not nearly as sure robin was going to be rejected despite her love interest being mirrored to mike, significantly less developed, and introduced so late, but i digress)

if they wanted mike to reject will, it should have been during the van scene. he should have given mike the painting and said something along the lines of, "i know you don't feel the same, but i really want you to know how el sees you, how we all see you. you're the heart. we'd fall apart without you." it would have still been sad but it would have been an ending.

because plotlines need to end! they need to end when it makes sense for them to, not before or after. dragging it along means they either realize they have something worth dragging, or have deliberately decided to prolong a plot point past its logical conclusion for the sole purpose of milking every last second of misery they can out of will, which would be needlessly cruel and so, so gratuitous.

it's not like the van scene NEEDED to happen exactly how it happened. any scene that is solely character driven with no impact on the plot can be rewritten over and over and changed into whatever it has to be. it was written as the most romantic mike moment in any season, and it was filmed and lit and directed extremely specifically. zero accidents.

robin and vickie was unnecessary without a plan. mike and will was unnecessary unless they have a plan.

so they must have a plan. if mike was going to reject will, it had to be in season four. but mike didn't reject will. not at all. he was actually very, very moved by what will had to say, he just didn't entirely realize what it was he was saying.

in fact, they made sure that this plotline was not just unsolved, but that it was obligated to come back, by having it go against the character's most consistent moral line of friends don't lie. and gave it to the character who, in his introductory scene, refuses to lie. dishonesty has genuine ramifications in this show, and will's is attached to a physical (treasured) object that has to come back into play. they can't sweep it under the rug and mike can't reject will without it coming off as... just... far too late.

[twstedfreak]

When The Moon Remembers | jinu kpdh part 1

A princess cursed to forget. A warrior doomed to remember.

Synopsis: A princess dreams of a man she’s never met—until he walks into court as a mysterious envoy. Haunted by echoes of a forgotten past, she’s drawn to him by a pull she can’t name.

Content: ANGST, early joseon dynasty themes, grief, past life death, reincarnation trauma, NOT BETA-READ BY OTHERS!! (only me), implied violence, psychological distress, dissociation, loneliness, isolation, forbidden romance, memory loss, unreliable narration, power imbalance, mild body horror, identity crisis, OPEN ENDING(?)

wc: 16.8k

A/N: ok so hi this is my tribute to jinu, thank you for reading my work,, i've been making this for 3 days straight... my back fcking hurts mannnn... just like how it hurt when jinu...... but yeah (spoiler alert: i'm not that good with endings i'm sorry...) this will only be a 2 chapter or 3?? fic idk,, it depends... it's supposed to be just a standalone fic but.... "dang only 1000 blocks allowed per post tumblr!" says tumblr LMAO so yeah,, thanks to my friends who supported me in making this,, they contributed to my dellusions LMAO<3 I love you jinu,, imma mke a smut fic soon so bye y'all,, pls patiently wait for the part 2 i'm working on it ToT (as well as the other fics,, I had in stored collecting dust LMAO) BYEEEEE HOES LOVE YLLL

The palace was silent in the hour between night and dawn. Not the stillness of sleep, but a breath held—as though the very walls were listening. Even the cicadas had gone quiet, their nightly song swallowed by something ancient in the air. Outside, the moon hung low and red, veiled by mist, casting long, skeletal shadows across the garden. Jade tiles shimmered with dew. The lattice doors of the women’s quarters remained shut, their painted blossoms fading in the dark. Lanterns had long burned out, their wax cold. Even the wind dared not stir the plum blossoms resting like offerings on the stone paths.

You moved barefoot through the garden, your silk hem damp and trailing behind you, whispering secrets to the stones. Your hair, unbound for the first time in days, hung loose down your back, its weight unfamiliar. The court would call it reckless. The guards, irresponsible. The court ladies would hide their gasps behind sleeves, calling it shameful. But in this hidden hour, with no one to witness, you were not the princess. Not the daughter of kings. Not the nation’s quiet pillar of grace and restraint. Not the bride-in-waiting, raised to be a symbol carved from jade and silence.

You were simply a girl. A girl aching for breath that wasn’t perfumed with politics. A girl who longed to feel the cold of stone beneath her feet, the damp of the world on her skin, to exist—if only for a moment—untouched by titles.

The Queen Mother’s Garden was your sanctuary, though no one called it that but you. To the rest of the palace, it was sacred ground—an ancestral space preserved for ritual offerings and seasonal rites. But to you, it was a secret world carved out of duty. A place where the weight of names dissolved into shadows and wind. The stone paths curled between groves of plum and bamboo, the air sweetened by moonflowers. A stream murmured softly through the heart of the garden, its koi sleeping beneath lily pads that shivered when touched by starlight. Small bridges arched across the water, unused at this hour—silent guardians of your solitude.

This was where you could breathe. Where the silence did not judge. Where the stars did not care for your lineage.

They called you wise, and said it like it was your greatest virtue. They spoke of your grace, your stillness, your beauty. A granddaughter of emperors, trained since birth to smile without speaking too quickly. You were praised for never stumbling, for weeping only behind screens, for knowing which words to say and which to swallow.

But no one ever asked what it was like to be watched always. No one asked how it felt to walk hallways lined with bowed heads, to sit beneath silk banners stitched with your future as though it were already sealed. No one asked if the wisdom they admired had cost you your voice.

Sometimes you dreamed of the world beyond the palace walls. Not in vivid details—but in feelings. Wind in your face. The roar of a river. Laughter not muffled by propriety. The kind of laughter that burst from the chest, unshaped by etiquette. You dreamed of color and noise, of dirt on your hands and no one scolding you for it but dreams were not for princesses. They were indulgences. Dangerous. Unbecoming. And so, you carried your yearning like you carried your name—quietly, with perfect posture. Yet tonight, something felt different. The silence wasn’t quite empty. The shadows seemed to bend differently. As though something—or someone—was watching.

Not a servant. Not a guard.

Perhaps, in that strange, fragile moment between night and dawn, when even the sky hesitated, you allowed yourself to believe—just for a breath—that this garden wasn’t empty.

That perhaps, you weren’t alone.

You drifted across the flagstones, the hem of your white under-robe soaked through with dew. Your slippers had been left behind, somewhere near the veranda, forgotten in your haste. A thin breeze tugged at your sleeves and cooled the warmth of your skin. You should have felt peace in this place. You had, on other nights. But tonight… Something was different.

The stillness felt too deliberate. Too heavy. As if something waited.

Your steps slowed as you passed beneath the archway leading toward the lotus pond. The usual murmur of night creatures… The frogs, the crickets, even the rustling birds—had gone silent. In their absence came a soft, rhythmic sound. Not natural.

Metal.

It was the distinct sound of a blade being drawn across its sheath, a slow, deliberate hiss.

Then came the growl.

Low and deep, like it rose from the belly of the earth. It did not sound like any beast you knew. Not a tiger. Not a wolf. It was… wrong. It stirred a primal part of you, an old fear buried in the marrow of your bones.

You stopped.

The wind held its breath.

From the corner of your eye, movement—something slipping between two stone lanterns, too tall and too bent to be human.

And then you saw it.

A creature—if such a word could apply—emerged from the shadows. Its form was skeletal, but bloated in places, like something had worn the skin of a man and never quite learned how to fit inside it. Its fingers were claws, each joint stretched and cracking. Its mouth was a jagged split, yawning impossibly wide, as though it had no end. The entire thing shimmered, black smoke rising off it in threads that pulsed and curled like burning incense.

Its eyes locked onto you—no irises, only molten red, like embers burning in a kiln.

You could not move. Your body refused to obey you. It was as if the very air around you had thickened, turned to tar. Your breath caught in your throat, chest rising in small, shallow gasps. You tried to scream. Nothing came.

The creature took a step forward, its limbs dragging behind like shattered branches.

And then—

Wind.

But not natural wind.

Something tore past you, so fast it sucked the air from your lungs—a streak of motion cutting through the garden, silent but precise. You turned, stumbling back, just in time to see him.

A man. Not a palace guard. Not a courtier.

He moved with such deliberate grace it made the world feel slow. His robes were dark, almost black, but close-fitting, like armor made of cloth. His hair was tied back tightly, and in his hand gleaming, curved, and lit by moonlight—was a blade.

Not like the ones you had seen in royal ceremonies. This one was old. Hand-forged. Marked. He did not hesitate. The creature lunged and he was there.

His sword moved like a whisper. A gleam. A blur. Then another. A step forward. A twist. A low grunt as the demon shrieked, staggering back, black smoke erupting from its chest as the blade found its mark again. He was not merely fighting it. He was like dancing with it, leading it in some ritual.

You tilted your head with disbelief and watched, heart pounding, unable to speak, unable to move. The final blow was almost silent. His blade sliced through the creature’s neck in a clean arc.

The demon froze, mouth open in a silent scream, then cracked, splintered, and dissolved into ash. The smoke curled, shimmered, and faded.

Silence returned.

The man did not look at it. He turned, instead, to you.

Even in the dark, you could see the sharp cut of his jaw, the sweat beading along his temple, the slow rise and fall of his chest. But it was his eyes that stopped you: dark, steady, and strange.

He said nothing at first. Neither did you.

He took one step forward. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” His voice was low. Even. Like someone used to hiding what they felt.

You found your own voice, thin but clear. “You’re no palace guard.”

“No,” he replied. The word was quiet, yet final. A single syllable that seemed to carry the weight of lifetimes, slicing through the silence like a blade through silk.

You stared at him. In the pale light, his face was partly shadowed, but you could still make out the sharp angles of his jaw, the tension around his mouth, the way his eyes—dark and deep as midnight ink—refused to leave yours. He looked at you not like a stranger caught in wrongdoing, but like someone searching for something he'd almost forgotten. Something fragile. Familiar.

“Then what are you?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt. It wasn’t a demand. It was a whisper edged with wonder and fear. Not just about the monster he had slain, but about him—this man who had appeared from nothing, fought like a ghost, and stood now as if caught between worlds.

He didn’t answer right away.

A wind stirred, brushing through the garden with soft fingers. Your hair lifted around your shoulders. His robes fluttered at the edges, but he remained still, as if time held its breath just for him. His eyes narrowed slightly. Not in suspicion—no. In something gentler. 

Recognition, maybe. Grief. 

He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.

Seconds passed.

He looked away, just briefly, as though the truth were too dangerous to speak aloud. And when he looked back, his expression had changed. Composure returned. Whatever vulnerability had surfaced was gone, locked behind a wall built by years of silence.

His voice was quiet when it came.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing you should remember.”

You blinked.

He stepped back, already beginning to turn, and something in you surged forward—an instinct, a knowing, a longing that made no sense.

“Wait—”

But the word barely left your lips before he was gone.

Not running. Not leaping.

Gone.

Like a breath exhaled into cold air.

As if the garden itself had imagined him.

All that remained was the whisper of the wind, and the faint scent of burned ash where the demon had vanished.

He returned three days later, not as a shadow that night, but as an honored guest stepping through the palace gates in broad daylight.

You heard his name before you saw him.

Whispers moved like ripples through the outer court that morning. Word spread fast in a place like this, where secrets were traded like silk and silence was only ever temporary. A foreign envoy had arrived from one of the southern border provinces—one long isolated by both mountains and tradition. His house had been loyal for generations, said the ministers. His presence was no more than political courtesy, said the scholars.

But your breath stopped the moment the court herald spoke his name.

Jinu…

Just that. No clan. No house lineage offered. No title beyond “messenger in service of the southern warlord.” It was a name spoken without weight, but it fell upon your ears like a stone into still water.

You stood beside your father’s throne, head bowed, hands folded neatly in front of your layered sleeves. A ceremonial fan hung at your wrist, a delicate thing of white silk and gold-leaf paint. You clutched it harder than necessary.

Then the doors opened.

He entered as the rest did. Through the tall central gates reserved for honored guests of the royal court. The midday sun poured in behind him, framing his silhouette in white light. For one impossible moment, it was like the dream had followed you into waking. Like the air changed shape to accommodate his presence.

He walked slowly, with the quiet grace of someone used to scrutiny.

And yet, he did not bow his head in reverence the way others did. He bowed only once, fluidly, with the precision of a man trained in old customs but untouched by vanity. The hem of his robes brushed the red silk mat before the dais. His eyes stayed low.

“Your Majesty,” he said, voice steady. “I come on behalf of the southern province of Naeul. My master offers peace, and his gratitude for your enduring protection.”

You barely heard the formalities. You were too busy watching the way his shoulders were tense but fluid, like a swordsman out of place among politicians.

He did not look at you.

Not once.

But you felt him.

His presence was like a string pulled taut across the space between you. Not visible, not tangible but unmistakable. It resonated through your ribs, your spine, the backs of your teeth. Like a bell you could not hear, but whose vibration you felt in your marrow.

You nearly stepped forward.

You nearly forgot the protocol drilled into you since childhood.

But instead, you inhaled slowly, carefully—and tilted your chin just slightly toward your father, as if your only concern was the formal script of receiving guests. The court watched your every movement, but no one noticed the way your fingers trembled against the fan.

Not even when you turned your eyes away from him too quickly.

The next morning, a hush fell over the inner court as the Council of State assembled.

Dawn’s light filtered through the tall latticework windows, casting the hall in a softened gold. Pale beams stretched across the lacquered floors, pooling at the feet of court ministers as they filed into place, their robes whispering like the hush of wind through reeds. Beyond the carved columns, incense smoke curled in slow, deliberate spirals, heavy with the scent of pine and frankincense. The day had not yet begun for the outside world, but inside the hall, the kingdom was already breathing its politics.

You stood behind the painted screen in the upper gallery—a place where royal daughters could listen, though never speak. Women were not meant to linger in council, not openly, and certainly not attentively. But you had always lingered, silently absorbing every syllable spoken in these chambers.

Today, you waited not for decisions, but for a name.

Jinu…

He arrived with no fanfare.

There was no trumpet to herald his steps, no servant trailing his robes. And yet, the moment he entered, the temperature in the room shifted. You felt it first in your chest—a slight tightness, like breath caught before the descent of a storm.

He wore dark robes again. Simple but striking. The kind of simplicity that was chosen, not forced. The fabric undyed silk or finely brushed hemp hung cleanly from his shoulders, cinched high at the waist in the southern fashion. A silver clasp gleamed at his throat, unadorned save for a faint engraving worn smooth by time. It caught the light briefly, like a memory flickering into view.

His hair was neatly bound not in the looped knots of noble sons, nor the rigid topknot of military men. It hung low, gathered in a black ribbon, a few strands escaping to graze his cheekbones. No sign of vanity, no jewelry, no house sigil.

He might have seemed unremarkable to the others.

But to you, he moved like someone misplaced by time.

His steps were neither rushed nor cautious. Each was exact. Balanced. There was no hesitation as he took his seat two rows back from your father far enough to remain silent, but close enough to command attention when needed. He did not scan the room. He did not shift in discomfort. He simply sat, spine straight, hands resting lightly on his knees, the picture of restraint.

When the council began, the room filled quickly with debate, First the harvest, then the tension with the eastern tribes, then the matter of fortifying the southern ridges before winter. Ministers argued with polished voices, their sleeves trailing as they gestured, voices weaving praise and strategy with veiled self-interest.

Jinu said nothing.

Not at first.

Then the Minister of the Interior, an older man with silvered brows and a mouth like a drawn string, turned to him.

“You, envoy. From Naeul. What does your lord say of the border? Are your watchtowers still standing, or have the mountain spirits finally swallowed them whole?”

A few chuckled.

You leaned forward slightly, waiting.

Jinu didn’t bristle. He didn’t flinch. He simply inclined his head—precisely once—and answered.

“The towers still stand, Minister. The rivers flooded early this year, so supplies were delayed, but the passes remain clear. The tribal scouts were seen five nights ago. They haven’t crossed the ridge, only watched.”

His tone was quiet, but not timid. Calm. Even.

He neither flattered nor flinched.

When asked about reinforcements, he answered plainly: “The southern lords have begun stockpiling grain and salt. They await your command.”

When prompted to speculate on whether the tribes would move before the snows came, he responded, “Perhaps. But fear clouds good planning. Naeul will prepare either way.”

You saw it—how the words landed.

No excess. No embellishment. Just the truth, tempered like steel.

Where another man might have taken the chance to curry favor—to lavish praise on the king, to humble himself before the ministers—Jinu did not.

He did not speak to be remembered.

He spoke because it was necessary.

And yet he was remembered all the same.

A few of the older ministers glanced at each other. One frowned, tapping the end of his ink brush against the wooden ledger with more force than necessary. Your father did not react, but you saw the way his fingers paused against the sleeve of his robe, just briefly, as though absorbing something new.

Jinu sat unshaken.

His hands rested calmly in his lap, long fingers lightly curled, the sleeves of his robe slightly parted to reveal his forearms. It was there that your gaze lingered—upon the scar.

A thin mark—faded, but deliberate—ran along the edge of his right arm, too clean to be an accident. Not self-inflicted, not ceremonial. A blade’s kiss. A wound from a different time.

And still he remained composed, every inch of him a study in stillness.

You couldn’t help but wonder how long he had practiced that kind of control.

You, hidden behind the filigree screen, felt exposed in contrast. Your fan had long since drooped in your hand, forgotten. Your pulse thrummed against your throat, beating in time with something you couldn’t name.

And then it happened.

A moment.

Small.

The room shifted—attention turned to another minister, a scroll unrolled, a disagreement erupting over a tax law that had little to do with demons or blood or truth.

And his eyes moved.

Not to your father. Not to the throne. Not to the scrolls or the gold or the empty flattery pouring from tired mouths.

But to the left. To the gallery. To you.

Only for a second.

Not long enough to be called a glance. But not short enough to dismiss.

There was no expression in it. No challenge. No softness. Just... awareness. A weight.

He knew you were watching.

And not once—through the long hours of that council, through every question and answer and silence—did he seek you again.

But he didn’t need to.

The silence between you had already spoken.

The hall had quieted.

Voices that once rose in elegant argument had settled into muttered agreement, the tension having drained with the afternoon light. Dust motes hung in the air like ash. Another hour and the servants would arrive to draw the screens, to offer tea and fruit to drowsy ministers nodding off between scrolls and silence.

But before the assembly could be dismissed, your father, seated tall in his crimson robes, shifted his weight—and the room returned to stillness.

“Send word to the western garrisons,” the king said, his voice low but firm. “Begin preparations to fortify the southern ridges before the first frost. I want updates from Naeul before the week ends.”

He turned slightly then—just enough to make it clear who was being addressed.

All eyes followed.

Jinu met the king’s gaze without pause. He bowed his head slightly, but did not lower his eyes.

“The southern ridges are already being watched,” he said. “But your Majesty’s concern is not misplaced.”

The Minister of War gave a soft scoff. “They are only mountain passers. Starved tribes and outcasts. They bark, but rarely bite.”

Jinu did not flinch. “Not all who pass through the mountains are tribesmen.”

That silenced the room.

Your father tilted his head. “Speak plainly.”

Jinu hesitated.

Only for a moment. But you saw it—like something inside him weighed whether truth belonged in this room.

“They are not all men,” he said, finally. “Some of what moves in the passes does not carry names. Or needs.”

A low murmur stirred through the court like wind across tall grass. The scribes looked up from their inkstones. One of the younger nobles narrowed his eyes, voice touched with disbelief.

“What do you mean?”

Jinu remained still. Measured.

“The locals call them mountain spirits,” he said. “Whispers. Shadows. They speak of things that do not leave tracks. Things that drain the heat from a man’s bones long before snow falls. Things that do not bleed when cut.”

The War Minister frowned, voice taut with scorn. “Tales meant to frighten children.”

Jinu’s voice remained even. “Then you haven’t sent enough men.”

Silence.

A single breeze stirred one of the high windows. The incense, long since burned down to glowing embers, released its final breath.

Then your father spoke again—soft, but cold.

“And you’ve seen these… things?”

Jinu looked up then, truly looked. His expression did not shift. But something in his voice did.

“I have fought them.”

A pause.

“And they are growing bolder.”

He did not elaborate. He did not need to.

There were no more scoffs. No more questions. Only a silence so complete it felt alive. Some in the chamber looked away. Others frowned—not in disbelief, but in discomfort. In knowing. These were not the words one said aloud in a hall like this.

But they lingered all the same.

And for the first time that morning, no one answered him.

That night, sleep did not come easily.

You lay awake long after the palace had gone still, your mind haunted by the memory of what you had witnessed in the garden. No amount of ritual tea or deep-breathing chants could dull the image—the blackened creature, hissing and clawed, melting into smoke under the sweep of a stranger’s blade. Nor could you stop thinking of the man himself: the calm of him, the silence, the unnerving steadiness of his gaze as he told you to forget. There had been something in the way he looked at you—something familiar and foreign all at once, like a name on the tip of the tongue. And yet, you knew, with a certainty that defied reason, that it was not the first time you had met him.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook your thoughts, dragging you beneath the silk sheets and soft shadows into sleep. But it was not the kind of slumber that brings peace or numbness. It was deep and weightless, as if your soul had slipped into a world not quite your own.

You dreamed of a lake.

It stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast surface of frozen black glass that mirrored the star-choked sky above. Snow fell gently, in slow spirals, but the air did not feel cold. It was still, not lifeless, but suspended—like the entire world was holding its breath. You stood at the lake’s edge barefoot, wearing robes you had never seen before, layered and crimson, too ancient to belong to the present. And across the expanse of ice, barely visible through the pale haze, was a figure.

A man.

He stood facing you from the opposite shore, distant but clear in your mind. His outline was softened by the mist that hovered above the lake, his cloak stirring slightly in a wind you couldn’t feel. He made no move to approach, but you could feel his presence as keenly as your own breath. Something about him filled the air—an ache, a weight, the gravity of an old bond stretched across the void of time.

You couldn’t make out his features. His face was cloaked in shadow, but you could sense the sharp lines of it, the solemn set of his shoulders. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. But you knew him.

Not from life. From something deeper.

Recognition flared in your chest, sudden and inexplicable. It was like stepping into the ruins of a house you didn’t remember building and finding your name carved into the doorframe. The pain that bloomed in your heart wasn’t fear—it was longing. The kind that only comes when you find something you’ve been searching for without knowing it.

You took a tentative step toward him, and the snow ceased to fall. The world seemed to narrow to the space between you, impossibly wide and unbearably close. His hand rose slowly—palm outward, not to beckon but to offer. There was no desperation in the gesture, only patience. As if he had waited for this moment longer than any mortal should.

Your hand twitched at your side, but you did not move.

Your voice caught in your throat. You wanted to ask who he was, why this dream felt real, why you felt as though your heart would break if you looked away—but the words would not come. And somewhere in that deep, quiet place inside you, the answer pulsed like a heartbeat.

You’ve been here before.

The silence around you shifted. You could almost hear him speak, his voice brushing the edge of your thoughts. He said your name—not the one used in court, not the title passed down by blood and duty, but something older, softer, secret. A name buried beneath the layers of lifetimes. A name only he would know.

You felt your breath catch again. And then, as you finally moved to step forward, to speak, to reach for his hand—

—you woke.

The sound of your own breath filled the room as you sat upright, heartbeat thundering in your ears. The embroidered blanket tangled around your legs. The silk cushions were damp beneath your palms. Outside, the horizon was beginning to pale with the earliest breath of dawn, and your chamber was steeped in the cold hush of pre-morning stillness.

You stared at your hands, trembling slightly.

Your chest still ached, like you’d been holding something too heavy, too sacred to carry. You didn’t speak for a long time. Only when the silence in the room became too much did you whisper aloud, voice barely more than a breath.

“What was that…”

It was a dream, you told yourself. Nothing more.

But your soul knew better.

This was not the first time you had stood at the edge of that lake. Not the first time you had seen him. The image, the pain, the weight of it—it was too real, too familiar. You had dreamed of him before. Many times. Maybe even countless times.

The only difference was: this time, you remembered.

And that terrified you more than forgetting ever had.

The royal court gathered under the morning light, as it did every week, with the same rhythm, the same rigid protocol—sun streaming through the high lattice windows, incense curling from brass bowls set along the stone floor, ministers bowing as they approached the platform where the king and his court sat. A harmony of tradition. Ceremony choreographed like a dance.

You had performed this role so many times you no longer needed to think about it. Your posture was flawless, hands resting gently atop one another in your lap, face carefully composed into the serenity expected of a royal daughter. The stiffness of your ceremonial robe—layered silk in golds and crimsons—did not discomfort you anymore. The weight of your jewelry, the tight coil of your hairpins, the unyielding etiquette: these were your armor.

And yet… something in the air felt different today.

You noticed it before your mind could name it. A quiet shift. A stillness in the air just before the wind stirs. Not danger, exactly. But awareness. A subtle pull at the edge of your senses.

Then, the foreign envoy was announced.

You heard the name—Jinu—spoken in the subdued tone reserved for minor visitors. He was introduced without flourish. No grand lineage, no royal crest, no temple blessing. He came, the official said, on behalf of a border province plagued by strange disturbances, seeking spiritual consultation. The court barely paid attention. Their eyes glazed with disinterest. One more traveler with one more meaningless story.

But not yours.

Your gaze, unbidden, found him as he entered.

And for a moment—only a breath—you forgot how to breathe.

He stood near the side of the chamber, away from the dais, his robes plain but immaculately kept. There was nothing in his posture that demanded attention. He bowed modestly. His hands remained folded behind his back. But something about him stilled the space around him—as though the world became quieter where he stood.

He did not look at you. Not immediately. But even without meeting your eyes, you felt his presence as surely as you felt the weight of your crown.

Your fingers tightened slightly in your sleeve.

You didn’t know this man.

You were sure of that.

And yet the sight of him sent a ripple through your chest—quiet, invisible, but deep. Your breath hitched, and your gaze faltered. You turned away, forcing yourself to focus on the scroll being read before the king. You had duties. Responsibilities. You were a daughter of royal blood, seated before the highest council of the land.

And still...

You looked again.

He hadn’t moved.

He stood quietly in the filtered sunlight, half his face in shadow beneath the high ceiling. And then, just as your gaze lingered too long, his eyes lifted.

He met your gaze.

Not with arrogance. Not with curiosity. Simply—certainty.

Your heart stuttered.

There was no gesture. No expression. He looked at you, and the world seemed to tilt slightly, as if something within it had suddenly clicked into place. Not shock. Not confusion. Just that strange, quiet pull.

Like a forgotten promise finding its voice again.

You looked away, quickly, hoping no one noticed. You felt your heartbeat in your throat. You pressed your palms together in your lap to hide the faint tremble in your fingers.

You didn’t know him. And yet… it felt like you did.

You told yourself it was imagination. Court fantasy. A passing fascination with a stranger who, by sheer chance, possessed a face that stirred something unnamed in you. But you knew better. The feeling was too sharp, too immediate.

Like waking from a dream you didn’t know you’d had.

You dared another glance.

He was still watching you—but not in a way that felt improper. He wasn’t studying you, wasn’t trying to read you. He looked at you the way one looks at something long lost and finally found. Quiet awe. Sorrow. Reverence.

And something else.

That same aching familiarity that burned in your chest burned in his eyes, too.

You looked away again—this time not from fear of being caught, but from the ache. From the sudden heat behind your eyes. From the undeniable truth that something inside you had moved, shifted, cracked open in his presence.

And yet you didn’t remember him.

Not truly. There were no images. No stories. No names to cling to.

But the feeling was there. Restless. Longing. As though your soul had recognized something your mind could not.

You stayed quiet for the remainder of the court session. You listened to the debates about border tensions and sacred omens and temple resources. You answered when addressed. You nodded at the proper moments. But your body moved like it belonged to someone else. Your thoughts drifted—again and again—to him.

Jinu.

You turned his name over in your mind like a prayer. Or a question.

By the time the meeting ended, and the ministers began to file out with the rustle of silk and murmurs of satisfaction, your heartbeat had not slowed. You stood with practiced grace, stepping down from the dais with your ladies-in-waiting close behind. You walked slowly, carefully, as tradition required.

But before you exited the chamber, you dared one final glance over your shoulder.

He was watching you again.

No smile. No sign of invitation.

Only that silent, steady gaze.

Your steps didn’t falter, but the rest of you did. Your heart. Your breath. Something pulled inside you, deep and invisible, as though the space between your body and his was not empty but full—tied by something you didn’t yet understand.

You passed through the painted doors, the court fading behind you.

But that strange ache—deep in your chest, low and pulsing—stayed.

The corridors of the inner palace were hushed as you left the audience chamber. The echo of court voices faded behind you—syllables clipped and formal, dissolving into the polished stone floors. Your attendants trailed at a respectful distance, but you did not acknowledge them. You moved forward in silence, eyes fixed ahead, posture flawless. On the surface, you looked composed. Regal. Untouched.

But your hands trembled slightly within your sleeves.

You dismissed the court ladies with a wordless flick of your fingers the moment you reached the marble walkway that led toward the garden pavilions. They bowed quickly and retreated, leaving you alone. As always, they obeyed without question. You were a princess. You were not expected to explain your solitude—only to make it look intentional.

You stepped past the carved doors and out into the garden.

The air was warm with early spring. Plum blossoms stirred gently in the trees, their petals falling like soft, scattered prayers. You let the scent of them fill your lungs, as if breathing deeply enough might quiet the restless ache inside you.

The garden was quiet this time of day—too early for poets and too late for priests. Just the wind and the birds and the slow hush of water trickling through the stone basins beneath the flowering trees. You walked slowly, your slippers barely whispering against the path of worn stone, your silk sleeves trailing behind like ripples on still water.

And still, you could feel him.

Not his presence, exactly. Not his footsteps behind you, or a shadow hiding among the trees. No—it was more abstract than that. A pull. A thread. A quiet knot of tension beneath your ribs.

You didn’t know his face before today.

You were certain of it.

And yet, when you saw him... something in you had moved.

It wasn’t attraction. At least, not in the way your court tutors had described it in whispered warnings. It was deeper. Heavier. A quiet sense of knowing, like standing in a ruined temple and realizing you had once prayed there long ago.

You paused at the edge of the pond, where koi glided beneath the lilies in lazy circles. Their scales shimmered gold and red in the light, their movement hypnotic. You stared at them without really seeing.

Who are you?

The question bloomed unspoken in your mind, over and over again.

Why do I feel this way?

You had met many men before—envoys, scholars, distant noble sons presented for approval. You’d seen beauty, heard flattery, danced with politics. And yet none of them had made your heart tighten the way this stranger had by simply standing still.

His eyes...

Even now, the memory of them made your fingers curl tighter into your sleeves. They hadn’t been soft. Or kind. Not even curious. But they had looked at you like they had known you. As if your presence was expected. Remembered.

That was the part that terrified you most.

Because you didn’t remember him.

And still, part of you ached as though you’d lost him.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the pavilion bench, your skirts spreading like ripples of silk around your legs. Your shoulders sagged slightly—not with exhaustion, but surrender. It was difficult, being someone else all the time. The princess. The example. The daughter of heaven.

But now, in this quiet moment, you weren’t sure who you were anymore.

You stared at your reflection in the pond. The woman staring back at you wore your face. She sat straight, elegant, draped in gold and scarlet. But her eyes...

They were filled with a strange longing.

A yearning that had no name.

And the more you tried to ignore it, the stronger it became.

The stillness of the garden wrapped around you like a second robe—soft, warm, protective. You remained seated on the pavilion bench, watching the water ripple with each passing breeze. Yet your thoughts had drifted so far from the koi pond that you barely noticed when the wind picked up, carrying with it the faint scent of woodsmoke and pine.

You straightened.

It was nothing—just the wind, you told yourself. But your heart disagreed. That invisible thread tugged again, pulling from somewhere just out of sight.

And then—there it was.

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate. The kind that did not wish to intrude, and yet could not help but be heard.

You turned your head just slightly, eyes lifting past the flowering tree at the corner of the path.

He was there.

Jinu.

He walked slowly, his steps as silent as breath, his hands tucked behind his back in the manner of one deep in thought. He was alone, which you hadn’t expected. No court escort, no attendant. Just him, weaving through the garden like a shadow that belonged to the light.

He didn’t see you at first. Or if he did, he pretended not to. His gaze was cast slightly downward, thoughtful. His posture—calm. But even from a distance, you could sense it: the tension coiled within him. Controlled. Contained. But always present, like a bowstring drawn tight but never loosened.

You stayed still, your breath quiet.

He moved closer.

Not toward you exactly, but in your direction—along the same curved path that wound around the reflecting pool, past the stone lantern, beneath the arch of the plum tree just now shedding its blooms.

And then, as he passed within several paces, he looked up.

His eyes met yours.

There was no startle. No surprise. Only stillness.

A pause in time.

He stopped walking, just for a breath. The two of you locked in that strange, silent space—neither of you speaking, neither daring to move. You felt your pulse surge beneath your ribs, not from fear but from the overwhelming familiarity of him. Not his face. Not his name.

Him.

Something behind your ribs ached. You could see it in his eyes, too—that same restrained unrest. Like something within him recognized you, not with certainty, but with sorrow. As if he were witnessing the shadow of something he had once loved and lost.

You parted your lips. You didn’t know why. You weren’t going to say anything—you didn’t have the words. But the weight of the silence was unbearable.

Then, quietly, he gave a slight incline of his head.

It wasn’t a bow. It wasn’t courtly or rehearsed. It was something simpler. More personal. A gesture of acknowledgment… as if to say, Yes. I see you. I feel it too.

You returned the motion with the barest tilt of your chin.

And just like that, he moved on.

No words passed between you.

No names exchanged. No explanations offered.

But as he disappeared down the path, your eyes lingered long after his footsteps faded.

The silence he left behind was not empty.

It was full. Heavy. Stirring.

Like the breath just before a name is remembered.

Or a promise is broken again.

You did not see him again for three days.

Not among the lacquered pillars of the royal court, where officials and nobility moved like clockwork—smooth, rehearsed, distant. Not on the walkways of the garden, where spring had begun its slow bloom in soft blossoms and fragrant winds. Not even in the corridors between dawn and dusk, where you sometimes passed scholars and foreign envoys with a nod that meant nothing.

You looked, without meaning to but he was nowhere and still, his presence lingered in your thoughts like perfume—light, haunting, impossible to forget. You tried to dismiss it as a momentary fascination, the result of a long court session and a strange glance. A passing thread. Something foolish but the mind forgets. The body remembers.

Your body remembered how your breath had caught. How your gaze had clung to his as though it were some distant memory returned in flesh. You remembered the weight of his stare, not oppressive, but undeniable. As though it had reached past your skin and recognized something inside you before you even knew to resist.

You told yourself it meant nothing but moments, you were learning, could bend the fabric of things.

Could unmake silence.

Could rearrange the world without a single word.

On the fourth night, sleep did not come.

You lay beneath layers of embroidered silk, the sheets cool against your skin. Above you, the ceiling gleamed with gold-painted clouds, dragons frozen mid-flight across the lacquered beams. Your hair had been loosened from its ornaments, your maids dismissed hours ago. The palace was wrapped in silence—thick, total, endless.

And yet you were not at rest.

The moon was full that night. Not soft and silver, but low and gold, casting molten light across the polished floor. Its glow stretched in long, quiet ribbons—touching the corners of your chamber, slipping through the slats of carved windows, turning the air into something ethereal.

You breathed in and the ache was still there.

It sat beneath your ribs—not sharp, but constant. A tension. A pull. As though a thread had been tied somewhere deep in your chest, and now something far away had begun to tug it gently, insistently.

You rose without thinking.

You did not ring the bell.

You did not call for your ladies.

You left the bed like a ghost shedding its bindings. You moved through the room on bare feet, the cold wood grounding you. There was no lantern in your hand, no slippers on your heels. You stepped into the corridor as you were, silk brushing softly around your ankles, hair falling like ink down your back.

There was no fear. Only certainty. That something waited.

The halls were hushed, lit only by moonlight. The lamps had long since been extinguished. Shadows stretched from every alcove, still and solemn like silent sentries. You passed beneath the painted beams without looking up. Past the shrine room. Past the winter garden. Toward the plum grove.

The doors to the outer garden yielded to your hand with no resistance and there—beneath the flowering trees—you found him.

Jinu.

He stood at the far edge of the reflecting pool, his back to you, his posture still but not tense. One hand was clasped loosely behind him, the other resting against the small of his back. He was not dressed for an audience—no formal sash, no fan, no ribboned adornments. Just simple black robes that rippled faintly with the wind.

He did not move as you stepped into the garden but you knew he had heard you.

You hesitated. The garden was nearly silver beneath the moon, every leaf aglow with soft fire. The scent of plum blossoms was heavy, dreamlike, falling in slow spirals to the stone path. There was no sound—only the quiet trickle of water from the carved basin, the faintest creak of tree branches shifting overhead.

And him.

You moved forward, slowly, steps careful. Measured. As if approaching a memory. You said nothing. Nor did he. Only when you drew near—near enough to feel the warmth of his presence—did he turn. Slowly. Deliberately. And then your eyes met.

There was no surprise in his expression. No smile. Just stillness.

His gaze was steady, dark beneath the moonlight, as though he'd known you would come. As though he'd been waiting—not out of impatience, but something quieter. Something deeper. Recognition. He didn’t bow. You didn’t speak.

And yet, somehow, everything in the world narrowed to the space between your gazes.

You had faced nobles and generals, monks and sages. You had sat above the court in your layered robes and heard confessions of sin and pride. You had danced the politics of a nation with perfect grace. But in that moment, you forgot all of it. Because he looked at you—not like a princess. Not like a sovereign's daughter. But like something sacred. 

Known.

Found.

When you finally spoke, your voice was quieter than you meant it to be. “I thought you had left.”

The words hung suspended in the moonlight, delicate as a breath. He did not look away. “I was told to remain in the city. The disturbances haven’t ceased.”

Your hands remained folded inside your sleeves, the picture of royal composure, though your pulse had begun to race. 

“I see.” You turned slightly, angling your gaze toward the still water of the pool, unwilling to meet his eyes for too long. You felt unsteady beneath that stare—not weakened, not embarrassed. Simply… exposed.

As though every mask had been gently removed, one by one. Then his voice came again—low, graveled slightly by something you couldn’t name. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

You tilted your head slightly, spine still straight, voice soft but sure. “I’m not.” you replied with confidence.

His expression changed at that. A breath, no more and then, quietly, he smiled. Not the smile you were used to, those polished things nobles wore like veils. This was different.

Faint. Quiet. Honored. As though he understood what your words truly meant and what it had cost you to say them.

You looked at the still pond with a heavy expression. “Jinu.” Your voice was quiet, but it carried.

He turned toward you not with surprise, not with haste. Just quiet readiness. As though he had been waiting for your voice, not expecting it, but welcoming it all the same.

You studied him in the moonlight. The way he stood, unmoving, hands folded behind his back, the fall of his robe gently stirred by the wind. He looked like someone out of time, like a statue carved from shadow and memory.

You let the silence linger a moment longer.

And then, with no more ceremony than a breath, “You saved me.” You said with certainty.

He didn’t deny it. His eyes flickered downward, briefly, before finding yours again. “You were alone,” he said softly. “Something waited in the dark.”

You felt it again, that cold stillness from the other night—the way the air had shifted, how your body had known before your mind. The way fear had curled its claws beneath your skin before vanishing into the wind the moment he appeared.

“What was it?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away.

“Something old,” he said finally. “And hungry.” 

A pause. You tilted your head slightly, keeping your expression composed despite the knot beginning to form in your throat.

“And you knew it would come?”

“I knew something would.”

You didn’t let yourself react. Not outwardly. You were still a daughter of the court. Still the blood of kings. Your face remained smooth, still. But your gaze sharpened—narrowed, searching his face for something hidden.

He didn’t flinch beneath it and that, more than anything, unnerved you.

“Why didn’t you tell the court?”

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he replied. “Would they believe me?”

You didn’t answer because you both knew they wouldn’t.

The following days, the palace slept but you did not. You walked beneath the high eaves of the eastern corridor alone, moonlight slipping through the carved screens like lacework over stone. Your sleeves whispered as they trailed behind you, the silk glinting faintly in the silver glow. You walked slowly—not with hesitation, but with intention. Every step you took was as measured as a poem. Composed. Controlled. As you had been trained to be from the moment you could stand in the throne room without wavering.

But tonight, for all your practiced grace, something inside you was not still. It had started days ago, this strange shift. A change so quiet it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not you. And not him.

That morning, your royal duties had passed in a blur. Your voice had echoed in the council hall, your hands had signed scrolls, your eyes had read names and numbers and omens. But your mind—your heart—remained elsewhere. Always returning to this hour. To this path. To him.

You found him where you always did now—by the pond, beneath the old plum tree that had not yet finished blooming. A few petals clung stubbornly to its branches, defiant against the late spring wind.

He was already seated when you arrived. Not on the stone bench, but on the low step before it, his posture relaxed in a way that no courtier would dare assume in the presence of royalty. His arms rested loosely on his knees, hands clasped together. He was facing the water, but you knew he had heard your footsteps long before you reached him. He didn’t rise.

And you didn’t ask him to. You paused a moment before approaching, your shadow brushing the edge of his.

Then, carefully, you lowered yourself to sit—deliberately keeping space between you, enough to preserve the unspoken distance that always existed between a royal and… whatever he was.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, back straight, eyes trained forward. You didn’t speak right away. Nor did he. The silence between you was not discomfort. It was something else. Like a breath held between notes in a song, waiting for the next phrase to begin.

And finally, you gave it voice. “What province do you come from?”

Your tone was smooth, formal—not out of coldness, but habit. You didn’t look at him as you asked. You looked at the water, where the moon shimmered in long ribbons across the surface.

He answered after a pause, his voice quiet. “Near the mountains.”

You tilted your head slightly. “There are many.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not a full expression, but something ghosted and dry.

“The northern range,” he said. “Where the sky touches the stone. And the wind forgets its name.”

You turned to look at him then.

Not sharply. Not openly.

Just enough to see.

He did not meet your gaze. His eyes remained on the pond, distant, thoughtful.

“There were temples there once,” he said. “Before the fires. Before the silence.”

You studied the line of his jaw in profile, the way the light caught the edge of his cheekbone. His voice did not carry sorrow. Nor nostalgia. It simply was. Steady. Unvarnished.

“And your family?”

The question hung in the air longer this time. You weren’t sure why you asked it. You had not meant to. 

He shifted slightly, hands tightening just once before releasing.

“Gone.”

One word. Bare. Clean. Without ceremony but not without weight.

There was no tremor in his voice. No mourning curled behind it. But the stillness that followed it was not empty. It was heavy. Like an altar long abandoned, but still sacred.

You wanted to ask how. When. Why. But something in you told you not to.

So you didn’t.

You turned your gaze forward again, your face calm, still as a painting. The wind moved through the garden gently, rustling the leaves above you. 

A petal drifted down from the tree and landed near his hand. He did not brush it away.

“I never knew mine,” you said after a time, quietly. “Not truly. I was raised by wet nurses and tutors. Bowed to by strangers before I learned to speak. My brothers call me sister, but they do not know me. The court calls me a jewel. A daughter of heaven. But none of them see me.”

You weren’t sure why you said it. The words surprised you as they left your mouth, unfiltered, unpolished.

He turned to look at you, finally and for the first time, you let yourself meet his eyes fully.

There was no pity there.  No flattery. No attempt to comfort or impress. Only the kind of attention that feels like a mirror. Not reflecting your face—but your soul.

You looked away first. Not because it was too much—but because it was too known. The silence returned. But it felt warmer now. Fuller. Like a cup being filled, slowly.

You stayed longer than usual. Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Neither of you counted them. At last, when you rose, you did so slowly, every movement practiced but unhurried. He stood as well, though not because he had to. Because he chose to.

You turned slightly to face him, hands folded, chin lifted in the poise of a royal daughter. Even here, even in this strange softness, you remained composed. You always had.

But your voice was different this time.

Softer.

More you.

“Good night,” you said.

The words were simple. But they came from somewhere deeper than you expected. A place untouched by ceremony.

He looked at you.

And though his face did not change drastically, you saw it—clearly. The pause. The shift. The breath.

As though those words were something he had not heard in a very long time.

Something small.

But deeply human.

“Good night,” he replied after a moment and then, quieter… “Princess.”

But the title did not feel distant, not this time. It felt reverent. Not because of what you were but because of who you were. You held his gaze a moment longer. Not with command. Not with coldness. 

Just… recognition.

Then you turned and walked away, each step echoing faintly against the stone. You did not look back. But you felt his eyes remain on you and you carried the warmth of them with you long after the moon had disappeared behind the eaves of the sleeping palace.

On the following nights, It rained endlessly. Not a storm— no. No thunder, no sudden violence. Just a steady curtain of silver, falling from the eaves of the palace in long, unbroken strands. The sound was soft and endless, a quiet rhythm that seemed to blur the edge of waking thought. Most of the court remained indoors. Servants hurried to draw shutters closed, to cover the walkways in tarps, to ensure the braziers were not snuffed out by wind. Even the lanterns in the side halls had been dimmed, their lights softened by paper already damp at the edges.

But you?

You went anyway.

You walked the garden path in silence, the world around you softened by the rain. It clung to your hair, to your sleeves, beading against the outer silk of your robe like dew on petals. The hem of your skirt darkened where it brushed the stones, the weight of it dragging just slightly, just enough to ground you. The corridors behind you had grown hushed. Even your guards—never far, always watching—had retreated under the excuse of the weather. You had not called for them.

There was no fear in you tonight.

Only this ache again. Low in your ribs. A thread pulled taut.

You drew your robe closer around you as you crossed beneath the arching gate that led to the plum grove. The old tree rose at the center of it, as it always had, its blossoms scattering like soft prayers in the wind and beneath it—

He was already there.

You slowed to a stop, barely a breath from the pavilion's edge. Your heart, which had been steady the whole way here, stumbled.

He stood with his back to you, but not in disregard. His presence acknowledged yours the way the sky acknowledges the sea—wordless, but inextricable. He did not startle, did not turn with haste or surprise. Instead, as though he'd felt the rain shift with your arrival, his posture lifted. His head tilted slightly.

Still.

Steady.

Even in the rain, he was unmoved.

His robe—plain black, trimmed in ash grey—clung lightly to him in places, heavy at the hem, darkened by water. His hair, unadorned tonight, had come loose slightly from its tie, a few strands clinging to his temple. Raindrops traced the line of his jaw, shimmered across his collarbone where the fabric had slipped low.

But his breath…

That, you could see.

Slow. Deep. Even.

He was calm.

But not untouched.

You stepped forward at last, one careful footfall at a time, the sound of your approach swallowed by the rain. “You always come,” you said softly.

It was not a question. Not a complaint. Just truth—gently spoken.

He turned, only slightly, enough to let the moonlight catch the edge of his face. His gaze met yours without hesitation.

“I told you I would,” he answered.

His voice—low, gravel-soft, threaded with something weightier than mere words.

It wasn’t a vow. And yet it sounded like one.

You moved toward him, each step deliberate, not because you feared him—but because the moment felt fragile, as if rushing might shatter something not yet spoken into being.

You stepped beneath the tree’s sheltering boughs.

The rain softened there, caught in branches, falling more slowly like the breath of something divine.

You stood beside him—close enough to feel the warmth rising faintly from his form, from where his robe had soaked through, from where his body waited just beyond reach.

But you did not touch.

You didn’t even let your sleeves brush his.

Your hands folded neatly within the length of your robe, knuckles tight with the restraint you had practiced since childhood. That was the discipline of a princess. The art of stillness. The dignity of silence.

But your heartbeat. It betrayed you. It fluttered. Quietly. Unwillingly and yet, you spoke.

“You speak so little,” you murmured.

He did not look away.

“You carry so much,” he replied. “I didn’t wish to add to it.”

The answer struck you like the echo of something you had once known and forgotten.

So often, the court silenced you with expectations. With polished words, with praise laced in demand. You were not supposed to speak of burdens. You were not allowed to show them but he had seen them anyway and what’s more for that he had chosen silence not because he feared your power, but because he honored your weight.

You turned your gaze fully to him. Carefully. Openly. Your voice came quiet, but strong. As though you had known the words long before you ever gave them shape.

“I would rather share the weight than carry it alone.”

It was not an invitation. Not fully.

But it was the closest thing you had offered anyone in years. You felt the truth of it leave your mouth like warmth from your lungs and then, he looked at you. Truly looked. Iin his eyes, something ancient stirred.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. He simply stood, breath held as though the memory of your words touched something he didn’t know still lived inside him. The way he looked at you then…

Not like a soldier before royalty. Not like a man before a woman but like someone hearing the same line of a forgotten song after centuries in silence and recognizing the singer.

You.

He bowed his head slightly. A slow, reverent tilt—not of deference, but of acknowledgment. Not of who you were but of what you meant.

The space between you shimmered dense, warm, and alive and yet still untouched. No more words passed between you that night. You remained beneath the plum tree as the rain fell softer and softer, until the garden stilled and the moon slipped free of the clouds overhead. The petals that fell from the tree landed around your feet and his and for one long moment, you stood in silence, as if neither of you dared breathe too loudly for fear of breaking whatever strange, fragile thing had begun to bloom between your hearts.

So it began… night after night, beneath the hush of moonlight and the watchful silence of palace walls, you and Jinu met in secret. Always the same hour, when the world seemed to pause. Always the same garden, veiled in shadow and scent.

No words were spoken at first. Only glances. Only the soft echo of your steps as you found each other again and again, as though drawn by some ancient thread neither of you dared name.

It became a rhythm.

The garden, once merely a place of solitude, turned sacred. There, the ache of the day was shed, and in its place bloomed something fragile and burning. You would sit in stillness, sometimes near, sometimes apart, but never unaware of the other’s presence. His gaze would find you like a whisper in the dark. And yours would linger on him like a question you were too afraid to ask.

You returned as you always did, though you told no one where you went. Not your ladies-in-waiting. Not the guards who were always three steps behind. Not the eldest court minister who watched you like a fragile relic meant for worship, not for life but still—you came.

Drawn not by duty, not by desire, but by something older. Something wordless and constant, like the way tides know the moon and he was already there. Jinu stood beside the reflecting pool, still as stone, eyes lowered. He didn’t turn when you approached. Not immediately. But you knew he felt you. He always did.

You paused a few steps from him, allowing yourself that moment. The ritual of distance before closeness. The quiet tension of nearing without reaching.

He turned then. Slowly. And his eyes found yours. The ache in your chest returned at once—immediate, uninvited, yet so familiar. Like a bruise beneath your ribs that never quite healed. One glance and it bloomed again. You hadn’t spoken since yesterday’s rain. You hadn’t dared ask why the sorrow in his voice had settled deeper that night. But tonight, the silence between you felt different.

Not charged.

But weighted.

“Your eyes,” he said softly.

You blinked. “What of them?”

He studied you as though you were something fragile and holy. 

“They’re the same.”

You frowned. “The same as what?”

He didn’t answer. Not at first. He turned from you, looking down at the still water, the reflection of the moon warping around fallen petals.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmured.

But it did. You felt it in his voice. You stepped closer. Not much. Just enough that your sleeve nearly touched the edge of his. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, not from body, but from memory. A memory you didn’t own.

“I don’t understand you,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he replied, barely a whisper.

You waited.

And then—finally—he turned to you again, and for the first time since your first meeting, he looked tired. Not in body. Not in spirit.

In the heart. As though he had carried something heavy for far too long.

“You look at me,” you said, “like you know me.”

He didn’t deny it.

“You speak to me as though I’ve spoken to you before…..” You hesitated before you uttered more quietly “...As though I’ve broken your heart...” 

A silence stretched long between you.

Then… “You did.” He spoke.

The words weren’t bitter. They were reverent. As if even that pain had been something precious. Your breath caught. Your throat tightened.

“What are you saying?” 

He looked at you now with a gaze that belonged to another time. Another life. Another you.

“I’ve known you before,” he said. “Not in name. Not in title. But in the way your soul moves. In the way your voice softens when you speak truth.”

You felt your spine stiffen, not out of offense—but out of fear. What truth? What memory did he carry in those steady hands of his? You shook your head slightly. “I would remember something like that.” you scoffed in disbelief.

His voice was gentle. “Would you?”

Your jaw tightened. “What do you remember?” You pushed on.

He didn’t answer for a long time, from what felt like ages with you looking at him with expectant eyes, daring to know the answers. Maybe because of this ache? For this longing? For this…regret? You do know… You can’t somehow pinpoint what it is.  

“A temple. A crown. A night of fire. Your hands in mine.” He stated simply, looking through you gauging your reaction.

And with a stuttered breath, he exhaled slowly. “Your death.”

You stepped back. Just one step. Just enough to break the warmth between you. You hadn’t meant to but the word struck something deep.

“I think you’re mistaken,” you whispered. Your eyes broke contact with him.

He didn’t follow. He let the space between you grow. “I wish I were,” he muttered.

Your voice trembled. “I don’t remember… This.. What– What you’re talking abou–”

“I know,” he murmured, not daring to look you in the eye.

And that was the worst part. The kindness in it. The grief of someone who had waited lifetimes for your voice to remember his name and accepted, without anger, that it never would.

You didn’t speak again that night. You only watched him as the wind shifted through the trees, carrying petals into the dark.

He bowed, low and reverent, not as a courtier, but as a man laying something sacred at your feet. Then he turned and left you beneath the plum tree.

Alone.

With the ache of something lost you could not name and a memory not yours… but that still made your eyes burn with ache.

That night, the palace walls felt heavier.

The garden’s stillness clung to you even as the moon rose over the curved rooftops, its pale glow stretching long shadows across the floor of your chamber. You bathed. You prayed. You drank the calming tea the court maidens left by your bed. But none of it quieted your thoughts.

You lay beneath silken covers, eyes closed, hands folded over your chest as if in mourning.

But your mind would not let you rest.

And eventually, sleep came—not gently, but all at once.

You fell.

Into silence. Into snow.

The dream was not a place at first. Only sensation. Cold air against your cheek. The muted hush of falling snow. The scent of cedar and smoke. Then slowly, images formed like ink spreading through water.

You stood beneath a pale sky, the light bruised violet, clouds like smoke curling around the edges of the world. Before you, a temple stood in ruins. Its once-red gates charred black. The prayer stones along its path shattered, half-buried in frost.

Your breath curled in the air, though you felt no cold.

And then—you saw him.

He stood with his back to you at the far end of the ruined path, his long dark robe stirring faintly in the wind. His shoulders were broad, but something about the way he stood looked… tired. As if he had been waiting too long. As if he didn’t dare turn around.

You took a step forward.

The snow beneath your bare feet didn’t crunch. It didn’t resist. The world felt muffled, distant, dream-thin. Your voice caught in your throat, but something in you cried out to him all the same—Don’t disappear.

And slowly, he turned.

You couldn’t see his face clearly. It shifted—light and shadow playing across it like ripples on water. But his eyes… those you saw. Deep and dark and full of something sharp. Longing. Grief. Recognition.

He opened his mouth to speak.

You leaned forward. You needed to hear him.

But the dream fractured.

The temple split. The ground beneath you cracked with a sudden roar, like thunder underwater. You reached out. He did too. The world between you shattered like glass—light and smoke and ash spiraling up around your hands before they could meet. And in the last sliver of the dream, you heard a voice.

Not his. Yours.

A whisper, spoken across lifetimes.

“Come back to me. Even if I forget—come back.”

You woke up with a gasp.

The room was quiet, bathed in early pre-dawn blue. Your pulse throbbed in your throat. You sat up slowly, hands trembling, sheets damp with sweat. The sound of your own breath filled the silence.

You pressed a hand to your chest. The ache was still there. You couldn’t remember what you had dreamed.

At least not fully.

The details slipped through your mind like sand. But you remembered the voice. The cold. The reaching. And the eyes. Always the eyes. Yours—and his.

Different in every dream, but always the same. And somehow, as the sky outside your window began to lighten, you knew with sudden clarity that this was not the first time you had dreamed of him.

Only the first time you had wanted to remember.

You told yourself you wouldn’t go tonight. The ache had grown unbearable—slow, consuming, like the flame of an incense stick that left no visible wound, only smoke that clung to your skin long after the fire died. 

You had tried, for the sake of your composure, to stay in your quarters. You sat beneath the polished glow of your chamber’s lanterns, the same scrolls spread across your lap, the same courtly petitions laid before you and yet your eyes had passed over the characters without reading, your fingers numb against the paper, your body still—but your thoughts miles away.

Worse than longing was uncertainty… and this… this thing between you and the envoy—had begun to unravel the careful architecture of your world. He had never touched you, not once. Had never stepped too close, had never whispered anything that could be held against you in a court of law or tradition. And yet he had undone you more completely than any sword might have.

By merely standing in your presence. By looking at you like he remembered. And worse still—by saying it.

You hadn’t answered him when he spoke those words under the rain. When he said he remembered your death. That you had been his. That he had lost you once.

It had unsettled something too deep to reach. Not because it sounded false—but because it didn’t.

…and that terrified you.

Still, you went. You told yourself it was only a walk. A short one. Nothing more.

You crossed the stone walk in silence, ignoring the guards’ subtle glance, the tilt of your lady’s head, the quiet ripple of unease that followed you like a whisper. You said nothing. You didn't need to. You were a princess. You owed no one an explanation for the direction of your footsteps. But the truth was that you were not walking to clear your mind. You were being pulled.

Drawn by something invisible. Old. Sacred.

The wind stirred faintly through the plum trees, now nearly bare, their petals strewn across the garden paths like the remnants of an old prayer. The air was heavier tonight. Damp. Cool. The moon above is half-shadowed by clouds. You moved slowly, as if the night itself demanded reverence. As if your presence here, at this hour, was not a chance—but a ceremony.

And there he was.

Jinu stood beside the pond again. Jinu stood by the edge of the reflecting pool, the pale arc of the moon behind him, casting a halo across his shoulders and silvering the dark fall of his hair. His robes stirred lightly in the breeze, loose and unbelted, like he too had been drawn here by instinct rather than will. His posture was still, deceptively at ease, yet there was tension in the way his fingers flexed once—barely noticeable. His posture was as still and silent as the surface of the water, but there was something about him tonight—something quieter. Sadder. As if his silence had become a weight.

He didn’t turn when you first appeared. He did not look up when you approached, which alone struck a sharp note inside you.

You stopped, just a few paces behind him, your hands buried in the folds of your sleeves. The moon cast a faint silver sheen on his shoulder. You could see the rise and fall of his breath, steady but low. As if each inhale required effort.

Then, you moved closer. Wordlessly. Slowly.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low, almost too soft to be real. Still had his back turned.

You swallowed. Your throat was dry.

“No,” you said, after a beat. “I dreamed.” He didn’t budge to turn around but the flinch that was barely ignited some sense in you. 

The silence returned, stretching between you like a thread pulled taut. The moon reflected dimly in the water, a fractured glow that danced with every ripple, just like the unsettled feeling twisting in your chest. 

You didn’t speak again. Neither did he and yet the air between you thrummed—thick with the weight of unspoken things. Like something reaching across time, across lifetimes, straining to be remembered. Something more than mere coincidence.

Jinu’s turned his head and gazed at you. Flickering—not in surprise, but with quiet recognition. “You remember it, then?”

“I remember... the cold. And your face. Or part of it.” You wrapped your arms more tightly around yourself, though the air wasn’t cold. “There was a temple. A voice.”

Jinu looked down for a moment. Then back at you. “You’ve dreamed that before. Many times.”

The words made your skin prickle. You stared at him, uncertain. “How would— how do you know that?”

He exhaled slowly, as if he hadn’t meant to say so much. “Because I’ve been there, too.”

You took a small step backward. Your voice trembled.

“Who are you, really?”

You stared at his back for a long time before you spoke.

“Jinu.” The name came unbidden.

You hadn’t planned to say it. You hadn’t even meant to. But it was the first time it had passed your lips aloud. And the moment it did, something shifted.

He turned to you, slowly, his expression unreadable. But it was his eyes—always his eyes—that betrayed the ache behind the calm. He met your gaze, and something in you fractured.

You felt it.

A thrum. A shock of emotion, as if the sound of his name in your voice had stirred something buried deep in both of you. And gods—it hurt. Not like a wound. But like recognition. Like coming home after centuries in the dark.

He didn’t speak and neither did you, for a long while.

But you stepped forward. One step. Then another. Until the space between you had narrowed to only a breath. You could feel the warmth of him now. The nearness. The heartbeat that pulsed in time with your own.

“I…” You faltered, unsure why you had come, what you meant to say. The words stuck like thorns behind your ribs. “... Feel like… There’s something I should ask you, but I don’t even know how.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. He waited. Always, he waited.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes again. “When you said... that you remembered me. That I had died in your arms.” You swallowed hard. “That wasn’t… metaphor, was it?”

His eyes closed, only briefly. As if the memory pained him too much to hold all at once.

“No.”

Just one word. Quiet, Unyielding, and the world tilted.

A strange pressure built behind your eyes. Your hands clenched in your sleeves. You could feel something inside you shatter and reform all at once. Because you had felt it too. The pull. The ache. The way your chest had seized the first time your eyes met his in the audience chamber.

And now—

Now there were fragments rising to the surface.

Not images. Not names.

But sensations.

The weight of your head in his lap. The scent of blood and burnt wood. The feel of his hand pressed against your ribs, trying to stop something. Your own voice, trembling, saying his name—not Jinu. No, it had been something older. Something softer. Something yours.

You staggered a half-step back, breath caught in your throat.

“No,” you whispered. “No, that’s not real. It can’t be.”

But your body didn’t believe you. Neither did your soul. You could feel it—like the echo of a scream in an ancient hall. Like a scar long healed, aching with the weather.

His voice was low when he spoke again. “You don’t have to remember, Princess.” His eyes burned with grief that did not belong to this life.

“Your soul already does.” And that—that—undid you.

Your knees nearly buckled. Not from fear, not even from disbelief, but from the weight of it all. That you could walk through this life blind to what your soul had carried through death. That he had remembered you, mourned you, found you again—only to face you without the warmth of recognition returned.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I don’t remember. I want to—but I can’t. And it hurts. It hurts, and I don’t know why.”

He stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, but stopped just short of touching you. His hand lifted—hesitating in the space between you—then lowered again. He would not reach for you. Not unless you asked him to.

“I came here for you,” he said, softly. “Every night. In this life, and the last. Whether you remembered me or not.”

Tears burned behind your eyes, unfallen. You didn’t know why. “No,” you whispered.

Jinu didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only watched.

“I don’t remember,” you said again, but the words trembled now. Hollow. Because part of you did. It lived in the deepest part of you, beneath thought, beneath language. A thread of gold sewn through your soul that pulled tighter every time he stood too near.

“You died in my arms,” Jinu said softly, “and I have carried the silence of that moment for lifetimes.”

You flinched.

“I don’t—” You swallowed. “I don’t believe in such things.”

He stepped forward then, slowly, carefully, his voice a hush meant only for you.

“You don’t have to believe. Your soul already does.” 

Gods help you—you did believe him. You believed him in the way the tide believes the moon.Your heart was racing now. Your hands trembling in your sleeves. You turned away, desperate to hide the rising chaos inside you. “It’s not possible.”

He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t try to prove it. Instead, he said, quietly— “Then why do you come to me every night?”

You froze. The wind stirred your hair. The petals from the tree fell around you like snow and still, he waited. Not demanding. Not even hoping. Just knowing.

You stood still for a long, shattering moment. And then—Your voice cracked when you answered 

“I don’t know.”

But you did. You both did.

Only that his voice struck you with a sorrow so old, so familiar, it felt like a wound being reopened by the one who once tried to heal it.

“I think,” you whispered, “I once loved you.”

A pause. His breath caught.

Then, barely above the sound of the wind—

“I never stopped.”

And just for a moment, the space between you vanished.

Not with a kiss.

Not with a touch.

But with something far more sacred.

A memory.

Shared.

Felt.

And in your chest, your soul whispered a name you still could not speak—but would never again forget.

For a long while, neither of you moved. You stood in the garden as though the air itself had thickened around you—charged with memory, aching with the weight of everything unsaid. The night had deepened, but neither of you marked the hour. It didn’t matter. The palace might as well have fallen away, the moon disappeared, the world stilled. There was only the distance between you and how unbearably sacred it had become.

Jinu did not look away. His expression didn’t change. He stood like stone—and yet not cold. No, never cold. He carried the stillness of someone who had waited a very long time without demanding anything in return. He had always left it to you.

The choice. The pace. Even now, as your fingers trembled within the shelter of your sleeves, as your heart pounded like something wild against your ribs, he made no move to close the gap. No whisper of invitation. No reaching out and somehow, that broke you more than anything else.

Because he didn’t assume he was owed your touch. He didn’t believe he deserved it. He was waiting—with the quiet, soul-breaking patience of someone who had held you once, and lost you forever.

You swallowed hard, the sound deafening in your ears. Your breath shook and then—Your hand moved. Barely at first. A slow, quiet shift within the sleeve. The subtle flexing of fingers against silk. You took a step forward, the motion small but deliberate. And you looked down—past the folds of your robes, past the petals scattered at your feet—to where his hand rested at his side, still and open.

He hadn’t hidden it. He hadn’t offered it. He had simply… left it there. In case you ever chose to return to him. Your hand lifted, unsure at first, suspended in the space between doubt and desire. You hovered there—your fingers trembling inches above his. He did not move and that gave you the courage to go further.

You touched him. Just the lightest brush of your fingertips across the back of his hand. And the moment you did— Your breath caught. Not because it startled you, but because something deep within you stirred, like a bell struck in the marrow of your bones. A warmth bloomed beneath your skin, quiet but all-consuming, like sunlight reaching into the corners of a temple long abandoned.

You felt something click into place. Something that had been missing.

You curled your fingers around his slowly, as though the memory of it lived in your body already. You didn’t think. You didn’t speak. You just reached.

And he—He didn’t gasp. He didn’t flinch. But something in him changed, subtly, devastatingly. You felt it in the way his fingers slowly closed around yours. In the silent exhale he released, like a man who’d been holding his breath across lifetimes. In the way he bowed his head just slightly—not in deference, not in fear—but in quiet gratitude.

As though your hand in his was a prayer answered after a century of silence. You didn’t let go. Not right away. You couldn’t. Because the moment your hand touched his, the ache inside you shifted. Not gone—but quieter. Bearable. As though your soul, so long exiled from something it once called home, had found its way back to the threshold.

Neither of you said a word. You stood there—your hand in his, fingers barely curled, heart unraveling—and let the moment stretch, wide and eternal.

He looked up at you again and this time, when your eyes met, there was no fear.

Only knowing and beneath it—something deeper still.

Something not yet spoken, but already true. Love.

His fingers wrapped around yours with unbearable gentleness—careful, reverent, as though you were something sacred and fragile, a living relic pulled from the ruins of time. There was no hunger in the touch, no urgency. Only quiet certainty. A recognition that pulsed between your joined hands like a heartbeat shared.

The garden stilled around you. Even the wind, which moments before had stirred the petals beneath your feet, fell into silence. No birdsong. No rustle of leaves. Just the soft rush of blood in your ears, the tremble of your breath, the world folding inward.

Then something shifted. Your vision swam. Not like faintness. Not like fear. It was deeper than that. As if the very air had cracked, and something inside you—the oldest part—had split open to pour through. Your breath hitched and the breath you drew was not your own.

It came sharp and ragged, thick with heat, choked with the scent of burning pine and smoke-soaked stone. You smelled it before you saw it. Felt it before you understood. Your lungs filled with ash. Your skin prickled with phantom heat. And before you could cry out—

The garden was gone. It didn’t vanish—it simply peeled away, like paint flaking from ancient murals, revealing the true layer beneath.

The moon above you burned red. Not from beauty—but from flame. The sky was split open, thick with black smoke, curling from rooftops half-collapsed and glowing at their edges. Screams echoed from far-off courtyards. You could hear the panic in every bell that rang—loud and unrelenting, not in ceremony but in alarm. The kind that never stops. The kind rung at the end of things.

You were barefoot.

Your feet bled, though you hadn’t noticed. The ground beneath you was stone slick with water—or maybe blood—you didn’t look too closely. Your robes, once embroidered with silver moons and lined with soft mink fur, hung from you in torn ribbons. The silk was scorched along the seams. One sleeve had burned away entirely. The other clung to your arm, soaked through with something warm. You were cold, despite the fire. But not alone. He was with you.

Jinu—no. That wasn’t his name here. Not yet. He was younger, or maybe older, his face thinner, sharper, streaked with soot and blood. His hair was longer, tied hastily with a red ribbon that now hung loose, as if it too had given up its purpose. His hands were blistered. A blade was strapped across his back, dark with runes and old iron. Not a royal envoy. Not a demon hunter.

A soldier? A guardian? No.

A protector. Of you.

He stood with you beneath the temple ruins, the shattered archway above still glowing faintly where fire had not yet reached. His eyes—those same eyes that held the weight of centuries—were fixed on you, wide with grief.

Not fear. 

Grief.

As if this moment had already happened a hundred times, and he had tried to change it in every single one. His hand clutched yours. Tight. Not crushing, but grounding. Desperate.

“I promised I’d protect you,” he said.

His voice was hoarse, dry from ash and pain, and yet it cut through the roar of fire like a blade through silk.

“And I failed.”

You turned to him—weakly, barely able to hold yourself upright. Your legs trembled. Your mouth tasted of copper. The edges of your vision swam red. But your hand in his stayed firm, even as your knees buckled.

And somehow, you smiled.

Not with joy.

But peace.

“You didn’t fail,” you whispered. “You found me.” The words weren’t conscious. You didn’t decide to say them. They poured from you like breath. Like memory. Like something your body had memorized long ago.

He drew closer, his brow pressed to yours. His shoulders shook—not from pain, but from the weight of loss already known. You felt it in the way his hand trembled against your wrist. In the way he pulled you close, even knowing he could not keep you.

“I tried,” he whispered. “I tried everything. I begged the gods. The stars. Anything that would listen.” 

You rested your forehead on his. The temple burned behind you. You didn’t flinch.

“I know,” you said softly. “You always do.” Your voice was faint now. Your pulse slowing but you weren’t afraid. You weren’t alone. He kissed your knuckles. Just once. As gently as one lays a prayer on a shrine.

“I won’t forget you,” he said. His voice cracked. “Not in this life. Not in any other.” You smiled again. Slower this time. Sadder.

“I’ll find you,” you whispered. “Even if I don’t remember. Even if it takes a thousand years.”

His eyes closed and as your body gave out, your soul lifted— Not away.

But forward and just as your last breath left your lips—

A vow passed between you, silent and binding.

Return. Remember. Love. Again.

Then, The vision tore away.

You didn’t return to your quarters that night. Not right away. The garden stretched long and quiet around you, bathed in the soft hush of midnight. The plum blossoms had begun to fall in earnest, scattered like snow across the stone paths, and your hand still lay within his—warm, trembling slightly, but unwilling to let go.

Neither of you spoke at first.

You sat together in silence, his shoulder against yours, the edge of your sleeve brushing his robe. It should have felt forbidden. Improper. You were royalty, after all. He was nothing more than an envoy, a guest, a shadow at court. And yet—out here, in the dark, with only the moon as witness—none of that mattered.

You had seen a part of the truth.

You had felt it in your bones.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

Not yet.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance at him—his profile calm, his gaze distant, fixed somewhere beyond the garden. His features were drawn tight in thought, jaw clenched not in anger, but in restraint. Like he was trying not to speak. Like he had held something back for too long.

“Jinu,” you said quietly.

He blinked once, slowly, as though waking from a long sleep.

You hesitated. “Tell me. All of it. Please.”

For a moment, you thought he might refuse. He turned his face away, his lips parting slightly—then pressing into a thin, quiet line. But after a long pause, he nodded Not out of obligation but out of exhaustion because some truths can’t be buried forever and this one had waited long enough.

He began slowly, his voice low, barely above the wind.

“It started long before you were born. Before any of us were. In a life I no longer remember clearly—only in fragments. I wasn’t born into royalty. I wasn’t chosen by the heavens. I was… a guardian. A keeper of old paths. I walked between this world and the next.”

You listened, heart quiet, breath steady.

“I made a vow,” he continued. “To protect a temple of the forgotten gods. Not out of piety. Out of love. It was sacred to you. And I… I would have followed you anywhere.”

You turned toward him slightly, your gaze catching the faintest shimmer at the edge of his lashes. Not tears. Not yet. But the promise of them, held back by pride or grief.

“I broke that vow,” he said. His voice cracked, just barely.

“I failed. You died. And I lived.” He swallowed hard. “I begged the gods to take me instead. To undo time. To change the ending.”

You could feel your heart aching now—not in confusion, not in pity, but in terrible, helpless understanding.

“And they answered,” he said.

He finally looked at you then. Not as the envoy. Not as the stranger. But as the man who had been yours once, long ago.

“I was cursed,” he whispered. “Not to die. Not to forget. But to remember. Every time you returned to the world—I would remember. Who you were. Who we had been. How I failed.”

You stared at him, breath caught.

“And I would remember,” he added, “even when you didn’t.”

The words struck like a blow, not in their cruelty, but in their truth. You had seen only fragments—one vision, one night. But he had carried the whole of it. For lifetimes.

“Why?” you whispered. “Why would they do that to you?”

He looked up at the sky. Not bitter. Not angry. Simply… resigned.

“Because I asked them to,” he said. “Because I begged to remember you, no matter what. Even if it meant suffering. Even if it meant being born into every lifetime as a stranger to you. I chose it.”

Your chest tightened.

A rush of heat stung behind your eyes. You reached for his hand again—not out of obligation, but out of instinct. As though your body remembered what your mind still struggled to name.

He didn’t resist.

“I didn’t want to forget your face,” he said softly. “Not again.”

A silence fell between you, deep and fragile.

You sat beneath the flowering branches of the tree, hands entwined, lives entwined, the past curling around the present like mist. The wind stirred faintly, lifting the scent of old petals, and with it came the truth you had no language for.

This man had loved you through death.

Through time.

Through every cruel rebirth.

And he had carried the weight of that memory alone—all for the chance to see you again.

And you had.

At last.

You exhaled slowly, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

“I’m here now,” you said.

He looked at you.

And for the first time, a flicker of something softer passed through his eyes.

Hope.

.

.

.

The moment lingered.

You sat together beneath the plum trees—his hand in yours, the scent of blossoms like incense in the night, soft petals collecting in the folds of your robes. For a heartbeat, there was only silence. A silence that felt full, not empty. You felt it in the warmth of his fingers, the aching steadiness of his gaze.

Your soul had begun to understand him.

Even if your mind still chased questions.

But then—

A sound. Sharp. Hollow. Distant. Bootsteps on stone.

You both froze.

The rhythm of it was unmistakable. The hurried march of armored feet, five or six men at least, coming from the eastern corridor. It echoed through the garden like thunder, chasing away the stillness like wind scattering prayer scrolls.

You looked at him, your fingers tightening around his instinctively.

Jinu’s jaw tensed.

He stood without a word, hands already releasing yours, his posture shifting with uncanny calm—like a shadow returning to its shape. He no longer looked like the man you’d just bared your heart to. In an instant, he was once again the envoy. The outsider. The one who did not belong.

You rose more slowly, brushing your hands down your robe to steady yourself. But your pulse was racing. You knew the guards would be looking for you by now—curfew long passed, your presence long missed.

And yet—

You had never heard them move this quickly.

A crack of voices cut through the air. 

“Secure the perimeter!”

“Over there!”

The guards' silhouettes appeared between the flowering arches—dark shapes in lacquered armor, blades drawn. Their torches flared orange and angry against the soft hush of the moonlit garden.

Then one of them saw you. “Princess!” The guard claimed.

You flinched. His voice wasn’t one of relief.

It was panic. Urgency.

He rushed toward you, the others not far behind. “Your Highness, we must return you to the palace immediately. There’s been a breach near the outer gate.”

You turned sharply, eyes darting to Jinu. He remained still beside you, but his eyes… they had gone sharp, distant, alert. A familiar tension rolled through him—like a hound scenting smoke before fire.

“What kind of breach?” he asked quietly.

The captain didn’t look at him. Didn’t even acknowledge him.

“The monks at the outer shrine sent a hawk—they say something clawed tried to cross the river ward. It didn’t make it across… but it was fast. Strong. Not human.”

Your heart dropped. 

The guards didn’t see it, but you did. The way Jinu’s shoulders stiffened. The flicker of heat beneath the calm in his gaze. It wasn’t surprise that crossed his face.

It was recognition. He knew what it was. He had seen it before— you. Had seen those things before, it was the ones who tried to pry on you… to eat you, and now, it was close.

“Escort the princess,” the captain barked. “We’re locking down the entire palace. No one leaves the inner grounds until sunrise.”

Another guard stepped forward, reaching gently for your arm not to touch but merely hovering over it. “Forgive us, Your Highness, but you’re not safe here.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but before you could speak, Jinu took a step back, away from you, hands at his sides.

He was vanishing again. Not literally—but behind the mask. Behind the role. The man you had just touched—the one who held centuries in his eyes—had retreated.

As if he could not be seen beside you now. As if this moment, this truth, would be burned away by the torches of men who did not understand.

“Go,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “Your highness, it is not safe here.”

You look at his eyes with reckless abandon. It hurt more than it should have.

You stepped forward, unwilling to let it end like this. “Wait—Jinu—”

He looked at you finally and the pain in his gaze—masked though it was—struck you like a blow.

Just like the blow of a wind it was redirected immediately. He looked at the captain of the guards. “I’ll find it,” he said. “Whatever crossed the wards tonight… I’ll deal with it.”

You knew what he meant. 

Not ‘I’ll help.’ 

Not ‘I’ll try.’

He was already hunting it. 

Even now. 

Your chest ached.

Still, the guards surrounded you. You couldn’t stay. Not without drawing suspicion. Not without risking him.

So you let them guide you away.

But as you turned back once—just once—you saw him standing beneath the tree, petals falling around his shoulders like snow.

Alone.

Watching you leave again. The way he always had. The way he always would.

It was not the first life. Not even the second. But it was the first time he failed you in a way the gods would not forgive.

It began with fire. Not the kind that rages and burns—but the kind that waits, patient, breathing smoke beneath the floorboards of the world. It crept in slowly, like rot. Like a whisper. The skies had turned red days before, the moon swollen and rusted like a dying eye. The monks had muttered about omens, drawn talismans in vain. The people had begun to pray louder, to offer more.

But it wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was. That night, he had been late.

He remembered the details with agonizing clarity—the scent of lantern oil, the cold sweat along his back, the way the forest had gone too quiet. The stars had vanished behind a veil of cloud, and still he had pressed forward, not yet knowing what he would find.

You were already gone from the palace by the time he arrived.

He’d warned the king. Pleaded. Begged. Told them something was coming. They hadn’t listened.

You had insisted on leading the ritual yourself—brave, stubborn, always trying to carry the weight of your people with dignity. You never should’ve been there. You never should’ve been alone. He found the field outside the temple gates in ruins.

Blood soaked the grass, mingling with crushed blossoms. The shrine’s wooden arch had splintered, talismans torn from their posts. The sacred circle meant to repel demons had been defaced—scratched through by claws that gouged through stone like silk.

And in the center of it— You.

Collapsed at the base of the offering altar, your ceremonial robe torn, your arm streaked red. A wound to the stomach, deep and glistening, like something had tried to claim you.

He dropped to his knees beside you, breath leaving his lungs in a single broken sound. “What… did you do!”

You were still breathing.

But not for long.

“Stay with me,” he had said, over and over, his voice raw with disbelief. “Stay. With. Me.”

Your eyelids fluttered.

And in that brief moment of clarity, you looked at him—not with fear. Not with confusion.

With recognition.

As if, even dying, you knew him.

As if your soul remembered what the body had barely begun to understand.

He tried to lift you.

Tried to carry you to the healers, to the monks, to anyone who could undo what had been done.

But you reached for him weakly, fingers brushing his cheek.

“No,” you whispered. “I’m sorry—”

He shook his head.

“I can fix this. I can—I’ll offer anything—”

You smiled.

It broke him more than the blood.

“You always do, my lov…” you muttered.

And then—Your eyes looked at him. A shortness of breath. And you were gone. The Gods did not come with thunder or wrath. They did not scold. They watched and when he screamed at the heavens, when he bled into the shrine’s soil, when he swore he would give anything—his soul, his name, his next thousand lives—to undo this, they answered in silence.

And then they bound him. To time. To memory. To you. You would return. In another form. Another face but he would remember.

And he would be made to walk beside you again and again—always too late, always too far, always unrecognized—until he had paid the price.

And so he did.

He woke from the memory with a start, not in sleep but in the garden.

Now.

Your scent still lingered on the breeze. The warmth of your hand still ghosted against his palm and yet the ache in his chest burned like it had that night because something had crossed the wards and this time—he would not be late.

Not again. He stood, turned toward the shadows, and vanished beneath the plum trees.

Silent.

Deadly.

Ready.

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[ridingreeves]

𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈➤𝟤

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁*𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾*𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗑 𝖡𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾－𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌

𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌－𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾，𝖭－𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾，𝗍𝗈𝗑𝗂𝖼 𝖾𝗑 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾，𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝖿 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋

A/N- im not good at part two's so i hope you enjoy it 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽❤︎︎

Smoke’s name lit up your phone just after 11 p.m.

You were already turned away from the light, arm tucked under your pillow, trying to pretend the day didn’t shake you. But that name on your screen?

It flipped your whole body heat like a switch.

You groaned and answered anyway. “What, Elijah?”

Smoke chuckled, low and gravelly like he’d been waiting for you to cave. “Damn. Full government? You mad or tryna be professional?”

“I’m tryna go to sleep.”

“Yeah? Thought maybe you was waitin’ on him to get home. But that nigga probably still somewhere drinkin’ kombucha and talkin’ about tax brackets.”

You sighed, loud. “What do you want?”

“You doin’ somethin’ Saturday?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said—Saturday. You busy?”

You sat up a little. “Why?”

“Family cookout,” he said like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just turned your whole emotional equilibrium inside out hours earlier. “Stack throwin’ some ribs on the grill, aunties bringin’ plates, kids gon’ be in the yard actin’ up… you know the drill.”

Your voice flattened. “So? What’s that got to do with me?”

Smoke hesitated, just for a second. Then came the truth.

“Wanna see you there.”

You nearly laughed. “Why would I come to your family cookout?”

“Because you family,” he said, voice low and firm. “Still my son’s mama. Still got my last name. And ‘cause you already know my people been askin’ about you.”

“Oh, have they?” you said, sarcastically.

“Yup,” he said. “Aunt Dee talkin’ ‘bout how you used to bring them red velvet cupcakes, askin’ if you finally left that boy who look like he drive a Prius and listen to meditation playlists.”

You sighed. “Smoke…”

“Look, I’m not askin’ you to come over here and confess your love. I’m sayin’… I'm taking lil man. Come eat. Chill. Be around folks who know you.”

“And him?” you asked.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Smoke scoffed. “Man, he not invited. Hell, if he pull up in them tight-ass pants talkin’ about chakras, Stack gon’ put him on the grill next to the sausages.”

Despite yourself, you snorted.

“C’mon,” Smoke said, quieter now. “You ain’t gotta stay long. Just come through. Our boy gon be running around with his cousins. Let your hair down.”

“I don’t know…”

“Let me make it easy,” he said, voice slick now, confident. “If you don’t pull up Saturday, Stack gon’ post that baby picture of you at our gender reveal. The one where you fell asleep holdin’ that blue onesie with cupcake on your face.”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

“I already sent it to his phone.”

“Smoke!”

He laughed. Like deep, belly-rolling, “I got her” laughed.

“That’s dirty.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But it’s family business, right?”

You were quiet for a long moment. The idea of seeing them all again—his people, your people once upon a time—was dangerous. You knew that. Knew it’d be stepping back into something you worked too hard to walk away from.

But also?

You missed them.

You missed you—the version of you who laughed too loud on plastic lawn chairs with a cup full of spiked sweet tea. The you who wore crop tops and hoop earrings without worrying about what her new man would think.

“…What time?”

Smoke didn’t say “I knew you’d come,” but you could hear it in the way he exhaled through a grin.

“Three. Bring some of that pasta salad they always beg you for.”

You sighed again, but softer this time. “You better not start with me when I get there.”

“I won’t,” he said, voice low. “I’ma just be happy to see you. And maybe… remind you what you walked away from.”

You shook your head. “You never stop, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you? Nah.”

You didn’t say goodbye. You just hung up and stared at the ceiling in the dark, heart pounding louder than it should’ve been.

SATURDAY

The music hit you before you even turned onto the street—classic Frankie Beverly & Maze, the anthem of every Black barbecue across the country. You rolled down the window a little and smiled despite yourself.

You hadn’t even parked before your son ran to your car.

“They got the bouncy house again.”

“Do they,” you said, trying to keep it cool.

He lit up like a firecracker anyway. “YESSS!”

You parked down the block. Far enough away to feel like you could slip out if things got weird. Close enough to be seen.

And oh, you were seen.

Stack spotted you first, posted by the grill with a white towel over his shoulder and a pair of tongs in one hand.

“Look what the wind blew in!” he yelled, grinning. “Look at her—comin’ through with the thighs out like she ain’t been missed!”

 “So where yo’ boyfriend at? He don’t do sun, or he just allergic to bein’ useful?”

You rolled your eyes. “He had to work.”

Stack laughed like that was the funniest lie he’d ever heard. “Of course he did. Probably somewhere tryna sell somebody an extended warranty.”

“Stack—”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your sunglasses. “Don’t start.”

Stack came over to you, watching your boy run back with his cousins, then winked at you. “Your man let you out the house wearin’ that, huh? He brave.”

You didn’t answer. Just walked behind your boy toward the backyard where all the noise was coming from—kids hollering, grown folks talking over each other, people playing cards.

And then you saw him.

Smoke.

In a black tee, chain glinting in the sunlight, red Solo cup in one hand, leaning back in a lawn chair like he didn’t start half the drama in your life—and dare you to hold it against him.

He stood up when he saw you, smile slow, easy. Dangerous.

“Look who decided to bless the function,” he said, eyes sliding down your body.

“Relax,” you muttered. “I’m just here for my son.”

“Mmhm,” he said, stepping in close enough that only you could hear. “But you brought that sundress and them hoops like you knew I was gon’ be lookin’. That for me, mama?”

You pushed past him.

But the heat in your chest betrayed you.

⸻

The afternoon rolled on in that chaotic, beautiful way only family cookouts can. Kids in the sprinkler. Aunt Dee yelling at folks not to touch her potato salad. Stack on the grill talking ‘bout “I do this,” while burning the hot dogs anyway.

You sat on the folding chair under the tent, trying to stay cool and low-key, sipping sweet tea and avoiding all the side-eyes and slick comments from Smoke’s nosy-ass cousins.

You hadn’t been around in a while, but they remembered.

“Ohhh, she came back,” one of them whispered, not quiet enough.

“Lookin’ like she ain’t missed a beat,” another said, fanning herself.

Smoke was everywhere—tossing his son over his shoulder into the bounce house, cracking jokes with Stack, throwing shade with charm. But every time you glanced up, his eyes were already on you.

Like he never stopped watchin’.

Like he never would.

⸻

Later, when the sun was low…

You were sitting alone now, your son passed out under one of the tents with a plate next to him, cheeks sticky and hair wild.

You leaned back, trying to breathe. Trying to remember why you said you’d come.

Then, of course, Smoke appeared.

He sat down beside you, close but not touching. Just enough for the air between you to get thick.

“Appreciate you comin’,” he said.

You nodded.

He nudged your knee with his.

“You remember last summer’s cookout?” he asked. “Before everything fell apart?”

You looked at him. “Yeah. I remember.”

“You was dancin’ to that Fantasia song like you ain’t had no worries. I remember thinkin’, ‘Damn. That’s mine. Ain’t no way she ever leavin’.’”

Your chest ached. Because you remembered too. How good it had been before it wasn’t.

He turned toward you, full now. Honest. Dangerous in a new way.

“Everybody out here keep sayin’ we done,” he murmured. “But they don’t know how we built this. What we survived together. What we still feel. You think you can run from that, mama? But you always end up back here.”

“Back here don’t mean I’m stayin’.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Then why you still got that ring in your jewelry box?”

You looked at him, stunned.

He smirked. “Yeah. Ej told me. Said you wear it sometimes when you think nobody lookin’. Said you said it was ‘just a memory.’ But you don’t keep memories in velvet cases, do you?”

You stood fast, heart in your throat.

“I gotta go.”

Smoke stood too, but slower. Measured.

“You sure?” he asked. “’Cause you ain’t even tasted Stack’s ribs yet. Or had your second plate. Let me walk you to the car like I used to.”

You didn’t answer.

You just walked to your sleeping son, lifted him gently, kissed his sticky forehead.

Smoke followed behind you all the way to your car.

You laid your baby in the back seat, adjusted the belt, then turned around—and there he was. That same damn look on his face. Like he knew.

“Thanks for today,” you said, voice soft.

“You gon’ thank me better later?” he teased, but there was an ache in it. Something deeper.

You looked at him for a long second. Then whispered

“Smoke… don’t make me come back if you not gon’ keep me this time.”

His jaw clenched.

He stepped forward, hand brushing your wrist.

“I ain’t never stopped wantin’ to.”

You didn’t kiss him. Didn’t let him kiss you.

But the promise hung in the air.

And when you drove off that time, hands still trembling slightly on the wheel?

You weren’t scared like before.

You were curious.

Because you knew now—

That door?

Wasn’t as closed as you told yourself it was.