#and i also have character playlists and everything too

[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

[terukotime]

so i'm currently working on a predictions post for the alt fangan cast's talents, but in the meantime, gotta say, it's really making me want to finally show off my fangan that i've been working on even though i only have 6 of the characters drawn and don't even have the whole plot outlined yet 😩😫

[clumsypuppy]

littlest furth shop

@laikascomet

[hollow-vok]

Ohh im obssesed

[tinycatharsis]

ellieeee, this is a crazy debut omg. I'll talk more in the tags but here are some of my fav quotes and scenes. some gave me chills.

"it’s not that you hated going, but as you got older you certainly began to question the faith that was forced upon you since childhood."

"he thinks of how lonely your morning must’ve been without him. how you must be cold. how your ankle is chilled and bruised from the frigid metal cuff around it."

"he’ll feel better once he has you. he always does.

 just like the first day."

"jake never once had the thought of hurting you. no, the idea of doing such kills him. so why did he want to?"

"it would make him ill with violence. he wasn’t a violent guy, though, at least he hasn’t been."

"you watch him park then fumble out. he looks cute, tripping up and making a clumsy speed for the house. you can hear layla’s barks and the sound of jake’s many keys. there’s several locks on all the doors and windows. jake takes many precautions in his need to keep you safe."

"he says your name quietly and you speak his, with arms wide open. you pull him into a warm embrace, wrapping your body around him in a koala-like hug. the metal of the chain rustles and clanks, dragging against the wooden floorboards and bed frame."

"he kisses the top of your head, forehead, eyebrows, eyelids, nose, cheeks and lips. it elicits a giggle past your lips. eyes fluttering shut, you capture his lips in yours the second they touch. intimacy with jake is always when you feel the warmest, the fullest. you try not to accept that it's also when you feel the most alive."

"in one of the stories you conjured up in your loneliness, jake was the wolf and you a lamb. he drags you deep into the woods with his mouth around your throat. you’re bleeding, and maybe you’re dying, but he licks it all clean with pure affection. with unconditional love."

"“did someone see me?” you whisper. it lights a spark within you to think that you weren’t invisible to the world. and that made you feel really good."

attic angel — jake [ 심재윤 ]

synopsis : au where seemingly innocent jake has his favorite hidden secret tucked away for his eyes only; a story in which jake has his very own angel to confide all his sins in.

pairing : jake x fem. reader

genre : smut/pwp, a lil too much plot, established relationship?

word count : 9.9k

note : this is a work of fiction and has no relation to the real people mentioned! i do not see enha this way! in case of confusion, the story switches from present day to past; italicized text is the past -> playlist

content advisory : sexually explicit content, obsessive!jake, stalker!jake, needy!jake, praise!kink, oral (f.), fingering, unprotected sex, breeding!kink, biting, blood, corrupt!reader, religious themes and concepts, implied non-con if you squint, psychological horror elements, chained ankle / stockholm syndrome type shi

there you sit, wrapped in your thickest blanket and watching outside the window. the faint hum of the heater running blends into the silence of the home you’ve come to accept as your own. you can hardly remember what day it is anymore, or how long it’s been since you’ve last been outside the confines of this hidden property. if you had to guess, it’s been nearly a year. the fact that the winter season has come around again is your only clue as to the length of passing time. 

on days where you’re left to your own devices you can’t help but think, and think, and think. there’s only so many books you can read, or shows and movies you can watch before it all blends together, leaving you with the same emptiness as before. a little worse each time. maladaptive daydreaming is a habit you’ve had since childhood. you like to create your own stories and scenarios in your head. before it was a fun, silly escape from work or school. now it’s the only escape you actually have. but even dreaming becomes exhausting. especially when you come to realize how out of reach it is. 

as you wait for the return of your only source of human connection, you begin to recall the last days that you felt human. 

it was new years eve on your last day of normalcy, but there’s more to look back on before that fateful night. 

you glance at the grandfather clock, hanging on the wall. the time read 9:30. jake wouldn’t be back for another hour and a half. you sigh and the beautiful golden and white dog who laid beside you sits up. layla. she tilts her head as she looks as if to ask, ‘what’s wrong?’. you shake your head and give the dog a soft smile. your hand escapes the warmth of the blanket to reach out and pet her head. 

“it’s nothing, layla…” your eyes look back out to the window. the ground and trees covered in a thin layer of powdery white snow. “but i do think i miss having something to believe in.” your voice trails off into quiet as you continue to take in the cold, morning atmosphere. It was prepossessing, like a painting. but one in which you lived as a meer shadow. 

you often think to yourself, does your family still wonder where you disappeared to? did they think you ran away? how are they doing? do your friends still think of you as much as you do them? did they search for you? how long? are you dead to everyone you loved? there were too many questions that would more than likely go unanswered. you tried to ask. you tried a lot. but it never ended well, so eventually you learned to stop. it’s at times like this, where you’re left alone with nothing but your thoughts, that it all swallows you whole. 

you allowed so much to happen. the biggest fault to your personality was how trusting you were in the world, in people. yet another fault was you couldn’t bring yourself to truly hate anyone. especially not jake. you could hate yourself, however. and you did hate that you loved him. despite all that he’s done, you always kiss him back with compassion. 

it all played out as if it were your destined fate to be his, or the judgement to an early punishment. 

you were still relatively new to town at the time. having that your family only moved there at the end of summer. and it took your parents no time to find a new church to drag you along to. it’s not that you hated going, but as you got older you certainly began to question the faith that was forced upon you since childhood. 

“mommm,” you complained, using your best whiny voice to annoy her, “i’ve grown up, ya know? i’m old enough to make my own decisions, my own opinions. why do i have to go too?” perhaps this behavior was contradictory to your statement, but playing it safe was your best option. if you were too serious she would begin to lecture you. the last thing you wanted this early in the morning was her bible down your throat. 

she sent you a glare and said your name sternly, “are you trying to rebel against your own beliefs because you’re mad about the move? i thought you were growing up?” ah yes, there she goes completely missing your point. 

“oh my gosh, mom, i am not rebelling. i just think by now—” you wanted to continue on, but your mother was eager to cut you off. maybe it was better to withhold this argument with her anyways. your father was no help either, his eyes bouncing between his wife and daughter with uncertainty. he too played it safe and just nodded along with whatever your mother said. you doubted he was even listening. 

“it’ll be a good way to get to know the community. you ought to find yourself a good catholic boy, too.” she placed her hands on her hips, side-eyeing your exaggerated and exhausted expression. “come with us for 1 month. that’s all i ask, okay?” her words didn’t match her tone. through her frustration, she at least gave an easy compromise. 

“yeah… because those guys are so pure.” you mumbled under your breath. “fine, but only for a month.” you couldn’t turn it down. internally you were excited to break free from the custom sunday routine. 

despite not wanting to go, you found yourself not disliking it as much as you initially thought. you made friends your age rather quickly, one even helped you get your first job at the library in town. you found a quiet solace in covering and putting books away. zoning out while filing books? love it. daydreaming when you didn’t have to help people with minimal questions? perfect. you got to do easy tasks, read, and organize; it was simple and you could shut your brain off for a while. it was so nice that you quickly forgot how life was like before you came to town. 

the friends you made were fun too. they were kind, funny, and kept you busy. you all went out often whether it being grabbing food, watching a movie, getting your nails done, or just gossiping in the parking lot late at night. you always enjoyed your time with them. even if it was at church, where all of your parents expected you to be at.  

but even better than that, there was a really cute guy in the church choir who couldn’t take his eyes off you. sitting in the pews, you would often find yourself meeting his eyes only to shyly look away with a warm blush on your cheeks. in your peripherals, he would bite at his lip to conceal his smiles, eyes still eye on you through prayer and hymn. he was so pretty with his long brown hair cascaded and framing his face. you swear the dark coffee color of his eyes sparkled, even without the blinding fluorescent lights. his smile though, his smile was enough for you to thank god that you could be in his presence. he was truly like a fairytale prince come to life. it’s safe to say he, jake, alone made every sunday worth looking forward to. you didn’t have to fight with your parents about going because you found your own reason to go. and of course your friends. 

“geez, jake just can’t ever seem to stop staring at you, huh?” karina giggled through a quiet voice as she elbowed your arm. you couldn’t help but smile, elbowing her back. when did mass end? had you been so lost in thought that you didn’t realize you both were walking to her car? ‘you gotta daydream a little less’, you internally remind yourself. 

“so i’m not crazy for thinking he’s always looking in my direction?” you breathed out a laugh, waving a goodbye to your parents that were headed towards their car and back home. 

“oh, come on! just in your direction? he’s practically undressing you whenever you’re in the same room as him. and this is a chapel for christ’s sake! god knows what he could possibly be thinking of in a place like this--” you quickly cover karina’s mouth to quiet the growing volume of her voice. your eyes frantically glancing around to make sure no one overheard, and for hopefully no sign of jake or his friends around. 

“shh! what if someone overheard you say that!” your was voice hushed and tone so serious but all your friend could do was laugh into your hands. you drop your hands from her face and cross your arms. a sheepish look takes over your appearance. “at least get into your car before speaking about him or saying stuff like that…” you turn and open the car door to slip into the passenger's seat. 

“you’re so cute but,” she exhaled dramatically and said your name with a smile, “when are you going to stop pretending to be so innocent? it’s about time, don’t you think?” karina winks at you before closing your door and walking around to the driver’s side of the car to get in. you blush at that. thankfully it’s been cold these days so your flushed cheeks can be passed off as a chill to the weather. 

you look around the church parking lot and back to the chapel building. the front doors swing open and out walks jake himself, along with his friends you only know the names of because of giselle, your other friend. they were all in the choir together. jake, jay, and sunghoon walk down the front door steps as they’re talking. before you can look away, jake’s eyes found yours. he gave you a smile to which you returned bashfully, turning your attention to karina who was flipping through songs on her phone. “giselle, isn’t coming today so we don’t have to wait for her. she’s staying back to practice a song for next weekend.” karina informed you while starting the car. the heater builds up slowly, warming both of your shivering bodies. 

“so we’re going to the library--” you begin to speak but karina makes a shrill noise of excitement.

“oh my gosh! i almost forgot to tell you! giselle is having a new years eve party this friday. our friend minjeong is coming from busan too, i’m sure you’ll love her…” unintentionally you zone out as she rambles. you can’t shake the feeling of someone watching you. you would say it’s jake but this is similar to something in which you’ve been feeling more often than not lately. in places where he wouldn’t be, or shouldn’t be. like at the library, at restaurants, at home, or walking through town. with quick glances you search for the eyes that you certainly feel. the group of boys aren’t standing in front of the chapel anymore. it’s just families standing around and chatting amongst each other or people saying their goodbyes and thank yous to the priest. huh? habitually, you can't seem to find anyone. how strange. 

“jake will be there too.” karina catches your attention again, “were you even listening to me? geez, you can be such a weirdo sometimes, ya know?” she laughed lightly, her tone teasing. she playfully hit your arm. “i’m just messing. you are always in your own world though. you’ll end up missing all the important details if you live in your head like that.” 

unsure of what to say, you just apologize quietly. you look back to karina, fingers picking at the dried skin of your chapped lips. a nervous habit. 

“anyways, i’m sure he’ll make his move there after months of yearning from afar.” she makes a fake gag sound, finger pointed to her mouth. you giggle. “kidding, he’s a cutie, i guess. he’s sweet and reminds me of a puppy. all the aunties here love him, too, so that’s a good sign.” 

“you think so?” you don’t sound so confident, “i feel like he should’ve approached me by now. i don’t know how much flirtatious eye contact and occasional brush of skinship at church i can take…” your laugh was meek, doubtful. jake does always look so cute dressed in his sunday best. 

“trust. i know this friday is the day he makes you his.” she said with a playful smirk as she pulled out of the parking lot and into the road. you leaned back into the seat, looking out at the window to watch the town pass by. all naked trees, dormant from growth, and gentle shaking of branches in the wind. it’s like they’re waving goodbye. with a small smile you didn’t care to hide on your face, you think of what could happen at the party coming friday. 

neither you nor karina understood the weight and reality of her words. 

“i’m surprised you came this weekend,” jay speaks up, taking strides to catch up with jake who was making his way to his car. “you barely come anymore.”

jake turns around with a forced smile and a shaky laugh, “well you know… i got other stuff going on. the job i got at the beginning of the year keeps me real busy. i’m exhausted most weekends.” he wasn’t exactly lying. he did get a promotion at his software engineering company, and it was tiring. he’s making slow steps backwards but jay and sunghoon press harder, walking with him. 

“how about you come over to watch the football match?” sunghoon asked jake, who seemed eager to leave as soon as possible. he knew what jake would say, but he always asks nonetheless. this had become typical behavior of jake for a while now. he doesn’t hangout as often. whenever he does come out, he’s antsy, not fully there. it saddens him to see that his best friend is happiest when he’s about to leave. 

“hoon, you know i got my girls at home…” jake laughs lightly. his hands stuffed into his coat pockets and gripping his keys. all he could think about was getting home layla, to you. he shifts his weight from foot to foot, eyeing his car, worried of looking too ready to walk away from his friends. he should be worried, because the two guys picked up on this routine a while ago. 

“girls?” jay questions with a raised eyebrow, “like plural? you have something you’re not telling us?” his chuckle was short. his arms crossed while inquisitively awaiting jake’s response. “cuz if you got a girl now and haven’t told us, it would make us feel like shit. although it would help make sense of you being around less and less.” 

“girl!” jake’s hands shot up, waving around as if to wave the thought from the air, “my girl, layla, you know…” jake didn’t want to come off as nervous as he felt inside. he couldn’t panic or they’d know something was up, “she’s been home alone all morning. she’ll need a walk outside or her water refilled… it could snow again soon and i live further out than you guys so the drive--”

“it’s fine.” sunghoon forced a tight lip smile, “next time, right?” he begins to turn away but then jay speaks up again. 

“or we could both go to your place.” jay suggests, “we haven’t been over in months. not that you let us stay very long anyways.” jay’s eyes don’t laugh with him, he looks down to kick a rock awkwardly. he didn’t want to be rude with jake, but sunghoon won’t speak up so jay always has to do it for them both. jake picks up on the sliver of tension that is there between them. 

fuck, fuck, fuck. think quick. say something! 

“ah, uh.. next weekend!” jake knew his friends were onto him. what if they show up unannounced one day because they haven’t been over in so long? his flakey behavior is too frequent. (he can’t help it though, especially not after the time he left for too long and you tried to run off. although you did learn your lesson after that, so jake doubts you would try something like that again.) he had to do something different and panic was settling in more than he’d like to admit. he did feel bad about neglecting them; he missed hanging out with the guys. “you guys can come over next weekend! we can invite the other guys, cook, watch some football, and play games or whatever!” jake breathes out a heavy breath after his rush of words. he smiles a genuine soft smile to the two in front of him, “promise.” his voice ends timid. 

with that, sunghoon said a quick, ‘i’ll hold you to it!.’ his face was brighter than jake had seen in a while, so it must’ve been enough. the boys said their ‘see you laters’ and went off on their separate ways. 

despite sunghoon’s change of demeanor, he couldn’t lie to himself. yeah, he was happy that his friends could finally have plans together again. but sunghoon was attentive. he was quiet but always watching, picking up on the details that others might not pay attention to. he saw jake’s weary eyes. how they were unfocused. the way his smile didn’t spread across his face as if there were a deeper emotion he was feeling and it was eating away at him. the fact that he couldn’t sit or stand still, always so ready to run away. and the harsh indents in the palm of his hand from how hard he was clutching his keys; how did it not break the skin? all sunghoon could wonder is, what is jake going through to make him lose all sense of groundedness? 

when the two boys make enough distance from jake, sunghoon leans over to jay to say quietly, “he’s always been a bad liar.” to which jay silently agrees.  

jake notices them walking closer together, whispering something to one another, as they walk away. it made his skin crawl. he wants, no he needs, to deny the fact that they were suspicious of him. but how could he? 

what should he do? leave? move you, him, and layla back to his home in australia? yeah, that doesn’t sound so bad. but what about his friends though? the job he studied so hard for? the promotion he worked tirelessly for that allowed him less hours in the office and more with you? how could he say goodbye to it all? it’s all going so well so why does he feel like he’s about to crack? 

the whole car ride back home had jake’s hands trembling as he gripped his steering wheel. his mind is racing with too many possibilities of all the wrong outcomes. he couldn’t have a single mistake happen. there was too much to lose and the main thing being you. he knows he would go crazy if he had to lose you, the most precious thing in his whole world. his sweet, little angel. he worked so hard just to get you, too. 

and after all he’s done, he wouldn’t dare take the chance of letting you go. just the thought alone of not having you makes jake feel like all hell would break loose.

the day he first saw you, he thought every prayer of his had been answered. he had truly been graced with a gift from the heavens that he would stop at nothing to hold all to himself. you consumed his every thought, permeated his brain. and inside him, something quickly began to seethe. something in nature to a feral animal, starved and desperate to claw to freedom. constantly licking the backs of his teeth, ready to sink into you. 

what started as a crush quickly turned into obsession. he knew so when he found himself following you home, to work, or wherever karina and giselle were bringing you. you had no idea, on top of that. oh, his naive angel, glancing over your shoulders with hurried steps only to trip over your own feet. you were so endearing to watch. a lost little pup with no clue in the world to the watchful, hungry eyes that followed you. 

he learned all he could about you before that fateful new years eve. albeit, from a distance. he knew when you went to work, when you went out for groceries, what foods you dislike and prefer. how you wear your favorite color on the days you’re feeling good. how you enjoyed naughty books and pretty covers. the way your face is always wearing exactly how you feel, or what you’re thinking. 

he would go to the library, watch from afar. when you walked away, pick up the exact books you did and run his hands across the covers to feel what you felt. he did the same at stores, and bought what you bought. when you left restaurants he would go inside just to sit where you did. anything you touched and left behind quickly became his. it all brought a sense of closeness to him. 

he learned your routine in no time. more often than not, he found himself telling the deep rooted feeling within him that he’s just making sure you’re safe. he’s merely keeping a watchful eye. and the festering ache of his visceral grew to the point where he began to think, ‘wouldn’t she just be safest with me?’. yeah, yeah you would be. he believed he could provide everything for you. anything you could ever need to be kept protected, kept satisfied. a delicate angel like yourself needed jake. he was sure of it.

he is still sure of it. 

he exhales a deep sigh, his breath still shaky. his lungs not easing the way his mind tried to convince his body. 

“it’ll all be okay…everything will go smoothly. my angel, she wouldn’t misbehave.” jake tells himself, “next weekend will be fine.” his eyes staring openly at the road. his bottom lip bit raw from all his nervous thoughts.

“my obedient pup is at home. she is waiting for me at home. she always is. i am almost home.” he speaks in a mantra until it’s convincing enough to calm his nerves. he thinks of how lonely your morning must’ve been without him. how you must be cold. how your ankle is chilled and bruised from the frigid metal cuff around it. 

oh, yes, his favorite sight to see. 

the thought of you, ankle chained to the attic room bed, patiently waiting for him makes his cock ache. the fact always does. he hates to leave you, yet loves coming home to you just as much. his girl, waiting in her room, bathed in the sunlight that glows from the window to cast a halo above your head. the softest picture he wished to have burned into his mind forever. 

he groans softly with an unsteady right hand palming at his growing bulge. he sucked in a breath, taking his bottom lip in between his teeth. his palm presses down on his cock that is desperate to escape his clad pants. he whimpers quietly. his foot presses the gas a little harder, speeding up a little faster knowing you wait for him in that perfect image, just as he imagines. “almost home,” he exhales a breath that holds more stability than the rest. his tongue follows to swipe over his lips. he can’t wait to taste you. 

he’ll feel better once he has you. he always does. 

just like the first day.

it was a cold friday evening and the fateful day of giselle’s new years party. jake had been anticipating this day the second he realized you became friends with giselle and karin. giselle had always thrown her annual new years eve parties, and of course you’d be invited. it was the perfect day for him to claim you, his angel. 

he gave his plan much thought. approach you casually, kindly. talk to you for a while. let loose with some drinks. compliment, flirt, but don’t come on too strong. build a sense of respect and show you that he’s not just into you for a fling. he needed you to know he was serious about pursuing you, and in for the long haul. hold hand as the countdown into the new year in cheered amongst friends. share a new years kiss under the fireworks. make plans for a date to get to know each other more the following week. 

ideally, that’s what he wanted, at least. 

in his heart, he really did want something normal with you. a cliche romance where you meet unexpectedly, become friends, and slowly fall in love. 

not everything goes according to plan though. 

jake, showed up earlier than jay, sunghoon, and heeseung. the three of them apparently had too much to pre-game and had to wait for one of them to sober up more before driving over. they asked jake to come pick them up, but he lied, saying he had already had something to drink and couldn’t. 

he sat in his car, outside of the large three story home. there were subtle decorations around the property. new years signs stuck into the ground, balloons tied to the mailbox and banisters of the wrap around porch. the christmas lights were still up and flashing colors of white, gold, and blue. he could hear the music blaring from inside. judging by the amount of cars outside, and the horrible parking situation, giselle really out did herself this year. it was packed. 

as he was getting out of his car, he didn’t even realize his hands were shaking. he felt like he was struggling to breathe. his heart pounded in his chest, reverberating throughout his whole being. it raged through him so heavily he started to think his lungs had no room in his own body.

he failed to realize what he was doing when he made it up the front steps and into the house. he was swimming through the crowd of people inside who were dancing and singing, a red solo cup or shot glass in hand. almost as if his body knew where you were, he made his way to you. and there you were. the descry of you lifted all the weight he felt. sitting on the stairs, leaning against the wall, drink in hand, eyes half lidded as you hummed to whatever song playing loudly. your existence was so beautiful to jake. 

jake smiled at you. his body on autopilot slowly approached, but came to a stop when a guy sat down next to you. his smile dropped. he had never seen him before, so he must not have been from around here. 

it was when the stranger wrapped their arm around you and pulled you in that he snapped. that feeling that had been festering within jake was finally boiling over. a bubbling, fiery rage that scorched him down to the bone marrow. he hated the sight, the knowing that other people could touch you, see you, talk to you, make you laugh and smile. he was sober and yet his stomach threatened to spill. he pain he felt only left him with disgust. how could you let a stranger in so close? jake never once had the thought of hurting you. no, the idea of doing such kills him. so why did he want to? 

luckily, if jake was good at anything, it was staying in control. despite all the ugly things he feels inside, he never lets it show. in public, that is. 

“she’s really drunk,” jake reached out and pulled you up from the stranger, “i’ll help her form here.” you giggled quietly, leaning your weight onto jake, arms wrapped around his neck. 

luckily, the guy didn’t seem to care and got up to leave and move onto another drunk girl in the sea of people. jake didn’t allow himself the thought of what might’ve happened if he didn’t intervene. it would make him ill with violence. he wasn’t a violent guy, though, at least he hasn’t been. 

“jake.” you breathed his name, eyes closed as you hugged onto him. he bit down at the sound of your voice saying his name. he could feel his blood rush south, his body lighting on fire. “hm.. i’m really tired.” your mumbles were incoherent, but enough for him to pick up. 

he didn’t even know what to do with himself. he opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come out. if you weren’t so gone you’d easily be able to feel his raging heart. his sweaty palms holding your back close to him. he just looked down at you in his embrace. 

yeah, he thought, this is much better. where you belonged. 

it took damn near everything in him to not bend you over and take you right there, but he knew his time window was short. 

your friends were nowhere in sight nor his own. 

“let’s get you home, angel.” he smiled. you smiled. 

you don’t recall much from that night, honestly. at least not clearly. you remember decorating for the party and drinking with you friends. meeting new people. dancing, singing, drinking more. and jake. you spoke to jake for the first time. he was kind. at least you think so because he offered to take you home. then it all blurred. 

and everything you don’t remember, jake does. jake would rather take that to the grave though. 

you perk up as you see jake’s vehicle rush down the long driveway. his car flew over the gravel path, a divide between the towering and snow wearing trees. layla hears the sound of his vehicle and rushes out of the room through the cracked door that leads downstairs. you wish to do the same, eyeing the cold metal cuff that confines you to the room. 

you watch him park then fumble out. he looks cute, tripping up and making a clumsy speed for the house. you can hear layla’s barks and the sound of jake’s many keys. there’s several locks on all the doors and windows. jake takes many precautions in his need to keep you safe. 

overfamiliar with his routine, you wait as he takes care of layla’s needs before coming up to see you. he seems faster today than usual, because his quick footsteps can be heard sooner than you expect. 

jake pushes open the door with a wide grin. his eyes sparkle as takes in the glow of your being. almost as if he was never wavering, he shuts the door behind himself and makes his way over to sit next to you on the bed. 

he says your name quietly and you speak his, with arms wide open. you pull him into a warm embrace, wrapping your body around him in a koala-like hug. the metal of the chain rustles and clanks, dragging against the wooden floorboards and bed frame. 

you stay like that for a full minute, basking in each other's clutch. he pulls away only ot take the key from his pants pocket to unlock the cuff. 

“i missed you so much today, pup.” he’s honest. the open cuffed chain falls to the floor with a thud. 

“i miss you every moment you cannot be with me,” you stare at his unreadable face. he’s peaceful, smiling back at you, but you know him well enough that there’s always more. something got to him today. he’s trying not to tremble and you know it. 

he laughs, it's soft and melodic. “are you trying to one up me?” he grabs a hold of your waist and pushes you onto your back. his body now atop of yours, arms caging in your face. a hand brushes the stray strands of hair from your face as he leans in to press butterfly kisses over your face. a warm flush heats your cheeks. the fiery feeling takes over your body.

he kisses the top of your head, forehead, eyebrows, eyelids, nose, cheeks and lips. it elicits a giggle past your lips. eyes fluttering shut, you capture his lips in yours the second they touch. intimacy with jake is always when you feel the warmest, the fullest. you try not to accept that it's also when you feel the most alive. 

the kiss starts off sweet. your lips molding into one with a smooth rhythm. jake’s lips were always plump and soft. you like to bite down on the bottom one. you know he likes it too because he whimpers into your kisses every time. 

“ah, baby, just a moment.” he begins, but you keep chasing after his lips. as much as he loves the shared intimacy, in the back of his mind he knows what he needs to say. “next weekend, the guys are going to-”

you pull away from his face and relax against the bed, your hands holding his face as you look up at him. with red cheeks, swollen lips, and hair falling into his eyes, he’s so pretty. you don’t want to think about anything but being with him. 

“jake, jakey, tell me later. please.” it’s a soft plea. you just want this moment. your hands slid down to his shoulders to wrap your arms around him and pull him closer to you. 

jake complies silently, his hands now roaming your body while his mouth latches to your neck. his hands squeeze your shoulders, down your arms, waist, and up to your breasts. you don’t realize what made him change, but his grip gets rougher and the kisses he leaves along your jaw and neck are nothing like the ones he was pressing on your face. the sopping, open mouthed kisses against your skin turn to deep sucking of flesh with bites intermixed. you moan quietly; the pace of your breath picking up with heaves. 

the warm, wet, heat in between your legs starts to pulse with need. yet you ignore it and take a hand to tug at the waist of jake’s pants. you fumble with his belt but manage to free his leaking, heavy cock. if you were feeling aroused, jake felt it ten-fold. 

you thumb over his tip, smearing his precum around in gentle circles. he whines into your neck, “shit, touch me more, baby, please.” his teeth trace a line over the skin from your jaw, neck to shoulder. he wants to sink his mark into you. 

you wrap your hand around the base of his pulsating flesh, still stimulating his tip with teasing, small, gentle touches. he bucks his hips forward into your hand with another strained sound. before you really start to jerk him off, he sinks his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder. 

“jake!”, you don’t know if it's a cry or a moan. it hurts so good and a single tear escapes your eye. 

“i-i had to,” he lifts his head up to look at you quickly with a loss of words for his action. he looks like he’s beginning to tremble. your face pales seeing him with your blood on his mouth. how is he still so pretty? you kiss him again and he continues with shallow thrusts into your hand. you squeeze him and think to yourself, ‘i’ll keep him grounded; he can break later.’ he continues to kiss you with hunger. 

all jake can think at the moment is how your blood on his tongue and teeth tastes like a cleanse, or like religion, or like the way you looked at him when you first woke up in this attic bedroom. 

his hands find the bottom of your white, slip dress to pull it up over your head. he breaks the heated kiss to remove it only to toss it aside. he’s sitting up on his knees now. when he looks down at you half-lidded, panting with lips red from your own blood he doesn’t know if he should pray or devour you. 

he reaches down to his cock, taking it from you to pump himself a few times. he licks over his lips, tasking your metallic ichor. he groans and rolls his head back slightly, “hng, i want to taste more of you. can i eat you, angel?” he bites his lip, staring at you as he lazily tugs on himself. 

you nod slowly as your fingers wrap around the waist side of your panties before sliding them off. you glance away from jake as you open your legs to him. still as shy as ever despite being wolfed down by him many times before. 

jake hums over the small moan he swallows down. you, his beautiful girl presented before him, he is eager to ravish. 

he throws off his shirt then his boxers and pants follow suit. he situates himself between your legs, arms wrapped under your thighs. he starts by kissing up your thighs, biting, and littering them with marks of claim. 

he says your name between two kisses, “angel, my forever angel, it disgusts me how much i desire you.” his mouth hovers over your core. his fingers trace over your folds, clit, and entrance. he smears your wetness over like he’s painting a flower in gloss. 

“why?” you breath out. normally, your mind would race over the statement, but the overwhelming taunt of pleasure clouds your head. 

his thumb circles your clit with the leaking want, “i don’t know what to do with it all.” 

he’s vague, but you’ve been around him long enough to have an idea. jake is all consuming; a black hole, an endless void. you’re just spinning in it. 

his tongue licks a thick strip up your pussy. he moans at the taste and you moan at the feeling. the warm, wet muscle dances over your soaked opening. he’s basking in the taste, for a moment at least. because when it comes to you, he’s always starving. 

he goes at you like you’re his last supper. eagerly licking between open mouthed, sloppy kisses. face pressing further into you like he’s never close enough. his nose pressing against your clit, only teasing the nerves that begging for more and more stimulation. his fingers dig into the plush of your thighs, nails sure to leave crescent moons as a remembrance. 

you’re whining out his name along with drawn out moans. your hands found purchase in his thick, long locks of hair. you tug on it, back arching off the bed, with thighs desperate to close but jake holds them steady. his tongue prods the opening of your pussy, dipping in and out with cursory. your eyes squeeze shut at the sensation of his tongue fucking you open. it feels like heaven.

“ja..jake, gimme more. i need more.” your fingers scratch along his scalp as you adjust your grasp in his hair. you can feel his moan ripple throughout you. 

he’s so lost in the taste of you. he wishes himself able to eat his way through you. 

he withdraws his mouth only to replace his tongue with a finger. with his head leaning against your thigh, he smiles and watches you wither around in fits of moans. “my pup needs more? your hole is so hungry, huh? you’re sucking in my finger so well that i can feel how greedy you are for more.” you can only mewl in response, head far in the clouds and stars of sinful bliss. 

he’s teasing you, a single digit fucking into you languidly. the tip of his finger dragging along your rippled, creamy walls. your hips wiggle down onto his finger, wishing for more, wishing for him to reach as far as he can inside of you to rip out all that’s buried. 

watching your sweet desperation, he adds another finger. the pace of his fingers picks up and the unholy sounds your soaked heat makes urges him to dive back in. his mouth latches to your sensitive pearl, sucking heartily and licking like an animal. the sounds you both make are so obscene, so dirty. 

“ah- jake, it’s so good, jake.” you thighs begin to quiver and the familiar heat in the pit of your stomach builds up quickly, “you’re doing so well for me, jakey. i’m so close,” you whine, watching him devour and scissor you open, “i’m gonna cum.” 

your moans of encouragement only drive him to do more. he lives for your praise. it's like a match to flame. his hips push his cock further to the mattress. he makes needful humps like he’s a dog in heat as he eats away at you. he speaks into your pussy, it’s muffled, but along the lines of, ‘you taste so good, so sweet.’ 

his tongue never lets up and neither do his fingers, “come on, baby. give it to me. cum all over my tongue and fingers.” he voice almost anguished, wanting to whimper for more. “if you cum for me, i’ll feed you my cock. i’ll fuck you till you’re full of my cum, greedy angel.” 

his words make your head spin and the heat from your stomach washes over you like a broken dam. with shaking legs you orgasm. your mouth falls open in a silent cry but he doesn’t let up. his fingers are rough and fast, making a dripping mess of your hole. his mouth, so thirsty for you, laps everything that spills. he groans at the warm release on his tongue. 

your breaths are heavy, body still convulsing from the strong climax. “ah- i’m.. enough.” you make attempts to push his head away from your overly sensitive pussy, but jake is drunk off you. he pulls his fingers out of you only to put them into his mouth, sucking them clean. 

you sit up slightly, propped up by your elbows. you wince at the pain near your shoulder, remembering jake’s deep bite. “what did you need to say earlier?” your voice soft, quiet, but breaths still labored. 

jake finally pulls back and sits up, his face drops. his hair a wild mess from your hands and half his face glistening in wet release. he tilts his head slightly, “will you promise to behave?” his voice, too, soft and quiet. he looks apprehensive. 

you nod, watching as he climbs back up your body with kisses. his hands gripping your hips, waist, and breasts. a thumb swipes over your nipple, you shiver. he pinches the other, you bite your lip. your eyes watching him with anticipation. 

i can behave, you think. will i get to go out? can i see my friends? anything, anyone! your mind quick to daydream different possibilities. 

“the boys are coming over this weekend. maybe friday.” he says it with disappointment, “i haven’t been hanging out as much and they’re onto- they miss me.” he corrects himself. 

your heart pauses for a second before it falls. your hopes were so ready to rise but it’s all just silly ideas. of course it’s not a reward for you. when is it ever? people miss you too and where is your opportunity? 

“can i—?” you try to speak. it’s a small, brave attempt. 

“no!” he voice louder than he anticipated, “no… i- you’ll have to be quiet for me, please? they can’t know or else i could lose you.” he kisses along your collar bones, a handful of your breast in his palm receives a squeeze. “it’s only a couple hours.” 

“but, but i’ll behave. i won’t do anything bad. and i’ll tell them i’m fine! i-i like being with you. i just want to talk to people, see friends…” you do your best to blink away the sting in your eyes as you plead. 

jake can only sigh, his cock still angry from the lack of attention. he presses his tip against your core, sliding it around the wetness that was left undrank with a hiss. “you have me to talk to and see. isn’t that all you need?” 

you’ve had this conversation many times before, so what did you expect? 

you remain silent with that, eyes staring at the ceiling with tears threatening to cry. 

jake kisses your cheek and impales himself into you without warning. your hands quickly wrap around his back and grip his shoulders while your body betrays you with a moan. the sudden intrusion makes you cry. your nails scratch his back. 

“are you punishing me?” you can’t look at him, so you close your eyes. the tears fall regardless and your bottom lip quivers. the question is directed to god, if there really is one watching over you. 

you open your eyes to blink away the salty pain. 

jake, looking down at you with a sorrowful endearment, answers. “no, i am loving you.” 

he grabs the backs of your thighs and presses them to your chest, your legs find place on his shoulders. he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss. you return the gesture with broken sobs. 

“you know i love you,” he stares at your face that’s wet with sadness, eyelashes and lips too. 

“i know.” you try to smile but your lips are trying to shake, to show your inner turmoil, so you bite down until you’re tasting crimson metal. 

he smiles but it’s one of dolor. 

his hips pull back to snap back into you causing your body to jolt. he groans at the feeling of the warm tunnel wrapped around him. you squeeze him just right. he rolls his hips around, pushing his cock as far as he can into you. it feels like his tip is kissing your cervix. you whimper a moan, it’s a defeat by pleasurable pain. 

“you’re so tight,” he whines, his thrusts pick up. loud smacks of skin and wet sex fill the room. “no matter how much i give it to you.”

you’re in a mating press, made so small beneath jake as he pounds him cock into you. your core still sensitive from his fingers and mouth makes you whine and claw at him. you make small gasps of his name through your pitiful noises. 

jake stares down at your twisted face while his cock bullies into you with no abandon. your sobs and moans ring through his ears to throttle his brain. he never liked to make you cry. it makes all the ugly feelings he tries to keep buried resurface.  

“angel,” he moves your legs from his shoulders and you instinctively wrap them around his waist, “tell me i did the right thing. tell me i’m good.” he pecks your lips, picking up the little blood from your bite to lick. you copy him, licking over your lips. wet eyes only blinking slowly up at him. 

in your silence, he makes a particular rough movement, deeper than you’ve felt him reach. you make a high pitched moan, mouth falling open. 

“please,” he begins to beg, his own eyes rimming with red as they gloss over, “i want to be good. tell me you think i’m good.” his cock pistoning in and out of your pussy over and over. his thrusts growing more erratic and desperate. 

a flash of memories, like a film reel, plays in your mind. you think back to all you’ve gone through in the past year. the first realization of what happened, the shocking betrayal, the pain of loneliness in isolation, the suffering in silence. but you’re always quiet. always far away from reality. how is he supposed to know you’re suffering? do you even know you are? maybe you really are an angel. one of god’s many ghosts. intangible to all you ever knew, yet hiding in plain sight. 

jake notices you in thought, elsewhere. his eyes are brimming with tears now as he continuously fucks you harder, deeper, faster. he takes a hand, adding more weight to the one that holds himself above you, and starts to play with your abused clit. your body shakes beneath him with the overstimulation. you only cry more, unsure of specifically what is breaking you. 

“i’m sorry,” it’s a choked up cry, his voice so quiet you nearly didn’t catch it. “i-i know what i did isn’t right, but i love you that much.” you’ve never seen jake cry. and it breaks your heart. you didn’t think it still could. 

your hands are shaky, cupping his face to look into his sad eyes. “it’s okay,” you lie. 

jake exhales deeply, breath wavering. his fingers working circles over your wet beed. your hips jerk up, chasing his cock and fingers. 

“you did good,” and your eyes begin to cry again, “you’re always good, jake. my best boy.” you press your lips to his again. and again. then again. you think you feel him smile against your mouth. yours and jakes mess of spit and tears mangle together. 

the overstimulation catches up to you, a hellfire in your being wanting to burst. you lean back to the mattress, breathing heavily, “i’m gonna cum again. i can’t take much more.” 

“no, no, you can take it a little more. please,” he speaks with broken groans and whimpers, “i’m so close. i’m gonna fill you to the brim with my cum, angel. i’m gonna fuck a baby into you.” you moan out, your hands in his hair once again and tugging. ‘yeah, please’, you think, ‘a baby can keep me company. i’ll have purpose; i won’t be lonely’. 

“yes, you’re so good, jake. give it to me, give me a baby.” your words are mumbled, a string of obscenities. your core tightens around jake’s raging cock as the second orgasm washes over you. your body making subtle jerks in the aftershock. 

“gonna make a pup out of you, we’re gonna be a family.” the thought alone makes jake’s entire body shudder. “oh shit,” he whines, his thrusts are sloppy, simply chasing the feeling of being in climax. “ah, fuck, baby.. i’m gonna--” he moans loudly, his body collapsing on top of yours. you feel the warm, sticky liquid fill you in the innermost parts. the fullness of it all makes you hum in sick satisfaction. 

he gives himself a few more shallow shoves, pushing his seed further into you, not wishing for a drop to escape. 

after a minute, he rolls off of you and pulls you into his embrace. his body curls up into yours. he doesn’t say anything and neither do you. both of your minds wishing to be empty but overwhelmed with more than you’d dare to share. 

he watches your blank face from the side. his eyes follow your profile. damp from tears and spit covered kisses. your lips bitten and red. down to your neck that’s already blooming with red and purple deep bruises. and then to his already bruising bite. he broke the skin, teeth punctured further than he imagined. he smiles knowing it will leave a scar. 

he leans up, beginning with a gentle peck over the pained surface. he follows with little licks, picking up the dried blood. 

unnoticed by jake, even you smile a little. 

in one of the stories you conjured up in your loneliness, jake was the wolf and you a lamb. he drags you deep into the woods with his mouth around your throat. you’re bleeding, and maybe you’re dying, but he licks it all clean with pure affection. with unconditional love. 

[ five days later ]

you watch from the window as different cars park in the driveway. one looks familiar, either jay or heeseung’s. you can’t really remember. you haven’t met heeseung formally, but jake’s told you about him and you’ve heard his voice a couple times before when he had come over. you’re sat with your legs criss crossed, elbow to knee, and face leaning in your hand. you notice new faces you’ve never seen before. three new faces at least. 

you sigh and wish you could greet them yourself. but jake, who was stressed all week and morning, made it clear how he wanted you to behave. live quietly, read a book, draw, listen to music or watch a downloaded movie on the ipad. it made you feel like a pathetic child but in the past year, if you’ve become anything, it’s obedient. 

as you watch the group of six men funnel into the house, you think you catch one of them glance up to your window. you quickly shoot down to lay back on the bed, hands covering your mouth as if anything would leave it. your heart pounds erratically in your chest. 

“did someone see me?” you whisper. it lights a spark within you to think that you weren’t invisible to the world. and that made you feel really good. 

never in your life had you imagined so desperately wanting to be seen. you can’t help but grin to yourself as if that simple glimpse solidifies your existence outside of the one jake created. 

meanwhile, downstairs jake is smiling widely and greeting his friends. they’re all happy to see jake and be at his house for the first time in what seems like forever. they all greet layla with pets and coos of affection too before kicking their shoes off and making themselves home.

“your place looks nicer than i expected. i thought you’d be messy as shit.” riki laughs, walking through the foyer. his eyes take in the open layout where the kitchen and living room are. he finds himself a spot on the corner of the couch. sunghoon does the same. 

“yeah, you have a maid or something?” jay teases, making way to the kitchen with his grocery bags in hand. sunoo follows behind jay with a tray of brownies. 

“I learned how to be tidy with age.” jake breaths a laugh, eyes glancing around like he didn’t already double check every corner of the house for a possible trace of you. 

“where’s your bathroom? i gotta pee sooo bad, the ride was longer than i expected.” jungwon has a big grin on his face while he makes a childish pose like one who’s close to soiling their pants. jake laughs and points down the foyer hall, saying it's the first door to the left. 

heeseung just seems to be standing there in the hall. his eyes looking all over jake’s home like he’s never been there before. he finds several things strange. he notices the amount of locks on the front door first. then his gaze stops at the staircase before he walks to the living room where the others are. 

jake notices heeseung’s silent demeanor and analytical eyes. he doesn’t say anything though. instead jake stuffs his hands into his hoodie to scratch at his cuticles. his nails already bit raw from the days of anxiety leading up to today. 

“dude, why don’t you have fucking wifi here?” riki sinks into the couch, trying to flip through the tv settings. 

“i have to use my phone's hotspot data if i want to watch stuff.” jake bites at the skin peeling from his bottom lip as he leans back against the kitchen island counter. jay and sunoo prepping dinner for the evening behind him. 

“that’s so lame.” sunghoon adds in and riki agrees with a nod of dramatics. “we can use mine though, riki, opening the wifi settings again and find my bluetooth.” the two manage to set that up and find the football match they’ve been anticipating. 

“you said last time we were here you’d have it set up by now.” heeseung finally chimes in, his tone seems challenging. he sits on the other empty couch, his back to the tv so he can watch the room. 

“yeah.. well.. i just didn’t have any problems doing what i usually do…” jake’s words fumble. jay, behind jake, shoots heeseung a shrug and look of ‘i don't know!’. 

to break the scene, jungwon comes bouncing down the hallway, all smiles, and into the kitchen. “jay hyung! what are we making?” jay rolls his eyes playfully and tells jungwon to help sunoo cut vegetables. 

time seems to flow smoothly after that. the three who were in the kitchen begin setting up the table for dinner. side dishes, main dishes, drinks, and so on. 

the other four have gone through all sorts of emotions as they watch the intense match. cheers and yells of passionate, ‘lets go-es!’ and so on, or groans of annoyance when their favored team gets a yellow/red card or misses a goal. it was all jokes, laughs, and smiles between them all. 

it’s such a good atmosphere that even jake, for some short moments, is able to forget being so anxious. 

now they all sit around the table in the living room, some on the couch and some sitting on a cushion on the floor, eating happily at the hearty meal prepared. jay even brought some drinks, but only half of them indulged. jake eyed the beer, but didn’t want a possibility of mistake. 

and then sunghoon, two beers in, says something that takes the air from jake’s lungs. 

“hey, jake, remember that girl you were hard crushing on last year?” he takes a bite steak, not really focused on anything but his plate of food. 

“uhm, yeah.” jake nearly chokes, coughing loudly into his elbow, “w-what about her?”

“isn’t it just weird how she up and disappeared at the new years eve party?” jay questions before gulping down his second beer, crushing the can in his hand once empty. 

“you guys- we didn’t really know her, s-so like how are we to know?” the emphasis on his word adjustment is noticed by heeseung and riki. riki gives jake a weird look, his eyebrow raised. 

riki opens his mouth to speak but a loud thud is heard from upstairs that stops him. the group of boys pause and look around at each other and then back to jake. 

“what was that?” sunoo gasps, looking scared, pulling his knees to his chest and pressing his body into riki’s side who sat next to him. “is this place haunted?” 

“layla must be--!” jake frantically says while his body shoots up to stand, but layla trots in from the kitchen at the sound of her name. she tilts her head at jake who feels his heart drop to his stomach. 

heeseung stands slowly and starts to walk down the foyer when the stairway begins. jake is right on his tail, rushing behind him. the other boys sit in silent confusion, looking amongst each other before whispering different theories. 

jake grabs heeseung’s arm to spin him around. his grip is so tight that heeseung can feel jake’s racing pulse and trembling body through it. jake’s mouth falls open but no words come out. his eyes are telling enough. they’re crazed, wide and fearful. 

“jake,” heeseung’s voice is quiet, “what’s upstairs? and don’t lie because i swear i saw someone.” his hands place to jake’s shoulders, trying to hold his shaking body still. he stares at jake and the pressure that jake feels makes him crumble. he knows he’s caught. 

he looks down to his feet, his grip on heeseung’s arm bruisingly hard, “can you keep a secret?” is all he can whisper.

© fangel ┊ do not copy, repost, or translate my content ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

first writing for this account >.< it’s been a longgg time since i wrote ff and it’s my first time writing smut so im sorry if it’s lacking :’) feedback & reblogs are appreciated🪽!!

[cjgladback]

In yet another move I don't have the time to be properly upset about because I've now got more to do immediately if not sooner, Twitch is cutting off their video storage capabilities above 100 hrs (including no warning not letting me save new highlights while I'm over that limit so I have to download all expiring vods to my lacking disc space while I organize before they delete everything in under two months).

But this means in the process of exporting all my vods to youtube I'm remembering those projects and the different titles I had for every stream--and I'm afraid to say it but I 100% peaked with an unfinished project in spring 2022 and solid gold puns including "Yeti or not, here I come" and "I must Sasquatch you're doing here."

[sysig]

It started with a whisper ♥ (Patreon)

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

THE WAY I LOVED YOU — park sunghoon

Years after a quiet, painful breakup, you are assigned to write a profile on South Korea’s most elusive figure skater, Park Sunghoon, who just so happens to be your ex-boyfriend. What was supposed to be a byline quickly spirals into a collision of unresolved feelings, buried emotions that are edging too close to the surface, and the slow thaw between two people who once meant the world to each other. With every step you take back into his orbit, the line between story and truth begins to blur—and the version of him you thought you knew starts to unravel.

word count: 44k (LMFAOOOOOOO)

pairing: figureskater!ex!sunghoon x sportsjournalist!afab!reader

featuring: yunah, minju, and moka from illit

genre: figure skating au, exes to lovers, the one that got away, sunshine x midnight rain, second chance romance, right person wrong time but also becomes right time(?), opposites attract, slow burn, ANGST

warnings: this story contains miscommunication at its PEAK, emotional distress, mentions of injury, past breakup, abandonment, and themes of regret, long-distance, sunghoon ice prince stereotype, mutual pining, girl putting more effort than guy, hopeless romantic core, emphasis on love language, usage of profanities, slight indication of intimacy (literally like one paragraph if you squint), angst, angst, angst, and oh! angst, also maybe slight inaccuracies to real life sports delegations(?)

disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. If any context is similar to any other stories, it's either inspired (in which credit will be given) or just a coincidence. the characters' personalities, words, actions and thoughts do not represent them in real life. any resemblance to any real life events or person, present or past, are purely coincidental. i apologise in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. characters are aged up for plot purpose.

notes from nat: ngl. i almost didn't want to put this out. but I know people have been waiting and I can be overly critical with myself sometimes... and 44k words is ALOT to just leave it in the drafts, so here you guys go! highly recommended to read with the playlist i curated in order! without further ado, enjoy!

tags: #tfwy thewayilovedyou #tfwy au

perm taglist. @m1kkso @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @youcancometome @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @m1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna @no1likeneo @ChVcon3 @karasusrealwife @addictedtohobi @jyunsim @enhastolemyheart @kawaiichu32 @layzfy @renjunsbirthmark13 @enhaprettystars @Stercul1a @stars4jo @luvashli @alyselenai @ididntseeurbag @hii-hawaiiu @kwhluv @wonjiya @gabrielinhaa @milkycloudtyg @kristynaaah @cripplinghooman

The office is louder than usual for a Monday morning. Keyboards clatter like a percussion ensemble, and the faint hum of printers competes with the buzz of hurried conversations. The aroma of coffee lingers, sharp and bitter. You sit at your desk, staring at your laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard but typing nothing.

Your new assignment email glares at you with a subject line you never thought you’d see: "Profile Piece on Park Sunghoon."

Park Sunghoon. Even his name feels heavy in your chest.

Memories surge to the surface—his laughter ringing through late-night phone calls, the sparkle in his eyes when he spoke about skating, and the tension in his voice during those last arguments before everything unravelled. It’s been years, but the ghost of him lingers like a song stuck in your head.

“Y/N, you’ve got the Sunghoon piece, right?” your editor, Yunah, calls out, snapping you out of your trance. She’s a whirlwind of energy, dressed in a sharp blazer with a coffee mug permanently glued to her hand.

“Yeah,” you reply, trying to sound casual, though your voice wavers slightly. “I’ve got it.”

“Good,” she says, striding over to your desk. “The story’s got legs. Everyone’s buzzing about his reappearance and return to Korea. Olympic dreams, media darling, potential scandal… you’ve got to dig deep on this one. Make it personal.”

“Personal?” The word makes your stomach churn. “Isn’t that more tabloidy than what we’re used to?”

“Sports tabloids pay the bills, sweetheart,” Yunah says with a shrug. “And you’re the perfect person for this. You’ve got the knack for human stories, and Sunghoon’s story is nothing if not human. Besides, you went to the same university, right?”

The question hangs in the air, deceptively light. You hesitate for a moment too long, and Yunah’s brows lift, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Ah, I see,” she says teasingly. “Well, use it to your advantage.”

Of course. You forgot you're surrounded by people who read body language for a living. There’s no hiding anything from her.

She walks away before you can respond, leaving you with the sinking realisation that she’s not entirely wrong. Who better to cover Park Sunghoon’s meteoric rise—and whatever personal demons he’s carrying—than the girl who once loved him?

By lunchtime, you’ve done enough digging to know exactly what you’re up against.

Sunghoon’s name is everywhere.

His face—still frustratingly photogenic—plastered across articles, feature spreads, and fan-edited clips with dramatic music overlays. They all show a polished, confident man, far removed from the awkward boy you used to know. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his tailored suits scream sophistication, and his trademark smirk has only grown more enigmatic.

You scroll through write-ups that gush about his triumphant return to the ice. They speculate whether he’ll qualify for the next international season, drop cryptic mentions of a “new fire in his eyes,” and cite sources that can’t seem to agree whether his hiatus was due to injury or personal issues. Or both.

There are whispers about a reality show stint during his time in Spain—something lowkey, never officially aired, but leaked through blurry screenshots and strategically placed fan theories. A training arc in disguise, if you had to guess. Classic Sunghoon: disappearing, reinventing, and re-emerging like nothing happened.

And now? He’s starting to make headlines again.

Which makes sense, you suppose. He hasn’t been in the public eye for months. Not since that withdrawal from the Grand Prix final. Not since the buzz about that infamous tussle—the one that sports reporters avoided naming outright but loved to allude to. The speculation only made him more mysterious. More magnetic. The kind of story that writes itself: the fallen star, re-forging his crown.

Yunah’s right—the story’s got legs. You just wish you weren’t the one chasing it.

You stare blankly at the screen, lips pressed together as your cursor hovers over yet another article about him.

You were supposed to be over this.

And yet, you can’t deny the tightness coiling in your chest—not jealousy, exactly. Not regret, either. Just something far messier. The kind of feeling that comes from watching someone you once loved be glorified by the same world that never saw the nights you spent waiting for him to call. The world that didn’t witness the quiet crumbling of a girl who poured so much of herself into someone who didn’t know how to hold it.

You slam your laptop shut.

If he’s back on the ice, fine. Good for him.

But you’re not the same girl who used to cry over his missed calls and make excuses for his silence. You have a job to do. A byline to earn. And if this rink ends up being his comeback stage, then so be it.

You’ll be there—not as the girl who once loved him, but as the reporter who can write his rise without flinching.

The first step is setting up an interview, which means reaching out to his management. This whole thing could very well end here. You’ll send the email, Sunghoon will reject the request—just like he does with every other news agency or tabloid that thinks they can score an exclusive interview with him. Yunah will realise you’re not some journalistic prodigy, and she’ll move on to the next big headline.

That should comfort you. When Sunghoon says no, it’s over—no awkward reunions, no dredging up memories you’ve spent years trying to bury. And yet, you hesitate, fingers trembling as they hover over the keyboard.

The email stares back at you, every word perfectly composed, detached, professional. It doesn’t betray the tangle of thoughts fighting for dominance in your mind.

From: You Subject: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece Dear Ms. Yoon, I hope this email finds you well. My name is Kang Y/N, and I’m a journalist with Manifesto Daily. Our team is planning a profile piece on athlete Park Sunghoon, focusing on his inspiring journey as a professional athlete and his return to Korea. I would like to request an interview with Mr. Park to discuss his career, his aspirations for the future, and any personal insights he’d be willing to share with our readers. The piece aims to highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. Please let me know a time and date that would work best for Mr. Park’s schedule. I am happy to accommodate and can meet at his convenience. Should you require any further details about the story or our publication, please don’t hesitate to reach out. Thank you for considering this request. I look forward to your response. Best regards, Kang Y/N Senior Journalist (Sports Division) Manifesto Daily +82 XX XXXX YYYY

Highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. You scoff. As if you don’t already have enough material to craft an in-depth exposé on Park Sunghoon—complete with anecdotes, vivid details, and a treasure trove of receipts that you’ve kept buried at the back of your mind, and perhaps in a folder on your computer.

You know the kind of person Park Sunghoon is. You’ve seen him at his most passionate, the fire in his eyes when he spoke about mastering a new routine, and at his most vulnerable, when doubts about his own abilities kept him up at night. 

You’ve also witnessed him at his ugliest—those moments when he seemed completely disinterested during your calls, only for you to catch glimpses of him laughing unabashedly in his training mate’s Instagram stories. When he sent curt, dry texts that cut to your insecurities, leaving you questioning if you were the problem. And yet, now here you are, facing the daunting question: Who is he today? A polished media darling, exuding poise and confidence, or a jerk who simply broke your heart?

You’re not just writing a profile; it’s about untangling the complexities of the boy you once loved and the man he has become, all while confronting the version of him that’s lived rent-free in your head for years.

When you finally hit send, you lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply. It’s done. Now all you can do is wait.

The reply comes faster than expected.

For a moment, you stare at the screen, rereading the email as if the words might change. 

He said yes. The one answer you hadn’t prepared yourself for. A mix of relief and dread washes over you in waves, leaving you momentarily frozen.

From: yoon.jieun@hybe.com Subject: Re: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece Dear Ms. Kang, Thank you for reaching out. Sunghoon has reviewed your request and is happy to make time to participate in the interview for your profile piece. We appreciate your interest in highlighting his journey and achievements. The interview can be scheduled for this Thursday at 3:00 PM at the Olympic Training Rink in Seoul. Please confirm if this timing works for you. Additionally, let us know if there are any specific topics or questions you’d like Sunghoon to prepare for in advance. Should you require further assistance, feel free to contact me directly. Best regards, Yoon Ji-eun Executive Assistant, Park Sunghoon +82 XX XXXX YYYY

“Happy to make time,” you mutter under your breath, staring at the email on your screen. A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it. Does he even remember you? Or are you just another journalist to him now, a faceless name lost among the countless people chasing for a headline?

He must remember you. Right? After all, you were together for over four years—four long, formative years that shaped so much of who you are. And out of those four, at least three were good years. Happy years. The kind of memories that even if you wanted to forget, you couldn’t. 

He isn’t just part of your past; he is your past. From the moment you met him in freshman year college during orientation, to your graduation, and all the way up to the day he left for Spain to chase his dreams, Sunghoon was a constant—a gravitational force you couldn’t escape.

Late-night study sessions that turned into early-morning phone calls. The excitement of travelling to watch his competitions, where his focus on the ice was matched only by the way his eyes would light up when he found you waiting in the stands. The quiet moments, too—the ones where he’d rest his head on your lap after a long day of training, eyes closed, his walls momentarily lowered. 

You remember all of it, vividly. How could you not? It’s etched into the foundation of who you are, whether you like it or not. He alone made up your youth. 

And he alone crushed it.

The day of the interview arrives quicker than you’re ready for. The sky is overcast, mirroring the grey swirl of nerves in your stomach as you make your way to the Olympic Training Rink. The moment you step inside, a wave of cold air hits you—crisp and unforgiving, seeping through your coat like a reminder of why you're really here.

The rink is quieter than expected. No coaches shouting instructions, no background music blaring. Just the sharp, rhythmic slice of blades on ice echoing through the vast, open space. The sound is hypnotic. 

You spot him immediately. His movements are unmistakable—precise, elegant, detached—just like the version of him the world sees now. It’s surreal. For a moment, you're frozen. He’s always been like this on the ice, as if he belongs to a world the rest of us can only watch from the sidelines.

When he finally notices you, he skates over, his expression unreadable. Up close, he’s both familiar and foreign. The boy you loved is still there, but he’s hidden beneath layers of polished professionalism and years of distance.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice even. “It’s been a while.”

You force a smile, clutching your research papers like it’s the only thing tethering you to professionalism. “It has. Thanks for agreeing to this.”

He nods, gaze unwavering. “Anything for the press, right?”

The faintest curl of his lip accompanies the words, not quite a smirk, but it lands somewhere between sarcasm and civility. There’s a hint of irony in his tone, and you can’t tell if he’s mocking you, the situation, or himself. Either way, it stings in a place you wish was long numb.

You follow him as he skates toward the side lounge near the rink, where a table and chair have been set up for you. You set your things down, press the recorder button, and glance at your questions. But already, you can feel it—the reckoning of something unspoken humming beneath every word, every breath.

The breakup was as cold and sharp as the ice he mastered so effortlessly. Sunghoon’s inability to express himself had always been a quiet undercurrent in your relationship, but distance magnified the cracks until they became impossible to ignore. 

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. A phase. Just the price of loving someone whose dreams demanded everything of him. While he trained under the Spanish sun—chasing medals, perfection, legacy—you remained behind, stuck in the grey stillness of routine. Every morning was a quiet scroll through his tagged posts: flashes of sunlight on ice, arms slung around new faces, effortless smiles captured in perfect golden-hour light. He looked happy. Free. And you… you were still waiting, clinging to half-hearted apologies and empty reassurances.

The timezone difference was a fact of life, yes—but it wasn’t the hours that made him feel far away. It was the way he spoke with one foot already out the door. Every call became more strained, the conversation shallow, like he was rationing his energy and you were the last on his list. His words were careful, rehearsed, as if emotional honesty was a risk he couldn’t afford on top of training and public scrutiny.

Sometimes he wouldn’t even call, and when they did come, they hurt more than the silence. His eyes flickered elsewhere on the screen, distracted by movement off-camera or the notifications lighting up his phone. His voice was flat, barely warm, like he was speaking to a colleague—not someone who used to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. The nickname "Ice Prince" had once made you laugh, made you tease him during post-practice ramen dates. But it wasn’t funny anymore. It became a prophecy fulfilled—he had built walls you could no longer scale, frozen over the places you used to call home.

When the arguments came, they were frigid and brittle, snapping under the weight of unspoken frustrations. You started to memorise the pauses in his speech, the way he hesitated before saying your name—as though he wasn’t sure how to feel about it anymore.

It wasn’t just the miles between you that drove you apart—it was the glacier of his guarded heart, one you couldn’t thaw no matter how hard you tried.

And then one night, wrapped in a hoodie that still smelled faintly of him, you sat curled up on the steep edge of your windowsill, your knees pulled tight to your chest, eyes scanning the city like it might offer you answers. The lights blinked on like constellations you couldn’t name anymore, and you realised—with a crushing, reluctant clarity—you were holding him back. 

But more importantly, he was holding you back. 

Your lives had become separate timelines that only intersected on screens and stilted calls, and even then, it felt like you were orbiting each other with no gravity left to pull you close again. The connection you once cherished had thinned until it became a thread you had to squint to see, and even then, it felt like a lie.

So you did the one thing that felt more honest than any of your recent conversations: you typed out the words you’d been avoiding for weeks, hands shaking, eyes blurry.

“Maybe we’re both better off letting go.”

And hit send.

Just like that, another four years passed without him. 

Time, as always, moved in quiet, unremarkable ways—through the steady ticking of clocks and the dull rhythm of workdays blending into each other. You had slowly, stubbornly, climbed the ranks of your publishing company, carving a name for yourself as a senior reporter. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. 

Unexpectedly, you had found yourself swept into the whirlwind of sports journalism—ironic, in retrospect, considering how closely that world is being tied to him. But you told yourself it was coincidence. That it was your choice now. That your world, your career, your interests, were no longer shadowed by Sunghoon's orbit or shaped by the way he used to talk about the thrill of competing and nailing six-minute routines like they were sacred.

You insisted you were free. And maybe that was true. But in the quiet spaces between deadlines and press boxes, in the few spare seconds before interviews began or crowds broke into applause, you couldn’t stop that lingering, almost shameful thought from blooming: that maybe, just maybe, some part of you had always hoped to run into him again.

Not to rekindle anything. Not to reach for what had already slipped through your fingers.

But to show him. Show him that you had thrived. That you were still standing after everything. That the girl he left behind was long gone, replaced by someone sharper, stronger, more whole.

But now—now that you find yourself in this predicament, frozen in place on the edge of a rink you never expected to be at, watching the familiar curve of his form cut across the ice with the same breathtaking grace—you feel like a fool for ever thinking you were ready.

You want nothing more than for the ground beneath you to crack open and swallow you whole. Because seeing him again doesn’t fill you with triumph. It doesn’t validate anything. It just hurts.

Worse than it should.

And it terrifies you how easy it is to fall back into that ache.

“Hello? Earth to Y/N.”

You blink, startled out of your reverie by the sight of Sunghoon waving a hand in front of your face. You hadn’t even realised you'd spaced out.

“Sorry,” you murmur, clearing your throat. Your fingers fumble with the papers you had so meticulously prepped—highlighted, annotated, sorted in order—yet now you pretend to look for something among them, just to avoid his gaze. You know it’s a weak cover. And karma hits fast.

A gust of air from the heater overhead flutters your stack of papers, and before you can react, a dozen sheets slip from your grip and scatter. Some land across the floor. Others fly dramatically over the rink’s low barricade, drifting like paper snowflakes onto the pristine ice.

“Oh, shit—” you hiss, already scrambling to gather them, crawling after loose pages that slip under chairs and along the skirting of the rink. You’re mumbling curses to yourself under your breath as you pick up the pieces of paper off the floor when your eyes zone in on a particular page that landed upright. Your breath catches.

Reference 4: Compilation of Netizens’ Impressions on Athlete Park

+62 -12 wow as expected park sunghoon! young, rich and handsome. must be a dream to date someone like him Dream or nightmare? Not really sure but okay.

+120 -24 kyaaaa he’s so handsome!! I’m a fan! What’s the point of being handsome? He’s a jerk!

+82 -4 wow how can someone look so perfect… he looks like a disney character Correct. More specifically, that giant ice golem from Frozen -.-

+32 -6 i wonder if he has a girlfriend. There must be so much pressure dating someone as perfect as Park Sunghoon. It’s okay, i’ll volunteer!! No pressure. He doesn’t open up enough for you to feel pressure. Still, may the odds be ever in your favour.

Your stomach drops. You’d forgotten those were even there—your sardonic, late-night annotations scribbled in red pen. Bitter, sharp, personal. And littered all over your research stack.

You snap your head up, and horror freezes your limbs.

Sunghoon is on the ice leaning casually against the rink barricade, one of the annotated pages in hand. His expression is a cocktail of amusement and disbelief, and worst of all—a hint of knowing. He reads aloud in a slow, deliberate tone, his voice dripping with mockery.

“‘Park Sunghoon is a block of ice personified. If you want to know what it's like dating a block of ice, 10/10 recommend.’”

He scoffs, dropping the page slightly to meet your eyes.

“Interesting research.”

Your blood rushes to your ears. You feel exposed, raw, like someone’s just peeled the skin back from every nerve ending and left them pulsing in the open air. You can’t even remember writing that annotation—but of course it’s in red, underlined, and impossible to ignore. One of many off-handed comments scrawled across your notes, never meant to be seen. Certainly not by him.

“I—I didn’t mean for that to—” You falter. What can you even say? You were angry when you wrote those, bitter and alone at 2 a.m., trying to turn pain into sarcasm.

Sunghoon studies you, his expression unreadable again. But there’s something in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to figure out if you’re the same girl he once knew, or someone entirely new. Someone just as guarded now as he once was.

“Didn’t mean for what?” he drawls, raising an eyebrow. “You mean you didn’t mean to write all these berating comments in bold red ink all over your research paper?” He plucks up another sheet from the scattered pile, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Let’s see what else we’ve got.”

You instantly recognise that one. Your heart sinks. It’s that page—the one where you’d printed promotional shots of him modelling for an active sportswear brand. Not only had you annotated it with snide remarks about his ‘unnecessarily photogenic jawline,’ but you’d also drawn little devil horns and moustaches across his face like a deranged kindergartener with a vendetta.

“Oh my god, give me that!” you blurt out, reaching instinctively over the rink barricade in an attempt to snatch it back. But of course, Sunghoon is Sunghoon—a whole seven inches taller and built like someone who only lives and breaths protein. He easily keeps the paper just out of reach, lifting it higher with an infuriating flick of his wrist.

And then there’s the bloody barricade. Cold, unyielding metal pressing against your ribs as you lean further than you probably should. You’re close enough now to see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the smug glint in his eyes that says he’s enjoying this far too much.

“Wow,” he muses, inspecting the doodles with mock appreciation. “You even gave me fangs. That’s new.”

“Sunghoon, I swear to God—”

“Relax.” He folds the paper with exaggerated care and waves it around in the air, taunting you. “I’m flattered you still think about me. Even if it’s in your own… special way.”

You feel a slow, rising heat on your cheeks, accompanied by the realisation that you’re no longer sure who’s in control of this interview anymore—you or the boy you once loved who is now laughing at your annotated emotional breakdowns. 

You’re burning with embarrassment. Mortification. But more than that, you’re furious—at him, at yourself, at the stupid page still clutched in his hand like a golden ticket. Without thinking, you shove open the rink’s side gate and step onto the ice.

“Y/N—” he calls, warning laced in his voice. But you don’t listen.

Your flats hit the ice and your body immediately regrets the decision. You’re not dressed for this. The soles of your shoes slip against the surface, and gravity betrays you in a matter of seconds.

“Shit—!”

You yelp as your foot skids out from under you. The papers in your hand fly upward in a dramatic arc, and your arms flail as you lose balance completely. A part of you braces for the impact, the cold bite of ice against your back and the guaranteed humiliation that’ll follow.

Four years since you’ve seen your ex-boyfriend, and you’re about to face-plant onto the very place that drove him away from you.

Damn this ice rink. Damn you, Park Sunghoon.

But the fall never comes.

Instead, there’s a sudden blur of motion—fast, practiced, effortless. Arms wrap around you just in time, steadying your momentum as your body lurches forward. You slam into something solid—someone solid—and for a moment, all you hear is the rapid pounding of your heart and the low whoosh of his skates cutting against the ice.

You look up.

Sunghoon stares down at you, jaw tight, one arm around your waist and the other gripping your wrist where he caught you. The smirk is gone now, replaced with something quieter—unreadable.

You’re close. Too close. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the lingering warmth of his touch against your coat sleeve. He steadies you like muscle memory, like no time has passed at all.

“You never change,” he mutters under his breath, but there’s something indecipherable in his tone—annoyed, maybe. Or amused. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what to feel either.

You pull away quickly, too quickly, slipping again slightly before you regain your footing with a shaky huff. Your palms are planted against his chest, and you can feel the familiar beat of his heart under all that armour of fabric and calm. It rattles you more than the near-fall did.

You open your mouth to snap something biting—maybe about how you didn’t need his help, or how you’d rather eat the ice than owe him—but then you see it.

A flicker of pain across his face. A wince.

It’s subtle. So quick that anyone else might’ve missed it. But not you. You’d studied that face for years. You know what his mask looks like when it slips.

He straightens a little too stiffly, his jaw tightening as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. It’s slight, but telling. Your brows draw together as a thought rises, uninvited and stubborn.

The rumours about his injury.

It wasn’t reported officially—just whispers that circulated through the sports journalism grapevine. A rumoured altercation in Spain with another figure skater. A "tussle," they called it. No names, no details, just speculation buried in a few poorly sourced articles and message board threads that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. Some even said it was the real reason he disappeared from competition for two entire seasons.

At the time, it had seemed like nothing more than gossip. Now, watching the way he stands with deliberate caution, the rumour doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

“You okay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, then gives a short nod, not meeting your eyes. “Fine. You’re the one slipping all over the place.”

You bristle. “Well, maybe if you didn’t dangle incriminating evidence over the ice like a Bond villain—”

He actually laughs at that. It’s quiet, caught off guard, and so startlingly familiar that it sends a jolt through your chest. For a second, just a second, you forget everything else—the sarcasm, the history, the sharp words—and remember how that laugh used to feel like home.

But it fades quickly. And in its place is that wall again—the carefully constructed version of him the world sees.

You dust yourself off, avoiding his gaze as you mutter, “Thanks. For not letting me faceplant.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, voice neutral again. “Would’ve been a liability issue.”

You roll your eyes and crouch to pick up another page, trying to focus on your scattered notes rather than the ache settling low in your chest. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you, can feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down between you.

Your mind also lingers on the way he winced—on the possibility that something deeper still lurks beneath the polished exterior.

“I’m on a tight schedule today. Let’s get the interview started, shall we?” Sunghoon says coolly, handing you the last of your scattered notes.

You take it from him, eyes briefly flickering to the page. Another cringe ripples through you—more scribbled sarcasm in the margins, barely legible under your rushed handwriting. Fantastic. But you school your expression, swallowing the urge to snatch it back and set it on fire.

“Thanks,” you say evenly, forcing composure into your voice as you tuck the page into your folder. “Let’s begin.”

You sit back down, smoothing the creases from your notes as you click the recorder on again. Your pen hovers above the page for a second too long.

“Alright,” you begin, adopting your neutral reporter tone, “let’s start with something simple. You’ve been back in Korea for a little over three months now. How has the transition been, returning after so long abroad?”

Sunghoon leans forward slightly, arms crossed in that easy, guarded posture you remember all too well.

“Busy,” he says. “Familiar, in some ways. But the pace here is different. Everyone’s watching. Everyone expects something.”

You jot that down, even though it doesn’t say much. It’s a good warm-up answer. Controlled. Polished.

“Does that pressure ever affect your performance?” you press gently, eyes flicking up to catch his expression.

He shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “Pressure’s part of the job. If it affects you, you don’t belong here.”

You resist the urge to raise a brow. There it is again—that edge in his voice, so calm it almost passes for indifference. Almost.

You move to your next question. “You’ve recently partnered with Belift for their new activewear line. What drew you to them over the other offers on the table?”

A pause. A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. You realise too late that this is the same line of questioning printed on the devil-horned page still sticking out of your folder.

“I liked their vision,” he says, but the glance he gives you is pointed. “Something about... sharp lines and ice tones. Felt on-brand.”

You cough lightly, ignoring the jab. “And the photoshoot?” you ask, pen poised again. “You received quite a response online. Some say it marked a shift in your public image—less ‘Ice Prince,’ more...”

“‘Devilishly handsome and emotionally unavailable’?” he offers, arching a brow.

You shoot him a look. “That’s not exactly what I was going to say.”

“Sure it wasn’t.”

A beat of silence passes before you recover. “Let’s pivot. In Spain, you were training under Coach Morales. How did his style compare to what you were used to in Korea?”

Sunghoon exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. For the first time, his answer comes without a filter.

“He was tougher. Stricter, but less traditional. He didn’t care how I was perceived—only what I delivered. And if I didn’t deliver, he made sure I knew it.”

Something flickers in his eyes—something heavy and lived-in. You don’t push. Not yet.

You scribble a note before asking, softer this time, “Was that hard for you?”

He pauses. “No,” he says after a moment. “What was hard was unlearning everything I thought I already knew.”

The sentence lands with a thud in your chest.

You nod slowly, tapping your pen against your notebook. “Unlearning can be the hardest part,” you say, and you’re not sure whether you’re talking about figure skating... or each other.

You glance at your next question, fingers tightening slightly around your pen. The rhythm of the interview is shifting—balancing between surface-level poise and the weight of everything that hasn’t been said.

“Your return to Korea has been a hot topic amongst our readers,” you begin, tone level. “It’s been a solid three years since the last time you were in the country for the Winter Olympics. Naturally, people are curious—what brought you back? Especially considering the new season is starting soon.”

Sunghoon leans back in his seat, arms loosely crossed. “I can't give away too many details,” he says, gaze cool but not unkind. “Long story short, I’m in the country for some personal reasons that I'd prefer not to disclose.”

You nod, jotting something down even though it’s barely usable. Your next question hovers on your tongue, heavier than the others. “I see. Well, there have been some rumours… surrounding an altercation with another figure skater—someone else under Coach Morales’ regime. Do you have any comment on that?”

His eyes flick to yours—sharper this time. He doesn’t respond right away. You hear the faint rustle of paper, the soft crunch of his skates shifting on the ice. “Is that part of the interview? Or just personal curiosity?”

You look up at him, your expression unreadable. “Does it matter?”

“Well, I assure you there was no altercation,” he says smoothly. “Just minor disagreements.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not really.”

The tension in the air thickens, more palpable than the chill radiating off the ice behind him.

You clear your throat. “Alright. Then what about your injury? How’s recovery? Two seasons is a long time to disappear. Many fans were concerned when you missed the CS Lombardia Trophy in Italy last year. That was a pretty high-profile absence.”

You don’t even know where that came from. The question is not on your list—not even in the margins. But the words slip out anyway, fuelled by instinct more than intention. A part of you just wants to know. Wants to see if he’ll flinch again, if he’ll tell the truth, if he’s still capable of letting someone in—even if it’s just for a moment.

At first, he’s stoic. But then you see it—the shift in his posture, the twitch of tension in his jaw. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, he says, “That’s not the story you’re here for.”

“Maybe not,” you murmur. “But it’s the one people would care about.”

A long silence stretches between you, taut as a drawn wire. He’s no longer smirking. No longer deflecting. Just staring, as if weighing something inside himself.

“I don’t believe I ever mentioned being injured,” he replies, with a short, hollow laugh. “These rumours get way too out of hand and invasive sometimes, don’t you think, Reporter Kang?”

That tone again—playful on the surface, barbed just beneath.

You lower your pen slowly, your professionalism fraying at the edges. “Look,” you say, voice quieter, firmer. “If you're not going to give me anything to work with, why'd you even say yes to this interview in the first place?”

The recorder is still running. The room is still silent. But something in the air has shifted—subtle, but irreversible. The space between you no longer feels professional. It feels personal.

Not reporter and subject. 

Just you and him. Two people orbiting the same history, waiting for someone to say the next honest thing.

He moves first. Exhales through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re still the same.”

“No,” you say softly. “I’m really not.”

He studies you at that, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to read a story written in a language he once knew by heart. “You’re bolder now,” he admits. “Sharper around the edges.”

“And you’ve learnt how to talk like a press release.”

He huffs a short breath, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Comes with the territory.”

“Right. Just a clean-cut, polished professional athlete now.” You tuck a paper into your folder, but your eyes linger on him a moment longer.

Still so familiar. Still so far.

You slide the last paper into your folder, but your hands don’t move to close it. You just sit there, the silence pressing down between you again. Your gaze drops to the recorder, still blinking softly.

“Do you want me to turn it off?” you ask quietly.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tenses, like he’s debating something with himself. Then, slowly, he nods.

You reach forward and press the button. The soft click echoes louder than it should.

For a while, neither of you speaks. It’s not awkward, but it’s weighty. Careful. Like standing on a frozen lake, knowing one wrong move could crack the surface.

“I didn’t come back for a sponsorship,” he says eventually, his voice lower than it’s been all day. “Or to prep for the season. Not really.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes.

“I came back because I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits. “I needed to feel... something familiar. Just for a while.”

His fingers tap a slow rhythm against his thigh, a nervous habit you remember well. The same one from when he used to sit beside you during exams, whispering under his breath that he was going to flunk—only to ace the paper every time.

You just nod, not sure how to respond to this sudden vulnerability. Truthfully, throughout your four years of dating, he had never truly let himself be vulnerable in front of you. Not fully.

Sure, you’d seen him tired. You’d seen him frustrated. You’d seen the cracks on the surface when pressure pushed too hard—but he always wore his pride like armour, always bounced back with a smirk or a shrug, always insisted he was fine, even when you knew he wasn’t.

But this—this quiet confession, this barely-audible tremor in his voice—it feels different.

Feels like he's reaching out to you.

And it guts you more than you’d like to admit.

You shift slightly in your seat, unsure if you’re meant to comfort him or just bear witness. “Is that why you said yes to this?” you ask. “To the interview?”

His eyes flick toward you, then away again.

“I wasn’t sure,” he says after a beat. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

Your breath catches. The words aren’t said with romantic flourish, not laced with sweetness or longing—but they still land squarely in your chest, knocking something loose.

You don’t know what to say. For once, your head isn’t filled with questions or comebacks. Just the ghost of a hundred conversations you never had, and the echo of all the things that could have been different if either of you had said the honest thing first.

But it’s too late for that now.

You glance down at your folder, lips pressed into a thin line. “Thanks for your time,” you say, and it’s so formal, so distant, it might as well have come from someone else entirely.

"I'm assuming I'll hear from your legal representative if I use any of these in my piece."

Your voice is calm, steady—too steady. The sentence lands like a wall slamming back into place between you, brick by brick. You don’t say it to be cruel. You say it because you need to anchor yourself in something safe, something distant. Because the moment felt too raw, too real, and you don’t know what to do with the part of you that wanted to reach across the table instead of retreat.

Sunghoon stiffens. Just slightly.

“No,” he says after a moment. “You won’t. Off the record’s fine. Not like it matters now, anyway.”

You nod once, curt. “Got it.”

And just like that, the spell breaks. The weight in the room doesn't lift, but it shifts—muted now, buried again beneath layers of detachment and professionalism. The kind you’ve both grown too good at.

You don’t look at him when you stand. Don’t give yourself the chance to. Your hands move on autopilot—closing the recorder, tucking your pen away, zipping your coat with fingers that tremble ever so slightly. And then you’re moving, steps brisk and deliberate, the sound of your boots against the concrete floor too loud in the quiet.

Behind you, you hear nothing.

No apology. No explanation. No plea.

Just silence.

Sunghoon opens his mouth—his hand halfway raised, like he’s about to call your name. But the words never make it past his lips. He watches you go, jaw clenched, the moment slipping through his fingers before he even realises he still wanted to hold onto it.

For him, seeing you again was something he knew he would never truly be prepared for, no matter how many times he rehearsed this conversation in his head. Because you were never a script he could memorise.

You were always unpredictable. Slipping through moments like sand through his fingers—too quick, too sharp, too full of feeling. He remembers how your emotions came in layers—some loud and impulsive, others quiet and impossible to decipher. And maybe that’s what scared him the most.

Because he never quite knew how to meet you where you were.

You made decisions faster than he could process. You said the things he only thought about. And you demanded a kind of presence, a kind of emotional honesty, that he had spent most of his life trying to avoid. A part of him had admired that about you. Another part? It drove him insane.

Now, as your figure disappears through the doors without so much as a backward glance, he feels that same ache blooming in his chest again—familiar and bitter.

He told himself that this would be closure.

But it doesn’t feel like the end. It feels like a page he never finished reading.

And you’re already gone.

You spend the next few hours drafting the profile piece that was supposedly meant to “provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete.” Though with the material you’ve managed to gather, it’s unlikely you’ll even graze the surface. 

Whatever. Just give them the Sunghoon they want: the enigmatic comeback king, the prodigy turned recluse turned headline again. You’ll quote his stats, mention his precision, maybe even throw in a poetic metaphor about how the ice has always been his canvas. You’ll do your job. Professionally. Neutrally.

You’ve done harder things. Covered messier stories. Interviewed athletes who could barely string a sentence together. Sat through twelve-hour matches just to get three lines of gold. Writing about Sunghoon, someone you know—knew—should be easier. Right?

Wrong.

So incredibly, painfully wrong.

Because the moment you sit down to outline your first paragraph, every sentence you draft sounds clinical. Distant. Like you’re trying too hard to keep your voice out of it. But your voice is in it. It’s everywhere. Between the lines, in the phrasing, in the careful omission of details only you would know.

You stare at the blinking cursor on your screen like it’s mocking you. Because no matter how objective you try to be, there’s no deleting the fact that the man skating his way back into the spotlight is the same one who once skated straight out of your life.

And now you have to write about him like he’s just another assignment. Like he wasn’t the one story you never really finished.

Still, you’re a professional—and Park Sunghoon is nothing if not a compelling subject. Enigmatic, polished, untouchable. Every photo released of him looks like it’s been run through three rounds of edits and an entire PR team’s approval. His public image is a masterclass in controlled narrative, curated to the last detail, but his backstory remains a blank canvas to most.

Well, not to you.

You have a folder of photos from when he was still just Sunghoon—before the endorsements, before Spain. 

Sunghoon also never said you couldn’t dive into his university life. And it’s not like he gave you much to work with anyway.

That’s fair game.

No media-trained responses, no glossy interview clips—just a black hole of the years he spent quietly grinding through lectures and training sessions, tucked far from the spotlight. 

To the public, it’s a blank space. But to you? It’s fertile ground. You were there. You knew the version of him who lived off convenience store food and energy drinks, who stayed up late tweaking final projects and icing swollen ankles at the same time. You knew the boy who forgot to reply to emails but remembered to text you good luck before your presentations. 

You know the difference between the way he smiles for cameras and the one that used to slip out mid-yawn, when his guard was down. You know the scar above his ankle—not because it’s ever been mentioned in press, but because you were there when he got it, wrapping it in gauze while he hissed through gritted teeth. You know how he taps his fingers when he’s nervous. How he tightens his jaw before speaking truths he doesn't want to admit. How his laugh used to crack in the middle when something really got to him, how his voice used to trip over words when he was excited or flustered—not like the carefully paced cadence he gives the media now.

He may have grown into a mystery, but once upon a time, he was the most knowable person in your life.

So yeah, you dig. Not out of spite. Not exactly. You’re just doing your job. Sourcing old event flyers, class photos, public records, and a few strategically placed emails to former professors and classmates. You tell yourself it’s just research—nothing personal. Just building a fuller picture for the piece. The audience deserves depth. Authenticity. A glimpse of the man behind the athlete.

Besides, it’s not like you’re digging for scandal. You’re just… revisiting old ground.

Still, there's something undeniably sharp about the way your fingers move as you pull up archived yearbooks and student publication blurbs. How your lips twitch at the memory of him stumbling through a group presentation in first-year psych, cheeks red, voice shaking as he tried to explain semiotics with a skating metaphor. The same boy who once dropped his cue cards and muttered, “I’m better on ice, I swear,” to a room that actually laughed with him. 

And maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't hurt to slip the story into the draft. Tactfully. Casually. A humanising touch. A reminder to the world that he wasn’t always so untouchable.

You add a line about his time at university, his balancing act between training and lectures, the quiet discipline that preceded his fame. And though it’s not in your style to get sentimental, you let yourself write one soft line, just one:

You keep it sharp. Clean. Balanced. The words come easily, like muscle memory. You stitch together the facts, layer in the charm, and add a sprinkle of speculation where it’s appropriate—just enough to give readers something to chew on. You reference his decorated track record, his quiet re-entry into the spotlight, the way his name is starting to echo through rinks again like a whispered rumour of greatness returning.

You even write about the growing murmur among commentators: that Park Sunghoon might just be gearing up for a full-blown comeback.

Even though he told you—specifically, clearly—that he wasn’t prepping for the season.

But facts don’t sell as well as fantasy. And he’s always been better as a myth than a man.

So you keep your voice light. Objective. Not too close, not too distant. Just enough ambiguity to make it seem like you’re on the outside looking in. Just enough plausible deniability to protect you from the truth threaded beneath every line. You write him like a legend resurrected. Like someone who left the world breathless, disappeared, and is now daring to return.

Before you know it, you're signing it off.

And as you read over the final draft—flawless, well-paced, and entirely detached—you can’t help but feel the faintest pulse of something beneath your skin.

Because this isn’t just a story about Park Sunghoon.

It’s a story about how well you still know him.

And how expertly you’ve learned to pretend you don’t.

You don’t even attempt to read it over another time. You just hit send.

The email whirs off to your editor, and with it, the story. Not the whole one. Not the one you carry in your chest like an old wound. Just the one the world gets to see.

And if he reads it—

Well.

Let him wonder how much of the truth you chose to leave out.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Ice Doesn’t Melt: A Closer Look at Park Sunghoon’s Return to Korea

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily

Three years since his last appearance on home soil, South Korea’s beloved figure skater Park Sunghoon has returned—not with the fanfare some expected, but with a quiet presence that speaks volumes. After a two-season absence from competitive performance, Park, now 27, has chosen to settle in Seoul again, sparking both curiosity and speculation among fans and professionals alike.

“I needed something familiar,” he said during our brief but telling interview, when asked about his decision to return. He didn’t specify more than that, and true to form, left the rest hanging in the air unsaid.

Park Sunghoon has always been a study in restraint—on and off the ice. From the moment he first captured public attention as a prodigious teen gliding across the rink with terrifying precision, he has maintained an image both pristine and impenetrable. Nicknamed “The Ice Prince” by fans and media alike, Park built a reputation not just on technical skill, but on his ability to keep the world at arm’s length.

His return to Korea comes on the heels of years spent overseas—Spain, to be exact—where he reportedly trained under a discreet but rigorous programme with world renowned Coach Alex Morales.

Park was last seen in competitive skating during the 2023 Grand Prix, where he shocked the world by abruptly withdrawing from the final. At the time, he was considered a strong contender for the gold, making his sudden exit all the more startling. The incident was never formally addressed by his management, and Park himself has avoided discussing it altogether. The silence that followed only fuelled speculation—injury, burnout, conflict—but no answers ever came. Just absence.

Still, those who’ve recently spotted him during early morning solo sessions at the Seoul Ice Arena report that his technique is sharper, cleaner—almost startling in its control. But what truly draws attention is the absence of spectacle. No press conference, no sponsor-driven welcome, no grand statement announcing his intentions. Just quiet re-entry.

“He doesn’t skate like someone preparing for a comeback,” one former coach, who requested anonymity, shared. “He skates like someone trying to remember why he loved it in the first place.”

Yet, it’s not just his time abroad that shaped the man returning now. Long before the endorsements and Olympic buzz, Park had quietly juggled his dual identity as both athlete and student. Few fans are aware that between competition seasons, he completed a degree in media and communication at a local university. Classmates from that time recall him as a quiet presence—always punctual, often reserved, but not unfriendly. He kept to himself for the most part, but those who got close remember his dry humour, his encyclopaedic knowledge of classic film, and a surprising tendency to ramble nervously during group presentations.

“He once tried to explain a semiotic theory using a skating routine as an analogy,” one classmate laughed. “It didn’t make much sense, but he was so earnest about it, we just let him finish. After that, he was known as the ‘semiotic boy’ among our coursemates.”

Those stories paint a softer, more human picture of the man the public still views as near-mythic. But those who knew Park Sunghoon before the spotlight remember someone more boy than myth—equal parts unsure and brilliant, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to carry the weight of his own potential. Just a young man balancing essays and exhibitions. Late-night editing sessions and early morning ice drills.

This return has reignited questions about what Park wants now—what comes after the medals, the global tours, and the silence that followed. His name still commands weight, still trends with the slightest public appearance, yet there’s a noticeable shift in how he carries it. Less prince. More person.

There’s been no official word on whether Park will rejoin the competitive circuit, though murmurs within the skating community suggest he’s been quietly invited to participate in the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics team tryouts. Whether he intends to accept remains unclear—Park has neither confirmed nor denied the rumours, keeping his future as intentionally unreadable as ever.

And perhaps that’s the story. Not a triumphant return. Not a redemption arc. But presence. The act of being. The quiet audacity of choosing stillness in a world that only ever celebrated his movement.

In many ways, Park Sunghoon remains an enigma. But for those who’ve followed his journey, that isn’t new. What’s new is the version of him that doesn’t seek to melt the ice—but instead, has learned to live with it.

Only time will tell what that means for the future of figure skating’s most elusive son.

“Our dear Y/N, you’ve done it again.”

Applause breaks out the second your foot crosses the threshold of the office. It’s 9 a.m.—too early, too loud, and at least three hours behind the amount of sleep you need to properly function. You blink, trying to place what exactly you’re being celebrated for.

“Bravo. That was an excellent article,” Minju, the team’s ever-enthusiastic publicist, grins as he pats you on the shoulder in passing.

Oh.

That was going out today?

You didn’t even have your morning coffee yet.

By the time you’ve dropped your bag onto your desk and opened your laptop, your inbox is already a mess. The subject lines blur together:

[RE] Manifesto Exclusive – Park Sunghoon IS HE BACK FOR REAL?? The Ice Prince has feelings?? Thank you for this. I cried.

You open a few out of morbid curiosity. Fans are flooding your public inbox with praise, speculation, and—because the internet is the internet—several unsolicited theories about a secret marriage and a love child. Your copy editor, Moka, forwards you one with the subject line: “if he doesn’t want to melt, i’ll melt FOR him.”

On social media, it’s even worse. Or better. You’re not sure yet.

His name is trending. #ParkSunghoon.

Followed closely by #IcePrinceReturns, and the truly cringy #TheColdDoesntBotherHoonAnyway.

Tweets fly across your feed:

@/ice_princess: this article just made me want to lie face down in the snow and whisper Park Sunghoon’s name to the frost

@/manifesto_daily_stan: Kang y/n i’m free on thursday if you want to do god’s work again

@/plscomebackhoon: she said he doesn’t need to melt. he just needs to exist. do you HEAR that??? DO YOU.

You rub your temples, overwhelmed, equal parts proud and terrified. It was just a profile piece. A quiet one. No exposés, no scandals—just a man and the silence he didn’t bother filling.

And somehow, that’s exactly what everyone needed.

Editors are thrilled. Readers are emotional. Former skaters are sharing it. Someone on Twitter even called it “the most human thing written about an athlete in years,” and you don’t know whether to be flattered or panicked.

Because it wasn’t meant to be that personal. 

Not really.

And yet—how could it not be?

You told the truth, sure. The visible one. But between the lines, there were pieces of you too. Tiny, hidden echoes of everything you remembered and everything you refused to say. And now it’s out there—immortalised in print and pixels—being consumed by people who will never know what you left out.

You’re halfway through scrolling a tweet thread titled “25 Times Park Sunghoon Looked Like a Heartbroken Studio Ghibli Protagonist” when a new email notification pops up.

From: theiceprince@gmail.com Subject: That Article

You squint.

How... tacky.

You open it, already bracing yourself for either legal threats or sarcasm.

Hey. Took your email off the internet, hope you don't mind. Nice article. Although, I don't think I approved any of those pictures you used in it. Especially the one where I’m mid-blink and look like I just saw God. Bold choice. P.S. You really quoted my classmate calling me “semiotic boy”? That’s... deeply unnecessary.

You stare at the screen, lips twitching despite yourself.

It’s so him—passive-aggressive, smug, and annoyingly charming. The kind of email only Park Sunghoon would send instead of just texting like a normal person.

At the bottom, there’s no sign-off. No best regards, no sincerely, not even a name.

Just one final line, added like an afterthought:

You still overuse em-dashes, by the way.

You exhale a laugh. God, of course he noticed that.

You stare at the screen, blinking. Once. Twice.

Of all the emails you expected today—from eager fans, nosy editors, one conspiracy theorist convinced Sunghoon is a time traveller—this was not on the list.

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, rereading the message like it might change if you blink hard enough. But no. Still the same. Still signed off with zero punctuation, zero emotion, and 100% Sunghoon.

You scoff.

theiceprince@gmail.com. You can’t get over it. You don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he still uses the nickname he’s allegedly “not fond of,” or the fact that he sent this at 9:46 in the morning, as if he’s just casually emailing his accountant and not the ex-girlfriend who roasted his public persona to poetic effect.

Bold choice, he says.

This, from the man who once wore leather gloves indoors during summer and called it “a vibe.”

And semiotic boy? That quote was gold. If anything, he should be thanking you for making him sound like an emotionally tortured academic with cheekbones.

Still… your fingers hover over the keyboard.

The sensible part of you says to delete it. Or at the very least, archive it and go refill your coffee. You already got your exclusive. You did your job. The story’s out there, and it’s done.

But the curious part of you—the one that still knows how he takes his coffee, still remembers the shape of his laugh—can’t help but wonder what this email really means.

You don’t respond. Not yet.

But you don’t delete it either.

You just stare at the screen, lips pressed together, and whisper to yourself—

"I need a coffee break."

With that, you grab your cardigan, slip on your trainers, and leave the email open on your desktop as if stepping away from it might somehow make it disappear. The air outside bites at your cheeks—crisp, early, and a little too cold for spring. Your mind buzzes more from the lack of sleep than caffeine, and your only plan is to make it to the café on autopilot.

The café is still quiet at this hour, the kind of place where the clinking of ceramic cups and the occasional low murmur of conversation hums like white noise. The bell above the door chimes softly as you enter, and immediately you're greeted by the warm, grounding scent of roasted coffee beans and sugar syrup.

You exhale, shoulders easing slightly when you notice the queue is short. You move toward the counter, already calculating how much espresso you can legally ingest in one sitting, when a voice calls out from the seating area.

“Didn’t get my email?” The tone is casual—annoyingly casual. “Or did you read it and purposely decide not to respond?”

You freeze mid-step.

No way…

You turn, slowly—like you're afraid if you move too fast, the moment will solidify into something real you’re not ready for.

And there he is.

Park Sunghoon.

He’s standing just a few feet away, leaning with practiced ease against the edge of a table like he belongs there, like he hasn’t just completely upended your morning, looking frustratingly well-rested for someone who supposedly prefers early ice sessions. He’s dressed casually—black coat draped over a fitted charcoal jumper, those black-rimmed glasses he used to wear in university when he was trying to be invisible. But he was never very good at that.

His gaze locks with yours—calm, steady, unreadable—and it takes everything in you not to let your expression betray the punch of memory hitting you square in the chest.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, half under your breath.

“Sorry?” he says, feigning innocence.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, crossing your arms, trying to compose yourself. “Just… surprised...”

“Surprised to see me,” he says, finishing the thought as if he’s been rehearsing it in his head. 

“Yeah, at my coffee spot,” you sneer, narrowing your eyes. “What, are you stalking me?”

He gestures lazily toward the table behind him, where a half-drunk latte sits beside a copy of some obscure paperback you’re certain he’s only pretending to read. “I was here first. Technically.”

You smile, tight-lipped, the professional mask slipping neatly into place. “Well, I apologise if you felt like I had something against you. I get thousands of emails every day—your mail must’ve just gotten lost in the flood of junk mail. If it was really that urgent, you could’ve just texted.”

It’s a big, fat lie. You won’t even pretend otherwise. You read it. Multiple times. But you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. 

His response is immediate. “You changed your number a few years ago. Didn’t leave much choice.”

The way he says it is deliberate, a little too sharp around the edges, like he’s been holding onto that fact longer than he’d care to admit. And what is he implying? That he’s tried contacting you over the years? What for?

You raise an eyebrow. “Right. And instead of, I don’t know, asking your assistant for it—you know, the same assistant I literally emailed last week—you thought it would be less invasive to go digging through old contact forms and hope I still checked my public inbox?”

He shrugs again, shameless. “It was surprisingly easy. And I figured it’d be less awkward than asking someone for it directly.”

You narrow your eyes. “Because nothing says respecting boundaries like showing up at my local café after sending a mildly passive-aggressive email.”

“Oh?” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So you did read it?”

“No.”

“Then how’d you know it was passive-aggressive?”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just a touch. “Because I know you.”

The silence that follows is dense and immediate, settling between you with the weight of everything left unsaid. It hums beneath the chatter of the café, a fragile thread stretched so tight that you swear it might snap if either of you so much as blinked wrong.

Then, mercifully, the barista calls out for the next person in line—that’s you.

You move instinctively toward the counter, but before you can even begin to open your mouth, he’s already there, casually stepping beside you.

“Long black,” Sunghoon says, voice smooth as ever. “Make it a double shot.”

You turn your head slowly, eyes wide. “You remember my order.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Some things are hard to forget. Especially if it's the most atrocious coffee order known to mankind.”

And just like that, you’re thrown. Not by the gesture, but by the way he says it—like it means something. Like maybe he's not just here to pester you about emails and profile photos. Like maybe there’s something else behind those carefully guarded eyes.

But you're not ready to unpack that. Not here. Not now.

So instead, you nod stiffly, and say nothing.

Not because you have nothing to say—

But because you know, with Park Sunghoon, even the smallest word might start something you’re not sure you’re ready to finish.

You’re still reeling from the fact that he remembers minuscule details—like the exact way you take your coffee—when he casually steps in front of you and pays for it before you can even open your mouth to protest.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, surprised but keeping your voice neutral.

He waves it off, already pocketing the receipt like it’s no big deal. “Still have no idea how you even drink that shit,” he mutters, eyeing the dark brew with a look of theatrical disgust. “But consider it a compliment. For the article. It was… good.”

You glance up at him over the rim of your cup as you take your first sip, letting the heat hit your hands before the taste even registers. “Just good?”

He shrugs, nonchalant, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You didn’t use my best angles.”

You pause, lips curving slightly. “Oh, don’t worry,” you reply smoothly. “I’m saving those for the next feature: Park Sunghoon’s Top 10 Most Smug Expressions.”

That earns a laugh from him—genuine and unguarded—and it catches you off guard. Not the manufactured chuckle he gives in interviews. Not the polite, PR-approved smile. This is real. Honest. The kind of laugh you haven’t heard in years, the kind that used to sneak up on you in moments that felt weightless.

It hits you like hearing a song you forgot you loved—familiar and warm, laced with a nostalgia you weren’t ready for. A reminder of the version of him that existed before all the distance, before the silences, before the press statements and polished answers.

You don’t say anything in response. Just shoot him a look over the rim of your cup. A quiet don’t push it.

He meets your gaze, and for a beat, neither of you speaks. Then he nods, like he understands exactly what you’re not saying.

And somehow, that nod feels like the most honest thing exchanged between you all morning.

You’re back at your desk, the café detour doing little to clear your head. The email is still open, still flashing on your screen like it’s waiting—mocking you, almost. You stare at it for a long moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You shouldn’t. You don’t need to. But something in you itches to respond anyway.

So you do.

From: You Subject: Re: That Article Hey. Glad you thought the article was good. I’ll be sure to file that glowing endorsement under “career highlights.” Also, I stand by the photos. Especially the one where you blinked mid-sentence—you looked relatable for once. Anyway. Thanks for the coffee. – Y/N P.S. Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY

Sunghoon is lying on his couch, one arm draped over his eyes to block out the soft afternoon light filtering through the curtains, the other still loosely holding his phone against his chest. The café encounter from earlier keeps playing in his mind on a slow, involuntary loop—your face, your voice, the way your brows lifted when you saw him, and especially that look you gave him when he ordered your coffee like he had any right to still know that.

He knows he probably shouldn’t have emailed. The moment he hit send, there was a part of him that regretted it. But then again, he’s never been particularly good at letting things go quietly—not when it comes to you. Not when the silence between you has always felt more like a wound than a clean break.

It’s been years since the breakup. Long enough, he thinks, that you should both be able to function like civil adults. Maybe not friends, but at least... acquaintances. Whatever that word means when it’s wrapped in history and the kind of silence that’s never quite neutral.

His phone buzzes once against his chest, and he lifts it almost automatically—more out of habit than hope, not expecting much. Maybe a curt response, a one-liner soaked in professionalism, something non-committal that closes the loop without opening any new ones.

But what he finds isn’t quite that.

His eyes skim the message quickly the first time, catching on your usual clipped humour, your dry phrasing. Then he sees the P.S.—and it stops him cold.

Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY

He stares at the line, the digits at the end anchoring his attention. His thumb hovers over the screen, then lowers.

He reads it again. Then again.

It takes him a moment to process that you didn’t just reply—you invited a reply. Not in so many words, but you didn’t have to.

He blinks, the message still glowing softly in the palm of his hand, and feels something shift—subtle, but undeniable.

You had tried to play it off with that line—“only if it’s urgent”—like it was a formality, a throwaway detail tossed in for the sake of convenience. But Sunghoon knows you better than that.

You don’t do anything without intention.

Even back then, when things were good, your words were measured—never careless. Whether it was drafting an essay or choosing what to say during a fight, you always calculated the weight of your words before you let them go. He used to admire that about you, even when it frustrated him. Especially when it frustrated him.

So no, he doesn’t believe the number was a casual addition. Not from you. Not after all this time. You wanted him to see it. You wanted him to know.

He sits up slowly, the email still open in his hand, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the edge of the screen. For a second, he considers calling. Just to hear your voice again—to see if it sounds any different now that everything between you has changed.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just quietly saves the number into his contacts—Y/N, no emojis, no titles. Just your name, plain and familiar, like it’s never really left his phone at all.

His thumb hovers for a moment as the screen confirms the entry, and then he leans back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling, letting his mind wander—almost involuntarily—through an absurd list of scenarios.

He snorts softly.

What counts as urgent, exactly?

Would “it was raining and thought of you” qualify? Or maybe, “accidentally bought your favourite chips at the convenience store and they’re expiring tomorrow”?

His mouth twitches at the thought, the corner of a smile he doesn’t let fully form.

He’s not going to reach out—not tonight. Whatever this fragile, undefined space is between you now, he doesn’t want to risk crowding it too soon. He knows better than to force something still learning how to exist.

But the number is there now, quietly saved, tucked away like a folded letter waiting for the right moment to be opened. And that—simple as it is—is more than he had before.

So he stays where he is, stretched across the quiet of his apartment, letting the silence linger—not as a weight, but as something strangely tender. Something almost sacred. Because it no longer feels like the end of something.

It feels like the pause before a beginning.

And he waits.

Just like you did for him all those years ago.

The airport is chaos, as airports always are—the dull roar of overlapping conversations, the mechanical drawl of flight announcements overhead, the clatter of suitcase wheels rolling over the slick, polished floors. But somehow, in the middle of it all, it feels like there’s a bubble around the two of you, a quiet space carved out by the sheer force of everything you’re not saying.

Sunghoon stands a few feet away from the security gate, backpack slung over one shoulder, his boarding pass crumpled slightly in his hand from how tightly he’s holding it. Mr and Mrs Park are with him, tearfully fussing over their son—Mrs Park tugging at the hem of the jacket that's too big for him, hanging awkwardly off his frame in a way that makes him look both older and younger at the same time—like he’s already halfway into another life and trying to pretend he isn’t scared.

You stand nearby too, arms crossed—not out of defiance, but because it’s the only way you can keep yourself from falling apart. You don’t trust your hands otherwise.

When Sunghoon finally turns to you, you force yourself to smile.

“You’ll do great,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady even though the lump in your throat makes it hard to breathe.

He smiles at that—a soft, tired thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I don’t know about that,” he says, laughing under his breath, glancing down at his shoes like the words he really wants to say are hiding somewhere in the scuffed leather.

Your heart twists painfully at the sight.

And then he steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly, close enough that you can see every crease of worry etched into his usually smooth expression.

“Can you…” he starts, then falters, running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s nervous. “Will you wait for me?”

The words hang between you, raw and clumsy and completely un-Sunghoon-like. No flourish. No ice. Just a boy asking for something he doesn’t know how to promise in return.

You look at him then—not the rising athlete, not the polished skater everyone else sees—but the boy who once spent three hours helping you build a wobbly IKEA desk, who remembered exactly how you take your coffee, who mumbled useless astronomy facts at two in the morning when neither of you could sleep.

And you nod.

Because how could you say no?

“Of course,” you say.

He exhales, and for a moment, it looks like he wants to say something more—something that could make this easier, something that could anchor you to the idea that this distance will be temporary, survivable. But whatever it is, he swallows it down.

Instead, he squeezes your hand once, quick and clumsy, like he’s afraid that if he holds on any longer, he won’t be able to let go at all.

Then he steps back. One step. Two. The space between you widens in a way that feels irreversible.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, as he turns toward the security line, his figure blending into the tide of travellers wheeling suitcases and juggling passports. He doesn't look back, and you tell yourself that’s a good thing—that it’s easier this way.

You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until his silhouette finally disappears around a corner, swallowed up by the sterile white lights and directional signs pointing toward Departures.

Only then do you let yourself breathe out, shaky and slow.

The airport continues moving around you—announcements, crying babies, the low thrum of engines preparing to carry people across oceans—but somehow, it feels like everything inside you has stilled. Like the moment he walked away, something small and quiet inside you went with him.

You watch another plane lift off in the distance, disappearing into the clouds. And even after his parents insists you go home, you stay a little longer, long enough for the ache to settle, long enough to be sure you won’t cry until you’re safely back in the taxi home. Pretending that saying “of course” didn’t cost you more than you could admit at the time.

Because if there’s one thing you promised him, and yourself, it’s that you would be strong enough to wait.

Except you didn’t know what waiting would mean at that time.

You were confident this long-distance thing could work.

After all, at that point, you and Sunghoon had been dating for over three years. You knew each other’s routines, each other’s moods, each other’s silences. You had weathered exams, competitions, internships, stupid fights about stupid things—surely, you thought, an ocean between you couldn’t undo what you had built.

You believed that love, real love, was supposed to be enough.

But love, you will learn, isn’t always louder than distance.

And sometimes, people leave—not because they stop loving you, but because their dreams need a bigger sky than you can give them.

You told yourself the time difference was just an inconvenience. That the occasional missed calls, the shorter texts, the longer silences were normal. That he was just busy. Tired. Adjusting.

And for a while, you made it work.

You sent each other photos—your morning coffee, his late-night practices. You had clumsy video calls where the signal dropped and you’d laugh and call each other back like it was no big deal. You celebrated tiny victories over Wi-Fi connections, reassured yourselves that the months would pass quickly, that this was temporary.

You even started saving for plane tickets, bookmarking dates and circling holidays on your calendar, telling anyone who asked that yes, it was hard, but yes, it was worth it.

You meant it.

You meant every word.

But what they don’t tell you about long distance—the thing you only learn the hard way—is that sometimes love isn’t enough when the other person starts building a life you’re no longer part of in the daily, ordinary ways. When your names are still tied together but your days stop overlapping. When missing someone becomes part of your routine instead of your exception.

And Sunghoon—sweet, steady, ambitious Sunghoon—was chasing a dream that required all of him.

There wasn’t much left over.

Not for you. Not for the late-night phone calls he stopped picking up. Not for the promises that started to stretch thinner and thinner until they broke without either of you realising it at first.

You waited.

You waited longer than you should have. 

And even now, some stubborn, aching part of you still remembers how sure you were at that airport when you said, of course.

Because you weren’t just waiting for him to come back. You were waiting for the version of him that left—to stay the same.

But some things, you’ve learned, aren’t meant to be held in place.

And some people, no matter how tightly you hold onto them, will always belong to a future you don’t get to walk into with them.

Now, sitting at your desk, staring at the faint glow of the monitor, you can’t help but drag a hand over your face in frustration. God. What was I thinking?

You lean back in your chair, the cheap leather groaning under the movement, and close your eyes for a moment, wishing you could rewind the last ten minutes and snatch the email back before it left your outbox. Before it could make you look like the fool you swore you wouldn’t be again.

Because re-reading it now, all you can see is desperation threaded between the lines. You might as well have stamped please still care about me in bold at the bottom.

You told yourself it was nothing. A witty reply. A polite thanks for the coffee. A number offered up casually—as if you wouldn’t notice whether he used it or not.

But you know better.

And so would he.

The truth is, no matter how many years have passed, no matter how much you've convinced yourself you've moved on, a part of you still folds too easily around him. Still softens at the memory of a boy who once asked you to wait for him, and the girl you were—the one foolish enough to believe that waiting would be enough.

You hate that about yourself sometimes. Hate that a few casual words from him, a coffee, an email, still have the power to make you feel like you’re standing in that airport all over again, arms crossed against your chest, watching him walk away.

You open your eyes, exhaling slowly. The office hums around you—phones ringing, fingers tapping on keyboards, Yunah shouting about deadlines across the bullpen—and you’re struck by how absurd it is that your life has continued without him, and yet he still feels like an unfinished chapter you never really closed.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That he’ll probably ignore the number. That he’ll chalk it up to courtesy and leave it at that.

But deep down, you know it’s too late for pretending.

Because no matter how you dress it up—witty, polite, indifferent—you handed him a door. And now, whether he steps through it or not, you’ll have to live with the fact that you opened it first.

The days pass, slow and uneven, the way they always do when you’re waiting for something you’re trying to pretend you’re not waiting for.

You throw yourself into work—churning out profiles, editing pieces that aren’t yours, picking up assignments nobody else wants just to fill the spaces in your mind. You sit through endless editorial meetings, nodding at all the right moments, scribbling half-hearted notes in the margins of your planner like it matters. You grab late-night convenience store dinners with Minju and Yunah, laughing at their jokes even when your chest feels hollow.

You live.

You function.

You check your email more often than necessary, always under the excuse of work, even though you know exactly what you’re hoping to find. You flick through your phone sometimes too—half-scrolling through newsfeeds, half-wondering if maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a notification that isn’t there.

But Sunghoon doesn’t reply. No email. No text. No missed call.

Nothing.

And slowly, inevitably, you start to fold the hope away. The way you fold an old jumper you know you’ll never wear again but can’t quite bring yourself to throw out.

You told him he could reach out only if it was urgent. And clearly, you’re not urgent.

Maybe you never were.

And you take it as a sign—maybe the only sign you’re going to get—that you should finally do yourself a favour and move on.

Because apparently, you haven’t. Not really. Not after all this time. You didn’t expect his return to unravel you like this—to pull at threads you thought you had stitched up long ago. But it has. And you can’t pretend anymore.

So you’ll move on for real this time. Not the half-hearted version where you paste on smiles and throw yourself into late nights at the office, where you tell your friends you’re fine while secretly checking your phone at red lights, while pretending you don’t still wonder if he thinks about you too. Not the kind where you fold the memory of him into smaller, quieter compartments of your mind, pretending it's just nostalgia, not hope.

No, this time, you tell yourself, it will be the real kind—the clean break, the neat ending.

And for a while, you almost believe it.

Until your phone buzzes, cutting through the quiet.

Just a single, unremarkable vibration against the desk, one you almost ignore—because it’s late, because you’re tired, because you’re used to the world asking for pieces of you at all hours now. You glance at the screen without thinking, already preparing to swipe it away like a dozen other notifications.

But then you see it.

Unknown Number.

For a moment, your brain stalls, fumbling for a rational explanation—maybe it’s a delivery update, maybe it’s a scam, maybe it’s one of those automated text from some subscription you forgot to cancel.

Still, your hand moves on instinct, betraying every rational excuse you try to conjure.

You unlock your phone.

And you read:

Hey. It’s me. Not sure if this counts as urgent. But... I saw something today that made me think of you. Do you have time?

Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and sudden, and the world around you blurs for a second—the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the muffled buzz of printers, the distant tap-tap-tap of someone typing across the office—all of it fading under the weight of those few simple lines.

You read it again. And again. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something else if you look long enough.

But they don’t.

It’s him. Sunghoon. 

Reaching out not because he had to. Not because it was "urgent."

But because he thought of you.

And even though your mind races ahead with every reason you should be cautious, with every reminder of how long it took to rebuild the parts of yourself he once splintered, you already know—deep in your chest, in the place you don't let logic touch—that you’re going to answer.

You don’t let yourself overthink it this time.

No typing, erasing, retyping. No staring at the blinking cursor until it mocks you into silence. You just move your thumbs over the screen, letting instinct take the lead before the part of you that’s scared has a chance to intervene.

You type:

You: You should probably introduce yourself next time. "It’s me" doesn’t really help if I don’t already know how you text. And depends. Is it something worth hearing about?

You barely have time to set your phone down before it buzzes again.

Sunghoon: Definitely something worth hearing about.

Another message follows almost instantly:

Sunghoon: I’m free tonight if you are. Just coffee. Nothing crazy. If you want. There's also a favour I'd like to ask.

You sit there, blinking at the last line, reading it twice as your mind scrambles to catch up. 

A favour?

It throws you off more than the coffee invitation itself. Coffee is easy—coffee is surface-level, casual, the kind of thing you can chalk up to old acquaintances being civil. But a favour? A favour means intention. A favour means he’s thought about this. About you.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, your pulse quickening in that annoyingly familiar way you wish you had outgrown by now. You’re not naive enough to think this is anything more than it is. He probably just needs help connecting with someone, getting a contact, maybe even needs something for the press if he’s easing back into the public eye.

Still, a part of you hesitates.

Not because you don’t want to go. But because you’re not sure if you trust yourself not to want more.

You take a breath, steadying your thumb over the screen.

You type:

You: Where and what time?

The message sends before you can talk yourself out of it, and you drop your phone onto the desk, face down again, like it’s too hot to hold onto for even a second longer. You exhale a long, slow breath, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm the restless beat of your heart.

Because tonight, you realise, you’re going to see him again.

Not as professionals. Not as a lingering what-if. Not as a name floating in your inbox or coincidental meetings.

But real. Present.

And no matter how much you tell yourself that you’re ready—that you’re different now—you know a part of you is still bracing for impact.

Sunghoon arrives at the café first.

It’s your spot—he knows that now. He also knows you probably don’t come here because the coffee is any good—you always made that clear with a scrunched nose and a dry comment about “caffeine being caffeine”—but because it’s close, convenient, easy to fold into your day without having to think too hard.

He settles into a table near the window, where the soft spill of the sunset stretches across the tabletop in muted golds and pinks. He sits with his backpack slung over the back of the chair, a cup of hot tea resting untouched in front of him, and for a brief moment, he looks less like the man you’ve been writing about—and more like the boy you used to know.

He wasn't a hundred percent sure you'd say yes to meeting him. When he sent that message, part of him assumed it would disappear into the void, swallowed up by everything unsaid between you. 

But you answered. And you did in the way you always did—dry, sharp, a little guarded—but underneath it all, you answered.

And now, sitting here in this too-bright, too-loud café with a lukewarm tea and a racing heart he can’t fully rationalise, Sunghoon feels the weight of it settle in his chest.

He glances at the door again, even though he knows it’s still early. His knee bounces under the table, betraying the nervous energy he can’t shake, no matter how carefully he tries to hide it under indifference.

Maybe tonight won’t fix anything. Hell, it’s not meant to.

But you’re showing up.

And somehow, that already feels like more than he deserves.

The bell above the door chimes, sharp and familiar, cutting through the low hum of conversation and clinking cups.

Sunghoon looks up almost instinctively—and there you are, stepping into the café with a kind of restless energy tucked into the set of your shoulders, like you’re already bracing yourself for something you can’t name yet.

You don’t see him at first.

Of course you don’t.

Because out of pure, unconscious instinct, you’re scanning the corners of the café—the tucked-away tables, the quieter spots shielded from the main crowd—just like you always used to.

Sunghoon feels a tight tug in his chest, something that pulls and aches all at once, because he remembers.

He remembers how you used to tease him for always choosing the seats against the wall, how you said he acted like a cat looking for the best vantage point, somewhere he could see everything without being seen himself.

He remembers you pretending to sulk when he dragged you to the corner booths instead of the bright window seats you preferred—and how, secretly, you never really minded.

And now, without even thinking, you’re still looking for him in the places where you remember him being.

And without even realising, he had chosen a place where he remembered you liking.

He doesn’t call out to you.

He just watches.

Watches the slight purse of your lips when you don’t spot him right away. Watches the way your fingers tap lightly against the strap of your bag—an old nervous habit he’d forgotten he remembered—like your body is leaking out the anxiety you refuse to show on your face.

And God, you look—

You look pretty.

Not in the polished, deliberate way people try to look when they know they’re being watched.

You look real.

Soft in the fading light, like the world around you hasn’t quite caught up to you yet. Your hair a little mussed from the breeze outside, your cheeks flushed with the leftover heat of the setting sun. There’s a quietness to you, a rawness—like you’re still made of the same stubborn hope and sharp edges he used to love, except time has worn them softer, gentler, more dangerous in ways he doesn’t even have the words for.

You look like a memory he’s been trying not to miss.

You look like the version of you he’s been carrying around all these years—

Real. Tired, maybe. A little guarded. But still luminous in a way he can’t describe without sounding ridiculous, without pulling old, unfinished feelings up from the place he thought he’d buried them for good.

Something shifts in his chest, painful and sweet all at once.

Because in the handful of minutes he’s spent sitting here convincing himself to stay calm, convincing himself that this was just coffee and nothing more—you’ve walked through the door and reminded him, without trying, exactly why forgetting you had never really been an option.

He straightens slightly in his chair, the leg of the table bumping softly against his knee.

And for a moment—just a moment—Sunghoon forgets why he’s here at all.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, scanning the café with a quiet frown starting to settle between your brows.

Sunghoon watches the hesitation flicker across your face—the way you linger a fraction too long at every corner booth, the way your fingers brush nervously against the hem of your jacket, like you’re grounding yourself without even realising it.

And then—finally—your gaze catches his.

The moment stretches, taut and delicate, like a held breath.

You blink, as if to double-check it’s really him. Your lips part slightly in surprise, a faint hitch of breath visible even from where he’s sitting, and for a second, neither of you moves, both suspended in that thin, brittle space where time slows down just enough to make you feel the weight of it.

You glance at the window beside him, your eyes catching the reflection of the streetlights bleeding into the glass, and for a moment, confusion flickers briefly across your face.

That’s why you didn’t spot him immediately when you walked in.

You weren’t looking by the windows—you never had to.

Sunghoon never sat there. He hated it. Hated having his back exposed, hated being on display. You’d spent years weaving through crowded cafés and restaurants, instinctively scanning the corners, the quiet spaces tucked away from the flow of people, because that’s where he would always be—where he could watch without being watched, where the world couldn’t reach him unless he let it.

But tonight, he’s here.

By the window.

Plain as day.

And without him saying a word about it, you realise it—another small, unconscious version of Park Sunghoon you were still holding onto without even realising it. 

A version you thought was set in stone, carved into your memories. 

A version you never prepared yourself to outgrow.

Sunghoon doesn’t smile. He doesn’t look away.

He just meets your gaze head-on, steady and quiet, letting the moment settle between you without rushing to fill it with anything easy or safe.

You square your shoulders after a heartbeat too long, forcing your body into motion, and start making your way towards him. Your steps are measured, careful, almost cautious, but there’s no mistaking the way your fingers clench slightly against the strap of your bag, no hiding the guarded look in your eyes that says you’re still ready to turn around and walk away if this goes wrong.

He stays seated as you approach, watching you close the distance between you, something tight and aching lodged in his chest, something he’s too afraid to name yet.

When you reach the table, you don’t sit down right away.

You just stand there, staring at him for a moment longer, as if trying to gauge how much of the boy you used to love is still sitting there, underneath the polished surface he’s learned to wear like a second skin.

Sunghoon clears his throat lightly, a small, awkward sound that feels jarringly loud in the otherwise soft hum of the café.

“You found me,” he says, voice low and almost shy, like he's not sure if he's allowed to sound relieved.

You shrug, shifting your weight onto your other foot. “Didn’t think you’d make it so easy,” you reply, your tone light, almost teasing, but there’s no real bite behind the words—just a tired kind of fondness that feels too familiar, too stubborn to shake.

And just like that, some of the tension splinters—

Not all of it.

Not enough to call this easy.

But enough to remind both of you why you’re here.

Wordlessly, you pull out the chair across from him and sit down, setting your bag carefully by your feet.

Sunghoon’s hand twitches slightly against his cup, the tea inside long cold by now, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

You fold your hands in your lap, lift your chin just a little, and say, “Alright. You’ve got my time. Let’s hear it.”

“You’re not even curious what reminded me of you?” Sunghoon asks, one brow lifted, his voice dipping into that familiar, teasing cadence you used to know so well.

Of course you’re curious. Of course your mind has been spinning endless possibilities from the second you read his first text. But you’re not about to hand that over to him so easily—not when you’re still trying to convince yourself you’re not sitting here half-holding your breath.

You lean back slightly in your chair, crossing one leg over the other in an easy, breezy posture you absolutely don’t feel, and shrug. “What reminded the oh-so-charismatic Ice Prince of me?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk—the same infuriating, boyish smirk that once had the power to completely undo you, the one you thought time and bitterness would have dulled. It hasn’t. Not even a little.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Instead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, moving slowly, drawing out the suspense just because he knows it’ll get under your skin. 

When he pulls out a small box and sets it gently on the table between you, you blink down at it in surprise.

It’s a Popmart blind box.

The exact kind you used to collect like trophies after long study sessions or bad days, back when you needed small, ridiculous joys to get you through.

You stare at the familiar design, the cutesy pastel art printed on the cardboard, the gleaming plastic seal still unbroken—and for a second, it’s like the years peel away and you’re back in a different time, a different version of yourself. One who used to drag Sunghoon to random mall kiosks and lecture him on the probability rates of getting the secret rare figure, completely oblivious to how patient he was being with you.

He watches your reaction carefully, elbows propped lazily on the table, but his eyes are sharp—searching.

“You’re kidding,” you murmur, finally breaking the silence, your voice somewhere between disbelief and something softer, something a little too close to fondness.

He shrugs, that infuriating smirk deepening. “Saw it at a convenience store on my way to practice this morning.”

You shake your head, the smallest, almost unwilling laugh slipping out of you. “You used to roast me for buying these.”

“And yet,” he says, tapping the box lightly with one finger, “I bought one almost every time I passed that Popmart near my place. For research purposes, obviously.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the smile pulling at your lips, nor the way your chest tightens at the thought of it—him, in another city, another life, still thinking of you in the small, quiet ways that mattered when words weren’t enough.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The box sits between you, unopened, full of some stupid, mass-produced trinket that somehow feels heavier than anything else in the room.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you—not with expectation, not with the smugness you were half-braced for—but with something quieter. Something careful.

“Thank you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can overthink them, barely more than a whisper, but somehow steady. It’s the only thing you can conjure in the moment, the only thing that feels honest and real enough to offer. You’re a little surprised you manage to say it out loud at all, your throat tight with all the other things you’re not ready to admit.

Sunghoon leans back in his chair, his eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to amusement as he tilts his head at you.

“It’s the least you could say,” he teases, tapping the box again with his fingertip, “after I spent almost twenty dollars on that.”

The exaggerated grumble in his voice cracks the tension like a hairline fracture, and before you can stop yourself, a laugh escapes your lips—short, surprised, but real.

The sound of it seems to hit him harder than you expect.

For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s been momentarily stunned, like some long-frozen part of him is trying to remember how to breathe properly.

And if you weren’t so caught up in trying to pull your own defences back into place, you might have noticed the way his posture softens, just slightly, as if the laugh is something fragile he’s afraid of shattering.

You smirk, shaking your head as you reach out and nudge the box with two fingers, sliding it just slightly toward you.

“You bought this to bribe me into helping you with that favour, didn’t you?” you say, lifting your gaze to meet his fully now, your voice laced with teasing accusation but your heart still hammering too hard against your ribs.

He has the audacity to look mock-offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Bribe?” he echoes. “Wow. No faith in me at all.”

“You literally showed up with a Popmart like some kind of peace offering-slash-negotiation tactic,” you point out, arching an eyebrow.

“And yet…” he trails off, a slow grin tugging at his mouth, “you’re still sitting here. You’re still talking to me.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way the corner of your mouth betrays you, tilting upward just enough for him to catch it.

He sees it.

Of course he does.

And somewhere, buried deep under the layers of sarcasm and half-healed scars, you know he feels it too—the tiny, reckless flicker of something that neither of you is quite brave enough to name yet.

“So?” you prompt, your fingers idly tracing the rim of the coffee cup in front of you, the casualness in your voice a little too forced even to your own ears.

Sunghoon shifts in his seat, the easy smirk fading just slightly as he straightens, as if the weight of what he’s about to say demands a little more gravity.

“I wanted to ask if you could help me write another article,” he says, the words slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing each one carefully before letting it leave his mouth.

You blink, surprised but trying not to show it. “What about?”

He leans back, exhales once through his nose, and says it:

“I’m going to be participating in the Olympic tryouts.”

The announcement hits harder than you expect, knocking the air from your lungs for half a second. You sit up a little straighter, your mind racing to process it, because the last time you talked he was adamant he wasn’t preparing for the season. He said it so easily, so convincingly, that you hadn’t thought to press harder.

Sunghoon must catch the flicker of confusion across your face, because he adds quickly, almost defensively, “It’s not a comeback. Not really.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “What do you mean?”

He pauses.

You can see it—the hesitation. The way his shoulders tense just the slightest bit, the way he looks down at his hands like the answer is written somewhere in the faint lines of his palms.

“I—” he starts, then stops, chewing the inside of his cheek in frustration. His fingers curl lightly against the table, the same nervous tic he’s had since he was a teenager trying to explain why he bombed a practice session.

“I just need you to write the article for me,” he says instead, voice softer now, almost tentative. “Please?”

Here’s the thing about Sunghoon.

He’s always been good at giving you just enough—just enough smiles, just enough softness, just enough quiet promises without ever saying the words aloud—to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was something sturdy here.

Something real.

Something worth holding onto.

And then, just when you reached for it, just when you let yourself believe you were on solid ground, he would pull back.

Carefully.

Effortlessly.

Leaving you standing there, empty-handed, wondering if you were the one who had leaned in too far, if you had asked for too much, if you had misread all of it from the start.

It wasn’t cruelty.

It was worse than cruelty.

It was kindness, just enough to hurt. Just enough to make you doubt whether it was ever real.

You lean back slightly, arms crossing over your chest, not because you want to be defensive but because you need the distance, need something to ground you against the sudden rush of old feelings. “Why me?” you ask, genuinely. “The last time I wrote something for you, you were too busy complaining about the photos I used to actually say thank you.”

It’s a weak jab, but you both know the real question you’re asking has nothing to do with photos.

It’s why now?

It’s why me, when you could have gone to anyone else?

Sunghoon meets your gaze without flinching, his expression surprisingly earnest.

“Because,” he says simply, “I trust you.”

You open your mouth to say something—something sarcastic, something to deflect—but he cuts you off before you can.

“I trust that you won’t spin this into something else. I trust that you’ll tell it the way it is. Not the way people want to hear it. Not the way the sponsors or the federations want it dressed up.” His voice stays calm, but there’s something raw underneath it, something that edges dangerously close to vulnerability. “Just… the truth. That’s all I want.”

You stare at him across the table, your fingers curling slightly around the rim of your cup, and for a moment, you don't say anything. You just sit there, letting the request hang in the air between you, heavy and trembling like a thread pulled too tight.

Part of you—the part that's bruised and still sore from all the years of learning the hard way—wants to say no. Wants to lean back in your chair, laugh it off, tell him to hire a better PR team like every other professional athlete with something to prove. Wants to remind him, and maybe yourself, that you’re not the same girl who would have dropped everything the moment he asked.

Because you know better now. You know how this story goes. You say yes, you step closer, you open the door just a crack—and he slips through, quietly, effortlessly, until you're standing in the wreckage again, wondering how you didn’t see it coming.

But another part of you—the stubborn part, the hopeful part you haven't managed to kill off no matter how hard you've tried—can’t quite look away from him. From the way he’s sitting there, tension riding his shoulders, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his cup. From the way he asked—no bravado, no posturing, just a simple, almost clumsy honesty that feels so rare you almost don't know what to do with it.

You glance toward the window, watching the way the last blush of sunset catches against the glass, and for a moment you imagine what it would feel like to say yes.

Not because you owe him. Not because you’re chasing the past.

But because, somewhere deep down, you still believe in telling stories the way they deserve to be told.

You still believe some promises are worth making again, even if it terrifies you.

Your stomach twists, your chest aching with the sharpness of it, but you find yourself already knowing the answer before your mouth even moves.

You inhale slowly, letting the silence stretch for just a beat longer than necessary, then exhale through your nose, pushing aside the complicated tangle of feelings you don't have the energy to unravel tonight.

"Fine," you say at last, voice even, businesslike, like you're trying to convince both of you that this is just another assignment and not something heavier slipping under your skin. "Get your assistant to email me the details. I’ll personally send over the draft before pushing it to the editorial team."

You reach for your cup as you say it, needing something to do with your hands, something to anchor yourself to this new line you’re drawing in the sand.

But before you can even take a sip, Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his expression soft but firm in a way that pins you in place more effectively than anything else could.

“Don't bother,” he says simply. “You can just publish it directly.”

You pause, the cup poised halfway to your mouth, his words hanging there between you like an invisible thread you’re not sure you want to pull. You lower the cup slowly, setting it back down against the saucer with a faint clink, buying yourself a second to think. To breathe. To understand.

You search his face for the catch, for the usual hesitation he so often laced into moments like this—those little cracks where you could see him calculating the safest move, the one that let him stay just close enough without ever being vulnerable.

But this time, there’s none of that. Just him, sitting there, arms folded over the table, looking at you like he’s already decided.

"Are you sure?" you ask, the words slipping out lighter than you feel them. "No proofread? No management red flags?"

Sunghoon’s lips twitch into a smile—small, wry, but not mocking. If anything, he looks... relieved that you asked. Like he was expecting the pushback, maybe even hoping for it, because it means you’re still cautious enough to take this seriously.

"I’m sure," he says simply. 

A muscle ticks once in your jaw, the urge to press further bubbling up, but you force yourself to stop. And in it’s place, a lump forms in your throat, sharp and unexpected, because if there’s one thing you didn’t expect to find tonight—certainly not here, not like this—it was trust.

Not just trust in your professionalism. Not just trust in your writing.

Trust in you. 

Because whatever else has changed, you can feel it: This matters to him.

Not the article. Not the media coverage.

This.

Reaching out to you.

Trusting you with the fragile, unfinished thing he's trying to build for himself again, knowing full well you could burn him with it.

And somehow, hearing him say it—so plainly, so quietly—makes it harder to breathe for a moment. Because even after everything, even after the distance and the silences and the growing pains you both carried separately, some part of him still sees you as the person who would protect his story. The way you once protected his heart.

And you don’t know what terrifies you more—the fact that he still trusts you, or the fact that, deep down, you still want to be the person worthy of that trust.

It rattles something loose inside you—the version of yourself you thought you had to kill off to survive him once.

You shift slightly in your seat, trying to hold onto your composure, trying not to let him see the way those simple words—those few inches of offered faith—shake the foundation you’ve been standing on for years.

"Alright," you say at last, keeping your voice light, controlled, even though your hands tremble ever so slightly beneath the table.

"But don't blame me if you don't like how candid I get."

Sunghoon smiles at that, the edges of his mouth curling in that way that makes your chest hurt for reasons you’re too tired to name.

"I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it," he says simply.

You let out a soft breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding and glance down at your watch, the second hand ticking steadily forward. It’s getting late. And even though neither of you says it, you both know this fragile truce you’ve built tonight can only stretch so far before it snaps under the weight of everything you’re still not ready to talk about.

You stand, gathering your bag with slow, deliberate movements, and Sunghoon rises too, out of habit more than necessity. Always the gentleman, even when he had no right to be.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and look at him one last time.

There’s so much you could say. So much you shouldn’t.

So instead, you just offer a nod. Small. Measured. Almost formal.

"I’ll be in touch," you say.

And before he can say anything that might make this harder, you turn and walk toward the door, the cool night air rushing in as you step outside.

You don’t look back.

But you feel it—the weight of his eyes following you, lingering in the space you leave behind.

You’re back in that tiny, overheated apartment off campus—the one where the windows always fogged up too easily and nothing ever really dried properly unless you left it near the fan. The scent of burnt popcorn still clings faintly to the air from earlier that evening, and the dull hum of traffic bleeds in through the thin walls, but even that doesn’t distract from the tension steadily rising in the room like pressure before a storm. Sunghoon is slouched on the couch with one hand tangled in his hair, exhaling yet another sigh—his fifth in the past ten minutes. You’ve been watching him carefully from across the room, patiently waiting for him to reach out first. But after three years together, you know better. Park Sunghoon doesn’t do well with vulnerability. He never has. "Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?" you ask, finally breaking the silence as you settle down beside him on the couch. He flinches at your sudden proximity, as if this isn’t your apartment, as if he’s only just realised you’re still here. He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "No, I’m just tired from training, that’s all." You let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You know, three years is a long time. Long enough for me to know when you’re lying to me. Just because I don’t call you out on it doesn’t mean I don’t see it happening.” That makes him freeze. His hand stills in his hair, and his jaw goes tight. “Park Sunghoon,” you say slowly, letting each syllable settle like a weight between you. The name sounds foreign in your mouth—formal, distant, pointed. He flinches. Not visibly, not dramatically—but you see it. A slight stiffening in his posture. The barest flicker of guilt behind his eyes. Because he knows what it means when you use his full name. You only ever say it like that when you’re done waiting. “You’re keeping something from me.” The words come out flat and exhausted, with none of the softness you’ve been clinging to for weeks—because whatever this thing is, whatever he’s hiding, it’s starting to rot the air between you. And you’re too tired—too frayed around the edges from all the late-night phone calls that ended too early, the dinners where he barely looked up from his plate, the countless conversations that brushed against the truth but never quite touched it. He blinks at you like you’ve just blindsided him. "Babe, what are you talking about?" "Don’t do that," you snap, your voice rising before you can stop it. "Don’t act like I’m imagining things. You’ve been distant for weeks. You barely look me in the eye when we talk, and every time I try to ask what’s going on, you throw me the same half-hearted excuses—‘I’m tired,’ ‘Training’s been intense.’ You expect me to just accept that forever?” His jaw flexes, and this time you see it—clear as day—that flicker of guilt he can’t hide fast enough. Your stomach sinks. You soften your tone, even if it cracks on the way out. "Sunghoon, we’re supposed to be in this together. I want to be there for you. Please." He hesitates, swallowing hard like the words are caught in his throat. "I—I received a training offer." For a second, you just blink at him, caught off guard. "That’s great, Hoon. Why would you hide that from me?" He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second you think—maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he really is just tired from training and you’re overreacting. But then, almost reluctantly, he says it.

“It’s in Spain.”

The words land heavy between you.

Spain.

Not just a different city. Not even just another country. Another continent. Another time zone. Another life.

The air leaves your lungs before you can stop it. Not in a dramatic gasp, not in a theatrical way—but in a slow, silent collapse, like something inside you just quietly folded in on itself.

If the offer’s in Spain… then it’s not just about training. It’s about moving.

Leaving.

Staying gone.

“When were you planning on telling me?” you ask, your voice cracking at the edges despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Were you going to let me find out through someone else? Or just… let me sit here, waiting for you to come clean?”

He winces, just slightly. “I didn’t know how.”

And that’s when it really hits you. The worst part isn’t the distance. You could handle distance. You’ve done long hours. Late-night calls. Time apart.

No—the worst part is that he didn’t tell you. That he’s been sitting with this, carrying it silently, while showing up in your apartment like nothing’s changed.

Because this isn’t just about fear or nerves or awkward timing.

This is about trust. About the fact that somewhere, deep down, he didn’t believe you’d understand. Didn’t believe you’d stay.

You feel the sharp sting of that realisation clawing at your chest. You’ve always known Sunghoon wasn’t great at talking about hard things, but you thought… you thought you were past that stage. You thought you were partners.

“I didn’t want to make you worry before I even knew if it was real,” he adds, and the moment stretches thin between you—just long enough for the ache to settle in properly.

Your voice comes out quieter this time, more hollow. “How long ago?”

He hesitates. Again. And you already know the answer’s going to hurt.

“A month.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Trying to understand what kind of person holds onto something that big for thirty days—sharing meals, messages, kisses—without so much as a hint.

"A month,” you repeat, because you need to say it out loud to believe it. “You’ve known about this for a month, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

He doesn’t answer.

And in that silence, your mind fills the blanks for him: You weren’t part of the decision. You weren’t part of the plan. You were just… something temporary. Something not worth factoring in.

You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to disappear.

But instead, all you can do is ask, barely above a whisper—

“How long would you be gone?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “The contract’s renewable. Season by season.”

So not just gone.

Possibly gone for good.

Your vision blurs for a moment—not from tears, but from the force of everything hitting you at once: the betrayal, the loneliness, the terrible, gnawing possibility that he’s been slowly easing himself out of this relationship long before Spain ever came into the picture.

"I'm sorry for not telling you earlier... I was scared.” His voice is low, almost breathless, like he’s only just admitting it to himself. His hand reaches out, tentative at first, before settling over yours where it rests on the couch. And you hate it—how that simple gesture, plain and quiet and embarrassingly overdue, still makes something inside you soften. The bare fucking minimum, and it still sways you.

"Hell, I’m scared too, Sunghoon," you whisper, not bothering to hide the shake in your voice. "But you should’ve told me. I deserved to hear it from you—not from the silence that’s been stretching between us for weeks."

His other hand comes up to run through his hair, eyes squeezing shut for a second. "I don’t even know if I want to take it up. I mean, I could stay. I could keep training here in Korea."

You shoot him a look—sharp, disbelieving, almost angry.

"Are you crazy?" Your voice wavers on the edge of breaking, not because you don’t mean it, but because meaning it hurts more than you want to admit. "It’s a good opportunity, Sunghoon. One you’ve worked your whole life for. You should go for it."

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at you, searching your face like it holds the answers to every impossible question he hasn’t dared to ask. And you know the moment he finds it—the flicker of fear. The tightness in your smile. The regret you tried so hard to keep buried shows in every inch and crease of your face and he sees it as clear as day.

"I love you, Sunghoon." You say it firmly. Desperately. "And loving you means being there for you. Supporting your dreams. That’s what this is. It's not like we’re breaking up, right?"

He reacts instantly. "No! God, no.”

His grip tightens over your hands, voice urgent, pleading.

"I love you too, and I never want to lose you."

You hold his gaze. Let yourself believe him—for now. Because in this moment, with his hand wrapped around yours and his eyes wide and scared and filled with something real, you need to.

"That’s all I needed to know," you say softly.

And it is.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You eventually came to terms with it—because you’re good at rationalising things that hurt. You tell yourself that dreams come with sacrifice. That love, real love, isn’t always about staying close—it’s about staying with someone, even when they’re far away. That maybe love isn’t about convenience, but compromise. But still… you guess, even then, even in that moment where you let him go with your blessing—a part of you already had that small flicker of doubt gnawing quietly at the back of your mind. Did he see you in the life he was chasing? Or were you just the thing he had to let go of to chase it faster? The cursor blinks at you, tauntingly. A small, persistent beat on a completely blank page. Like it’s waiting for you to figure out how to write about someone you’ve spent years trying not to think about. It’s not like this is your first article about him. In fact, the last one made the rounds faster than you expected. People called it raw, honest, even moving. They praised your ability to write “authentically,” like you’d peeled back layers no other reporter had dared to touch. Like you knew him. And you do. Or at least you did. Can’t be that hard to churn out another article about him. Your gaze drifts to your desk, where a small, unopened box sits tucked to the side—innocent, pastel-coloured, with a soft shimmer under the lamp light. The Popmart. You blink at it, then let out a quiet laugh. Not bitter. Just tired. Surprised. Of course he didn’t know. You’d already completed this series over a year ago. Bought the final missing figure off some reseller at a ridiculous markup. You’d even double-sleeved it in plastic wrap and stuck it on the corner of your shelf, not because you still cared about the collection, but because it had started to feel like proof of something. Proof that you could finish something on your own. That you could love something—and walk away when you needed to. That you didn’t need anyone else to give you closure. And yet… here it is. Sitting unopened on your desk, brought to you by the very person you spent years training yourself not to miss. A memory in a box. A joke you both once shared, delivered too late and too gently. You pick it up slowly, turning it over in your hand, and smile to yourself—small, worn, a little sad. He still thinks he knows you. Still buys you things like he’s allowed to remember you this closely. And maybe that’s the problem. Because part of you still wants him to.

You're back at the ice rink, your breath catching slightly as the cold air settles into your lungs the moment you step inside. The familiar scent of ice and rubber greets you, sharp and sterile. It’s quieter today—no full team practices or busy skaters gliding across the surface—just the soft, distant hum of the facility and the occasional sharp cut of blades against ice. You texted Sunghoon earlier this week, asking for a favour. A simple photo op, you said—nothing serious. You needed fresh shots for the article. Every news outlet had been recycling the same tired gallery of him from years ago—arms raised in victory at the 2022 Winter Olympics, a candid smile from a post-win press conference, that one dramatic shot with his head bowed in slow-motion grace during a routine. Beautiful images, sure, but outdated. You needed something that showed the version of him now. And if you were being honest with yourself, a small, treacherous part of you just wanted to see him in motion again. To see the Sunghoon that only existed when he was skating. The one who couldn’t hide behind polished interviews and measured words. He agreed with barely a pause.

Sunghoon: Sure. Come by Thursday. I’ll block the ice for an hour.

So you’re here. The camera you borrowed from your illustrator slung over your shoulder, scarf tucked under your chin, fingers already tingling from the cold. You set your things down near the boards, scanning the empty rink until you spot him. And there he is. Sunghoon is already on the ice, warming up with long, fluid strides, his blades carving out familiar patterns beneath him. He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has, and he's just letting you watch first. Either way, for a moment, you forget you’re here to work. Because seeing him like this—alone on the ice, body moving like muscle memory itself—it tugs something loose in you. Something old and buried but not entirely gone. And you remember: this is what he was born to do. Even if it broke both of you along the way. Without wasting another second, you’re already moving to unzip your camera bag and pull your gear out. You work methodically, slipping off the lens cap, adjusting the settings, checking the battery with a practiced flick of your thumb. It’s almost muscle memory—this part of you that lives in quiet attention. The last time you held a professional camera like this was for a university project, one that had taken weeks to prepare and execute. Back then, Sunghoon had been your muse too—sharp lines, steady movement, that inexplicable sense of stillness in motion that made him impossible to look away from. And now here you are again. The lens finds him at centre ice, where he’s stretching out a tight muscle in his leg, movements slow and careful, like he knows you’re watching now. Maybe he does. Sunghoon always had a sixth sense for that—for when eyes were on him, especially yours. You angle your lens slightly, tracking the curve of his body, the set of his jaw. Click. The shutter snaps. He glances over at the sound, a half-smile tugging at his mouth—mischievous, unbothered, almost like he’s posing without trying. But that’s just how he’s always been. You used to call it his camera face. He used to call you dramatic.

Click.

Sunghoon starts skating again. He doesn’t ask for direction, and you don’t offer any. You don’t need to. You track him through the lens as he glides through a spin, body coiled and precise, before he launches into a clean double axel that lands with barely a sound. The shutter clicks with each motion, capturing his lines, the angles, the fleeting expressions that flash across his face like sunlight through a curtain. You capture the way the light reflects off the ice, how the blade flares white against the surface—it’s all a picture you’ve seen before, but never quite like this. Never with this strange ache nestled beneath your ribs. There’s a moment—between the leap and the landing—when he looks directly at you. And it almost knocks the breath out of you. Because in that split second, it feels like the ice disappears, the years disappear, and it’s just you and him again, the version of him that used to look for your eyes in every crowd. The version that used to skate not just for medals, but for you. You lower your camera slowly, heart thudding a little louder in your chest than it should. “Don’t tell me that was your good side,” you say, aiming for lightness, adjusting your grip on the camera as you lower it from your eye. The teasing is automatic, familiar—the kind of banter you used to toss back and forth like a tennis ball, soft enough not to bruise, sharp enough to mean something. Sunghoon coasts to a stop near the boards, blades carving a soft arc in the ice, his breath visible in the cold air. His chest rises and falls steadily, not from exertion—he’s not pushing himself yet—but from the kind of focused calm he only ever shows on the ice. “It was all my good side,” he replies, deadpan. You roll your eyes and let out a soft, incredulous laugh, more fond than you mean it to be. Of course it was. He’s always been like this—smug and quietly self-aware in the way only someone who knows they’re good can be. You roll your eyes, but your lips are already curling upward. You glance down at the display screen, reviewing the shots, already knowing you’ve got what you came for—and maybe a little more than you meant to take. “Tell me I don’t look good,” Sunghoon says, a quiet challenge in his voice as he raises an eyebrow, still watching you. You scoff, lifting the camera again mostly to hide the expression threatening to spread across your face. “Just try not to look like you’re holding a grudge against the ice,” you reply, letting the words land somewhere between playful and pointed. “I don’t,” he says, and this time, there’s something else there. Something softer. A hesitation in the space between his words. And for a second, it sounds like he means it. You lower the camera slightly, eyes on him through the frame but not taking the shot. Your voice drops without you meaning it to, just a notch lower, quiet like a memory surfacing. “You always looked best when you weren’t trying,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. A truth you’ve always known but never said aloud. But he hears it. And he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. He just turns back toward the centre of the rink, pushes off without a word, and starts skating again. You track him as he speeds into another combination—a triple toe loop followed by a clean step sequence, blades carving elegant arcs into the ice. You’re almost lost in it, the way the movements catch light, the shutter syncing to the beat of his pace like muscle memory. Then it happens. It’s subtle. Barely a misstep. But you catch it—the way his landing falters, how his right skate wobbles just slightly before he corrects. It would’ve been imperceptible to most. But not to you. Your fingers freeze on the camera, instinctively holding your breath as you watch him pull out of the sequence early, gliding to the boards instead of continuing.

He’s hiding it. But not well. His right leg drags just a fraction longer than it should with each glide—barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but you’ve spent too many hours watching him skate not to catch it. It’s the kind of minute detail only someone who’s memorised his movement would notice. And it makes your stomach lurch. You lower the camera, resting it carefully at the edge of your bag, the weight of it slipping from your fingers like the moment itself is slipping from your grasp. Your eyes track his every motion as he skates to the edge of the rink, bends low—too low, too carefully—and begins adjusting his laces. A decoy. A deflection. His back is to you, but the lie is written all over the tension in his shoulders. You step closer to the rink’s edge. “Sunghoon.” He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge you with anything more than a vague, distracted, “One sec.” It’s the way he used to respond when you caught him avoiding a question. The same rehearsed calm, the same nonchalance that always made you feel like you were overreacting—until the truth came out in pieces. “Don’t do that.” A pause. Then, reluctantly, he straightens and looks over his shoulder. His face is composed, but you see it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his hands clench a little too tightly around his laces like he needs them to steady himself. It’s in his eyes too. That flicker of guilt. That stubborn need to pretend. And for just a second, you see it flash across his face—that same look he wore four years ago in your apartment. When you said his name with a tremble in your voice. When you caught the lie before he could even shape it with his mouth. It hits you all at once: the déjà vu, the sick familiarity of it. He’s doing it again. Tucking pain behind a polite smile. Folding the truth into excuses he hasn’t said out loud yet. And this time, it’s not your relationship that’s fraying—it’s his body. “It’s nothing,” he says. You wait for him to add on, say something—anything—to reassure you. A quiet I promise or the don’t worry about it. But he doesn’t. Doesn’t matter if he did anyway. You know he’s lying. And just like that, the rumours—the whispers that had floated through the sports forums, half-buried in speculation and dismissed by press statements—crash into your chest with brutal clarity. The injury. The reason he pulled out of finals. The reason he disappeared. You cross your arms. “That ‘nothing’ looked a hell of a lot like something.” “I just landed weird.” “Bullshit,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “You’re injured.”

He freezes. The sound of your words—sharp, laced with something dangerously close to panic—hangs between you. The silence between you stretches like taut wire, thin and sharp and ready to snap. You watch the way his jaw locks, the way his arms hang stiffly by his sides, like he’s bracing for a blow you haven’t decided if you want to deliver. And maybe that’s what hurts more than anything else—not the lie itself, but the fact that he’s willing to let it hang in the air. Unchallenged. Unexplained. Like your concern isn’t worth the truth. Your hands clench into fists before you even realise it, nails digging into your palms as you watch him turn fully now, the faintest strain in his movement betraying what his mouth won’t say. He doesn’t even meet your eyes. And that—that makes something hot and sharp rise in your throat. Anger. That’s the first thing that hits. Because he knew. Knew this wasn’t something he could hide forever—and still, he didn’t tell you. Not when you asked. Not when you agreed to write the article. Not when you sat across from him in that café, trusting him with something you weren’t sure you even had left to give. And he did this again. Like back then. When Spain was just a pin on a map and you were left in the dark, forced to make sense of a future he already knew he wasn’t going to share with you. But right on the heels of that fury comes something else—something slower, heavier. Worry. Because you know him. You know how much the ice means to him. You know what it took for him to get here. And you can see it now, etched into every tight movement and every silent wince he tries to bury beneath composure. He’s skating on borrowed time. The sadness creeps in after, quiet and cruel. Because maybe you were hoping—foolishly—that this time would be different. That this new version of you and him, cautious but healing, would be built on honesty. And yet here you are again. Watching him lie to you, not with words, but with silence. Because you’ve been here before, haven’t you? Waiting on him to meet you halfway while he stands still. And still, a part of you—stupid, stubborn, impossibly soft—wants to close the gap.

You take a step forward. It’s instinct more than decision, your feet moving before your pride can catch up. The edge of the rink is cold against your palms as you lean over the barricade slightly, just enough to close the space between you. He looks like he might flinch again—like he’s caught somewhere between preparing to argue or retreat. But you don’t raise your voice. You just say, quietly, firmly, “Don’t do this.” His eyes flicker—just barely. But you see it. “Don’t shut me out like I’m just another reporter,” you continue. “Don’t feed me lines like ‘it’s nothing’ when you know I see through that better than anyone.” Still, he says nothing. So you press harder, voice trembling now—not with anger, but with the weight of everything you’re holding back. “I watched you limp, Sunghoon. I saw it. And you think I’m just going to nod and take your word for it?” He exhales slowly, but you can tell he’s holding his breath in all the places that matter. You shift again, trying to find steadiness in your words, even as your chest tightens. “If the rumours were true—if you’ve been skating on an injury this entire time—why wouldn’t you just tell me?” A pause. A breath. A crack. “Do you really think I wouldn’t have cared?” That lands. Because his eyes drop—not in shame, but something closer to fear. Not of you. But of what his silence might’ve already cost him. He doesn’t answer, not yet. He just stands there, your words still echoing in the space between you. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—just a soft, frustrated exhale. His jaw works like he’s chewing on the words, trying to force them out, but they keep getting caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. It’s like he’s standing at the edge of something—something terrifying and uncharted—and he can’t bring himself to take the final step. You can almost see the war going on inside him: the urge to speak versus the instinct to protect himself, to guard the parts of him that still feel too raw to share. For a moment, you think he’s going to brush it off the way he always does—wrap it up neatly with a nonchalant shrug and a quick change of subject. Like he’s too proud or too scared to let you see that raw, unguarded part of him. It wouldn’t be the first time. After all, that’s what he’s always done—deflect, dodge, build walls where there should be bridges. He couldn’t be honest with you when you were dating. What makes you think he’d be any different now, when there’s even more distance between you? You almost let him off the hook. Almost open your mouth to tell him it’s fine, that you don’t need him to explain himself. You’re already bracing yourself to swallow the ache, to bury it with everything else that’s gone unspoken between you. You’ve become good at that—pretending it doesn’t hurt. Pretending the disappointment hasn’t lingered all this time, festering quietly just beneath the surface of your every breath. And Sunghoon sees it. Sees the way your eyes begin to glaze over, the way your posture shifts—not quite closed off, but tilting in that direction. A half-given-up look that reads like surrender. Like you’re moments away from letting go completely. And something in him panics. A wave of it crashes through his chest, sharp and suffocating. Because if he fucks this up—if he lets you walk away now, after everything—it’s really over. No more second chances. No more waiting. He feels the weight of it settle on him all at once. That this—you—is the moment he can’t afford to lose. So, unexpectedly for you, he speaks.

“A year after we broke up,” he says, his voice quiet but steady, like he’s forcing himself to stay composed. “I was sent onto a new reality programme in Spain. Kind of like a training feature-slash-documentary series. Mostly for sponsorships.” He swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he gathers his thoughts. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks—his eyes fixed on some far point beyond the rink, beyond this moment, as if the memory itself is something he can’t look at head-on. “During our break… there was this skater, Hugo.” The name clicks instantly—Hugo Franchez. You’ve heard of him. He’s one of Coach Morales’ other students, known for his flamboyant public persona and his tendency to stir up drama both on and off the ice. Brash, talented, and unapologetically loud. The kind of guy who thrives on attention, whether it’s positive or negative. Before you can fully process what that connection means, Sunghoon cuts through your thoughts, almost as if he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. “Doesn’t matter who he is,” he mutters, voice sharper now, almost defensive. “One day during practice, that prick made a comment. Said my standards had dropped since you left me.” “I didn’t care at first,” he says. “It was petty. Stupid. I’ve heard worse. And honestly, he wasn’t wrong. I was a mess back then. I didn’t care what anyone said.” There’s something tight in his expression, like he’s forcing himself to stay detached—to treat it like a story he’s telling rather than a wound he’s reopening. You stay silent, but you feel your stomach twist into a knot, cold and heavy. The words settle like stones in your chest, bitter and suffocating. You don’t know what to say—don’t know if anything you could say would make a difference. “But then he said something else,” Sunghoon continues, and his voice tightens like it’s physically difficult to push the words out. “He started talking about you. Joking—if you can even call it that. Said maybe he’d try you out next. That someone like you didn’t need love, just a good—” He cuts himself off, hand flexing slightly at his side. You don’t need him to finish. Your breath catches in your chest, a mix of disgust and disbelief building behind your ribs. Your hands tighten on the rink’s barrier, knuckles turning white. You can’t seem to move, your mind struggling to make sense of the sheer audacity—the venom laced into words that shouldn’t even exist. Sunghoon’s fingers drum restlessly against his thigh, a telltale sign that he’s more upset than he’s letting on. His mouth presses into a thin, unforgiving line, and for a moment, he just breathes—deep and controlled, like he’s trying not to let his frustration seep through, but there’s a tremor in his voice that betrays the anger still simmering under the surface. “Hoon…” you whisper, your voice barely audible, raw with sympathy and anger that doesn’t know where to land. Sunghoon’s heart leaps at the familiar nickname, but the feeling doesn’t last long as he’s reminded of the story he’s telling. “That’s when it happened,” he continues, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. There’s something broken there, vulnerability seeping through the cracks in his usual calm. “I snapped. Took a swing at him. Next thing I know, we’re being pulled apart. Cameras everywhere. People yelling. Coach Morales losing his mind. The programme  was discontinued after that.” You take a small, steadying breath, unsure of whether to feel relieved that he defended you or angry that it came to this.

“And your injury?” you ask, the words careful, soft, like you’re afraid of breaking whatever fragile, rare occurrence is happening between you. He hesitates, the tension in his posture growing taut again. “When we went down, I didn’t even notice it at first. Adrenaline, I guess. I thought it wasn’t a big deal. It hurt, yeah, but I could still skate. I figured it’d pass. I didn’t want to make it anything more than what it was.” You watch the shift in his expression—the shame, the defensiveness, the echo of pain he’s tried so hard to bury. “That’s why you pulled out of the finals,” you say, the pieces clicking together all at once. He nods. “Turns out I tore a ligament when I landed wrong. I didn’t realise how bad it was until I couldn’t even put weight on it. Rehab took months. Had to retrain my whole posture. Thought I’d never land a clean jump again.” The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy with everything unspoken. You can feel the ache settle in your chest, not just for him but for the both of you—the version of him who tried to hold it all together, and the version of you who never knew. You want to scream at him for being reckless. For not telling you. For carrying all of this alone when he didn’t have to. But instead, you just stare at him. And he stares back. Both of you standing there, in the middle of a truth that neither of you asked for—but one that’s been waiting, quietly, to be told. “But you’re better now, right?” Your voice comes out more hopeful than you intended, a tight, almost desperate note clinging to the words. “I mean… you’re skating fine. You’re prepping for the tryouts, right?” Sunghoon hesitates, his eyes dropping to his hands where his fingers are still restlessly drumming against his thighs. He swallows hard, and the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease. “Barely,” he admits, the word thick and reluctant. “The injury relapses whenever I overexert. Some days it’s fine, and other days… it’s like I’m right back to square one. There’s no pattern. No warning. Just pain.” You feel a hollow ache forming in your chest, and you can’t help the frustration that bubbles up alongside the worry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks up at you then, a flicker of something pained and conflicted crossing his face. “Because it wasn’t your problem to deal with. You didn’t need to know. I couldn’t—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair in a way that’s almost angry. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you worrying about me. Not after I’d already messed things up between us.” You open your mouth to argue, to tell him that’s not how this works—that you wouldn’t have seen him as a burden. But you can’t find the words, because deep down, you know Sunghoon has always carried things alone. It’s just who he is. Protecting people from his own mess, even when it tears him apart. He’s still watching you, shoulders tense, waiting for the backlash—like he’s already bracing himself for the worst. And you can’t help it—you laugh. Not a happy laugh. Not even a bitter one. Just a short, exhausted sound that slips out before you can stop it. “That’s it?” you murmur, shaking your head. “That’s the reason you didn’t tell me? Because you didn’t know how to believe that I’d want to help you?” Sunghoon’s jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker with something like hurt. “You don’t understand—” “No, I don’t,” you cut in, and your voice wobbles despite your best efforts to sound composed. “I don’t understand how the guy who always told me to be honest, to be open with him, just decides on his own that I wouldn’t care? You didn’t even give me the chance, Sunghoon.” He doesn’t respond. Just lowers his gaze, looking at his own skates like they might hold an answer. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to ease back the frustration threatening to spill over. “You think I wouldn’t have cared? That I would’ve just—what—written you off as some failure because you got hurt? After everything?” His silence feels like an admission. And it hurts more than it should. “Was I really that easy to leave behind?” you ask, softer now. Your hands curl tighter around the edge of the boards, knuckles turning white. “Did I make it that easy for you?” He finally looks up, and his expression is raw, stripped down to something you haven’t seen in years. “No,” he says, almost too fast. “It wasn’t easy. Nothing about leaving was easy. I just—I didn’t know how to handle it.” You swallow the lump in your throat, letting his words sink in. You’re speechless, your mind a whirlwind of the why and the how and the what ifs that he’s not giving you. Then you zone into what he said: Not after I’d already messed things up between us. He’s aware that the reason for your falling out was because of him. “Never mind after we broke up. In the last few months of our relationship, why were you so distant then? Why wouldn’t you tell me anything? Why did we break up, Sunghoon?” His head jerks up, eyes widening. For a second, he looks like he didn’t expect you to ask, like he thought you’d just let it stay buried. But you can’t. Not anymore. “I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispers, like it’s something he’s only just now realising. “But by the time I figured out how to come back… it felt like I didn’t deserve to. Not after everything.” You open your mouth, then close it again, the words heavy on your tongue. There’s a long pause—weighted, expectant. You shift slightly, pressing your palms against the edge of the rink as if to steady yourself. And then, quietly—because you need to understand, because you deserve to—you ask:

“What happened in Spain? Please, I need to know.” Sunghoon meets your gaze and for a second, it really felt like he was finally meeting you halfway. He lets out a shaky breath before he speaks again, voice low and unsteady. “When I left Korea, it was like everything just… fell apart. I thought skating would fix it. That if I just pushed through, everything would fall into place. It was going to be worth it, I’d feel like myself again.” His voice is quieter when he continues, almost like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “After we broke up, I kept telling myself it was for the best. That I needed to focus on skating. But… after a while, it didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t even skating because I loved it. I was just… doing it. Because I didn’t know what else to do. Because I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t moving forward. And without you… I just felt stuck.” The weight of his confession presses down on both of you, heavy and unforgiving. You let your hands fall from where they’ve been gripping the rink barrier, flexing your fingers like you’re trying to shake off the cold—or maybe just the ache creeping into your chest. Sunghoon skates closer, not enough to close the gap entirely but enough that you can see the way his eyes are glossed over, the pain he’s too proud to let fully show. “I lost you. I lost skating. And I didn’t know how to come back from that.” You don’t know how to respond. You don’t even know if there’s anything left to say. So you just stare at him, taking in the vulnerability on his face—the way he’s finally, finally letting himself be seen. And despite the anger, despite the sadness, a small part of you—the part that never really stopped missing him—starts to unravel. Because this isn’t the Sunghoon you remember leaving. This is someone who’s been trying—fumbling, falling, but trying—to find his way back. You don’t move, but you don’t push him away either. You just stand there, caught between wanting to reach for him and wanting to protect yourself from being hurt again. And Sunghoon sees it—that hesitation. He takes a shaky breath, his hands falling to his sides, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s still looking at you—eyes wide, raw, like he’s afraid of what your silence means. Finally, he forces the words out, voice rough and unsteady. “I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really fucking sorry, Y/N.”

His eyes drop again, like he can’t bear to see your reaction. “I was an emotional wreck when I realised I was falling out of love with skating. It felt like I was losing the only thing I’d ever been good at, and I didn’t know how to handle that. And in the middle of that mess… I didn’t know how to give you the love you needed.” The admission hangs between you, heavy and unguarded, and it’s like you’re seeing the cracks in him for the first time—not the public figure, not the professional skater, but the boy who had once loved the ice so much that he didn’t know who he was without it. You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the tremble threatening your voice. “You should have just… told me. You didn’t have to go through it alone. I was right there, Sunghoon. I would have—” “I know,” he cuts in, voice almost desperate. “I know you would have. But I didn’t know how to let you. I kept thinking if I just pushed harder, trained longer, it would click again. That the love for it would come back. But it didn’t. And the more I kept failing, the less I could bring myself to tell you.” You swallow down the hurt lodged in your throat, forcing yourself to stay steady. “So instead, you just shut me out? Kept me in the dark?” “I couldn’t handle it,” he says, a bitter edge cutting through his tone. “All of it. You being so damn supportive. Telling me I could do it when I knew I couldn’t. I was falling apart, and you kept telling me I was going to make it. It just—” He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “It made me feel like a fraud. Like I was dragging you down with me.” You stare at him, disbelief and frustration mixing with the ache in your chest. “You’re kidding. And suddenly it's my fault? That I cared too much?”

“No! I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, voice hoarse, trembling around the edges of regret. “God, that’s not what I meant at all. Fuck.”

He grips the back of his neck like he’s trying to ground himself, eyes flickering everywhere—walls, floor, ceiling—anywhere that isn’t the firestorm in your gaze.

“I meant…” he finally forces out, lowering his hands. His shoulders sag. “I meant I didn’t know how to handle it. You gave so much and I—I didn’t know how to match it. I was scared I’d ruin it. So I pulled back. I shut you out instead of admitting I couldn’t keep up with the way you loved me.” Your heart clenches, torn between anger and sympathy. You take a deep breath, forcing the words out even though they taste like heartbreak. “You didn’t have to make that choice for me. I would’ve stayed, Sunghoon. Even if it hurt. Even if you were falling apart—” “That’s why I didn’t tell you!” The words burst out of him, louder than he meant them to. The sound echoes slightly in the quiet of the rink, raw and cracked at the edges. You flinch—not because you’re afraid, but because it’s the first time he’s raised his voice with you in a fight. Sunghoon’s expression falters the moment it leaves his mouth. His chest rises and falls unevenly as the weight of what he’s said settles between you. He blinks fast, and for the first time, you see the glassiness in his eyes—the way his lashes tremble under the strain of holding everything in. “I didn’t want you to feel guilty,” he says again, softer this time, like he’s trying to undo the sharpness from before. “Or worse… like you had to fix it. I couldn’t bear the thought of becoming something you felt responsible for instead of someone you just… loved.” He swallows hard, gaze falling to the floor as if he’s ashamed of the outburst, the truth, or maybe both. Your chest tightens at his words, but not out of anger. Not even sadness. Just this overwhelming ache for the boy in front of you—the boy who thought love was something that had to be earned only when he was okay. You exhale slowly, trying to steady the crack in your voice. “You think I loved you because you were strong all the time? Because you had it all together?” He doesn’t answer, but the tension in his shoulders says enough. “Sunghoon, I didn’t want to fix you. I just wanted to be there with you.

For a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to understand why you’re still here, still fighting to know the truth. And in that silence, you realise that he’s never really stopped carrying the weight of that decision—never really forgiven himself for it. The guilt. The loneliness. The fear. It’s all still there, buried under years of trying to pretend it didn’t matter. And it hits you then—how much of himself he gave up just to make sure you didn’t drown with him. You’re not sure whether to scream at him for being so stupidly self-sacrificing or cry because he thought pushing you away was protecting you. His next words come out in a whisper, like he’s afraid of breaking the fragile truce between you. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear. I just… didn’t know how to love you and love skating at the same time. And when skating stopped feeling like love, I didn’t know how to love myself either.” Something inside you softens, and you feel the fight drain out of your body. You lean back, exhaling shakily, trying to process it all. Maybe you thought the anger would feel good. Like if you just yelled loud enough, it would drown out the ache that’s been festering since he left. But now, standing here with him—raw, exposed, finally admitting the truth—you just feel tired. And maybe, just maybe, a little relieved. Because at least now you know. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he didn’t know how. Without thinking, you reach out over the barricade, your fingers brushing against his. When he doesn’t pull away, you take his hand in yours. His shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself lean into you—no walls, no distance, just the raw truth of it all between you.

He lets out a rough, almost bitter laugh. “Funny, right? I spent so long trying to protect you from my problems that I ended up creating a whole new one.” You squeeze his hand gently, feeling his warmth seep into your skin. “You didn’t have to go through it alone,” you whisper. “You didn’t have to push me away just because you thought you were sparing me.” His eyes dart down to your joined hands, but he doesn’t pull away. “I know that now,” he says quietly. “But back then, I thought keeping you out of it would make things easier. For both of us.” You swallow the knot in your throat, wondering how many more pieces you’d have to unearth before you finally made sense of everything that went wrong between you. “But it didn’t, did it?” you murmur, half a statement, half a question. Sunghoon’s shoulders sag, like the weight he’s been carrying finally buckles under your words. He breathes out slowly, shaking his head, a rueful, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “No. It didn’t.” Sunghoon takes a deep, trembling breath. The kind that rattles from somewhere deep in his chest, like he’s holding back more than just words. Slowly, carefully, his fingers slip from yours. The absence of his touch is immediate—sharp, cold, like the air around you shifted. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, like maybe that’s the only way to keep them from shaking, from betraying just how unsteady he really feels. His gaze drops to the ice at your feet, avoiding your eyes with an almost boyish kind of shame, as though looking at you would only make the truth harder to say. “And I didn’t reach out to you after my injury because…” He pauses, swallows. His voice when it comes out is brittle, like he’s forcing it through a throat full of glass. “Because I didn’t want you to feel like you were a second option. Like I was only coming back to you because skating was no longer viable.” Your breath catches. The words hit in a place you didn’t expect, a sharp, unexpected pang that lodges deep beneath your ribs. You blink, startled, searching his face like maybe you misheard him. “What?” you whisper, barely audible. The word is soft, too soft. It slips from your lips like a secret, afraid to make the moment any heavier than it already is. He lets out a laugh—but it’s dry, hollow, laced with bitterness and self-loathing. “It’s stupid, I know. But I didn’t want you to think that… that I only wanted you because skating didn’t work out. I thought if I showed up after everything fell apart, you’d look at me and think I was just using you to fill the gap.” You shake your head slowly, the motion dazed, your thoughts struggling to keep pace with the revelation. “Sunghoon… I never—” “I know,” he cuts in, quickly, almost harshly. His voice cracks, raw and unfiltered. “I know you didn’t. But I was so fucking lost, Y/N. I didn’t know who I was without skating. And the idea of crawling back to you, looking for comfort when I had nothing left… it felt selfish. Like I was just dragging you into my mess because I couldn’t handle it on my own. You deserved better than that.” There’s a silence that follows—not the empty kind, but the kind that weighs down the air like fog. Heavy. Still. Unavoidable. Your arms fold in tightly against your chest as if bracing for something colder than the rink air. There’s a tightness there, something fragile pressing hard against your ribs, and it takes you a moment to recognise it for what it is. It’s the part of you that never really stopped caring. “You’re an idiot,” you say, voice thick, the words catching on the knot in your throat. You almost choke on it, the mix of pain and tenderness. “A complete idiot.” He finally looks up.

And it’s the way he looks at you that undoes you. Eyes rimmed red, glassy with unshed tears, but wide open—unguarded in a way he’s never let himself be. The vulnerability in them is devastating. It makes your own eyes sting, and you press your lips together hard, willing yourself not to break down in front of him. You can’t afford to. Not after everything. But the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s baring his heart after years of hiding—it hurts. The ice rink is eerily quiet now. The distant hum of the arena lights above buzzes like white noise around you, but everything else is still. Time feels like it’s slowed down, like the two of you exist in a bubble suspended in grief, in truth, in the aftermath of everything that wasn’t said when it mattered. You don’t know what to say—don’t know how to put into words the mess of emotions clawing at your chest. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. There’s relief, yes. A bit of anger too. But mostly, there’s just this deep, aching sadness for the boy who thought he had to fight his battles alone. But eventually, you find your voice. Quieter. Softer. “I never needed you to be perfect, Sunghoon.” Your voice wavers despite how hard you try to steady it. “I just needed you to be honest.” He closes his eyes for a moment, like the words hit him physically. The mess inside his chest doesn’t have clean edges. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. His brows pull together, and his shoulders—always so tight, so high, like he’s been bracing for impact for years—finally sink. The tension in him melts, slow and subtle, like he’s deflating under the weight of finally letting the truth out. Then he nods. Once. Barely. But it’s enough. Enough to know that he heard you. And that alone makes your heart ache. You know you shouldn’t give in. Not this easily. But you’ve never been one for restraint. It’s always been your fatal flaw—feeling too much, too fast, letting your heart speak before your head can catch up. And maybe that’s why this moment feels so inevitable. Because despite everything—despite the heartbreak, the silence, the years—you still want to close the distance. It’s a mystery how you and Sunghoon even started dating in the first place, how two people so fundamentally different found their way to each other. You, all fire and instinct, and him—quiet, composed, like he was always walking a tightrope with his heart tucked out of reach. You were sunshine, and he was midnight rain. You wanted comfort, but he was chasing medals and glory. Well… he used to. Back then, he didn’t know you’d come into his life. Didn’t expect that your laughter, your stubborn heart, your ability to see straight through him would start to matter more than medals ever did. Didn’t realise that somewhere along the way, it wasn’t skating he was chasing anymore.

It was you. And by the time he figured it out—by the time he realised you were the thing he’d always been reaching for—you were already slipping through his fingers. Not because you didn’t love him. But because he didn’t know how to stop running. Not for the crowd. Not for the gold. But from someone who would’ve stayed if only he’d asked. Maybe that’s why it worked for a while. Maybe that’s why he never stopped yearning. His eyes are still fixed on the ice, refusing to look at you, like if he stares hard enough, he can will himself invisible. His posture is closed in, like he’s trying to shrink himself, like if he folds in far enough, he can disappear into his regret. You take a step forward. Then another. Your shoes click softly against the rubber mats until the last one slips onto the smooth, glinting surface. You cross the threshold onto the ice without thinking, heart first, fearless—like always. The cold greets your ankles instantly, the faint burn of it rushing up your calves. Your feet come into his view, and he startles slightly, blinking as he realises how close you are now. “What are you—?” His brow furrows, alarm flickering in his expression. “Careful, you’re gonna fall again if—” You hug him. There’s no warning. No speech. No careful calculation. You just move, because your heart gets there before anything else can stop it. Your arms wrap around him—firm, grounding—and his breath stutters as if the contact knocks the wind out of him. He stays frozen for a second, like his body doesn’t believe it’s real, like he thinks if he moves, you’ll vanish. "It's okay," you murmur against his shoulder, your voice soft but steady. "I know you'll catch me even if I fall." And somehow, that’s what does it. That quiet faith in him—even now, after everything—cracks something open. He exhales, the breath hitching on its way out, and you feel the tension leave his body piece by piece. Slowly, hesitantly, he melts into you. His chin dips to rest against the curve of your shoulder, and his arms—those shaking, unsure arms—wrap around your back and hold on. Not tight. Not desperate. But like someone who’s been cold for far too long, and finally, finally found warmth. Like your presence alone is something he's relearning how to deserve. You close your eyes, steadying yourself with the quiet rise and fall of his chest against yours. Then you speak—gently, but with purpose. "Don’t take this the wrong way," you say, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket. "This isn’t forgiveness. I’m not there yet. This is just… me showing you that I still care. As a friend." He stiffens slightly, but you don’t let go. You press on. "I’m sorry this happened to you," you whisper. "I know skating meant the world to you." Sunghoon doesn’t answer. Not out loud. But his arms tighten—just a little—and his breath shudders, and the thought echoes in his mind with a force that nearly brings him to his knees: You mean the world to me, still. He doesn't say it. He doesn’t need to. It’s there—in the way he holds you now, in the way he leans into your warmth like it’s the first real thing he’s touched in years. And for a moment, you let him. You both do. Not as the people you once were. But as the broken, rebuilding versions of yourselves—still trying, still reaching, still here. This quiet moment.

You remember this feeling. The stillness. The unspoken. The way the world seems to hush when you’re in his arms—not because everything is perfect, but because somehow, even in the mess, it feels safe. You used to crave more. Words. Reassurance. The kind of affection you could point to and name. But as time passed, you learned to understand him in these smaller, quieter ways. The way he’d wait for you after late classes just to walk you home, even when he never said why. The way he’d leave extra pairs of gloves in your bag before competitions. The way he never quite let go first. It’s the way Sunghoon has always shown love to you. Not through grand gestures or flowery words, but through presence. Through the way he leans in, silent and steady. Through the way he holds you like you're something he’s afraid to break. Through the quiet weight of his hand resting at the small of your back, like a promise he’s never quite been brave enough to say out loud. This right here—this silence filled with meaning—has always been his way of saying I’m here. I care. I love you. And that’s why, when his presence stopped feeling like love—when the silence turned from comfort to distance—you felt discarded. Unwanted. Like love had quietly exited the room and no one bothered to tell you. His inability to say what he felt, to put to words what you meant to him, only made it worse. Because you were still there, waiting for something—anything—to hold onto, while he kept retreating behind walls you couldn’t climb. But now, standing here, with his arms around you once again, you feel it. All of it. Even if he still hasn’t found the words. You realise then—he never stopped caring for you, too. The silence. The omission of truth. The way he held everything in, thinking he was protecting you by keeping you out. You used to mistake it for distance, for disinterest. But maybe that was just the way he loved you. Complicated. Flawed. Quiet in all the places you needed noise. It wasn’t the way you loved—not loud and vulnerable, not open and all-consuming—but it was still love. Just… his version of it. And you—all heart before reason. You loved like it was oxygen, like holding back would be the same as holding your breath. You said too much, felt too deeply, asked for honesty even when he didn’t know how to give it. You needed presence, yes—but you also needed words. Needed something solid to hold onto when his silence left too much room for doubt. And still—that was the way you loved him. Messy. Unfiltered. Brave in all the ways he wasn’t ready for. You offered him your whole heart without a safety net, while all he wanted was to protect you from his fall. And it hits you then, in a way that’s both soft and sharp—this was always the story. The gaps, the miscommunication, the mismatched ways of showing up. It was never about not feeling enough. It was about feeling too much, in entirely different languages. You, speaking in open wounds and raw confessions. Him, answering in silence and distance. Two people standing on opposite ends of a love that was real—just not always right.

And maybe that’s the tragedy of it.

Not that you didn’t love each other. But that you did.

Just in ways the other didn’t know how to hold.

You and Sunghoon spend the next few hours sitting on the cold bleachers, catching up on the last four years—what was said, what wasn’t, and everything that existed in between. It’s not an invitation to get back together. That much is clear—spoken and understood without the need for awkward disclaimers. This is something else entirely. A truce, maybe. An unspoken agreement to lay the past to rest without erasing it. An invitation to let go of the bitterness. To make sure the four years you spent loving each other—messy and imperfect as they were—don’t go down the drain as nothing but regret. And anyway, nobody ever said ex-lovers couldn’t stay friends… You learn that Hugo Sánchez—the skater Sunghoon had that infamous tussle with—was caught up in a drug scandal just a few months later. It never made headlines, swept under the rug with hush money and quiet handshakes behind closed doors. But word still got around. Coach Morales blacklisted him, and by extension, so did every major name in the circuit. “Guess karma’s real after all,” you mutter, brows raised as Sunghoon nods. “He got what he deserved,” he replies quietly, but there’s no real satisfaction in his tone. Just a kind of weariness. The kind that says it still wasn’t worth what it cost me. You offer a small, understanding smile, then shift the conversation—gently. You tell him about your career. How you fell into sports journalism by accident, how you hated it at first. How you stuck with it anyway. About the sleepless nights, the thankless deadlines, the rush of chasing a story and the heartbreak of killing one. You tell him how strange it is, writing about athletes when you once dated one—how sometimes you catch yourself comparing their routines, their postures, their voices to his. You don’t mean to say that last part. But it slips out, unfiltered. Sunghoon glances at you then, a soft crease forming between his brows, and for a moment, you think he might say something. But he doesn’t. He just listens, the same way he always used to—quietly, intently, like your voice alone is enough to anchor him. You’re halfway through telling him the story about your first major reporting slip-up—something about mistaking a gold medalist for a retired curling coach—when Sunghoon breaks into laughter.

Real laughter.

Not the polite kind. Not the breathy exhale he’s used to giving when he’s holding too much in. But the kind that lights up his whole face. His head tips back slightly, shoulders shaking, eyes squinting in disbelief as he nearly doubles over from how hard he’s laughing.

“You what?” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Please tell me you didn’t salute him and ask about his war medals too. He probably thought you were calling him a grandpa, not an Olympian!” You’re laughing too, unable to help it. “Listen, the man had a beard and a windbreaker and that very ‘I peaked in Vancouver 2010’ vibe.” “And that screams retired Olympian to you?” he chokes, still catching his breath. “You probably set athlete-media relations back a decade.” “I was nervous, okay?” you defend, wiping at your eyes, the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt already fading into little aftershocks. You lean back against the bleachers with a sigh, finally calming down—only to notice he’s gone quiet. You turn to find him just… looking at you. Not with amusement anymore, but something softer. His expression has shifted—gentle, open, a little vulnerable in a way that makes your breath catch. He’s watching you like he forgot what it was like to see you laugh like that. Like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your smile and hold onto the sound of it. You raise a brow, playful. “What? Do I have something on my face?” He blinks, startled, like you caught him in a secret. “No,” he says, quickly averting his gaze. Then, quieter, “Just... forgot what that sounded like.” “What did?” you ask, even though you already know. “You. Laughing like that.” He shrugs, keeping his eyes on the rink. You pause, suddenly aware of how close you’re sitting. How his knee brushes yours every so often when he shifts. How the warmth between you lingers even in the chill of the arena. “Well,” you finally say, nudging his shoulder with yours, “don’t get used to it. I’m a very serious journalist now. No more giggling.” He glances at you with a crooked smile, eyes full of mischief. “Sure. I’ll believe that when you don’t snort the next time you laugh.” You gasp, scandalised. “I do not snort.” Sunghoon leans in slightly, teasing. “You literally just did.” You stare at him, lips parted, fully ready to argue—until you realise he’s right. And then you’re laughing again, shaking your head as you gently shove his arm. “Asshole,” you mumble through your grin. And just like that, the weight between you both lightens again—still present, but tucked neatly beside something warmer. Familiar. Almost like the beginning of something new. Or maybe just the gentler end of something old. Either way, it’s something.

That night, when you finally reach home, your cheeks are still warm. You’re still smiling a little too easily at nothing in particular. The chill of the ice rink has long worn off, but Sunghoon’s laugh—low, genuine—lingers in your ears like a recent vocal stimulation. It’s been years since that sound last came from him, at least directed at you, and it sits somewhere in your chest now, unexpectedly soft and stubborn. You kick off your shoes, shrug off your coat, and collapse onto your couch with a sigh that’s half-exhaustion, half-daydream. Your mind is foggy, a little giddy. Like you’ve just had caffeine on an empty stomach or you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life—one where the world’s been tilted just a few degrees off-centre and nothing’s quite the same anymore. Then your eyes fall on your laptop. Still open. Still glowing. And suddenly, reality tugs you back down. You’d forgotten about the article. The one you had barely started drafting. The one with Sunghoon’s name in the headline. The one meant to announce his participation in the Olympics tryout. You sit up straighter, the comfort in your muscles draining fast as a chill crawls up your spine. Because all you can think about now—over and over, like a stuck record—is the way he said it: “The injury relapses whenever I overexert.” He’d said it so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was just a fact of life now. A quiet asterisk next to his name. He said he wasn’t planning a full comeback. He said he wasn’t sure. But he’s still showing up to tryouts. Still skating. Still pushing. And suddenly, what once felt like a career milestone—this exclusive, this rare chance to write the first profile on Park Sunghoon’s inevitable return to the ice—feels... invasive. Too sharp. Too personal. Your fingers hover over your phone, the urge to text him immediate.

You type something—delete it. Type again.

Hey. Are you really okay to skate?| | Are you sure you’re not pushing too hard?| | Let me know if there’s anyway I can help.| | But none of them feel right. Because you barely just started talking again. Because one evening of laughter on a set of cold bleachers doesn’t erase four years of silence. Because you’re not sure if checking in now would cross a line you don’t have permission to step over anymore. So instead, you lock your phone screen and place it face down on the table. And you sit there in the quiet, trying not to worry. Trying not to think of the pressure on his leg, the sting in his joints, the way he’d smiled when he told you—not proud, not hopeful, just... resigned. But worry, of course, doesn’t ask permission. It settles in the pit of your stomach like lead. Because you know him. And you know he’ll keep skating—even if it breaks him again. And worst of all, he’ll do it without ever asking for help.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] Park Sunghoon Announces Participation In 2026 Winter Olympics Tryout

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily It’s been nearly two years since figure skating prodigy Park Sunghoon last performed on Korean ice.

Once heralded as one of South Korea’s most technically refined athletes, Park disappeared from the public eye following an abrupt withdrawal from the 2023 Grand Prix Final. No formal statement was ever released. No interviews, no explanations—just a silence that, for a time, swallowed even his most devoted fans’ questions.

Until now.

This week, Park’s name quietly reappeared on the athlete roster for the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics tryouts. And in an exclusive conversation with Manifesto Daily, Park has officially confirmed his participation.

Park’s return marks a significant moment in the national figure skating circuit. Known for his precision, control, and signature composure on the ice, his performances have long drawn praise from both domestic and international judges. His participation is expected to bring renewed attention to the men's singles category in the upcoming season.

Tryouts are scheduled to take place early next month, where top-ranked skaters will compete for coveted spots on South Korea’s Olympic delegation. While Park has kept a low public profile in recent years, anticipation surrounding his return remains high. His past record includes a gold medal finish at the Four Continents Championships, a bronze medal at the Beijing 2022 Winter Olympics, and consistent placements in the Grand Prix circuit, making him a strong contender as the nation gears up for Olympic selection.

Fans and officials alike will be watching closely as Park takes the ice again—not only for his technical capabilities, but for what his presence brings to a new generation of skaters: legacy, poise, and a renewed standard of excellence.

Further details regarding the tryout schedule and national team lineup are expected to be released by the Korean Skating Union in the coming weeks.

For now, one thing is clear: Park Sunghoon is officially back in contention.

The day of the Olympic tryouts arrives cloaked in a biting chill, the kind that slips past your collar and lingers in your bones. You arrive earlier than necessary, nerves already humming beneath your skin. Not as a reporter this time. Not officially, anyway. Sunghoon had pulled strings—quietly, discreetly. A whispered favour here, a signature there. He got you in as “internal support staff,” listed under his team’s management, though you’re carrying nothing but your notepad, your name badge, and a heart that won’t sit still. Reporters aren’t allowed inside the venue during these closed sessions. That’s the rule. But Sunghoon has always had a way of bending the edges when he really wants something. And today, he wanted you there. You flash the ID badge at the security checkpoint, and it works. You’re ushered in with the rest of his team—coaches, assistants, the tech specialist checking his skates for calibration. You keep your head down, hands wrapped tightly around the warm paper cup of coffee you didn’t finish. You don’t think you could stomach anything right now anyway. You find yourself blinking a little harder than necessary as you take your seat in the shadows of the side bleachers, tucked away from the officials and judges gathering near the front. Your hands grip the edge of the bench automatically. Your eyes find the centre of the rink without thinking. And there he is. Sunghoon. Hair slicked back, posture impossibly straight, wearing a crisp black jacket with his country’s emblem stitched just above his heart. He hasn’t noticed you yet—he’s locked in, eyes narrowed, lips set in that focused line you know too well. It’s not his competition face yet, but it’s close. You feel a rush of déjà vu so strong it makes your chest ache. Because you’ve been here before. Not here exactly, but in a hundred different rinks just like this one. Sitting in the same quiet corners. Watching him from a distance. Sometimes holding your breath without realising it. Sometimes the only person in the arena clapping when he stuck a landing during rehearsal. Back then, you knew his routines by heart. Knew the way his fingers twitched before a jump. Knew when he was proud and when he was pretending to be. And now, somehow, you're here again. Only this time, there are four years of silence sitting between you and the memory of who you used to be in his orbit. Still, when he glides to the edge of the rink and spots you in the stands, his expression softens just a fraction. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. But he holds your gaze long enough for you to know: He sees you. The same way he did four years ago.

When you used to wait by the edge of the rink with a scarf and a warm drink. When he’d skate over to you before practice just to tap your forehead with his finger and say don’t blink this time. When he was still learning how to balance pressure and affection—and you were still learning how to love someone who rarely said what he felt. The way he’s looking at you now—it’s not loud. Not grand. But it’s enough to pull at the thread of every memory you thought you’d neatly tucked away. Sunghoon exhales slowly, eyes trained on the centre of the rink as the announcer’s voice fades into the cold, echoing silence. The blades of his skates feel heavy beneath him—not because they’re any different, but because he is. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the layers of his costume, fast but controlled. A familiar rhythm he used to draw comfort from. Now, it only reminds him of everything riding on this final run. He flexes his fingers once, then again. The nerves are there—no point pretending they aren’t. They’ve settled deep into his bones, coiled tight like springs. But there’s no fear. Not of falling. Not of losing. Because he already did that. He already lost the version of skating that once consumed him. Already stepped away from the spotlight, already let go of the expectations. What remains now is something simpler. Smaller. This isn’t about medals anymore. This is the end of something. Or maybe the beginning of what comes after. He guesses that’s the one thing he was keeping from you. Not because he didn’t trust you, but because saying it out loud would’ve made it real—that the dream he built his life around had slowly started to unravel. That somewhere along the way, skating stopped being love and started feeling like obligation.

You think he’s here to chase after redemption. To reclaim what was lost. To silence the whispers, the speculation, the question marks that trailed behind his name for years. You think he’s here to prove that he still has it—that the boy wonder of South Korea’s figure skating circuit never truly fell from grace. But you’re wrong. Because redemption implies he owes something to someone. And Sunghoon’s done with owing. This tryout isn’t about reclaiming his reputation. He’s not here for the judges. Not for the headlines. Not even for the crowd that once screamed his name. He’s here for something far quieter. Something far more difficult to earn. Closure. Not the kind that comes with medals or press conferences, but the kind you feel in your chest when you finally stop running. When you stop skating to meet expectations, and start skating to meet yourself again. This is not a comeback. It’s about reclaiming why he ever skated in the first place. It’s about the quiet mornings on empty rinks. The way cold air fills his lungs and clears his thoughts. The ache in his legs after hours of training that no one ever saw. It’s about the pieces of himself he left scattered in every routine he never got to finish. He shifts his weight slightly, grounding himself. This routine isn’t built for spectacle. It doesn’t chase applause. It’s clean. Honest. Unforgiving in its simplicity. And if this is the last time he performs under Olympic lights—if this is the closing chapter of a decade-long pursuit—then he wants to be the one who chooses how it ends. Not the injury. Not the press. Not the silence. He takes one last glance toward the bleachers. And there you are. Watching. Just like you used to---back then, when his world was still laced with possibility, and your quiet presence was the only constant that ever kept him sane.

And with this last performance—with this one final act—it’s not about the world. It’s not about redemption.

It’s about himself. About stepping onto the ice one final time not to impress, but to release. To mourn. To honour everything this love once was

And maybe—just maybe—it’s for you too. The girl who believed in him before the world knew his name. The one who stayed long after the spotlight dimmed.

He wishes he could say that. Wishes he could turn and tell you: This is for you.

But Sunghoon has never been fluent in the language of declarations.

So instead, he skates, The music begins—something classical, restrained, just a touch mournful—and Sunghoon moves. No flourish. No dramatic opening gesture. Just a quiet push forward, blades slicing into the ice with the same precision you remember from years ago. But this time, there’s something different. There’s stillness in him.  Control so complete it doesn’t scream—it whispers. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t force it. He lets the music carry him, lets the silence in the arena wrap around him like a second skin. One edge. Then the next. Arms extended, posture flawless, his body slicing through space like he belongs to it. His first jump—a quad toe loop. Clean. Effortless. His landing doesn’t so much hit the ice as it touches it. The blade barely sings as it connects. The motion is seamless, and for a second, no one breathes. Not the judges. Not the staff. Not even the other skaters who’ve trained beside him years ago and know just how good Sunghoon really is. They fall quiet—everyone does—because what they’re seeing isn’t just a routine.

It’s artistry.

His movements are elegant, measured. Each spin folds perfectly into the next, centre tight, shoulders relaxed, neck lengthened. His step sequence flows like water—no excess, no hesitation. And then the triple axel—the jump that sidelined him years ago—comes out of nowhere.

He lands it perfectly.

Not a wobble. Not a check. Not even a breath out of place.

Someone in the stands exhales sharply, as if they forgot they were holding their breath. One of the younger skaters watching from behind the boards drops their phone in shock. Even the coaches—stoic, experienced, always hard to impress—exchange glances. Subtle, but wide-eyed. No one expected this. Not from someone who hasn’t competed in years. Not from someone they assumed was skating on borrowed time. But there he is. Moving like the ice never betrayed him. Like the injury never happened. Like he’s not returning from anything, but arriving exactly where he belongs. The closing spin begins—slow, low, deliberate. He lowers into a final sit spin so clean it looks animated, the motion a perfect blur. Then he rises, centres himself, and ends in silence. No dramatic bow. No fist in the air. Just Sunghoon. Standing still, chest rising, eyes closed. Like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years. And for a moment—just one—no one claps. Not because it wasn’t brilliant. But because brilliance demands reverence. The applause comes late. Staggered. And then all at once. But even then, it feels too small for what they just witnessed. Because what Sunghoon gave them wasn’t just a performance. It was a goodbye disguised as grace.

The moment the tryouts conclude, the applause still echoing faintly in your ears, you don’t hesitate. You’re already halfway down the stands before your brain catches up with your legs. You weave through rows of folding seats, shoulder past lingering staff and curious onlookers, scanning the crowd of skaters, coaches, and judges now spilling onto the ice and rinkside floor. Your heart is racing. Not from excitement. From urgency. Like if you don’t find him now, this moment—his moment—might slip away before you get to say anything. And then you spot him. Near the far side of the rink, his posture relaxed now, his jacket back on and unzipped. He’s speaking to someone. You recognise the man instantly: Coach Im, his university coach. Stern but warm. Always had a thermos in hand and a stopwatch around his neck, even when he wasn’t timing anyone. You saw him often—back when you used to sit through Sunghoon’s practice sessions, bundled in jackets, pretending to read while keeping your eyes on the ice. Sunghoon laughs at something the coach says, his shoulders shaking with a lightness you haven’t seen in years. You feel something stir in your chest as you step closer. Coach Im spots you first. His eyes light up in recognition as you approach, his voice lifting cheerfully over the din. “Oh hey—isn’t this Y/N?” he says, clapping a hand on Sunghoon’s shoulder. “So lovely to see that the two of you are still going strong!” The words hit you like an unexpected gust of wind, warm and jarring all at once. Sunghoon startles slightly, glancing quickly in your direction with wide eyes—like even he didn’t see that coming. You blink, then laugh—just a breath, soft and awkward. “Oh, um… it’s not like that. We’re not—” But Sunghoon doesn’t say anything right away. He just looks at you. Not surprised. Not embarrassed. Just… thoughtful. A crease forming between his brows like he’s considering what to say next—if he should say anything at all. Coach Im looks between the two of you, clearly confused, then lets out a warm chuckle. “Either way, it’s good to see you again. I remember you always being there in the bleachers during Sunghoon’s training sessions. It was nice knowing he had someone by his side. Kept him grounded, you know?” You smile politely, heart doing a strange little dance in your chest. And as the coach excuses himself to greet someone else, you and Sunghoon are left in a bubble of silence.

Just like old times. Only now, everything feels different.

And yet—somehow—exactly the same.

You clear your throat, stepping a little closer, nerves fluttering at the base of your spine. "Hey, I just wanted to—"

"I'm sorry, Y/N," Sunghoon cuts in, his tone gentle but clipped. He avoids your gaze, already half-turning away. "I promised to meet some old friends from uni to catch up."

You pause. Blinking. The words take a second to land.

"Oh. Right. Yeah," you say, forcing a small smile as you nod, even though your chest tightens. "I'll... see you around?"

"I'll text you, yeah?" he offers, already moving backwards, already fading into the crowd.

You nod again, slower this time. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Okay." And just like that, he’s gone. Swallowed up by the familiar buzz of coaches, skaters, and congratulations. You stand there a beat longer than you should, the cold of the rink creeping back into your fingertips. The moment you thought you were chasing slips quietly through your hands—unfinished. And all you can do is exhale. Pretend it doesn’t sting. Pretend it isn’t you who’s waiting for him again—who’s standing here with something halfway between closure and hope tangled in your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. That he skated beautifully. That this day wasn’t about you. But beneath all that composure, you feel it—the ache of almost. Because maybe you expected too much. Or maybe, for a second, you forgot you were just someone he let in again—not someone he kept.

But the truth is, Sunghoon didn’t know how to face you without tearing up. Didn’t know how to walk toward you without pulling you into his arms and asking you to stay, to say something—anything—that might ground him after what just happened on the ice. But the moment Coach Im said your name, smiled like it was still you and him, like time hadn't split everything in half, Sunghoon panicked. Because he’s not sure what this is. Not yet. And he’s not sure you’re open to confronting it, either—whatever it is, this delicate thing hanging between you like a conversation neither of you has found the courage to start. Maybe he read too much into your eyes during warm-up. Maybe the way you looked at him wasn’t about wanting him back. Maybe it was just nostalgia—soft, forgiving, but not something you wanted to carry forward. Maybe you were just proud of him. Maybe you were just letting go. He doesn’t blame you. Because deep down, Sunghoon knows he never really forgave himself for the way things ended—for the silence, the confusion, the months where he let you carry the weight of a love he couldn't name, let alone hold properly. He knows he hurt you in the worst way: by making you feel like you had to ask to be chosen. And though time has passed, and the ache has dulled, another part of him still isn’t sure—still isn't confident—that he’s capable of giving you the kind of love you deserve. But then again—this. This miscommunication. This habit of circling around instead of stepping in. This assumption of what he thinks you want—what you don’t want—it’s what drove the two of you apart in the first place. All the things he never said. All the things you tried to. All the maybes that built a house out of hesitation and called it home. He thought silence would spare you. You thought silence meant indifference. And somewhere along the way—between protecting and pretending, between misreading and mistiming—you both forgot how to meet in the middle.

And now here you are again.

You, still waiting.

Him, still too afraid to walk closer.

Each of you assuming the other doesn’t want more. Each of you convincing yourselves that almost is close enough.

Even when it never was. Even when it never could be.

And as usual, the text he promised never really came. At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt—told yourself he was probably just busy, caught up in post-tryout formalities, in media briefings, in reconnecting with old friends or navigating the aftermath of a performance that stunned everyone in the arena. But deep down, you knew the silence wasn’t unfamiliar. It never had been. After all, the foundation of your relationship in those final months was built on this same cycle Sunghoon giving just enough. Just enough warmth, just enough apology, just enough softness to keep you waiting—to keep you hoping that maybe if you held on a little longer, he’d choose you fully, finally, without hesitation. And you—God, you—with your foolish heart that had only ever known how to love in full measure, never halfway, never with one foot out the door—you waited. You waited like you always did. And maybe that’s why, when the Korean Skating Union releases the official roster of Olympic athletes and his name is printed boldly at the very top—like it never left, like it was always meant to be there—something in you shifts. You feel it, a spark lighting in your chest, sharp and sudden and wild, and before you’ve even thought it through, you’re already reaching for your coat, already grabbing your keys, already walking out the door with your heart hammering too loudly in your chest. You could’ve texted him. Could’ve called. Could’ve sent a simple message like “congratulations,” could’ve played it safe the way people do when they’re pretending not to care as much as they do. But you don’t. Because something in you needs to see him—needs to see his face, his eyes, the way he stands now that the weight is off his shoulders, now that he’s done it, now that he’s reclaimed skating the way he always wanted to. Because if any part of what you shared still matters—if any part of him still looks at you the way he used to—you want to be there to see it. Not through a screen. Not in a message thread that never starts.

But in person.

So you go. Because maybe this time, you're done waiting.

You stand just inside the entrance of the skating arena, the cold air hitting your skin like a memory. The official delegation is supposed to make a public appearance today—an Olympic tradition of sorts. Which means Sunghoon should be here. Somewhere. Your eyes scan the crowd. Clusters of athletes in sleek national jackets, coaches and press weaving through them like old threads. But it doesn’t take long before you spot him. Tucked away in a corner, half-shadowed by the edge of the bleachers. He’s deep in conversation with one of the national Olympic coaches—Coach Baek, if you remember correctly. The older man’s expression is tight, gestures sharp with frustration. You can’t hear what’s being said, but the energy between them is tense. Sunghoon stands there, arms crossed, nodding slowly, his jaw tight but unreadable. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just listens. When the coach finally exhales, the tension softens—barely. A few more words are exchanged, and then a hand lands on Sunghoon’s shoulder, firm and final. A goodbye, or maybe a warning softened into encouragement. Then the coach walks away. And as Sunghoon turns slightly to see him off—shoulders still drawn tight from the conversation—his eyes land on you. You freeze for half a second, caught mid-step, unsure whether to wave, speak, or turn back the way you came. But before the indecision fully settles, he starts toward you, closing the distance with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel as natural as it does.

“Hey,” he says, breath a little visible in the rink’s chill. “I was just about to call you.” You arch a brow, tilting your head. “You were?” His mouth lifts, half a smile, half something else you can’t quite name. “Yeah,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the weight of his own words. You cough, trying to mask the genuine surprise, and maybe joy in your tone. “What was that about? He looked like he was about to throw you back into juniors. Training hasn’t even started and you’re already pissing the coach off?” Sunghoon laughs, and for a second, it lightens his whole face. “Yeah… about that…” You narrow your eyes. “What now?” He takes a small breath, then meets your eyes. “What do you think about writing another exclusive?” You blink. Once. Twice. “What, that you made the Olympic team? That’s hardly exclusive.” His smile fades into something more serious. “No, that’s not it.” You watch him carefully now. “I’m retiring.” Your breath catches. “What? When?” “Effective immediately,” he smiles as he says. “I’ve officially pulled out of the Olympic delegation.”

You just stare at him, stunned. “But—Sunghoon. You worked so hard for this. Recovery took years. You’ve been training nonstop—” “I know,” he says, not unkindly, but firm. “And that’s exactly why.” You’re still trying to catch up, your brain scrambling to make sense of it. “I don’t understand. Then why did you go through the tryouts? Why fight so hard just to walk away?” He exhales, like he’s been carrying the answer for a while. “Because I needed to know it was still there. The feeling.” His eyes meet yours, steady. “I wanted to remember what it felt like to skate—not for medals, not for judges, not for anyone else—but just for me. To feel that I could still love it, even if it no longer loved me back the same way.” Then, softer—almost apologetically—he adds, “I’ll never be able to skate like I used to, Y/N. I’ve already accepted that.” It hits you then—that his silence, the tension with the coach, the performance that felt too clean, too perfect—it was all part of a farewell. You’re quiet for a moment. “So this was… what? A planned goodbye?” He nods once, steady. “Maybe not from the beginning. But somewhere along the way, yeah. I think I knew I needed to end it on my terms. Not when the pain told me to. Not when the judges did. When I decided it was enough.” “But—skating. It meant the world to you—” Your voice comes out softer than you expect, the disbelief tangled with something else. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just the ache of watching someone walk away from something that once lit them up from the inside out. Ironic, since you were once someone that lit him up—maybe still is. Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, eyes steady, voice calm in a way that tells you he’s already made peace with it. “It did,” he pauses, breath curling in the cold, as if he's choosing his next words carefully. And in that moment, you realise that his performance wasn’t a comeback. It was a love letter.

And a goodbye. “Which is why,” he continues, quieter now, “this is the last thing I can do for myself. To leave it the way I want to. I didn’t want my last memory of skating to be hospitals, setbacks, or walking away because I had no choice. I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.” And you’re hit with a painful ache in your chest as he says it—sharp, sudden, the kind that lodges itself between your ribs and blooms quietly like grief. Because if this is the ending he chose for skating—on his own terms, with love and clarity and closure—then what about you? Where is your ending?

Where is your closure? The question surges up before you can catch it, before you can bury it under composure or timing or pride—and it spills out of you, raw and quiet and too honest. “In that case, what do you remember me by?” Sunghoon freezes. His shoulders tense, breath catching so subtly that only someone who’s known him—really known him—would notice. “Y/N…” he says, and you can hear it in his voice—how he didn’t expect that. How he doesn't know what to do with it. You didn’t even realise you’d said it out loud. The weight of it lingers in the air between you, heavy, uninvited. You straighten your posture, instinct snapping back into place. Professional. Controlled. Detached, even if your pulse is anything but. “I should go,” you say briskly, already taking a step back. “I’ll email your management the article draft. Or… do I not need to?” He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out fast enough. “Anyway,” you continue, your voice clipped but polite, a shield you know too well, “feel free to have your assistant text me. Thanks.” You don’t wait for his reply. You turn. And this time, you’re the one walking away from something that once lit you up from the inside out. Even if it hurts to do it. Even if every step feels like it’s tearing something open again. Because you can’t keep standing in spaces where you’re only half-held, half-answered, half-remembered. That evening, you write the article. You sit at your desk long after the sun has dipped below the skyline, long after the city has quieted into its nighttime hush, and you start typing with steady fingers—trying, desperately, to be as professional as you can be. Because this is big news. A world-class athlete pulling out of the Olympic delegation at the peak of national anticipation. A retirement no one saw coming. It’s the kind of journalism that gets you recognised. That fills portfolios and lands bylines in places that matter. But none of that crosses your mind. Because all you can think about—despite the ache still blooming in your chest, despite the lingering bitterness of unanswered questions and things left unsaid—is how to honour him. You still feel the weight of him on the page. Still feel the obligation to present him in the best light. To tell the truth, yes, but also the quiet parts—the parts no one else saw. The discipline. The years of pain. The choice to walk away, not out of defeat, but dignity. You write him with care. With empathy. With the kind of understanding that only someone who once stood in the inner orbit of his world could ever give. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop your heart from leaking into the words. Because telling his story means telling yours, too. Not the public version. Not the headlines. But the quiet history of two people who once thought love alone would be enough. The version of you that sat in cold arenas, waiting for him to look up. The version of him that carried the weight of a dream too heavy for his body to bear. The version of both of you that was too young, too scared, too stubborn to survive it back then. It’s almost midnight when you finish the piece. And when you read it back, you realise it’s not just about skating.

It never was.

It’s about letting go of something beautiful—not because it wasn’t enough, but because it ran its course. And for the first time, you understand what he meant.

To end it your way.

To remember the love, not the loss.

So you click send.

And in doing so, you decide—quietly—to let it go.

To let him go.

Ms Yoon (PA): Reporter Kang sent over the article draft. PR said it was good, but thought you might want to read it for yourself. [Attachment: 1 File]

Sunghoon is mid-workout when the message comes in. His hands are chalked, his hoodie damp with sweat, breath still recovering from his last set of strength drills. The notification buzzes faintly against the speaker where his phone sits docked, half-muted beneath the beat of the music pulsing through the rink’s private training gym. He almost ignores it—figures it’s a reminder or scheduling update—until he catches the preview of the sender’s name: Ms. Yoon. He wipes his palms on a towel, walks over, and unlocks his phone, chest still rising and falling in slow recovery. The file is there, bold and unopened. His fingers hover over the screen a moment longer than they should, suspended in a strange quiet. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to feel. Pride? Closure? Guilt, maybe. But whatever it is, he taps the file. And begins to read.

FINAL DRAFT [MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily . . . . . In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.

As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to say what words could not.

His career was never loud. But it was unforgettable.

Goodbye, Park Sunghoon, And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.

Before he knows it, he’s halfway out the door—keys clenched in one hand, the other rapidly typing a message to his assistant.

Sunghoon: Do you happen to know Y/N’s address? Forward it to me asap. Thanks.

The article is still echoing in his head, playing back in quiet waves he can’t shut out. Lines that hit too close. Lines that cracked open things he thought he’d buried for good. Words that sounded like truths he never gave you the space—or the safety—to say out loud. Because was it just him—or did your article sound like a defeat? Not the kind written in bitterness, but in surrender. An epiphany dressed in grace. Like you had finally laid everything down—your hope, your waiting, your quiet what-ifs—and decided that telling his story was the only closure you were ever going to get. His heart pounds harder now than it did during his entire workout. Not from strain. From urgency. From the sudden, all-consuming fear that he might be too late—too late to explain, to show up, to fix the way silence unraveled everything. Too late to ask for something he didn’t know he was still allowed to want. Something that had always lingered just beyond his reach—not because it wasn’t there, but because he never dared to reach out and take it. That you were still willing to give after all these years, If only he had asked. If only he had trusted that maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t about timing or pride or silence—but about the courage to choose it anyway. And now, with your words still ringing in his head and the ache of what-ifs pressing into his ribs, he runs. Because for the first time in a long time, he isn’t afraid of falling. He’s afraid of missing the chance to fall with you. A notification lights up his screen, and it’s from his assistant—your full address, no questions asked.

Sunghoon doesn’t waste a second. He tosses his phone onto the passenger seat, starts the engine, and drives like his heart’s pacing him—fast, frantic, barely keeping rhythm. The city blurs past in streaks of gold and grey, and his knuckles grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding him together. By the time he reaches your apartment, he doesn’t bother fixing his hair, or the way his hoodie clings to him, soaked from sweat and adrenaline. Or the fact that its well-past midnight and he’s here at your apartment building. He takes the stairs two at a time, too restless for the lift, too afraid the silence will make him second-guess what he’s come here to say. You open the door mid-knock, eyes wide, mouth parting in surprise. “Sunghoon?” your voice is a mix of concern and disbelief. “How did you know I lived here?” You stare at him, bewildered, heart stammering against your ribs. He looks at you like you’re not real. Like he’s been chasing something impossible and suddenly, impossibly, it’s standing right in front of him. There’s yearning in his eyes—raw and unguarded—and when he takes a step closer, you notice it. The limp. Subtle, but there. “Did you run here? God—your injury—” But you don’t get to finish. Because he closes the distance and pulls you into him—arms wrapping around you in one fluid, desperate motion, like his body moved before his mind could catch up. There are no words. No explanations. Just the solid, trembling weight of him anchoring himself to you, like he’s been carrying the absence of this moment for too long, and can no longer bear it. You stand frozen, caught off guard by the heat of him, the quiet urgency in his embrace, the way he fits against you like he’s spent the past four years trying to unlearn the shape of this—and failing. “Sunghoon,” you say, your voice fragile, unsteady, trembling at the edge of disbelief. “What are you—?” But he doesn’t let go. “Don’t leave me,” he chokes out, the words low and fractured, muffled into the fabric of your t-shirt. You feel his breath at the side of your neck before you hear his next words. “Please…” You feel it then—how hard he’s shaking. How tightly his fingers clutch at the back of your shirt like a lifeline. The weight of his body pressed against yours isn’t just exhaustion—it’s grief, longing, guilt—all of it simmering under the surface and spilling out in a single, vulnerable plea. Your hands hover awkwardly at your sides, unsure where they’re allowed to go. Unsure if they’re still his to reach for. And somehow, that hesitation—your silence, that flicker of doubt—it splits something open inside him. “I’ll wait,” he blurts suddenly, pulling back just enough so he can look you in the eye. His own are red-rimmed, glassy, but there’s a sharp kind of clarity there too. “I’ll wait for you, Y/N.” “Sunghoon…” you whisper, your voice unsteady, caught somewhere between confusion and something that feels dangerously close to hope. “Where is this coming from?” His chest is rising and falling against yours, uneven. He swallows hard, and you see it—the way his jaw flexes like he’s trying to keep himself steady. His eyes flicker, not away from you, but like he’s searching for the words he’s never learned how to say out loud. His breath catches once, then again, before he finally forces himself to speak. “I read the article,” he says, quiet but clear. And immediately, you understand. Because you know exactly what part he’s referring to—not the skating analysis, not the announcement of his retirement. He means the parts laced with goodbye. The parts where your words stopped being objective and became soft, tired farewells tucked between the lines that only he would recognise. It was a goodbye to skating. But more pressingly—for Sunghoon—it read like a goodbye to him.

“Let go—” you start, trying to get some space, to breathe, to make sense of the tangle you’ve both fallen into. But his grip only tightens. “That article—” You pause, biting down the rush of emotion rising in your throat. “That article wasn’t meant to change anything.” “I know,” he says, his arms still around you. “But it did. It made me realise just how much I’ve tried to pretend I could move on from you.” You freeze. Not because you don’t understand him, but because you do. Too well. And that terrifies you.

“Let go,” you say quietly, voice strained, like you need to put space between you before you drown in everything he’s saying. “Just… let go so we can talk.” He hesitates, then releases you with reluctance, his hands falling to his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them now that they aren’t holding you. You catch the way his shoulders rise, tense and uneasy. How his hands shake slightly at his sides. And when he blinks, that’s when you see it—his eyes glossing over, the shimmer of something threatening to spill. “I never stopped loving you,” he says, his voice cracking at the edges. “Even when I left. Even when I convinced myself it was better that way. I still loved you. I just… didn’t know how to be with you and still be okay with myself.” “Now suddenly you’ve figured it all out?” you ask, and the bitterness in your tone surprises even you. But it’s real. You’re not trying to punish him—you’re just scared. Scared of falling back into something that once left you hollow. “No,” he says immediately, and there’s no defensiveness in his voice—just quiet truth. “Not suddenly. But I’ve had time. And space. And it turns out neither of those things taught me how to forget you, Y/N.” You look at him—really look—and it hits you just how much effort it’s taking him to say these things. How his shoulders are drawn tight, how he can’t keep still, how his fingers twitch like they want to ball into fists but won’t. He’s not used to this—exposing himself, risking the quiet between you. And you hate how much you want to believe him. How even now, your heart betrays you by leaping at his words, melting at the sound of your name in his mouth like it still belongs there. You press your lips together, trying to swallow the ache building in your throat. You want to scream, to cry, to ask why he’s doing this now—why he always waits until it’s too late. Why he only finds the words once your heart’s already been rearranged around his absence. But all that comes out is, “You’re saying everything I wanted to hear back then, Sunghoon. But that’s the thing—it’s back then. I’m not the same girl you remember. I’m not the girl who was always waiting for you to show up.” And yet, even as the words leave your mouth, you know that was a blatant lie. Because the truth is, you were that girl. For far longer than you’d ever admit.

“You asked me then,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper, “What do I remember you by.” You freeze. It’s not the sentence itself that gets you—it’s the way he says it. Careful. Almost reverent. Like the question has been haunting him all this time, long after you threw it into the air thinking it would vanish unanswered. “I remember you as the girl who poured her entire heart into everything she touched—your academics, your friendships… me, even after I left for Spain. You were relentless in the way you showed up for people, even when they didn’t always know how to show up for you.” He doesn’t look at you immediately. His gaze drifts somewhere over your shoulder, like the weight of the memory is too tender to hold eye contact just yet. Your heart clenches. You hate how easily those memories come flooding back—the all-nighters, the deadlines, the way you clung to structure and control because it was the only thing you could manage while everything with him felt like trying to build a home on sand. “I remember our first day. Freshman orientation. You couldn’t even look at me properly when we got paired up. I thought you hated me,” his lips twitch, faintly, like he’s caught between a smile and something sadder. “But then you offered to carry half the pamphlets because I looked tired from training, and I realised—you were just shy. You were this quiet, nervous girl who still somehow managed to be kind when she was uncomfortable.” Now his eyes return to yours, and there’s something in them that makes your chest ache. He’s remembering you, in detail, like he carried those moments with him even when he left you behind. And that shouldn’t make you feel warm. But it does. And you hate that. “I remember the blush on your cheek when you asked me out for the first time,” he says, smiling faintly. “You were so nervous I thought you were going to change your mind halfway through. But you didn’t. You stood there, eyes wide, hands shaking, and still said it anyway.” You hate how clearly you remember that moment too. The way your heart had raced. The way he smiled at you like you’d surprised him in the best possible way. “I remember you sitting in the bleachers,” he continues. “Head down, focused on your notes, your laptop. But you were watching me, too. Even when you didn’t say anything, you were always there. And God, that meant more than I ever told you.” Your grip tightens over your sleeves, arms crossed to stop your hands from shaking. “I remember how your eyes would light up when you opened those Popmart boxes, like it was magic every single time. You’d show me the little figurine like it was gold. And you’d smile at me like you wanted me to be excited with you. I didn’t always get it. But I remember thinking, I hope she knows how loved she deserves to feel for the rest of her life.” Your eyes sting. He shifts, like the next words are heavier, harder to pull from his chest. “I remember your words,” he says now, gaze locked on yours. ”The ones you gave so freely when I was too buried in pressure to ask for them. I remember your voice when you encouraged me, when you believed in me, when I didn’t believe in myself.” “I remember the warmth of your hugs. I remember the shape of your lips when you kissed me. And everything in between.” His eyes lower for a beat. His tone changes—not dimmer, but honest in a way that hurts.

“And I remember the fights too. The arguments. The silences. The doors that closed too hard, and the words that came out sharper than we meant them to. I remember how frustrated you got. I remember how I pulled away. And I remember that, too—because even those moments mattered. Even those were you loving me in the only way you knew how: by fighting for us.” He looks back at you now, fully, like he’s trying to hand you all of it—every memory, every piece. Your chest tightens, breath caught between inhale and collapse. “You loved me enough to care. Even when it got messy. Even when I made it hard. You cared when I didn’t know how to. You stayed when I didn’t make it easy to be around me.” The tears come then. They track down his cheeks slowly at first, then faster, like something’s come loose inside him that he can’t hold back anymore. He doesn’t wipe them away. He just stands there, crying in front of you like he’s spent years trying not to.

“And I think about that version of us all the time,” he says. “Not just the good. Not just the beautiful. But all of it. The whole you. The real you.” “That’s how I remember you, Y/N. I remember you as the girl who loved me when I didn’t know how to love myself. And even now, I’m still trying to figure out how to be someone who was worthy of all that love."

Your breath catches, but you don’t let it out. Not yet.

Because something in you knows that if you exhale, if you react, you might fall apart entirely.

His words are still hanging in the air, soft but sharp, like silk laced with barbed wire. They’re gentle—but they hurt. Because they’re real. Because they’re him. The him you waited for. The version you wanted to hear from long before all the damage was done. And now he’s here, finally saying all the things you once begged for in silence. And you don’t know what to do with it. You feel a tear slip down your cheek before you even realise it’s there. Your heart is making too much noise in your chest. Every beat sounds like a memory—of those bleacher nights, of ramen cups shared between lectures, of the small, quiet joy of feeling seen, even when he never said it out loud. You remember all those things too.

And that’s the problem.

Because part of you wants to believe it. Wants to step forward. Wants to reach for him and say, I remember you, too. Not the public figure. Not the Ice Prince. But the boy who once laid his head in your lap after a long day and asked you to stay, even if he couldn’t say the words. But another part of you—older now, wearier—pulls back. Because love wasn’t enough the first time. Because his silence hurt. Because you were the one who waited. Who stayed. Who forgave and forgave and slowly lost parts of yourself trying to hold everything together while he figured out who he was without ever asking who you were becoming. And now, here he is. Saying the right things. Crying real tears. Standing still when he used to run. But what does that mean now, when you’ve taught yourself to survive without him? You feel your throat tighten, your arms crossed like a shield, like maybe if you just hold yourself hard enough, the years between you will stop trembling through your spine. You want to speak—but nothing comes out. Because how do you respond to something so tender when all you’ve learned since him is to protect yourself from softness? You blink up at him, your eyes burning, and part of you whispers, He means it this time. And another voice, quieter but steady, asks, But is that enough? So you say nothing for a moment. Just stand there. Your whole body a battlefield between memory and survival. And then, softly, you speak.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you admit, eyes flicking away from him. “I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering. You hurt me, Sunghoon. You left. And I carried that.” You see the hope falter just a little in his eyes. But he nods. “I’m not asking you to do anything,” he says. “I just…  I couldn’t let your words be the last thing between us. I needed you to know that I remember you. That I never stopped loving you.” You don’t respond right away. You don’t know how to. Your heart is loud in your ears, screaming all the things you’re too scared to say. Because this feels like standing on a cliff again, and this time, you’re not sure if there’s anything on the other side to catch you. “I’ll wait,” he says suddenly, voice rough, but steady with something fierce. “If you need time, I’ll give it. If you need space, I’ll step back. But just—please” Your throat tightens. “And what if I don’t have anything left to give you?” “Then I’ll understand,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll carry that. But I had to say it. I had to try. And I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m standing here, telling you I love you, and I will wait—for however long it takes—because I don’t want to live the rest of my life wondering if you ever would’ve said yes.” And just like that, you feel the air leave your lungs in one long, shaking exhale. Not from panic. Not from pain. But from a bittersweet relief. The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable—stripped bare of pride, of performance, of everything he used to hide behind. This isn’t the Sunghoon who pulled away, who stayed silent when it mattered. This is the boy who finally understands what it means to show up.

After four years of silence, a leg injury that will never truly heal, and a heart broken into a million pieces—yours, his, both—shattered by time, by distance, by everything neither of you had the words to fix back then. And Sunghoon—your Sunghoon, the one who knows you better than you’d like to admit—watches you carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll misinterpret everything he’s just said—afraid you’ll think this is another case of bad timing or misplaced nostalgia. Then, after a long, tentative pause, his voice softens—but there’s no doubt in it. “And I know we already talked about this the other day,” he says, his voice careful. “But just so we’re clear… I need you to hear it again.” You look up, heart thudding as he meets your gaze head-on. “This… us… me being here,” he says slowly, deliberately, “it’s not because skating didn’t work out. It’s not some knee-jerk reaction because the ice stopped being kind to me.” His throat bobs as he swallows, blinking back the weight behind his words. “I fell out of love with skating a long time ago,” he continues, “but I never fell out of love with you, Y/N.” The silence that follows is immediate. Heavy. Because no matter how hard you’ve tried to bury the thought—or pretend it never crossed your mind—it still lingers in the quiet, persistent and sharp: If he hadn’t lost skating… would he have come back at all? But now, with that truth laid bare between you, your breath catches.—and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like someone he remembered too late. You don’t feel like the consolation prize. Or the safe fallback.

You feel chosen.

He’s here. He finally ran to you—not out of impulse, not out of guilt, and most certainly not because he had nowhere else to go. But because he wants to stay. In the mess he created. In the aftermath. In whatever comes next.

He made sure to communicate that clearly to you. And for the first time—he’s the one offering to wait. He’s not asking for guarantees. He’s not walking ahead, expecting you to catch up. He’s right here. Meeting you halfway. The same halfway that, truthfully, you’ve never walked away from. Not really. Not fully. Because even in the silence, even in the years you spent convincing yourself you’d moved on, there was always a part of you standing in place—waiting—in every version of yourself you tried to become without him, wondering if he’d ever meet you there. Now he has. And the truth is, you still want him just as much as he wants you. You don’t know the exact moment the clarity came. Maybe it was the way his voice cracked when he said your name, like it physically hurt to speak it aloud. Maybe it was the way he remembered every tiny, unremarkable piece of you—the girl who sat in the bleachers, who lit up at Popmart figurines, who loved so loudly it scared him. Maybe it was the way he cried—openly, without shame—or how he waited for your silence like he was willing to carry whatever your answer might be. But when it hit, it was quiet. Gentle. Unmistakable. You still love him. You never stopped. You tried. God, you really tried. You built a life without him, crafted a version of yourself that didn’t flinch at his name, convinced yourself you were fine—that you could breathe without the weight of his absence crushing your ribs. But even on your best days, there was always that ache. That dull, ever-present ache that no one else ever quite touched. “I’m sorry for making this complicated for you,” Sunghoon says suddenly, voice so soft it nearly gets swallowed by the quiet. “I’ll give you time to think.” He starts to turn away, the line of his shoulders already retreating, his eyes cast to the ground like he’s ready to disappear again. You should say something. But you don’t. You just move—more instinct than anything. One step, then two, and wrap your arms around him from behind like you’re anchoring yourself to the only thing that’s ever felt simultaneously this terrifying and this right. Sunghoon freezes. Completely still. You feel it first in the way his shoulders tense, tension rippling through his body like your touch startles something buried too deep to name—then the slow, excruciating way he exhales, as if he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

You press your forehead lightly into his back. He’s warm. Solid. Real.

Sunghoon shifts, beginning to turn toward you but your grip tightens ever so slightly. “No. Don’t turn around yet,” you say, your voice trembling. “Not yet. Just… listen.” His breath catches again, but he nods, hands limp at his sides, letting you press your heart against the shape of his back like it might finally say all the things your mouth never could. You close your eyes and let the words come—raw and unpolished, everything you’ve buried for far too long. “I hated how you shut down when things got hard between us. I hated how I always had to be the one to reach out, to fix things, to guess what you were feeling when all I wanted was for you to just say it.” His shoulders flinch slightly. You can feel the guilt settle into the line of his spine. His heartbeat picks up, echoing between you like thunder. Still, he doesn’t move. “I hated how you always made decisions on your own—like I wasn’t part of the picture. Like love was something you had to protect me from instead of something we could’ve fought for together.” Your voice cracks on the last word, but you push through. “I hated how you walked away without telling me the truth. How you let me believe I wasn’t worth holding onto.” Your grip loosens as your voice softens. And as you do, Sunghoon’s fingers twitch near yours like he wants to reach for your hand but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“And worst of all I hate that even after all of that—after the silence, the heartbreak, the wondering—I still can’t forget you.” His fingers curl slightly, not quite fists, but as if holding himself in place. As if your words are the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “I love the way you lace your skates, the way you scrunch your nose when you laugh, the way you never let go of your childhood dreams even when they broke you. I love how you tried to protect me—even if it hurt. I love how you remember everything about me, even the things I thought didn’t matter. Even the things I was sure you forgot.”

You speak.

“I love how you cuddled me in my sleep—I hate how you let the quiet speak for you. I love how you loved me, even when you didn’t know how to show it. Even when I hate the fact you didn’t know how to show it.”

He listens.

And with every word you spill, every confession you finally give voice to, something in him unknots. His spine softens against you, leaning back into your embrace—just enough for you to feel the weight of him, the way he surrenders to the moment. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the fabric of his hoodie, loud and alive where your cheek presses lightly into the space between his shoulder blades. “And I hate how I still love all those parts. The beautiful ones, the difficult ones, the ones that tore me apart.” Sunghoon doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t even move until he’s sure you’re done. “I never stopped loving you, Sunghoon. That’s the problem.” When you whisper those words, you swear he stops breathing altogether. You feel it rush out of him, like the weight of that truth floors him where he stands. “I don’t need time,” you add, barely audible. “I just needed to be sure this was real. That you were.” You take a shuddering breath, close your eyes, and press your cheek more firmly against him—hoping, in some impossible way, that you can feel him even closer than he already is. “I’m scared,” you admit. “I don’t know how to do this again. I don’t know how to trust what we were, or what we could be. But I know I still care. I know I still want you.” “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.” God, you want to laugh. Or slap yourself in the face because of how terrifyingly easy it was to believe him again. How a few trembling words and tear-soaked confessions cracked through years of hurt like they were never there to begin with. How your heart, traitorous and stubborn, still knows the shape of him like a story it never stopped rereading. And your stupid, foolish heart—bruised from all the almosts and maybes—is choosing to continue writing that story.

You don’t say anything more.

And that’s when he moves.

Slowly, cautiously, Sunghoon turns in your arms, and the look in his eyes nearly shatters you. Hope. Guilt. Wonder. All of it, all at once. His eyes are glossy, lips parted in disbelief. His hands rise, trembling as he cups your face—so gently, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he blinks. You feel the pulse in his fingertips where his thumb brushes your jaw—still racing, still loud. Like your presence alone is enough to send it surging. Like he’s never been more alive than in this quiet, fragile moment with you. He gently rests his forehead against yours, the space between you shrinking until it barely exists. His hands are trembling, but his touch is impossibly tender—thumb brushing against your cheek, catching a tear, and then another. You hadn’t even realised you were full-blown crying until his fingers found the evidence. And then—just when you think your heart can’t take any more—his next words knock the air from your lungs like a punch and a prayer all at once. “Can I kiss you?” he whispers, voice hoarse and breaking with every syllable. “Please… tell me I still can.” The plea hangs between you, fragile and breathless. His chest is rising and falling in shallow, uneven rhythm, his pulse frantic beneath your fingertips as you reach up—slowly, instinctively—and wrap your fingers around his wrist. You can feel it there: the raw, aching thrum of his heartbeat, louder than words. Like your touch alone is enough to undo him. He’s never looked more vulnerable. Never more real. There’s no mask, no distance, no practiced calm—just him. Just Sunghoon, standing in front of you with nothing left to offer but his whole heart, held out in both hands. You let out a shaky breath, the corners of your lips lifting despite the tears still wet on your skin. And then—soft, quiet, but certain—you say, “Yes.”

As soon as the word leaves your lips—soft, breathless, and trembling with everything you’ve held back for years—Sunghoon moves. There’s no hesitation. No time wasted. The moment he hears your yes, he closes the distance like a man starved for something he thought he’d never taste again. His hands frame your face with a yearning so delicate it makes your heart ache. And then—he’s kissing you. It isn’t hurried or rough. It’s deep and devastating, like an apology and a promise all wrapped into one. Like he’s trying to pour four years of silence, of longing, of every missed chance into a single touch. He kisses you like it’s the first time and the last time all at once. And you—god, you melt into it. Into him. Into the feeling of home rediscovered, of time folding in on itself. Your fingers find their way into the hem of his hoodie, clinging onto him like you’re afraid he might vanish if you let go. But he doesn’t.

He stays.

And so do you. When you finally find it in you to pull away, you do so slowly—reluctantly—as if your body hasn’t quite caught up with your mind yet. As if some part of you still isn’t ready to let go. Your foreheads stay pressed together, breath mingling in the narrow space between you, warm and uneven. You’re both breathless. Messy. His hair is damp at the edges, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes sting with the remnants of unshed tears. His thumb lingers at your jaw, gently tracing the skin as if to memorise the feel of you all over again. You feel the tremble in his breath when he exhales, feel the soft thud of his heart still racing beneath your fingertips. He doesn’t speak right away. Neither do you. Because in that moment, there’s nothing to say that could possibly match the weight of what just passed between you. You’d been broken once. Both of you. But right now—in this quiet, tangled stillness—it feels like the pieces are finally trying to come back together. You lean in again, lips parted, drawn to him like gravity—like your heart still hasn’t had enough. But just as your breath brushes against his skin, he gently places a hand on your shoulder and eases you back. The moment stalls. You blink, startled. A flicker of panic rises in your chest—was this a mistake? Did he change his mind? But then he smiles. Soft. Steady. The kind of smile that anchors you. He pulls you into his arms, wrapping you tight against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he holds you any less carefully. “Believe me,” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with restraint, “I want you so bad.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb tracing your cheek, his gaze unbearably tender. “But not like this. Not when your heart’s still racing and your thoughts are a blur. I don’t want this to be another moment we look back on and wonder if it was real.” His forehead rests gently against yours again, breath fanning over your lips. You’re stunned by his honesty—by the weight of his restraint, the care in his voice. And you can’t help but compare him to the Sunghoon from four years ago. The boy who never quite knew how to sit still in the presence of raw emotion, who’d grown so used to skating past vulnerability that he forgot how to let someone in.

Back then, he would’ve kissed you anyway. Not out of selfishness, but out of fear—fear of the silence that might follow, fear of what waiting might reveal. He didn’t know how to confront intimacy without flinching. But this—this Sunghoon in front of you now—isn’t running from the stillness. He’s standing in it. Letting the quiet settle between you like a promise. He’s not rushing. He’s not deflecting. He’s choosing you with intention. “I want to do this right. Slow, if that’s what it takes. With all of you—not just the part that’s still reeling from the fall. ” You nod. “You can stay the night if you like… on the couch, of course.” He grins, eyes flickering with something fond, something teasing—but there's warmth behind it, restraint. “Starting from ground zero, I see.” He lets out a breath, gentle and steady. “I’m grateful. Really. But I won’t overstay tonight. I think…” he pauses, gaze dropping to the floor for a brief second before finding you again, more grounded now, “I think we both have some thinking to do too. And frankly speaking, if you look at me like that any longer, I might actually lose my shit.” You laugh, soft and disbelieving, the sound muffled by the sleeve you raise to your mouth. And as much as your heart aches to keep him close, to fall back into the comfort of familiarity, you both know tonight can’t be about slipping into old rhythms too soon. Not when everything between you is still new and fragile in its honesty. He reaches out and brushes a hand over your arm. “Let me put you to sleep,” he says, voice lower now, softer. “And then I’ll go.” And you don’t fight him on it. Because for the first time, he isn’t leaving to run. He’s leaving to give you room to choose. The moment your head hits the pillow, and you feel his lips press a gentle kiss to your forehead, your body sinks into the mattress like it's exhaling. You're not sure if it's the exhaustion from everything that’s unravelled between you earlier, or the undeniable familiarity of having him close again—his scent, his warmth, the quiet hum of his breath near yours—but sleep finds you almost instantly. It's as if your body remembers him. Trusts him.

Sunghoon lingers. He sits by the edge of your bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the soft creases of worry smoothing out from your brow now that you're resting. A small, breathy chuckle escapes him as he leans down, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. “So peaceful,” he whispers, almost to himself, “and still somehow managing to look like you carry the weight of the world.” He stays a second longer than he should. Maybe two. And then, quietly, he stands to leave—only to catch the soft glow of your laptop screen still open on your desk. He walks over, intending to shut it, give you the rest you deserve. But as his eyes flicker toward the screen, he recognises the subject line immediately. It's the email to your editor. The article draft. The cursor blinks steadily at the end of the draft—the same paragraph that started it all. Goodbye, Park Sunghoon, And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.| The words land like a quiet echo in his chest. He glances back at your sleeping form on the bed, a faint, solemn smile tugging at his lips. Then he turns, quietly taking a seat at your desk. His fingers hover above the keyboard for a moment. And then—backspace. Letter by letter, he deletes the final paragraph. In its place, he types slowly. Carefully. Like each word is a stitch trying to mend what’s been frayed for too long. When he’s done, he hovers for a moment, rereading every word—then clicks “Send.” The email spins off toward your editor. He stands, casts one last look in your direction, and quietly lets himself out.

The next morning, you wake groggy but oddly clear-headed, like your body is still catching up to the storm of feelings it weathered the night before. The room is quiet. Sunlight spills in softly through the blinds, casting golden slats across your blanket. For a moment, you wonder if any of it was real—if he really came, really stood in your doorway, cried in your arms, asked to kiss you like it meant everything. But the slight indent on the couch cushion. The mug he used. The scent that still lingers faintly in the air—all of it confirms: he was here. It was real. Your heart thumps at the memory, but it’s interrupted by a harsh vibration rattling on your nightstand. You blink at your phone, screen flooded with notifications—dozens of missed calls, texts, and pings from your editorial team.

Chase headlines, not men. Catch exclusives, not feelings. ✍️

Yunah: @/you I know you're off today, but I just wanted to say CONGRATS on your story!! See, I knew you could pull this off. [Attached: 1 Link]

Moka: The internet is LOSING it over the article!!!

Minju: Still can’t believe you landed exclusive on top of exclusive with Park Sunghoon. Legend behaviour.

Yunah: I’m equally shocked he’s been hiding that injury all this time 😭

Minju: I don’t want to stress you out but… our public inbox is full of people sending selfies of themselves crying. Literal tears.

Moka: I mean did you READ that last paragraph??? I sobbed too.

You blink at your phone, stunned. Messages keep pouring in—some from colleagues you barely know, others from strangers outside your publication, all echoing the same thing: the article hit them hard. Which is… strange. Because you don’t remember sending the draft. Brows furrowed, you scroll up through your texts until you find the link Yunah sent. You tap it. The article is live. You hold your breath as you read through the byline—your name, front and centre. The formatting. The intro you agonised over. The quotes, the story, the soul of it. And then you scroll to the end. A smile tugs at your lips, and you pull up your chat with Sunghoon.

You: [Attached: 1 Screenshot] Was this your doing?

His reply is almost instant.

Sunghoon: Good morning :) Maybe? PR said they wanted to switch it up.

You: And by PR you mean... you?

Sunghoon: 😂 I meant every word. It’s what I wanted to say to you and to the world. Why… was it too corny? I’m sorry if I overstepped.

You bite your lip, heart stupidly fluttering as you reread his words.

You: No no. Just kinda mad I didn’t think of that myself 🙄

Sunghoon: Well, you can’t beat years of media training 🤷‍♂️

You: Sunghoon, I WORK for the media…

He replies almost immediately, like he’s been waiting for your comeback.

Sunghoon: Let me make it up to you for one-upping you. Dinner tonight? My treat.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a beat before you reply.

You: I would not accept otherwise.

You set the phone down, unable to contain the quiet laugh that escapes you. Because despite everything—the heartbreak, the years apart, the mess of it all—you’ve never felt more like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The two of you walk slowly along the riverbank, hands gently entwined, his thumb occasionally sweeping across your knuckles like he's still making sure you're real. The evening is still, like even the world has paused to listen. A breeze brushes past, gentle and cool, carrying the scent of spring and something sweet that lingers—something that smells like beginnings.

You glance down at your interlocked fingers, how naturally they fall into place—like no time has passed at all. The rhythm of your footsteps syncs without effort, the silence between you not heavy, but full. Comfortable. Honest. Familiar in all the ways that matter.

“This feels like our first date,” you say, smiling without meaning to, the corners of your lips tugged by something warm and indescribable.

He laughs under his breath, a soft, breathy sound that makes your heart swell. “Maybe it is,” he replies. “The first one where I finally know what I’m doing.”

You don’t reply. Not because you have nothing to say, but because every part of this moment already says it for you.

The sky above is endless, dark velvet speckled with stars. The world moves quietly around you—boats drifting in the distance, couples passing by, the faint sound of laughter from a nearby cafe. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like you’re watching it all from behind a glass wall. You’re here. Present. With him.

And he’s here too—really here, not as a shadow of a memory, not as someone you're chasing or mourning. But as a man who's finally choosing to stay beside you.

And you think—if the world ended right now, if the river froze and time stopped still—you would not ask for more than this. Not more than his hand in yours, his voice low beside you, his presence finally steady after years of disappearing acts and empty spaces.

You look at him—not the athlete, not the headline, not the boy who once walked away—but the man who returned with no armour, no excuses, only truths. Who stood in front of you trembling, terrified, and still chose to stay. And when you speak, your voice is quiet but certain.

“You could’ve come back with promises, with charm, with all the right words at the wrong time. But you didn’t.”

There’s a small beat of silence where he stops walking and you do too, feet planted at the edge of the path where the river glistens. He faces you fully now, his hand still holding yours.

“You came back to me with everything I ever needed,” you continue.

He opens his mouth, but no words come—just the subtle tremble of his chin, the storm of emotions flickering behind his eyes. You take a step closer, pressing your forehead against his, feeling his breath shudder out as though even now, this is too much to believe.

“This,” he says, almost to himself, “is what I should’ve fought for back then.”

"All that matters is you are now," you whisper. "You left, and then you learned. You grew. And then you came back.”

And that’s the difference. That’s everything.

This isn’t about returning to the past. This is about two people, standing in the aftermath of everything they weren’t ready for then, finally finding each other in a version of the world where they are. Choosing to begin again—not from scratch, but from everything they’ve carried and learned and lived through.

His hand stays in yours, steady and warm, like a vow made without words.

You kiss him.

And this time, the kiss isn’t a promise or an apology. It’s not an act of desperation or regret. It’s a homecoming.

It tastes like relief. Like forgiveness. Like all the years that tried to pull you apart finally surrendering to the truth that you were always meant to find your way back.

When you pull away, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just holds you closer, like letting go would unravel the universe itself.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and in that embrace—quiet and undramatic, warm and steady—you finally understand what it means to be loved not just in the way you wanted, but in the way you deserved.

Because he loves you now in the way that matters most.

Not as the boy who left. Not as the echo of a love lost to time. But as the man who finally came back to put every broken piece back together with his own hands.

This isn’t the love you spent years waiting for.

It’s the love he had to fight to grow into. The kind born from mistakes, shaped by time, and strengthened through absence. It’s messy. Flawed. Earned. Real.

It's the kind of love that's loud in his words as much as it is in his presence.

It’s the kind of love that sees all of you. Not just the polished, loveable parts, but the fractured ones too—and stays anyway.

And for Sunghoon, this is the love he has worked to deserve. The kind of love that took almost losing everything to understand.

Skating. Himself. You.

Skating was his first love—the kind that demanded everything and gave just as much, until it didn’t. And like most first loves, it burned bright, glorious, then quietly slipped beyond reach.

And when he said he fell out of love with it a long time ago, something inside you aches.

Because you remember. God, you remember how much he loved it. How much it meant to him. You were there for the early mornings, the ice-burned skin, the sacrifices. You watched him speak with his body when words failed, carve art into frozen ground like it was the only way he knew how to breathe. Skating wasn’t just something he did. It’s his compass. His language. His sanctuary.

You mourn the love he lost—because it was beautiful. Because it made him who he was. Because you can only imagine what he must’ve gone through to lose that love. To say it out loud. To bury it. And because it hurts to know that even something so beloved can slip away.

And yet… here he is. Standing in front of you, offering up the ashes of what once fuelled him, just to prove that loving you never burned out. That you outlasted the thing that defined him for most of his life. That somehow, someway, you came out on the other side—not as a consolation, but as a constant.

Even now, you don’t know what to do with that kind of love. A love that gave up the world just to come home to you.

Because you know what it cost him. What it cost you.

And even though some part of you swells at the thought that he never stopped choosing you, there’s another part that grieves for everything he lost along the way.

But one thing is certain:

While skating may have been his first love, Sunghoon intends for you to be his last.

So you’ll love him with both hands open. With reverence for the boy he used to be, with gratitude for the man he’s become, and with tenderness for all the versions of him in between.

You will carry the echoes of the boy who once chased gold on the ice and hold space for the man who let it go.

And that’s the way you’ll love him—

The way he loves you.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily

In a move that has taken the sports world by quiet surprise, South Korean figure skater Park Sunghoon has officially withdrawn from the 2026 Olympic delegation and announced his retirement from competitive skating.

Park, who recently stunned audiences with a breathtaking performance at the national Olympic tryouts, was widely anticipated to lead the men’s singles category for Team Korea. His name sat at the top of the final athlete roster released by the Korean Skating Union, cementing his spot after years spent away from the competitive spotlight.

However, behind the seamless technique and poise he displayed during the tryouts, Park had been skating through pain. After sustaining a severe tendon injury to his right leg during training abroad in 2023, he underwent a long and difficult recovery—one that, according to the athlete, never fully restored his capacity to train at the level he once held. Despite managing the condition in silence, Park made the decision to step away before risking further damage to his body.

Having spent the last few years recovering and training quietly overseas, Park re-entered the national circuit not to chase medals, but to rediscover what skating meant to him beyond the pressure of podiums and public expectation. His performance at the tryouts was not only a technical feat but also a statement. A reclamation. A reminder that skating, at its core, was always more than a career. It was a language of feeling.

In his official statement, Park expressed gratitude for the opportunity to return to the ice one last time: “I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.”

Park’s career has never been defined by loud declarations. He was known for his quiet discipline, his ability to translate stillness into power, grace into precision. From his early victories on the junior circuit to his more introspective, mature performances in recent years, he has remained one of the few athletes whose artistry often spoke louder than any press release.

Though his departure from the delegation was unexpected, it wasn’t without intent. Park’s decision to step back at the height of anticipation is a reminder that not all victories are won under stadium lights. Some are claimed in the quiet resolve to walk away on your own terms.

In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.

As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to speak in the spaces where words fell short.

And maybe that was the point all along. Maybe it was never about the podium. Maybe the real victory was simply finding your way back to loving something you once thought you had to leave behind.

Copyright© 2025 thatfeelinwhenyou All Rights Reserved

[p1girlfriend]

the grid reacts to dating the internet’s favorite paddock princess

lando norris ── .✦ you trend every time you post. the comments are just people begging to be adopted by you both. lando scrolls through your edits while grinning like a fool.

“i swear you have more fan accounts than me.” starts doing get ready with me tiktoks just to feature you in the background. one time he jokingly commented “hands off she’s mine” under your post and your followers made merch out of it. he bought it.

oscar piastri ── .✦ someone calls you “the queen of soft paddock aesthetic” and he saves it. you’re known for hugging the grid girls and handing tissues to nervous kids.

“they like you because you’re nice,” he teases. but you catch him watching a fancam of you waving at fans with a dumb little smile. he once said “she’s the best part of my Sundays” in an interview and didn’t even blink.

charles leclerc ── .✦ you smiled once on the paddock and the internet made it a meme. your hair, your outfit, your hand holding his — they dissect everything.

“they think you’re an angel,” he says. “they’re wrong?” “non. but they don’t know you kick me in your sleep.” you get asked to do red carpets solo. he gets pouty. “don’t forget your plus one.”

lewis hamilton ── .✦ you get called “mother” on the internet and he thinks it’s the funniest thing. “mother’s in the paddock, everyone be cool.” he brags about you in interviews but in a soft, heartfelt way. you hold his hand when he’s overwhelmed. he holds your waist when the cameras get too much.

“she’s got the kindest heart i’ve ever known.” stop it. he’s in love.

carlos sainz ── .✦ you post one photo in a red dress and the comments are unhinged.

“carlos sainz’s girlfriend?? no. SHE’S the main character.” he acts like it’s normal. shrugs. “obviously she’s their favorite. look at her.” but then watches every edit. every time. he’s smug, but the way he blushes when you blow him a kiss at the track? baby.

daniel ricciardo ── .✦ calls you “paddock royalty.” also calls you “my hot little menace.” posts goofy pics of you with captions like “don’t be fooled. she runs this entire circus.” you once got mobbed by fans and he yelled “BACK UP, SHE’S FRAGILE” while holding your purse.

“the people love you.” “so do you.” “true. but i saw you first.”

max verstappen ── .✦ acts unbothered until someone says you're “out of his league.”

“you think i don’t know that?” max is constantly giving you forehead kisses and opening doors. you softened him and the internet knows. your hand on his chest? your smile from the pit wall? they call you “the calm behind the storm.” he never says much about it. just watches you and whispers, “stay.”

gabriel bortoleto ── .✦ his fanbase instantly loves you. like scarily fast. someone posts a video of you fixing his collar before a photo and it hits 2 million likes.

“vocês são o casal mais fofo do grid.” he pretends not to blush. makes you your own race day playlist. walks you into the paddock hand-in-hand, lets go only when he’s in the car. “ela é meu talismã.” (and now that's your nickname.)

franco colapinto ── .✦ the internet sees you together and instantly calls you “the sunshine wag.” he laughs at it, but deep down? yeah. you're his sun. starts wearing little accessories you gave him. you wave to the fans and he stares at you like you hung the moon.

“they love you, you know?” “you jealous?” “nah. they just don’t know you the way i do.” you’re the lockscreen. the lucky charm. the softest part of his race weekend.

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[cressidagrey]

It's a Match!

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Lydia Colbert (Original Character)

Summary:

When Arthur Leclerc decides his brooding brother Charles needs a love life, he does the obvious: he makes him a secret dating profile. With their mother’s help and absolutely no permission, Arthur impersonates Charles on Raya—and Chaos ensues. Until one suspiciously perfect woman (with a dachshund) changes everything. 

Warnings and Notes: 

Catfishing is obviously bad, even when it's played for laughs in this story. Thanks to the internet for helping me come up with some unhinged online dating stories.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Lorenzo stood in the kitchen, nursing a glass of wine and watching Arthur scroll through his phone at alarming speed. 

“So,” Lorenzo said slowly, “he’s not coming to dinner?”

Arthur didn’t look up. “Nope. Texted me twenty minutes ago to say he was ‘in a complicated emotional place’ and ‘needed to listen to piano alone.’”

Lorenzo exhaled. “Jesus.”

“He also said he thinks he might be ‘unlovable at a molecular level.’”

“Did he actually say that?”

“Verbatim,” Arthur said, flipping screens. “Followed by a photo of Leo looking like a tired therapist on his day off. and the crying emoji. Twice.”

Lorenzo dragged a hand down his face. “It’s been three months since Sophie.”

“Technically, two months, twenty-one days,” Arthur said, glancing at the clock. “But who’s counting.”

Lorenzo sighed. “He needs help.”

“He needs therapy,” Arthur said with a snort. 

And then Arthur’s eyes lit up like a cartoon character with a plan.  “He needs a girlfriend.”

Lorenzo froze. “Arthur.”

“Hear me out.”

“No.”

Arthur put his phone down slowly, deliberately. “I’m making a Raya profile.”

Lorenzo blinked. “You’re what?”

“Not for me. For him. I’m going to fix it. The spiral. The sad playlists. All of it.”

“You want to impersonate Charles on a dating app.”

“I want to rescue him. Emotionally. Romantically. Digitally.”

Lorenzo stared at him. “Arthur. That is identity theft.”

“That is love,” Arthur replied. “I’m Cupid with a Wi-Fi connection.”

“You’re Cupid with a death wish. You’re going to catfish people as our brother?”

“Not catfish. Curate. Like a gallery. Of his best self. It’s not lying. It’s… repackaging.” Arthur stood and began pacing. “Charles is clearly not going to do this himself. He’s too busy posting moody black-and-white stories of Leo looking out windows with captions like ‘we all leave eventually.’ I mean—what are we even doing?”

“You’re being insane.”

“It’s matchmaking!” Arthur said, pointing at Lorenzo like a man unveiling a conspiracy theory. “He’s clearly not going to do it himself. He’s still following his ex on Instagram, liking her stories at 2 a.m., and writing playlist titles like 'slow laps and slower heartbreak.' He needs help. I’m being a hero. Do you remember what he said last week? That he was thinking of deleting Instagram and starting over under a new name in the Alps? That’s not healing. That’s the first act of a French drama where he falls in love with his housekeeper’s goat.”

Lorenzo pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you think putting him on a dating app is the answer?”

“With me controlling it? Yes.”

“You’re barely qualified to manage your own love life!”

Arthur ignored that. “It’s foolproof. I’ll use good photos—Ferrari gala, that one boat pic, something with Leo so women know he has a soul. And I’ll write the bio. Sexy but a little tragic. Like if James Bond cried at Chopin.”

“This is criminal.”

“This is charitable.”

“You’re going to end up matching him with someone who thinks astrology is a political stance!”

“Then I’ll filter for that! Lorenzo, trust me. I’ve seen what’s out there. These women are feral—but one of them might just be perfect.”

Lorenzo sighed. “Just don’t use that photo from Mykonos.”

Arthur looked offended. “The shirtless boat one? That’s the opener.”

***

Text Messages:  Arthur Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Arthur: hey bestie question do u have any good pics of charles

Joris: Of course I do?? What for?

Arthur: nothing shady promise

Joris: Arthur. What are you doing.

Arthur: do u want him to die alone and spend the rest of his life crying into his dog

Joris: What???

Arthur: do u want Leo to be his emergency contact forever

Joris: Arthur WHAT are you doing

Arthur: just send me the Monaco yacht one and the one from Singapore last year you know the one. the good hair day.

Joris: Arthur. Are you making a dating profile for him

Arthur: no. (not legally)

Joris: You’re insane. He’s going to kill you.

Arthur: worth it he’s brooding to “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” again i’m desperate

Joris: …check your inbox and delete this chat before he finds it I’m not going down with you

Arthur: ur an accomplice now welcome to the operation code name: Raya Redemption

Joris: God help us all

***

Text Messages:  Lorenzo Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Joris: Lorenzo. We have a situation. A serious one.

Lorenzo: If this is about Charles lying on the floor again, I’ve already poured myself a drink.

Joris: No, this is worse. Arthur is making him a Raya profile.

Lorenzo: ...I know.

Joris: YOU KNOW???

Lorenzo: He told me over dinner while Charles was listening to Debussy in the dark and crying into Leo.

Joris: He just asked me for high-resolution thirst traps. High-resolution, Lorenzo.

i just sent him photos. under duress.

Lorenzo: why would you send him photos???

Joris: BECAUSE HE SAID CHARLES WAS BROODING TO TAYLOR SWIFT AND I PANICKED.

Lorenzo: that… tracks. Let me guess. Monaco yacht and Singapore hair day?

Joris: Yes. And he used the phrase “do u want Leo to be his emergency contact forever” like this was a national crisis.

Lorenzo: That does sound like Arthur. You’re an accomplice now. Welcome to the pit.

Joris: He named the operation Raya Redemption.

Lorenzo: Of course he did.

Joris: Should we… tell Charles?

Lorenzo: Not until Arthur gets at least one date out of it. I want to see where this goes.

Joris: Your family is unwell.

Lorenzo: That’s the most accurate thing you’ve ever said.

***

Arthur Leclerc cracked his knuckles, opened the Raya app, and began typing with the enthusiasm of a man who once made a Tinder bio for Pierre Gasly that had just said “French. Fast. Flexible.”

He had Spotify’s Ultimate Seduction playlist in the background, two open tabs of Charles’ most photogenic Instagram photos, and the moral compass of a raccoon in a jewelry store.

“Let’s make some magic, baby.”

He hit “Create New Profile.”

Name: Charles Age: 27 Location: Monaco (obviously) Profession: Formula 1 Driver. Winner of your heart. Photos:

Shirtless boat pic from Mykonos (for the people)

Shirtless post-workout mirror selfie, beads of sweat on his chest 

Shirtless with Leo in his arms 

Shirtless from the beach in Sardinia, wet curls, gaze angled to the sun like a Renaissance oil painting with commitment issues

BONUS: A picture of just his hands, veins out, no explanation

Bio :

Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives through the Italian countryside and strong espresso.

 Swipe right if you can keep up—on the track or off it.

Arthur read it back and grinned.

“Perfect. Bit mysterious. Bit unhinged. Bit sexy. Very me—I mean, Charles.”

Then came the matching filters.

Looking for: Women Age range: 21–35 Distance: Global Interests: Dancing, cooking, racing, danger, chaos, espresso martinis Turn-ons (optional): Confidence. High heels. Deep playlists. Women who look like they could ruin my life in Italian.

Arthur sat back, admiring his masterpiece.

“This,” he muttered, sipping Coke from a wineglass, “is how you get Charles off the floor and into someone’s arms.”

He hit publish.

Fifteen minutes later, the first like came in from someone named Hot4Horsepower.

Arthur grinned. “And so it begins.”

***

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (aka Arthur Leclerc with a mission)

@/Hot4Horsepower: hey charles ;)) i love fast cars and slow burns what’s your lap time in bed?

@/charles_leclerc: Hi. First question: Have you ever watched an actual Grand Prix or do you just like the racesuits?

@/Hot4Horsepower: i like the tight suits and the adrenaline also i once watched drive to survive season 3

@/charles_leclerc: So no actual race experience. Strike one. Next: How do you feel about dogs with emotional trauma?

@/Hot4Horsepower: uh what are you okay?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m not the one who used “lap time in bed” as an opener.

***

@/LenaOffline: sooo… if we date, can i come to Monza in your suitcase?

@/charles_leclerc: Can you fit in a suitcase?

@/LenaOffline: ...maybe??

@/charles_leclerc: Follow-up: Do you have a criminal record?

@/LenaOffline: not convicted

@/charles_leclerc: Next question: how many cardboard cutouts of me do you own?

@/LenaOffline: just the one! and one of Carlos for symmetry!

***

@/JulesUnfiltered: charles i already have our wedding vision board saved. do you want a spring ceremony or winter elopement?

@/charles_leclerc: Let’s backtrack.

Have we met?

Do you own a scrapbook labeled “Operation Husband”?

Be honest.

@/JulesUnfiltered: only the digital kind!!! also i emailed your management about matching tattoos

***

@/Lola.LateAgain: would u date someone who only dates for clout asking for a friend

@/charles_leclerc: That friend sounds suspiciously like you.

@/Lola.LateAgain: rude. anyway, how famous are you really?

@/charles_leclerc: Famous enough to Google. Not famous enough to be having this conversation willingly.

***

@/RoxieWithIssues: hey charles you ever been to ibiza?? bc i’ve got a villa and handcuffs jk unless?

***

@/JoWithAView: charlessssssss if we dated u could crash into me any time xx also do u still talk to seb? bc i had a dream abt u both

@/charles_leclerc: What kind of dream?

@/JoWithAView: the kind i can't describe here but i made a Pinterest board

***

@/MilfInSector1: hi baby u like older women? i make a mean carbonara and bad decisions

@/charles_leclerc: Define “older.” Define “mean.” Define “bad.”

@/MilfInSector1: 55 Spicy 2008 tattoo of Alonso’s face on my thigh

@/charles_leclerc: …This was a mistake.

***

@/AlinaUnbothered: omg ur real??? like i thought this was a bot. or worse. pierre.

@/charles_leclerc: Define “worse.”

@/AlinaUnbothered: someone not emotionally devastated. r u?

@/charles_leclerc: I once wept to a Debussy piano solo while making risotto. Does that count?

@/AlinaUnbothered: ur perfect. i collect tiny ceramic frogs. is that a dealbreaker?

@/charles_leclerc: Only if they’re haunted.

@/AlinaUnbothered: some of them are

***

@/ToeSucker88: u have beautiful feet pls send pics i have a collage due

***

@/Cleo.CalmDown: Hey cutie. Do you like handcuffs?

@/charles_leclerc: Depends. Are we talking F1 steering wheel tethers or prison time?

@/Cleo.CalmDown: Whichever gets you sweating. Also, I once dated two brothers at the same time. You have any siblings?

@/charles_leclerc:…

***

@/FreyaLikesFire: Hi Charles. I don’t actually watch F1 but I think you’re the guy who plays the piano in that viral TikTok, right?

@/charles_leclerc: …Yes. And I also occasionally drive very expensive cars. Do you know what DRS is?

@/FreyaLikesFire: Isn’t that the drug that makes hamsters fight?

@/charles_leclerc: That’s not even close.

***

@/SashaWanders: If I was your Ferrari, would you drive me fast or slow?

@/charles_leclerc: You would probably overheat and break down before we made it out of Q2.

@/SashaWanders: Kinky.

***

@/IsabelButSpicier: I don’t really care what you do as long as you’re hot and sad.

@/charles_leclerc: You just described every Ferrari strategy debrief. But okay, go off.

***

@/ClaraAfterDark: Let’s cut to the chase. I don’t cook, I don’t clean, but I will emotionally destroy you in under ten minutes. Interested? You look like you cry after sex. I find that hot.

***

@/NinaKnowsBest: Hi future baby daddy How do you feel about naming our first child ‘Ferrari?’ Girl or boy doesn’t matter x

@/charles_leclerc: That child will be bullied from kindergarten to Monaco GP.

@/NinaKnowsBest: Not if they’re hot.

***

@/EmTheEnigma: Let’s play a game: if you had to choose between your dog and me, which one would you kiss goodnight?

@/charles_leclerc: Leo. No hesitation. ***

@/EvaInParis: Hey babe. Do you come with the Ferrari or do I have to steal one?

@/charles_leclerc: Hi. Have you ever been convicted of grand theft auto?

@/EvaInParis: LOL I plead the fifth.

@/charles_leclerc: This is Monaco. We don’t have the fifth. Goodbye.

***

@/SofiaOnSet: What’s your star sign? Asking to check if our birth charts align. I will not date another Virgo. I’ve had four. They all cried.

@/charles_leclerc:

I’m a Libra.

Are you planning on picking our wedding date using astrology?

Be honest—have you hexed an ex?

@/SofiaOnSet: That’s private.

@/charles_leclerc: So that’s a yes. 

***

@/MayaWearsBlack: Can we skip the small talk? I only date drivers and DJs. You’re lucky you’re both hot and famous.

@/charles_leclerc:

Would you love me if I worked at a bakery?

How many drivers have you “dated”? Please round to the nearest dozen.

Do you know how to spell “empathy”? No autocorrect.

@/MayaWearsBlack: Who needs empathy when you’ve got a paddock pass?

@/charles_leclerc: Your honesty is terrifying. Goodbye.

***

@/TatianaFromIbiza: Let’s get married in Mykonos. I’ll bring the champagne, you bring the tux.

@/charles_leclerc: How do you feel about prenups?

@/TatianaFromIbiza: I’m an experience, not an investment.

@/charles_leclerc: You are a lawsuit waiting to happen.

***

@/BiancaWithIntentions: soooo if i date u, do i get paddock passes? asking for my sister (and me, obviously)

@/charles_leclerc: That depends. Would you say your intentions are: A) Romantic B) Opportunistic C) “Saw Drive to Survive and decided to try my luck”

@/BiancaWithIntentions: D) All of the above lol

***

@/VeraUnfiltered: I think you’re the one. I already told my therapist about you. She says I’m too impulsive but what does she know?

@/charles_leclerc: How long ago did you swipe right?

@/VeraUnfiltered: Twelve minutes. But I can feel things.

@/charles_leclerc: Like restraining orders approaching in the distance?

***

@/RomyInRed: Would you date someone who has been banned from Ibiza?

@/charles_leclerc: Follow-up questions:

What did you do in Ibiza?

Was it arson?

Are you legally allowed to leave the country?

***

Text Messages:  Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: bro

Arthur: we have a situation

Lorenzo: what did you do

Arthur: it’s not what I did it’s what the women of Raya have done to me

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: I opened the messages for Charles and I’m genuinely afraid

Lorenzo: Afraid of what??

Arthur: of toe pics witchcraft and one woman who casually mentioned she has a tattoo of Alonso on her thigh like. full face. 2008 Renault colors.

Lorenzo: I’m going to be sick.

Arthur: they’re all insane one of them collects haunted ceramic frogs another said she wants Charles to crash into her 

Lorenzo: You created this account You brought this on yourself This is karma. This is divine justice.

Arthur: I was trying to help Charles find love but apparently Charles’ vibe attracts women who have cursed amulets and open warrants

Lorenzo: Delete it.

Arthur: No. I can fix this. I just need filters. And maybe an exorcism.

***

Pascale was in the kitchen, folding linen napkins with the serene efficiency of a woman who had raised three sons, lived through Charles’ La La Land phase, and once confiscated a bottle of cologne that smelled like “heartbreak and leather.”

Arthur hovered in the doorway like a raccoon with a secret.

“Maman?”

“Yes?”

“…I need to confess something.”

She looked up, suspicious. “Did you crash another scooter?”

“No. Worse.”

She put the napkins down slowly. “Go on.”

“I made Charles a Raya profile.”

A beat of silence.

“And I’ve been pretending to be him. Vetting the women. And—please don’t yell—but I think I might’ve… accidentally turned him into a sex symbol with commitment issues.”

Pascale blinked once. Then reached for her wine glass. “What exactly does that mean?”

Arthur swallowed. “One woman sent a voice memo that was just her breathing heavily. Another wrote an essay about his collarbones. And someone named ‘MILFInSector1’ offered to show him her Alonso tattoo. On her thigh, Maman.”

She closed her eyes. “Show me the profile.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m disappointed. In your taste.”

Arthur handed over the phone like it was radioactive.

She scrolled through in silence.

First: shirtless boat pic. Then: shirtless workout mirror selfie. Then: Charles shirtless on a beach, looking like he was about to write a tragic sonnet about the sea.

“Arthur,” she said slowly. “Is he wearing a shirt in any of these?”

“Technically… no.”

She tapped the screen. “This one looks like he just seduced a widow on the Italian coast and then vanished before sunrise.”

“That was the vibe!”

She gave him a look. “And this one? With Leo? Shirtless again?”

“It’s the dog dad bait. Women love a soft side.”

“He looks like a cover model for Brooding Bachelor: Mediterranean Edition.”

Arthur grinned. “Exactly.”

Pascale sighed like she’d aged ten years in five minutes. “Read me the bio.”

Arthur cleared his throat.

“Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives through the Italian countryside and strong espresso. Swipe right if you can keep up—on the track or off it.”

Pascale stared. Then sipped her wine with great purpose.

“You wrote this like he’s a walking cologne commercial with a god complex.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment. We’re fixing it. Sit down.”

They sat down at the table. Pascale adjusted her glasses like she was about to perform surgery.

“First, we’re removing at least three of the shirtless photos. Leave one. Two max. Any more and he looks like he’s trying to sell protein powder and regrets.”

“Can we keep the Leo one?”

“He’s shirtless and holding the dog. That’s double bait. You’re not stacking emotional manipulation with abs.”

Arthur sulked. “The steering wheel hands?”

“That one can stay. It’s tasteful. Mysterious. Almost… cinematic.”

Arthur perked up. “Knew you’d get it.”

“Now,” she said, rewriting the bio, “‘Swipe right if you can keep up’ makes him sound like he’s running from Interpol. We’re dialing it back.”

They replaced it with:

“Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays. Quiet mornings, loud engines. Looking for someone kind—with a sense of humor and a stronger tolerance for espresso than me.”

Arthur blinked. “That’s… actually kind of good.”

“I raised you,” she said simply.

She also added a hard filter: “No users with the words ‘feral,’ ‘MILF,’ or ‘toe’ in their usernames.”

Arthur blinked again. “How do you know this much about dating apps?”

Pascale sipped her wine and smiled. “Darling. I may be a widow. I’m not dead.”

***

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (still illegally operated by Arthur)

@/AnaSaysMaybe: So… are you actually looking for something serious or just another Italian summer situationship?

@/charles_leclerc: Ideally something meaningful. No drama. No performative sadness.

@/AnaSaysMaybe: But you're a Ferrari driver.

@/charles_leclerc: Touché.

***

@/SimoneAtSunset: Okay but real talk: Is the “piano at night” thing a metaphor for vulnerability, or are you actually playing piano?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m actually playing piano.

@/SimoneAtSunset: That’s either the hottest thing I’ve ever heard or the most manipulative.

***

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Your profile is giving tragic espresso husband. I love it.

@/charles_leclerc: That’s… oddly flattering. Thank you.

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Just a heads up though—I don’t reply to texts between the hours of 11 p.m. and 4 p.m. And I ghost people when Mercury’s in retrograde.

@/charles_leclerc: So you ghost people… for sixteen hours a day?

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Self-care x

*** 

@/AstridOnFire: You had me at “piano at night.” I melt for emotionally repressed men with a flair for the dramatic.

@/charles_leclerc: I’m… not sure that’s the healthiest criteria, but alright.

@/AstridOnFire: It’s okay, I fix people.

@/charles_leclerc: That is the least reassuring sentence I’ve ever read.

***

@/CamilleOnCamera: Are you actually looking for a relationship? Or are you just here to cry to Chopin and pretend you're okay?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m open to something real. Why?

@/CamilleOnCamera: Because I don’t do emotions, but I do look great in photos. So if you want a beautiful mutual breakdown, I’m your girl.

***

@/JulietteFromNowhere: You seem genuinely lovely, but just so you know—I bring a lot of intensity to relationships. Like, “sent my ex a Spotify playlist titled ‘Haunt Me Forever’” energy.

@/charles_leclerc: …Out of curiosity, how long after the breakup?

@/JulietteFromNowhere:Six months. But I made the playlist during the relationship. Just in case.

***

@/ZaraLikesChaos: Do you believe in soulmates or is that too cringe?

@/charles_leclerc: I think it depends. Soulmates, maybe. Destiny, yes.

@/ZaraLikesChaos: Good answer. Anyway, my tarot reader says I’m going to marry someone with intense eyebrows. I’m pretty sure it’s you.

***

@/TaliaWithoutLimits: What’s your opinion on monogamy?

@/charles_leclerc: Essential, if I’m being honest.

@/TaliaWithoutLimits: Shame. I’m more of a… rotating-cast-of-men kind of girl. But I thought maybe I’d make an exception if you were taller.

***

@/NaomiNotNice: You look like you feel things. I like that in a man.

@/charles_leclerc: …Thank you?

@/NaomiNotNice: Do you mind if I name our first child Enzo?

@/charles_leclerc: We haven’t even met yet.

@/NaomiNotNice: Manifesting.

***

@/MilaInMotion: What’s your relationship with your mother like?

@/charles_leclerc: Close. She helps with most of my major life decisions.

@/MilaInMotion: Oh. Yeah. That’s going to be a problem for me. I’m allergic to mother-in-laws.

***

@/DaphneOnTheRun: Your dog is adorable. I trust men more when they’re dog people.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo is the most stable relationship I’ve had.

@/DaphneOnTheRun: Same. My ex stole my cat in the breakup, but I got the espresso machine. Also, I burned his passport.

@/charles_leclerc: Wait what

***

@/EvaAfterMidnight: Hi. If we go out, please don’t talk to me about F1. I’ll pretend to care, but it’s mostly for the photos.

@/charles_leclerc: …Charming.

***

@/LucieOffGrid: Hi. You have a dog, a soul, and a tragic vibe. I’m intrigued. I live on a boat most of the year. No Wi-Fi. I churn my own butter.

@/charles_leclerc: That’s incredibly niche. How do you… date people?

@/LucieOffGrid: I don’t. I just appear in their lives, ruin them, and disappear again. Like fog. Or ex-girlfriends.

@/charles_leclerc: Oh dear God.

***

Text Messages:  Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: progress report

Lorenzo: this can’t be good

Arthur: we are still getting weirdos…but they are  technically better weirdos?

Lorenzo: Define “technically”

Arthur: no toe pics no thigh tattoos no one’s tried to hex him with moon water yet

Lorenzo: So… less weird?

Arthur: less weird but not normal

Arthur: example: one girl churns her own butter and lives on her boat another just sent him her cat’s star chart

Lorenzo: I don’t know if this is evolution or a new form of crisis

Arthur: they’re soft weirdos now like chaotic but moisturized

Lorenzo: and you haven’t found anyone normal?

Arthur: define “normal” because one girl said she’s emotionally allergic to mothers another made a Spotify playlist titled ‘haunt me forever’ for her ex boyfriend

Lorenzo: You deserve this

Arthur: excuse me I’ve filtered out the truly cursed ones

Lorenzo: That’s like bragging about evacuating only some of the haunted dolls

Arthur: baby steps we’re moving in the right direction

***

***

Arthur was sitting cross-legged on the couch, hoodie up, blue light permanently etched into his retinas. His thumb moved on instinct now, scrolling through Raya like a war veteran—twitching every time he saw the words “feral,” “open relationship,” or “wanna crash into me?”

He was ready to give up.

And then.

@/lydiacolbert

Her profile popped up like a glitch in the system. A miracle in neutral tones.

Photos:

Lydia petting a small cream dachshund on a sunny terrace.

Lydia on a bike, holding her face in the sun.

Lydia laughing in Mykonos. Natural. Unbothered. Beautiful.

Lydia holding a flower pot like it’s an award she just earned.

Lydia’s dog—in a sweater. A blue sweater and a pink collar. Judging the camera.

Bio:

Currently accepting applications from people who enjoy quiet mornings, dry wit, and very judgmental dachshunds. Looking for something real. Or someone who won’t mind that my dog hates 90% of men.

Arthur sat up straight.

He reread it.

Then again.

“Charles,” he whispered to no one. “This is her. This is the one Leo won’t bark at.”

He clicked into the profile, skimmed her answers.

Interests: Cooking. Books. Dogs. Art museums. Sarcasm. Mild chaos. Turn-ons: Honesty. Calm confidence. Emotionally intelligent introverts.

Arthur blinked. “Oh my god, she’s hot and sane.”

He hit match faster than Charles on a quali lap in Monaco.

Seconds later: MATCHED.

Arthur stood, fists in the air. “YES. YES. FINALLY.”

Leo—who was asleep on a pillow in the corner—lifted his head in alarm. Arthur turned to him, grinning.

“Buddy,” he said breathlessly, “you’re getting a sister.”

***

Text Messages:  Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: I FOUND HER WE’RE SAVED

Lorenzo: You matched with a therapist?

Arthur: Better. Model. Dachshund. Judgmental. Possibly magic. Mild chaos. No witchcraft.

Lorenzo: …What’s the catch?

Arthur: There is no catch.

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (operated by Arthur Leclerc, matchmaking menace)

 @/lydiacolbert has matched with you. ✅

@/lydiacolbert: Hi Charles. I don’t usually message first, but your dog looks exactly like mine when he’s silently judging me for talking to men on the internet. I respect that kind of energy.

Arthur stared at the screen.

Then sat bolt upright.

“She’s perfect.”

Leo looked up from the corner, unimpressed.

Arthur cracked his knuckles and whispered, “Do not ruin this.”

He typed back—cautiously, like approaching a feral cat that might also own a book deal.

@/charles_leclerc: Hello. I think Leo and your dog would get along. Or at least agree to judge us quietly from opposite sides of the room.

@/lydiacolbert: That’s honestly the most romantic thing I’ve read on this app. Désirée only tolerates people who can make risotto and don’t talk during movies. She once growled at a man who suggested pineapple on pizza. She was right.

Arthur blinked. Whispered, “Marry her.”

He texted Lorenzo immediately.

***

Text Messages:  Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: She messaged FIRST.

Lorenzo: Who??

Arthur: LYDIA. Dog girl. Sanity girl. Flower-pot-on-a-bike girl.

Lorenzo: And?

Arthur: She’s funny. She’s dry. Her dog’s name is Désirée. She likes risotto and hates pineapple on pizza. I think Leo just wagged his tail at the screen.

Lorenzo: …You’re not qualified to handle this.

Arthur: I KNOW. I need backup. Should I respond with poetry or just ask her what her dog’s birth chart is?

Lorenzo: Respond like a normal person. And don’t mention astrology. 

***

Back in the app, Arthur took a breath. And for once, he typed like Charles would.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo once refused to walk for three blocks because someone in a Juventus jersey smiled at him. I trust his instincts more than my own at this point.

@/lydiacolbert: A man after my own heart. Or at least after my dog’s high standards. What’s your risotto strategy?

Arthur choked on his Coke Zero.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “She’s real. She’s emotionally literate. And she cooks.”

He took a beat. Typed.

@/charles_leclerc: Parmesan. Patience. A disturbing number of YouTube tutorials. And wine. Always wine.

@/lydiacolbert: Noted. Désirée says we’ll allow one date.

Arthur stared at the message. Then slowly turned to Leo.

“Buddy,” he whispered. “We might’ve found her.”

***

Group Chat: Raya Redemption HQ 💘🐾

 Members: Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale, Joris

Arthur: EVERYONE SHUT UP AND LOOK AT THIS WOMAN

Arthur: screenshot of Lydia’s profile ✨Model. Dachshund. Wears linen. Reads books. Owns plants. Emotionally stable.✨ WE ARE NO LONGER IN CRISIS

Lorenzo: Did she send you toe pics?

Arthur: NO. She sent a message about her dog judging her for messaging men. It was dry. It was flirty. It was sane. She makes risotto and hates pineapple on pizza. I’m in love for Charles.

Joris: So… we’re not deleting the app after all?

Arthur: No. We’re framing this match and hanging it above the fireplace.

Pascale: Arthur, I swear to God, if you are still pretending to be your brother, this woman deserves better than whatever Cirque du Soleil act you’re pulling.

Arthur: Maman, relax. I’m being tasteful. No shirtless photos, no espresso metaphors. We even discussed dogs before pasta.

Lorenzo: That’s the most terrifying sentence I’ve read today.

Arthur: I’M DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT. Even Leo approved. He wagged his tail. Once.

Pascale: You bribed him with ham, didn’t you?

Arthur: That’s beside the point.

Joris: Okay, but real talk—what’s the plan here? Are you going to tell Charles at some point, or is he just going to find out he’s dating someone from an app he never downloaded?

Arthur: We’ll ease him into it. Like exposure therapy. Step 1: Let him spiral less. Step 2: Keep messaging Lydia until she’s emotionally invested. Step 3: Gently reveal the deception. Step 4: Wedding.

Lorenzo: You skipped “tell the truth” and “deal with the emotional fallout” in your little master plan.

Pascale: I raised criminals.

Arthur: You raised innovators.

Pascale: When Charles finds out, I’m making all of you explain it to him. In person. While I film it.

Arthur: You’ll thank me when he’s married to the elegant Parisian woman with a judgmental dachshund and a normal relationship with emotional intimacy.

Lorenzo: Or he’ll drown you in the Monaco marina.

Arthur: That’s a risk I’m willing to take.

***

Charles took a sip of his espresso and opened Twitter with the innocent hope of seeing race predictions or maybe a meme about Pierre’s new sunglasses.

Instead, the first thing he saw was a tweet with his face and the words:

@/paddocktea:okay but WHO is running charles leclerc’s raya account(s) bc i just found TWO and they are… spiritually different??? exhibit a: “Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives and women who don’t ask too many questions.” vs “Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays. Looking for someone kind and espresso-tolerant.” one of these was written by a shirtless man with cologne in his eyes and the other by someone’s extremely French mother

[2 screenshots attached]

Charles blinked.

Scrolled.

Opened the replies.

@/feralgirlsf1: first version: "I will ruin you in Lake Como" second version: "I will feed you carbonara and never leave" who is writing this man’s character arc

@/drive_me_delirious: I KNOW ARTHUR MADE THE FIRST ONE. I KNOW IT IN MY BONES. but who made the sad poet rebrand? because I want to thank her

@/alonsohater420: Pascale Leclerc. That’s my theory. That woman raised sons and keeps receipts.

@/feralforferrari: “Winner of your heart” STOP WHO LET HIM TYPE THAT???

@/leoclubfanpage: not me cross-referencing shirtless beach pics with his Instagram to determine authenticity 💀

@/wifedashboard: someone said the new bio sounds like his maman made it and honestly?? not wrong

Charles put down his espresso with surgical care.

Then clicked on the screenshots.

First one:

Shirtless. Mykonos.

Shirtless. Beach.

Shirtless. Leo.

“Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights.”

He audibly choked.

Second one:

Sweater. Steering wheel.

“Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays.”

***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc and Lorenzo Leclerc

Charles: WHAT IS THIS

Lorenzo: …Good morning?

Charles: WHY AM I TRENDING FOR A RAYA PROFILE I’VE NEVER MADE??? WHY ARE THERE TWO OF THEM??

Lorenzo: Define “trending.”

Charles: Lorenzo. There are slideshows. There are threads.

Charles: There are comparative analyses of which version of my fictional dating self is hotter.

Charles: Someone said the first one was “sex on a Vespa” and the second one was “grief with a good red.”

Lorenzo: ...Okay but that’s honestly fair.

Charles: WHO. DID. THIS.

Lorenzo: I think now’s a good time to ask if you are in the country…

Charles: LORENZO.

Lorenzo: Okay. Fine. The first one was Arthur. The second one was… a joint operation.

Charles: WHAT.

Lorenzo: Arthur made the original profile without your knowledge. You were spiraling. He panicked. Then he asked Maman for help and she helped him rebrand you into someone… softer.

Charles: YOU LET MAMAN EDIT MY FAKE DATING PROFILE??

Lorenzo: She cut out the shirtless pics. You should be grateful.

Charles: I AM GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

 Members: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale

Charles: ARE YOU ALL OUT OF YOUR MINDS???

Charles: I woke up to find out I apparently have not one, but TWO dating profiles.

Charles: TWO. ON RAYA. WITH BIOS.

Charles: AND PHOTOS. OF MY BODY. WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE.

Arthur: hi love would you like a chamomile tea and a therapist or should I start running

Charles: YOU PUT “WINNER OF YOUR HEART” IN THE BIO.

Pascale: I removed it. The first one made you sound like a cologne ad that’s banned in most countries. The second one is tasteful. Sophisticated. A man with depth and a signature pasta.

Charles: YOU REBRANDED ME AS A TRAGIC HUSBAND?!?

Arthur: you’re welcome

Charles: WHAT WOULD POSSESS YOU TO DO THIS

Arthur: you said “I’m emotionally unlovable at a molecular level” while listening to Debussy

Arthur: you were spiraling I intervened with vibes and wi-fi

Lorenzo: Arthur called it “Operation Raya Redemption” We even had a shared folder

Charles: A FOLDER???

Arthur: look bro we were just trying to get you off the floor and into the emotional arms of someone whose dog wears sweaters

Charles: WHAT DOES THAT MEAN

Lorenzo: …Arthur. Now is a good time.

Arthur: right okay so

Arthur: you got a match

Charles: NO.

Arthur: YES.

Pascale: She messaged first. That’s a good sign. Confident. Emotionally balanced.

Charles: NO ONE IS EMOTIONALLY BALANCED IN THIS FAMILY

Arthur: her name is Lydia she’s a model she lives in Paris and she has a dachshund named Désirée who wears sweaters and hates most men so obviously, she’s perfect

Lorenzo: She likes sarcasm, risotto, and espresso. She messaged to say your dog looks like hers when judging her for dating. You flirted about risotto for like six messages.

Charles: I DID WHAT??

Arthur: technically I flirted but I was channeling your tragic poet energy so it was spiritually accurate

Pascale: She’s very elegant. Also, she uses punctuation in her messages. We vetted her.

Charles: YOU VETTED HER??

Arthur: Maman and I read her Instagram captions. She passed. No star sign rants. No frog collections. Her bookshelf had actual books.

Charles: I’m going to lie down and scream into a pillow.

Arthur: you’re welcome.

Lorenzo: You should at least meet Lydia.

Pascale: She has excellent hair. You owe it to Leo.

Charles: …what does Leo have to do with this

Arthur: he wagged his tail when he saw her dog’s photo it was a sign

Pascale: I really think she’s a good match, Charles. She didn’t even bring up racing. Just said your dog looked adorable.

Charles: I AM DELETING THIS APP I AM DELETING THIS FAMILY CHAT I AM DELETING MYSELF

***

Charles was sitting on the floor. Because of course he was.

His phone sat on the couch above him, like a bomb. Still open to the group chat where his family casually confessed to identity theft and matchmaking in one breath.

He sighed.

Then, like a man opening a cursed scroll, he opened the Raya app. Logged in with the password Arthur had supplied: Pinsàroulettes16 (Arthur was not subtle.Charles should probably consider himself lucky that nobody had hacked it yet.)

New Matches: 1 @/lydiacolbert ✅

He blinked at the name.

Then the profile.

Paris.

Model.

Cream-colored dachshund in a blue sweater.

Laughing in Mykonos.

Holding a flower pot like it told her a secret.

Judgmental but kind eyes.

Her bio:

Currently accepting applications from people who enjoy quiet mornings, dry wit, and very judgmental dachshunds. Looking for something real. Or someone who won’t mind that my dog hates 90% of men.

Charles stared.

Then scrolled to the messages.

@/lydiacolbert: Hi Charles. I don’t usually message first, but your dog looks exactly like mine when he’s silently judging me for talking to men on the internet. I respect that kind of energy.

@/charles_leclerc (aka Arthur): Hello. I think Leo and your dog would get along. Or at least agree to judge us quietly from opposite sides of the room.

@/lydiacolbert: That’s honestly the most romantic thing I’ve read on this app. Désirée only tolerates people who can make risotto and don’t talk during movies. She once growled at a man who suggested pineapple on pizza. She was right.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo once refused to walk for three blocks because someone in a Juventus jersey smiled at him. I trust his instincts more than my own at this point.

@/lydiacolbert: A man after my own heart. Or at least after my dog’s high standards. What’s your risotto strategy?

@/charles_leclerc: Parmesan. Patience. A disturbing number of YouTube tutorials. And wine. Always wine.

@/lydiacolbert: Noted. Désirée says we’ll allow one date.

Charles sat very still.

Then read it again.

He felt something ridiculous tug at the corner of his mouth.

Leo stretched next to him and sighed—like even he was judging him a little less now.

Charles hesitated.

Then, for the first time, typed something himself.

@/charles_leclerc: Would Désirée tolerate a walk with Leo sometime next week? I promise not to suggest pineapple on anything.

He hit send.

Then set the phone down.

And muttered to Leo, “If I marry her, you’re getting a tux.”

Leo rolled over, unimpressed.

***

Charles arrived early. Like, way early. Like, sat-down-twenty-minutes-before-the-reservation-straightening-the-salt-shakers early.

Leo was wearing his least-offensive harness—the navy one Pascale called “respectable.” Charles had asked his mother to steam his shirt because he would have burned it. And he’d spent ten minutes standing in front of his cologne collection with the expression of a man selecting a weapon for emotional battle.

He went with the subtle one. The one that didn’t smell like haunted heartbreak on the Riviera.

Now he was trying not to pass out.

He kept checking his phone—not for messages, but to reread hers. Like they were prayers. Or sheet music. Something steady. Predictable. Beautiful.

He was on the fourth reread when he heard a soft “Hi.”

And he looked up.

And that was it.

Time? Paused. Brain? Empty. Soul? Gone. Sold. Stolen.

Because yes, Lydia looked like her pictures. The soft light, the clean lines, the effortless grace. But in real life, she looked like sunlight through linen curtains. Like the kind of quiet joy you don’t realize you’ve been missing until it’s there, in front of you, wearing ankle boots and a knowing smile.

And behind her, trotting like a tiny fashion editor late for brunch, was Désirée—new sweater, same disapproval.

Charles stood too fast. Knocked his knee on the table.

“Hi. Bonjour. Sorry. I’m—hi.”

Lydia tilted her head, smiling like someone who wasn’t startled by awkward men but delighted by them.

“That’s a lot of hellos.”

“I panicked,” he confessed, trying to smile but probably just grimacing.

“Well,” she said, settling across from him, “panic suits you.”

They sat. Leo gave Désirée a slow blink. Désirée gave Leo a look that said You are lucky I’m in a tolerant mood. Neither barked. It was, Charles decided, a miracle.

They ordered drinks. A croissant for him. An oat milk cappuccino for her. Two biscuits for the dogs. And the conversation just... happened.

They talked about risotto (“Saffron?” “Obviously.”) About books. About espresso machines (“Manual or capsule?” “Is that even a question?”). About why Désirée once growled at a barista for adding whipped cream. (“It was a crime against coffee,” Lydia said, without irony.)

And with every laugh, every dry observation, every easy silence, something in Charles started to settle. Like maybe he wasn’t broken. Like maybe he was just… waiting.

Until the warmth in his chest got too dangerous.

And he blurted it out.

“I need to confess something.”

Lydia paused, cappuccino halfway to her mouth. “Okay. I’m listening. Should I be concerned?”

Charles exhaled. “Maybe.”

She leaned in slightly. “Did you lie about being able to make risotto? Because honestly, I’d survive.”

“No. I can make risotto.”

“Then what is it?”

Charles swallowed. “This profile. On Raya. It wasn’t me. Not at first. It was my brother. Arthur. He made it without telling me.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“And then,” Charles continued grimly, “my maman got involved. She edited it. There were… filters. There was a group chat. I only found out after it went viral on Twitter.”

Lydia blinked.

Then leaned back. Processing.

Then she squinted.

“Wait—both versions of your profile were real?”

Charles groaned. “Yes. One was Arthur’s masterpiece. All shirtless photos and chaos. The other was… Arthur’s chaos, edited by a woman who once made me redo a thank-you note because it wasn’t emotionally sincere.”

And then—

She laughed.

Not a polite giggle. Not a smirk.

A full, head-back, eyes-crinkled, joyful laugh.

“You’re telling me,” she gasped, “your mother edited your Raya profile?”

Charles nodded miserably. “She cut the shirtless photos. Said I was ‘the first one made me sound like a cologne ad that’s banned in most countries.’ Her words. Not mine.” 

“I love your family already,” Lydia said, still wheezing. Désirée sneezed under the table, as if in agreement.

Charles looked at her sideways. “So… you’re not running?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “But I am making fun of you for this forever.”

He laughed—really laughed. The kind that surprised him. The kind that had been stuck behind his ribs since Sophie. The kind he didn’t know he missed until this exact moment.

Then Lydia, still grinning, reached across the table and stole half his croissant with zero shame.

Charles blinked at her, stunned.

“So… am I meeting your mum on the second date or the third?”  He nearly choked on his espresso.

She leaned closer and said, very softly, “I’m really glad you showed up—even if it took your brother, your mother, and a deeply haunted dating app to make it happen,”

And Charles, soft, stunned, grinning like a fool, thought:

I’m screwed. She’s it. Leo’s going to need a tux.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

Charles: I met her.

Arthur: WHO LYDIA??

Charles: Yes.

Arthur: IS SHE REAL OR WAS THAT PROFILE A TRAP LAID BY A SUPERNATURAL ENTITY??

Charles: She’s real. And not a ghost. Unless ghosts can steal your croissant and your soul in the same hour.

Lorenzo: Define “steal your soul.”

Charles: She laughed at my confession. Not at me. With me. Said she’s making fun of me forever and then ate half my pastry like it was her birthright.

Lorenzo: ...I think you’re in love.

Arthur: WAIT. BACK UP. YOU TOLD HER???

Charles: I panicked. She asked what my risotto confession was and it just— came out.

Pascale: And what did she say?

Charles: She laughed. Like, full-body, eyes-crinkled, gorgeous laugh. Then said she loved my family already.

Pascale: She has taste.

Arthur: I AM A GENIUS.

Lorenzo: You’re a liability.

Arthur: A romantic visionary. I BROUGHT THIS WOMAN INTO OUR LIVES.

Charles: You catfished her.

Arthur: Tomato, tomahto.

Pascale: Invite her to Sunday lunch.

Charles: Already did.

Arthur: WHAT

Lorenzo: WHAT

Pascale: Good boy.

Charles: She said yes. She wants to meet the people responsible for her favorite romantic heist.

Arthur: I’m going to cry

Lorenzo: Please don’t.

Arthur: Do you think Désirée would let me hold her?? Or is that reserved for emotionally mysterious men and premium-grade deli meats?

Charles: She said you need to pass an emotional vibe check.

Arthur: I AM an emotional vibe check.

Charles: Anyway. I like her. I really like her.

Arthur: Can I make a speech at the wedding?

Charles: Absolutely not.

Arthur: ...Too late. Already drafting one.

[syluses]

fuck me like i’m famous

popstar! rafayel x female reader

in theory, attending your favorite popstar’s after party seems a dream come true. for you, it certainly is. in reality, though? it doesn’t live up to it- at least not innocently.

content popstar! rafayel, nsfw, smut, dubcon, fingering, disillusion, mc learns why idolizing celebrities isn’t wise (by being banged by one during his afterparty), yandere & obsessive undertones, 18+ characters

sidenote hrm… was supposed to be a lil drabble but it snowballed into almost 5k words. hopefully the fishie girlies will like this lil meal tho since he’s kinda a rare sight on the blog 💔 rafayel is freaked the fuck out in this deadass... also i literally had nothing better to name this but i believe chase atlantic kinda fits raf’s vibes here so :,] OH & THANK U FOR 600 FOLLOWERS I LOVE YALL ♡♡♡

Lights glitter on his face in the after party.

You don’t know what you did to earn God’s favor in this life, but whatever the reason, you’re thankful for scoring yourself that ticket. He’s all you listen to; a staple to each of your playlists. And so for what Thomas did- gifting you a special pass he had as an extra to your favorite popstar’s show- you’re ever in his debt.

He might be his publicist; that spare ticket may mean nothing to him. Alright, but-

It might as well mean the whole world to you.

Girls crowd his spot on the couch. It’s decadent: the room bathed in dim, yellow lights as the drinks, generously taken from, sparkle on the table before it. He kicks his long legs out on it and stretches an arm behind the woman at his side. She’s beautiful, scantily clad, all of them are- some curled up to his shoulder, others drunkenly twirling around the room- and because of it, you feel a little out of place.

In jeans and a band tee, you weren’t prepared.

Not for this.

One part of you is positively gushing at the scene that unfolds around you, deciding you could die in peace now that you’d finally experienced one of his concerts, especially in such an exclusive way. Still, another part of you, dwelling low in your belly, twisting like a bad gut feeling, quietly thinks, Has Thomas mistaken me for a whore? Perhaps it’s wrong to think that of those girls... But you also don’t believe they’d take any real offense to that if they were to hear your internal back-and-forth, because they seem delighted to put on their shows for him.

They can’t be blamed, right? I mean… It’s him. Rafayel. Everybody and their mom would trip over their own two feet trying to get an audience with him.

Still.

You ball your fists in your lap.

A-Are you even meant to be here?

Rafayel was always bold on camera, yes; flirtatious to a fault. Sure, he was a playboy and you were aware of that, the whole community was. Really, it was integral to his charm.

But this—

One of the girls giggles when she stumbles over her high heels and into Rafayel’s lap. It’s convenient. Too convenient: even if she’s only half aware of her surroundings, in for a bad hangover tomorrow morning, she still manages to go flying right towards him. You know the purple-haired man must be aware of it too, her frolicking stunts.

Nonetheless, he catches her in his arms before she topples, and he laughs, too.

It’s a pretty sound. Then again, everything about him is. With his dyed, lavender curls and the softness to his otherwise coy face, the little moles dusting it and his glossy, pink lips— he’s beautiful. All the more in that outfit. Cheeky but not enough as to be scandalous. His stylist and his designer have your applause. Clearly, they know what they’re doing.

On stage, he’d seemed playful, but was able to keep his gallivanting at bay. With a wink, though, all that sex appeal just oozes out, and—

It’s weird. How you can spend so much weeks and months and years idolizing somebody, and then suddenly have all that worshipful intent collapsing in a breath. Within the span of not even an hour, you’ve become so disillusioned with this celebrity- your all time favorite- that you can hardly bear to look at him and his wanton display.

Sat on the armchair opposite of it all as it takes place, deathly quiet, you begin to feel sick.

Is this really him?

You knew he was a flirt, yes, but- but what the hell is even this? Is this what he demeans himself to after each show? Just some cheap manwhore with his hand-selected throng of groupies, sipping away at an expensive wine just moments after he set the mic aside after a love song you’d thought to be heartfelt—

Your glass, the one a suited man offered on a tray and you took only to mimic the others, remains untouched before you.

This is startling. And far from your preferred scene.

M-Maybe you ought to go home. And soon. Is what you’ve been thinking for closer to thirty minutes now, and yet you’re too nervous to speak on it. I mean, maybe if you just stood up and left, nobody would notice your slipping out— the room is far from bright and everybody’s buzzed on something, anyway—

Marbled, coral-blue eyes stare at you over the rim of his glass, and they glint with something you think is mirth.

Curiosity, alongside it.

It makes you second guess yourself. Taking your leave.

He’s been watching you for a while now. Even when the stunning women gather in a flurry around him, tugging on his hair and teasing with whispering breaths in his ear, his attention doesn’t remain on them for long. It drags back to you and, for all the distractions occuring around you (the stereo playing an all too familiar song, the drunken chatter, the unease in your chest), he’s impressively focused.

It’s unnerving. It’s divine. He’s all you listen to in the car and in the shower and in your bedroom when you’re dancing to his newest album in an oversized sleep shirt and panties. You’ve cried to him and laughed to him and now he’s here, in shocking clarity, and you were so so excited, rambling about it to your girlfriends for months, but now you’re not so sure of what you’re seeing. If you like it.

He seems less god to you, now; oh, still heavenly, still angelic, for sure, but he toes more along the line of something wicked— like a cherub fallen.

And you can’t find it in you to get up and scurry out even when that’s all you can picture yourself doing in your head, escaping.

When you catch his eye again, you dip your chin (not out of reverence, no longer, but rather unease) and bite on your lip until you taste blood.

So when he lifts his hand with a snap then, the girls pouting as they crawl off him, dissipating no different than fog- you’re ever thankful for the opportunity to finally get up and leave, too—

A voice chimes over itself, layering over the familiar song playing in the background.

“Hey- wait up, cutie.”

You pause when you belatedly realize it’s calling for you.

As if your legs are stilts, you turn around hesitantly (strange: because really, shouldn’t you be happy he’s noticed you?) and try to lessen the shock on your face- even though his amused little smile tells you it’s as clear as day.

He laughs pleasantly, playful to a fault.

“What’s that silly face for? Oh, IIIIIII see, you’re feeling a lil left out, is my guess. Here,” he pats the cushion beside him and you actually blanche. For a moment you think your heart has stopped beating and those thumps you hear are the drum beats in his song as it drifts through the now empty room.

Save for you and Rafayel, it’s completely barren; the better part of its energy has left with the dancing girls but whatever remains of it, he holds.

You eye the spot beside him, unmoving.

An excuse, you realize right then— you can still spit out an excuse.

“I-I’m not one of the girls,” you stammer with a wince before clearing your throat, “I- I don’t even think I’m really supposed to be here.”

Another laugh, and a dismissive wave of his hand. You try to make yourself laugh too if only to appease him, your idol- endlessly nervous.

“Oh, well that’s just untrue,” he teases. “C’mon, don’t be shy~! I was just playing around with the others. It’s just you and me now, so no need to feel all nervous,” he assures, the image of harmless as he crosses his leg over the other and waits.

You blink rapidly. “I—“

You’re about to spew out a feeble rejection and that’s when his face drops.

You’re not sure, for all the records and posters and billboards you’ve seen of his face, if he’s ever made that expression. Not on camera, at least.

He lowly murmurs, “Aren’t you a fan?”

“I-…. Well-….”

A fan? For years now! His number one! A stupid girlish voice in the corner of your mind shrieks, and you almost dredge some joy out of this whole thing.

Letting out a shaky sigh, defeated, you creep over to him on equally shaky legs and take the spot beside him— all with great hesitance, though.

His pretty face alights again. Some of the pressure loosens up, even if only by a little, and your shoulders relax by a smidge.

Maybe it’s fine. Maybe you’re crazy and this is how he interacts with all his listeners no, no it’s not. Or maybe this is just a normal, celebrity thing and you’re blowing this way out of proportion here.

Just like he did with that other woman- that other likeminded fan or plaything or- or you don’t know- he loops an arm around the back of the couch behind you.

…What’s different, though, is that, unlike with her, he rests his hand on your shoulder and hugs you closer to his side. Clinging.

Rafayel smiles. Charming. Frivolous. With a glint in his eye, intense and engrossed, that’s weirdly sober when taking the half empty drink he sets down on the table into consideration.

“There. Good girl. So tell me, pretty,” he starts thoughtfully, fingertips twirling your hair as he leans into you. For the popstar that takes very little seriously, you think he appears awfully interested in some no-name girl who happened to score herself a limited-time lanyard to see him sing.

You swallow thickly. In the back of your mind, thoughts race. So does your heart. You might explode.

H-He didn’t act like this with the others— did you somehow present yourself in a way that made him think he could take more than what the others let him? More than what the others practically begged him to, but for some fucking reason he wouldn’t—

“Did you like the show?”

“Y-Yeah.” You don’t mean to whisper, but a certain, resigned silence is what you’ve been reduced to. His other hand stretches across his body to rest on your thigh.

Rafayel hums. But before he can speak, you- rudely, might he add- cut in. “I- I have to go home soon, so-“

Amused, he snorts. “Relax, alright? Tonight, you’re a very important person, aren’t you? Home can wait,” he muses, so close he’s near nuzzling your cheek.

A very important person? Funny. You’re just another fool bouncing around amongst the nosebleeds- a face he’ll be hard-pressed to catch and certain to forget. Honestly? This whole facade of his is as cruel as it is unbelievable.

Gradually, he’s letting you down.

Your throat bobs. Almost a bit bitterly, you remind, “I- I know you’re a popstar, but we’re still strangers. You don’t have to feel like you need to entertain me or be nice to me.”

“Huh. You’re one smart cookie,” he wryly comments before giving his head a tiny shake, almost more to himself than to you. “Um, look, cutie, you’re definitely no stranger to me,” his words leave you dazed because they sound genuine. You snap your head up to look at him, needing to gauge his expression and fish for deceit. You… find none.

He smoothly continues. “But I guess I’m no stranger to you either, huh? And tonight, you’ll be like, extra acquainted with me.”

✦

It’s difficult.

-When he’s hovering over you and gently pushing you onto the plush cushions into a half-lying position, to not only push him off but find the strength to.

Physically, Rafayel’s no hulking display of power, but he’s intimidating all the same. Mentally, he’s more or less your idol and although he may not hold too much weight in stature (still, he’s stronger than you), he still holds enough golden trophies to decorate a shelf— and too much influence for you to really comprehend.

Or try to toy with.

…You should want this. Should want to lie down and offer yourself up to him with eagerness— it should be like a blessing and yet you’re hesitating.

…Why are you hesitating? A voice in the back of your head, the one that had raved endlessly to her friends about the upcoming concert, asks perplexedly. You’ve no answer. But the man atop you seems to wonder much of the same, too; his brow twitching just slightly with what you think to be dejection before he tilts your chin with long, slim fingers to kiss you and it’s gone.

He moans into that first kiss. Prettily and soft.

Heat flutters in the core of you, your body involuntarily responding to him even as your eyes snap open and shift to where the door is- or where you think it is (have the lights gotten dimmer? or is he just all you see?)- his palm tugging at your hair softly to lie you down.

His lips are plump, pink, just as gentle as they look as they meld against yours— definitely aroused, there’s no doubt there, his warm breaths tinged with needy whines- but there’s an odd affection in them, too. Something personal and doting.

When he tries to slip in tongue, you reel away but there’s nowhere to go. Not really. Not when your head finally touches the cushion and he lets out a small, disapproving sound before giving up on that goal- for now- and attacking your neck instead.

It’s good. Delicious; that perfect mouth knows its way around a mic and a lover, you suppose- suckling and kissing and nipping with the barest amount of teeth as if he’s intent on leaving a mark.

You can’t hold back on it anymore— you drop your hands that had been hovering awkwardly on his broad shoulders, mewling in response, and he shivers.

“Yeah, cutie, make some noise,” he chuckles mildly. You think back to the auditorium. The roaring cheers and shrieks, the phone lights waving in the air and the mist rolling beneath his feet as he sang.

His hand descends down your belly, and you’re brought back to now.

It’s more instinct than anything that has you clamping your legs shut as soon as his fingers reach the denim. He tuts at you, and yet the glimmer in his eye is… endeared, almost.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t shut me away now,” Rafayel scolds, thought it lacks any real bite. Still, your lashes flutter and you stare agog at him.

Like this, he’s positively gorgeous as he props himself up mere inches away- albeit his little grin can almost be considered vulpine. “Didn’t I put on a great show for you out there? Don’t tell me I get nothing in return,” he pouts, tone light but what lies under it is a layer of desire. Opaque and thick.

Hesitantly, you mull over his words. I mean, you just really want this to be over- so to hell to with it, maybe you should just submit yourself. The sooner you appease the playboy with what he wants— that is, some nameless girl he perceives as cheap enough to get on her back for him— the sooner you can leave and pretend Thomas never gave you his special ticket.

The popstar’s words turn comforting as he watches you carefully. “If you’re shy, don’t worry. I’ve seen it plenty’a times before, you know.”

Bigheaded, you think then. Bigheaded but he has every right to be.

Maybe if it was any other guy bragging about the chicks he fucked and scrutinized, you’d throw up in your mouth— and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t cringe a little on the inside— but it’s embarrassment for yourself above all that stirs in your stomach. It joins the butterflies as your cheeks warm over.

“Now,” he continues, his familiar lilt flattening into heavy, breathy lust, “All I want is to see yours. I’m sure your pussy is pretty, cutie- really,” he convinces.

A tremble. “So pretty.”

Oh, you’re erupting on the inside— heart snapping like a snare drum in your chest, overpowering the faint music and drowning it out- your hand shaking where it weakly closes over the back of his own, now only half trying to drag it away.

He hammers the last nail into your coffin. With a ragged, but gentle breath and- as he leans in- a surprisingly chaste peck to your lips, appreciative of what he has before him.

“Won’t you show me it?”

But jaw slack, you hesitate. And- Of course you hesitate. The reasons for your deliberation, that weird gut feeling, become clearer and clearer as seconds progress:

Firstly, he’s the image of fame- and if you were to deny him, if he said the smallest word over it, your whole entire social life as you knew it would backfire on you. The possibility of his saying mean things on the internet hangs in your mind. Rumors circulating, as untrue as they are vivid, coming to bite you in the ass. For as many hours as you’ve spent watching and listening to Rafayel, you don’t know his true colors (as evidenced by right now); that includes what a wounded ego would look like if you rejected him.

Secondly, you hesitate because—

Because he’s perfect. Much like an idol on a pedestal, carefully set there with a singular light overhead to define him and him alone.

In a dark room, all look to him.

Once- an hour ago- you did, too.

Maybe you still do. You don’t know. There’s a whole bunch of feelings (confusion, awe, a betrayal that makes you question just how parasocial your relationship with him was) swirling inside you, none able to be grazed or grasped, and it shakes a part within.

“Please?” He breathes, ever headstrong.

…Your rationale is headlong, falling into the abyss with a word.

“O-Okay,” you all but squeak out. It’s the best you can manage. Rafayel’s breath hitches at that, though, your given assent, no matter how feeble, planting satisfaction deep in his chest.

And so with that he’s swiftly undoing your jeans and rucking them down your thighs.

It’s less out of good will that you help him shimmy them off you, to a bunch above your shoes, and more so eagerness to be done with this whole thing.

When he tucks his knuckles beneath the waistband of your panties- cutesy cotton put on full display for him, perched above pretty thighs- he curses under his breath.

His hands are as big as a man’s but as soft as a woman’s. His fingertips are dutiful as they brush along your folds, as singleminded, hungry, as the former.

…But when they nudge between your pussy lips and at your tight hole, his thumb prodding expertly at your clit, it’s like he has all the awareness of the latter.

“Ah, you’re so wet…” he muses aloud. Very pleased with his discovery.

His eyelids, dazzling with some glittery shade his makeup artist applied prior to his show, droop and don’t meet your flustered stare as he focuses on the space between your legs. And he takes it upon himself to rid you of your panties, too: for as adorable as they are, Rafayel knows it’ll be ten times better for you both if he can just-

Finally fucking see for himself what you’ve got goin’ on down there—

Undies midway down your leg, he comments, “you’re really hyped up after the show, huh?” His exhale is a shaky sound. His gaze is utterly fascinated (and perhaps a touch unnerving, what with its intensity) when it bounces back to that soft dip below your belly.

You’ll give him this much credit— for as wild as that glint in his unblinking stare becomes, he’s fortunately gentle with you.

He wets his lip absently. “Yeah… it gets me going, too. All the lights and cheering faces... Feeling the bass vibrate up from the floor. Can I be honest, though, cutie? When Thomas- oh, shit-“ he shivers when he inserts a digit in- his pointer one- and your hole instinctively clamps down around it, juices glistening to the base of his knuckle as you try not to squirm.

Y-You can’t believe this is happening. Your clothes are all in a disarray- the only piece intact, actually, is your tee that just so happens to be merchandise of the popstar that hovers over you now with his hand between your legs—

You blink back to real life when he sharply inhales.

“…When Thomas told me you were comin’, I made absolute sure to know your standing. That way, I could find you easily in the crowd. I was gettin’ so worked up just looking at you. Could you hear it-? My voice began to shake.” he chuckles, voice euphony to your ears. Familiar in its lilt but not in its timber.

His words stun you. They don’t make sense- is this is all some cruel, sick game after all-? Or- Or maybe he’s mistaking you for someone else? or he’s just choosing a really weird, admittedly screwed up way to let off some steam. God knows, what with his recent album built on the back of unrequited love, he needs the stress relief—

But no. He continues on like nothing is amiss, like your heart doesn’t plummet to the tips of your toes at his offhanded admission, and you forget how to breathe.

“When our eyes met- you looked like you were doubting yourself, but I really was staring at you, you silly girl.” Again, he’s fucking laughing, albeit this time, it takes on a more self-deprecating tone. You witness, almost unseeing, as his facade crumbles in increments. More and more he undoes it by the seams- much like he is with you.

“I was… Hm. I was even singing about you. All those stupid pining love songs— who do you think they’re for, princess?”

A gasp punches out from your lungs. You don’t know what it’s for- his nonsensical confessions, or his handling as he stuffs in another finger (you could’ve used some more working up to it, sure, he knows, but he’s a little impatient tonight) and scissors you open.

Wet shlicks ring in between guitar riffs. Your essence flows all over his knuckles and the numerous- horrifically expensive, you realize- jewels lining them. Rafayel doesn’t seem nearly as appalled as you do, though... If anything, aroused.

It feels so good. He’s hitting that spongey spot inside you just right. It’s a surreal experience, so much so you almost feel like you’ll coalesce into a dream at any moment. The melody playing in the background, the opulent couch as it groans beneath you with every piston of his arm, the twinkling, but dim lights and his face. That picturesque, idol face.

“Here, I’ll tell you the answer…” he leans over you to whisper in your ear, subjecting you to all the charm of a siren. You’re helpless to it ‘cause you’re just a girl.

“You. Always you.”

You’re dizzy. Your head is light but your lower half is heavy, the inner portion of your thighs numbed and sticky. Your limbs tingle but all you can feel is his lips tenderly suckling at your neck and your gushing walls as they constrict around their intruder.

Though they, too, ease up on him. He’s good at disarming you. That’s how you were walking in here, anyway, disarmed and beyond yourself with excitement.

Rafayel moans over you, finding a great amount of pleasure in the whole ordeal.

“You gonna cum? yeah?” He’s sweet, purring in your ear, making sounds as pretty as a girl- maybe even more so. His voice has won awards for a reason. You recall binging musical ceremonies on the internet and shrieking as soon as his name was called to stage, his seeming nonchalance as he accepted an accolade…

Yet you saw his ears, too, the tips of them red under the resounding applause, and wondered just what or who it was that had him bowing his head to the camera—

“A-Ah, mmph- Rafayel, please—!” You choke, fingers curling into his shoulder. In response, he lets out a pleasured, breathy sound, all encouragement and delight in his eyes.

“Mhm. Go ahead. Cum. Cum, pretty girl, all over my fingers. Oh- I really wanna taste you- will y’let me taste you afterwards?” He’s moaning unabashed as you come undone at warp speed. It’s shameful and your cheeks toast over but you clamp your eyes shut and choose to bask in the feeling of it all as it overwhelms you.

He’s good. So good. Masterful with it, really. Not like any of the bungling guys who courted you for all of one date (the more patient: two) before ripping your pants off and sticking their fingers inside without prompting or even half the skill to back their confidence.

No- he’s every bit qualified and then some.

Your nails dig into his clavicle. Rafayel doesn’t care- if that pinch of pleasure between his brow is the least bit credible, maybe he even likes the sting.

“Good girl. There, good girl.”

It’s building inside you. He works you up progressively, rapidly, and it shows in the little gasps you make that fall back to back, the L shape you make with either of your legs as they hitch up around his hips and quake, the ball in your gut that suddenly hardens before—

“Ngh— Rafayel-!”

You scream. Louder than the music. Louder than his words of encouragement, sugar-sweet, hungry, susurrating as they spill in your ear. He sensually nibbles on it and wraps his free hand around your head- with a misplaced affection, you think- to anchor you throughout your climax. He manages to keep you grounded there on the couch but only barely.

Your mind does slip off to another place, though, floating in white oblivion for a number of seconds as your limbs offer small trembles.

Rafayal takes close to nothing serious. So the light, but bubbly laugh that draws you back to consciousness with a sigh is fairly appropriate.

What isn’t is his touchiness as he drags you to sit on his lap— boneless; your skin damp with heat, your damned pants still cuffed awkwardly around your ankles— and croons into your neck. Holding you close like a lover would in the after glow. But this isn’t the after glow, this is the after show. But then again, if his earlier words were true- the ones that barrel back into you with clarity, the haze dissipating- then…

But no. No, how could that be? Those songs aren’t about you— and when you met his eye during the opening, and all the times afterward, you were sure it was just your imagination, especially after the fan beside you threw up her arms and cheered as if his stare was for her instead—

You might know Thomas (very vaguely- more of a friend of a friend you’ve seen at a few get-togethers; you follow him on insta), but that doesn’t mean Rafayel, the man he works for, should know you... I mean, you doubt they hang out often, anyway. Especially not since Thomas would more or less be viewed as the king of no-fun in the popstar’s eyes.

His whole job is to assure that Rafayel keeps his lips sealed tight: you can’t imagine that he’d be loose with his own by chatting with him about you, a girl he’s not all too familiar with but knows just enough to throw a spare ticket at.

So there’s just no way any of this is true.

Half of you expects Rafayel to shove you off his lap at any second, snap back to the reality that you’re not the woman he mistook you for, and flusteredly point you to the door. The other half of you is like it’s waiting for him to pull out his cock (it stirs underneath your ass, hard and by the feel of it, very excited) and take all that’s left to.

He moves your hair aside your shoulder and rubs along your back, instead.

And he whispers in your ear (or into your neck, really), his warm breath fanning there as he says like it’s a vow:

“Wanna see you at my next show. Better be there.”

Your throat bobs. As he speaks, you try not to focus too much on the fluid that oozes from your pussy lips and onto his expensive, designer slacks- but that’s no easy task when he seems to want for that, slightly lifting his hips up.

“No. Before that, even—“ he pauses for a moment, seemingly deep in thought before smiling, resolved. “Oh, I know- I’ll have Thomas help get you settled in with the tour bus. That way, you can just be on the road with me.”

You gawk. Whatever he’s saying doesn’t reach you; you’re only receiving that garbled bits of it, like a radio interpolated by static between voices. Your palms lift to his chest and push there softly.

Smoothly, he takes them in his own and kisses the knuckles, peering up at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky, giggling.

“Doesn’t that sound just great, cutie?”

“I- wait, you-?”

“I’ll name my next song after you- my next album, even!- and then we can go public immediately.” You can recognize it for what it is, even coming from someone as frivolous as him.

A promise.

“The fans will love you,” he says excitedly before leaning in and smushing a kiss to your damp hairline, murmuring there with a fiery tinge of what you think is devotion. “But not as much as I already do.”

He fishes into his pocket, then, one hand still securing your waist.

“Lemme give Thomas a call… I guess he kinda deserves my ‘thank you’, too, huh?”

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[yearoftheotpevent]

hello fan creators!

Year of the OTP is officially back for 2025 with a new set of prompts!

we've switched some of the prompt categories around in an effort to make the event more inclusive of all kinds of fanworks. we've also included song prompts this year! the playlist is on spotify here.

we want to give a huge thank you to everyone who participated in the last event - it grew so much larger than we ever expected and it's truly amazing how you all took our last set of prompts and made so many wonderful things. keep it up!

a couple housekeeping notes: we will not be reblogging every entry this year. mods will keep an eye on the blog if you have any questions, but the reblogs were too much last time. thank you for your understanding!

we will be closing the 2023 collection on December 31. thank you for your continued participation, but it's time to look forward!

the link for the new collection will be posted here January 1.

we're looking forward to seeing what you create this year!

alt text below the cut.

Year of the OTP 2025

The Rules: the Ao3 collection accepts any /-ship works inspired by a prompt from this sheet The Challenge: make 12 works for one ship in one year, using prompts from each month

*you do not need to do the challenge to post to the AO3 collection, as long as you follow the rules*

January first kiss ♦ “may I have this dance” ♦ sharing clothes ♦ BDSM AU ♦ stockholm syndrome ♦ Strong – One Direction

February Valentine’s Day ♦ “it made me think of you” ♦ bed sharing ♦ multiple penetration ♦ mind control/mind break ♦ Like Real People Do – Hozier

March fresh starts ♦ “what are you doing with that”♦ florist/tattoo artist ♦ phone sex ♦ major character death ♦ Take Care – Drake

April pranks ♦ “right in front of my salad” ♦ running away together ♦ dom bottom/sub top ♦ raised to be a killer ♦ Drops of Jupiter – Train

May hanahaki ♦ “we’re dating? since when?” ♦ body swap ♦ magical sex toys ♦ stalking ♦ Paper Rings – Taylor Swift

June pride ♦ “I can’t get you out of my mind” ♦ relationship reveal ♦ unconventional sex positions ♦ paying a debt with your body ♦ Good Looking – Dixon Dallas

July vacation together ♦ “I like my _ how I like my coffee” ♦ kidfic ♦ mutual masturbation ♦ dehumanization ♦ You May Be Right – Billy Joel

August Sports AU ♦ “you’re thinking too much”♦ cooking together ♦ object insertion/ penetration ♦ becoming a monster ♦ You Shook Me All Night Long – AC/DC

September high school/college sweethearts ♦ “come here” ♦ date night gone wrong ♦ semi-public sex ♦ abduction ♦ Thinking Bout You – Frank Ocean

October costumes ♦ “boo” ♦ online dating ♦ shibari ♦ mutual non-con ♦ Mr. Brightside – The Killers

November camping ♦ “are you sure” ♦ touch-starved ♦ cockwarming ♦ abusive relationship ♦ A Thousand Years – Christina Perri

December holiday traditions ♦ “where are you taking me” ♦ bathing together ♦ food play ♦ tortured for information ♦ Everything Is Alright – Laura Shigihara

[vaaaaaiolet]

Anxiety left you sleepless all night. Leon figures his favorite dream of you might help.

mdni CIAO CHILDREN!! f / m smut w established relationship. put bluntly, leon fucks the worry out of you 😭 he talks you through sex by retelling a dream, tiny bit of character study, PRAISE!! TONS of fingering, 0.5 sec of cockwarming, light angst, p in v w/ a happy ending iykwim, aftercare and i love you's awww. also strawberries 🍓

a / n: req fic from my event!! i took the premise from isle of strawberries by edwin raphael and you can find a playlist for this fic here. motivational smut is a first for me LMFAO but i hope this works w your vision, anon <3 also PEE AFTER SEX YOU GUYS

word count: 2.5k // read on ao3

The 5 AM sun shines rays through the cracks in your plan. You thought you’d been convincing enough with your face pancake-flat against the pillow and your left arm thrown out of the blanket just so. You’d even made sure you had a foot poking into Leon’s side the way he always grumps about, but somehow, your boyfriend always seems to see right through you.

Just like now. 

A busybody poke on your shoulder. “Sweetheart,” follows a drowsy whisper, “what’re you doing?”

Sleeping since last night, thank you very much.

“No use playing possum. You haven’t moved an inch since we went to bed and you, ma’am, can’t sleep still to save your life. C’mere,” and you’re tugged to Leon’s side of the bed, the top of your head peppered with slow, sleepy kisses as he hugs an arm around your middle. “Did you sleep at all tonight?”

You clutch his forearm like a safety bar on a rollercoaster. “A little.”

“Enough?”

“Um…” 

Leon kisses his teeth. He’s usually the one on the receiving end of these questions, but he’s picked up a couple things from you. “Too hot? Too cold? Anything I can get you?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I just can’t fall asleep.”

A quiet sigh from you, a hum of understanding from him.

“Because you’ve been thinking again.” He asks if you want to talk about it.

“It’s just a bad night,” you mumble, playing absentmindedly with his fingers. “Overwhelmed. Been getting into my head about everything I should be doing but don’t. I feel like I’m letting everyone down all the time.” 

In the champagne pink of the early morning light pouring through the bedroom window, your eyes trace the corded muscle of Leon’s arm around you – a testament to the strength it takes to do his job every day. There’s scars here, burn marks there, a plum-hued bruise.

Your words stumble to a halt. Embarrassed color rises to your cheeks. 

The matter is that scars from his missions to the ends of the earth litter the chest cradling your back right now. Leon must be sore and aching, listening to you whine like a child with too much food on your plate. What could be keeping you up at night when he shoulders your worst nightmares for a living? All while you lay cuddled and coddled? You don’t know the first thing about worry, the paralysis in his bones that must pale to yours.

Guilt creeps up your spine, and Leon frowns at your sudden silence. You’re retreating into a shell he’s called home too many times. He won’t have any of that with you. 

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he soothes, smoothing back your hair. “I’m still here. You don’t wanna talk right now?” 

You let go of his arm and burrow into your pillow, mumble about how you like sleeping late on weekends anyway.

A scoff sounds behind you. “Sleep late, my ass.” 

Leon’s arm comes circling back over your ribs in an instant. He squeezes you so tight to his chest that you feel his heart thump behind your back, and you can’t help the unexpected laugh that bubbles up your throat when he lets go. It’s his favorite reflex of yours.

“If you won’t talk, I will.” Leon presses a kiss to your cheek. “Gonna distract you for a bit, sweetheart. Humor me?”

“Hm?”

“I wanna tell you about my favorite dream. You’re in it.”

You can’t pretend that doesn’t catch your attention like lightning to a rod. Leon doesn’t dream much, not besides the nightmares that have him scrambling to throw off the covers in the middle of the night. 1998 hangs thick in the air of your bedroom some days, but for him to have a dream where you don’t die for a change? That’s new. 

So is his hand starting to creep under your sleep shirt, playful circles tracing on the soft skin below your navel. Part of his distraction strategy. A successful one, if the skip in your heart rate has anything to do with it.

“This okay?” he rasps.

More than. 

You reach behind, cradling his cheek to kiss him a proper hello; allow yourself an anticipatory inhale when Leon’s hand dives under the waistband of your shorts. It takes exactly three seconds for his middle finger to pinpoint the pearl of your clit, and he circles it twice, maddeningly slow, before sliding right under to trace along the seam of your entrance. 

Leon keeps the pressure light. He needs your head clear so you listen. 

“It always starts the same.” He shifts his hips so yours widen for him. “I’m standing in the middle of a huge field, a strawberry farm. There’s nothing around for miles, just rows of bushes full of berries and storm clouds in the distance. I find an empty basket in my hand.”

You imagine your mountain of a boyfriend holding a basket like Strawberry Shortcake. Adorable. “You dream about picking strawberries?” you giggle, arching your back to fit more comfortably against him, and your consideration earns you a searing dip of his finger into your pooling arousal. 

“That,” Leon chuckles, “and a nagging, sinking feeling that I should be doing something but I can’t.”

Oh. 

“Mhm. It hits me that I have to pick as many strawberries as I can before the storm rolls in, and I can’t even move, sweetheart.”

You swallow the returning lump in your throat. Push down a sigh that was building at the upward roll of his fingertip inside you. Leon tuts at your effort, coaxing the sound out anyway with a press of the spongy spot he knows is tucked at the back of your walls. You crumple at the delicious nudge; it leaves you open to welcome another finger into your warmth.

“But this is a good dream because,” Leon smiles at your next gasp, “then I see you at the edge of the field standing next to a little house, waving at me.” 

He scissors you open like he’s got all the time in the world. You clutch the corner of your pillow when you hear it through the comforter: the soft, rhythmic squelch of his fingers curling into your cunt.

Pretending he can’t hear your whimpered little curses as he coos in your ear, “There you go, listen to that,” Leon continues. “That’s when I start thinking. There’s no way I can save all these strawberries in time. You’re standing there, smiling at me without a clue there’s a storm brewing, and suddenly all I can think about is getting you into the house before you get hurt.”

His lesson becomes one of endurance the more he talks. The fingers pumping into your pussy melt your brain into mush that’s chanting, more, more! Exactly the root of your problem.

“So then I- oh, poor baby. This isn’t enough?” 

Shit. You forgot you talk in your sleep. And apparently when you get fingered too. 

“Guess I can’t blame you. I get distracted in the dream too, fuck.” There’s a pause, a sputtering stop to the lovely fullness when Leon pulls his fingers out and promptly sucks them off. 

Even a worm will turn; you certainly do. You whine Leon’s name when he makes a show of it, gazing at you with half-moon eyes and a boyish grin pulling at his lips. “What, it’s my fault you taste better than the strawberries did?” 

No, for leaving you hanging. You were paying attention — maybe a bit too much.

“It was you, by the way,” Leon chuckles, lifting the comforter so his knees can bracket your thighs. 

“I distracted you in the dream?” you gasp, sliding your hands up his shirt.

“In the best way, angel. You helped me get moving again.”

The peachy light of dawn caramelizes gold as Leon climbs on top of you. It doesn’t warm the bedroom quite yet; Leon makes sure the comforter is tucked over your bare skin after he finishes kicking off his pajama pants. He’s back to murmuring sweet nothings, gently tugging your shirt over your shoulders so he can kiss down the swell of your breasts. You’re so toasty under the covers that the goosebumps now speckling your chest are entirely his fault. 

“I remember you picking a few berries off a bush,” Leon looks fondly up at you under golden lashes, pressing a gentle kiss over your heart, “and you just looked so content eating them. I was fretting over saving the whole field and you were fine with a handful.”

You’re itching to ask: but the storm’s still coming, isn’t it? Thunder, rain, your aching cunt dripping onto the sheets right under him. 

Leon is all too happy to answer. 

One hand cradles the back of your head so he can drop his mouth onto yours, leaving the other free to slip under the blankets, rub consolation over the hood of your clit, and finally, finally, notch the swollen head of his cock at your entrance. You cry out, clutching at Leon’s hair when he sheaths himself in a buttery-smooth stroke – as if it could be any other way with how you’ve melted like chocolate in his hands. You both gasp at the stretch.

Leon’s jaw works as he kisses you, savoring you. Spit bridges your mouths in between split-second gulps of air. Your heart thumps against your ribcage like you’re hanging off a precipice, no difference in the dizzying drop that waits ahead. His length sits adjusting inside the squeeze of your plush walls. 

Leon’s sentences come out chopped and desperate as he alternates sucking berry-toned love bites between your breasts, and he admits, “I don’t save all the strawberries.”

You wheeze as if you’ve dashed across the field yourself. “No?”

“Just enough to last us the storm. Fuck the rest, figure they’ll grow back. Only need to focus on what matters – getting enough for you – so I pick a couple,” the thick of his cock is suffocating when it’s this still, “run,” Leon pants at the first snap of his hips against yours, outrunning the storm all over again, “and pull you inside the house before lightning strikes.”

Electric pleasure curls up from the base of your spine, spreads to your head and flickers down to your toes as Leon starts pounding into your pussy. No room in your chest for anxiety to linger when your eyes are rolling skyward. The edges of your vision melt into vignette as your lover sinks into you again and again. 

Tunnel vision. 

“Keep those pretty eyes open. Focus on what matters,” he repeats in a frenzied whisper, and the tunnel closes in.

All you see are Leon’s eyes. Smack dab in the middle of his blown out pupils is your reflection.

That’s it.

Coherency goes flying out the window with all your brainpower used up to connect the dots. “Leon, you-!”

“Tell me what you see, sweetheart,” he breathes sharply. “I know you can.”

You beg for mercy at each dig of his blunt cockhead. “Me, I get it, fuck! Please- just let me come!”

Course he can, he just has to drill something else into you first. 

“Need to hear you say it,” Leon grits. Nips at the base of your neck as your nails claw stinging holds on his shoulders. “Shit, I’ll make you see stars, don’t worry, I just need to – oh, you’re so fucking tight! – get it in your head. You can’t shut down on me.”

You thrash under him, make more space for bruising kisses to bloom up your neck. “But you’ve had it worse,” you sob out, overwhelmed. 

“How else do you think I know?”

He’s not letting you head off into your own storm alone. Not when you’ve saved him from his.

“Tell me you’ll let me in next time you get in your head, and I’ll make you come. I’ll make you come so fucking good, baby,” Leon hisses, stealing one last kiss from your panting lips. 

“Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

“I will.”

And you ought to thank your lucky stars your levees don’t hold. 

It starts with spiraling cracks. Leon reaching down to press his thumb over your swollen clit. One shaky thrust away from dislodging the last brick holding you together. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flutter of your cunt, choked breaths torn from his throat when the silken clutch of your walls sends him into that final crescendo. 

Leon’s fraying at the edges, obsessive in how rolls his thumb at the bundle of nerves that make you shriek his name, and you, hand in hand with him, finally let the swelling tsunami in the pit of your stomach topple your walls. 

Turns out he’s right. Stars explode across the night sky when your eyes squeeze shut. 

You can’t pay attention to much except the rolling tide of pleasure. Leon’s soon spilling into you, his brow pinched as he blindly works his spend into your cunt under the covers. His forehead glistens with sweat, hell, your baby hairs are a dripping mess, but strangely, you think you’ll spend the rest of your life chasing this warmth again. 

Your heart’s never felt more weightless. 

Glowing seconds sail by. Leon’s shaking arms eventually give way and he collapses onto your chest. You let out an “oof!” at the drop. 

“And then the dream ends,” you hear him sigh, eyelids fluttering shut.

About time, you think, smiling as you brush a thumb over his cheekbone. “Then you wake up?”

“No.” Leon cracks open a sapphire eye and grins. “Sometimes we do this.”

In the little hou- Oh. “Fuck you,” you laugh.

“It’s my favorite for a lot of reasons!” 

He sits up, keeping his touch featherlight when he pulls himself out from between your candied thighs. Tiny aftershocks jerk your thighs once, twice, and Leon takes the time to whisper soft apologies when he reaches for a tissue on the bedside table. 

“I meant it back there, y’know?” he hums, gently wiping off the mess between your legs. “I hate seeing you so hard on yourself.”

“It just feels like I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Especially when you’ve been through worse,” you mumble, picking at the covers.  

The tissue gets tossed into the trash, and Leon shoots you a small smile. “Worse to you, maybe. To me, the worst thing I’ve seen is watching you lose your spark and not being able to help.”

“You really think so?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I love you.”

So you remember your promise. 

You tell him you love him too, no more secrets to keep in your head. The bedroom blooms warmer than you remember it ever being, a little slice of summer straight out of both your dreams.

You remember the strawberries from the farmer’s market in the kitchen, and that Leon makes killer Sunday pancakes.

You remember how much you love afternoon catnaps with your limbs tangled between his. Infinite possibilities pile high like the papers on your work desk. So much to get started.

Focus on what matters. The rest will grow back.

You turn the other cheek, and kiss your lover on the mouth.

psst, find more of my work here!

comments and reblogs are very much appreciated <3 take care and i love you!

[mononijikayu]

ni yao de ai — ryomen sukuna.

“We saw you look up at your girlfriend after that game-winning spike. What was running through your head?” And Sukuna, grinning like a fool. “Ahhh, just hoping she’s proud of me, you know?” Then it became bigger and bigger. One after the other, he could not shut up. He was, after all, too damn in love. “Your girlfriend’s reaction went viral after your match. Do you watch those clips together?” And Sukuna, without missing a beat. “Hell yeah, we do. I send her all my favorite edits. Couple goals, you know?”

Genre: Alternate Universe — Volleyball! AU;

Warning/s: General Rating, AFAB! Reader, Use of She/Her, Use of Female Centered Identification, Pet Names (Babe, My Love, Baby, Etc), Romance, Fluff, Humour, Love, Comfort/No Hurt, Established Relationship, Lovers, Dating, Feeling, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Idiots In Love, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Teasing, Healthy Relationship, Friendships, Profanity, Volleyball Pro! Sukuna, Astrophysicist! Reader, Boyfriend! Sukuna, Girlfriend! Reader;

Words: 6k words.

Note: i'm working on the actor nanami fic, so here is something for you to enjoy while you wait for that. also, i keep thinking about how sukuna would have been like pro-hero bakugo had he not been dating reader. like, he would be so good at volleyball, but he would be so eager to be blunt about absolutely everything and just be so crass, you know??? anyway, our sukuna managed to not be like that, cause he's #1 lover boy first. enjoy this!!! see you in a couple days!! i love you!!! <3

masterlist

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lovesick playlist

THIS WAS NOT OUT OF THE ORDINARY NOWADAYS, FOR YOU TO SIT HERE. Your long-time boyfriend, professional volleyball player Ryomen Sukuna, has always been a bit of a big deal. Well, you try to not make it to be but you both know that it is.

He was undeniably talented, incredibly confident, and dangerously charismatic. But it wasn’t until this past year, when he officially made Japan’s national team and became their standout player, that his star practically exploded.

And with that… came you.

You didn’t ask for it at all. The attention, the headlines, the fan-cams. However, by virtue of loving Sukuna, you had become a fair bit of a participant in his stardom. And it wasn’t like Sukuna did it on purpose. 

Well, actually he kind of did. Because if there was one thing about your boyfriend, it was that he never shied away from publicly loving you. In fact, he leaned in. Hard.

And you?

You could never say no to him when he asked. Ever. Because you loved him as he is, and that includes loving you. And if supporting him meant occasionally being pulled into the spotlight alongside him. Well… you’d do it a million times over. That’s how much you loved him. 

It started small at first.

Little moments here and there.

Well, he tried to ease you into it.

Like when Sukuna played his first international match for Japan, and you sat quietly in the front row with his family. You thought you were being lowkey, just there to support your love. But the cameras caught you. Multiple times. Your face blown up on the jumbotron — smiling, proud, hands clasped in silent prayer every time he served.

Sukuna noticed you on the screen mid-game, and instead of ignoring it like any normal athlete would. And then he would go on and smirk. Then almost like he can’t help it, he winked at you. On live television. You damn near sank into the earth.

The clip instantly blew up on Twitter. 

Everyone on the internet lost its mind. 

Suddenly there were viral captions like:

“When the national team’s ace makes eye contact with his girl mid-game and winks?????”

“The way he’s SO unapologetically in love I’m crying.”

“The girlfriend has MAIN CHARACTER ENERGY I’m obsessed.”

And you? You just wanted to disappear.

Ryomen Sukuna, on the other hand, ate it up.

“You see how they love us, babe?” he grinned later that night, scrolling through TikTok edits of you two.

“My love, I was literally just sitting there.”

“Nahhh, you were the cutest girlfriend alive.”

“Stop watching the videos, I look like I was going to hurl because of nervousness.”

“Nope. I’m obsessed with us. Sorry, babe.”

But then it started escalating. Almost too quickly. The more Ryomen Sukuna won on the national stage. And the more the media realized he could not shut up about you. The more you started to become a topic. At first, it was small questions during post-game conferences.

“We saw you look up at your girlfriend after that game-winning spike. What was running through your head?”

And Sukuna, grinning like a fool. “Ahhh, just hoping she’s proud of me, you know?”

Then it became bigger and bigger.

One after the other, he could not shut up.

He was, after all, too damn in love.

“Your girlfriend’s reaction went viral after your match. Do you watch those clips together?”

And Sukuna, without missing a beat. “Hell yeah, we do. I send her all my favorite edits. Couple goals, you know?”

And suddenly you were trending on Twitter at every single match. 

People started calling you “Japan’s National Team Girlfriend”. 

There were TikToks like “POV: You’re dating an Olympic-level volleyball player and he’s obsessed with you”. Someone even made a fan account dedicated to you. Some people are making fan accounts about the two of you. It was just insane.

You were horrified about it.

You never expected this.

Sukuna, however, was thriving.

“Babe, you’re famous now.”

“I am just—this is crazy, my love. I didn’t think this for myself.”

“Too bad. You’re dating a national treasure. That makes you one too.”

“You're the only national treasure here, not me—”

“Wrong. We’re a package deal. We always have been, babe.”

“Well, fuck. Looks like I gotta know how to deal with this.” You sighed, leaning into the couch. “You’re lucky I love you so much.”

“I love you so much.” He says, looking at you with those warm loving eyes. “Very much.”

You sighed, moving close to lean into him. “I love you too. Very much.”

And then, of course, came the Vogue interview soon after that.

Sukuna got asked to do a pre-Olympic feature for Vogue Japan. It was going to be a full-blown video interview and magazine spread to highlight him as the country’s volleyball superstar heading to his first Olympic Games. 

You didn’t think much of it at first—until Sukuna casually mentioned. “They wanna do a segment with you, too.”

You froze. “Wait. What?”

“Yeah, you know….like those….interviews we watch.” Sukuna said it, like it was the most casual thing. “Like a couples segment. You know. Cute shit.”

“Okay, but this is insane. I don’t think I’m good enough to be interviewed for a magazine like Vogue.”

“Yes, you are. You’re the most beautiful and smartest person in the world, like the coolest. How could you not be in the magazines?”

“You’re just saying this cause you’re biased.”

“So?” He snickered, leaning closer to you like a cat to his owner. “Isn’t my opinion the only thing that matters?”

“My love, please—”

“Babe, come on. It’ll be fun. Just some quick questions. I’ll be right there with you.”

“Are you sure you want me there?”

“I always want you with me.” He whispers to you, eyes adoringly looking at you. Almost begging. “Please come with me.…I’ll make it worth your while later.”

You can’t say no to him. Not like this. Not ever. You sighed. “Fine. I’ll go with you.”

And so, here you are now, right beside your boyfriend, in this studio.

The massive studio hummed with quiet energy. You could feel the subtle buzz of camera equipment, the low chatter of the production crew, and the muffled thuds of footsteps as people flitted around making last-minute adjustments.

Despite the growing tension in the room, there was one person who looked like he couldn’t be less bothered and that was Ryomen Sukuna himself. Your beloved Sukuna is now Japan’s top star volleyball player right now.

The man who was about to debut in his very first Olympic Games. And yet he sat there like he was in his living room, entirely unruffled by the cameras or the fact that the world was about to have their eyes glued on him.

To him, this was just like any other day. It was nothing special, nothing worth that much of a fuzz. It’s media day. Well, of course he was with you. That was always something that made him happy.

But the occasion in itself just as it was, like on all work days.

It truly did make sense for him to be like that.

After all, Sukuna had been through enough media circus for the past few years. With all the pre-game conferences, after-game interviews, constant media coverage during training camps.

By now, cameras had become like background noise to him. Even though he wasn’t the most camera-savvy person, he had long accepted that it came with the job. As much as you have.

Though, you know it was just still so insane. This level of fame was not something you expected to see. But well, what can you do? Your boyfriend is an ace at anything he does, and he always will be.

So here he was now, gold chain glinting under the bright studio lights, his long arm draped casually behind your chair as if he had all the time in the world. His thumb, rough, calloused from years of playing was tenderly brushed the curve of your shoulder absentmindedly, warm and familiar. His long legs were spread obnoxiously wide, his knee brushing against yours like it belonged there.

You, however, were fighting down a giggle like you did when you were both younger. It wasn’t fair how good he looked in front of the camera. Your Sukuna was in his official team Japan tracksuit, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, exposing his tattooed forearms.

His messy pink hair was styled back, just enough for his sharp jawline to be obnoxiously prominent and his signature smug grin made it look like he had already won gold before even stepping onto the court.

And then like he could feel you staring, Sukuna leaned toward you. 

You raised a brow as you finally noticed his ruby eyes tender on you.

“What? There something on my face?”

“Bet I can answer faster than you, babe.” His voice dropped low, just for you to hear, the gravel in his tone sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

You snorted, glancing at him. “Yeah, okay. Just don’t embarrass me, my love.”

His grin sharpened, canines flashing. “No promises, babe.”

You groaned to yourself.

You were so screwed.

He’s competitive even on this.

The interviewer settles in her seat across from you both, a friendly smile on her face. “Alright, we’re rolling!” she calls out. “Let’s give them a warm welcome!”

The crew claps behind the camera and you and Sukuna stand up, quickly bowing your heads lowly to everyone in the room, greeting them politely one by one. The crew did the same, with eyes full of awe as they both looked at you two as you sat down.

“Alright, hello everyone!” the interviewer finally smiled, straightening in her seat. “We’re here today with Ryomen Sukuna, Japan’s powerhouse volleyball player heading to his very first Olympic Games — and we’ve got his longtime girlfriend, [Your Name], who is also a Astrophysics researcher joining us today!”

Sukuna perked up a little at that introduction, his grin widening. “Renowned, huh?” He turned to you, his voice dropping low, teasing. “Damn, babe. Are you that famous now, my baby?”

You rolled your eyes, fighting down a smile. “Says the Olympic athlete. Let’s not do this, please.”

The interviewer laughed. “We are so excited to have you both here. Thank you for making time despite your hectic schedules — especially you, [Your Name]. I imagine taking a break from Astrophysics research work isn’t easy?”

“Oh—” you started, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I mean, I really shouldn’t have gotten a break. I was actually supposed to have a research advisory today…”

Sukuna turned to you sharply, his brows raising. “Wait—what?”

You blinked. “…Huh, what?”

“You never told me that. I thought you just got permission.” Sukuna scoffed, his head tilting. “Babe, you really have a major advisory today? How the hell did you get off work?”

“Ohhh, yeah…” you cringed, rubbing the back of your neck. “Yeah… funny thing about that.”

The interviewer’s interest piqued. “Oh?”

You hesitated and then bit back a smile. “So… My head researcher’s daughter is actually a huge fan of Sukuna. Like, borderline obsessed.”

Sukuna’s brows shot higher. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah.” you chuckled sheepishly. “And when they found out I was doing this interview with him, my boss was like, ‘Yeah, just get me his autograph and I’ll look the other way on you missing the advisory.’”

Sukuna immediately cackled. “Really? That’s damn hilarious.”

“Swear to god, it's crazy in there when it comes to you.” you laughed, sinking a little in your seat. “He told me, ‘If you get me a video of him saying hi to my daughter, I’ll even let you off the hook for the paperwork you forgot to pass last week.’”

“Babe.” Sukuna turned his entire body toward you, his grin practically ear-to-ear. “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier? That’s easy. Just give me a pen later—hell, I’ll record her a whole-ass personalized video.”

You scoffed, blushing. “Oh my god, no—you don’t have to do that much—”

“Nahhh, I gotchu, babe, don’t worry.” Sukuna grinned mischievously, already plotting. “I’ll make her dad look like a hero. Gonna be like: ‘Hey princess, your dad is the real MVP for letting your fave’s girlfriend skip work today to give you content.’”

You smacked his arm, mortified. “Oh my god, you are so insane.”

The production crew lost it almost immediately.

The interviewer covered her mouth, laughing.

“I’m serious!” Sukuna laughed, scarlet eyes crinkling. “You know how many brownie points that’ll get you at work? You could literally ghost them for a week and they’ll still cover for you.”

“Oh my god, stop—”

“And the paperwork you forgot?” Sukuna shot you a playful smirk. “I’ll just sign it with ‘Ryomen Sukuna’s girlfriend is a genius, give her a raise.’ Boom. Problem solved.”

“RYOMEN SUKUNA.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” Sukuna raised his hands in surrender. “Just don’t call me that, okay? You know what my name is.”

The interviewer was crying. “I am so sorry, I can’t breathe—you guys are adorable.”

You slumped in your seat, burying your face in your hands. “I’m never living this down.”

Sukuna just laughed harder, his hand finding your thigh and giving it a warm squeeze. “Nah, you’re good, babe. I’ll make sure you’re employee of the month after this.”

The interviewer, trying to recover. “W-well! We really appreciate you being here, [Your Name]. Seriously. It's not every day we get a literal astrophysicist and an Olympic athlete in the same room.”

“Oh no, I should be the one thankful!” you stammered, still flustered from Sukuna’s antics. “Thank you for having me here with my love. Honestly, it’s such a privilege.”

Sukuna practically preened. “Her love. You guys heard that, right?”

You smacked his arm. “Oh god, don’t even start.”

“Too late, babe.” Sukuna grinned smugly, leaning back in his chair. “I’m riding that high all day. Like, that’s from the one I love right there. I’m riding this forever.”

“You can’t just—” You lower your face to your hands, feeling yourself warm. “Oh my god.”

“Don’t get embarrassed so fast!”

“I’m trying hard not to!”

The interviewer was now fully crying from laughing.

And you? You were about two seconds away from melting into the floor from sheer secondhand embarrassment.

You just can’t believe he’s like this today.

“So, uh, are you guys ready for some quickfire ten-second questions?” She asks as you finally recover, lifting your head.

Sukuna cracks his knuckles dramatically. “Easy. We’ve been together more than a decade or so. I can ace this.”

You scoff. “You’re gonna overthink everything.”

Sukuna feigns offense. “Excuse you? I’m very decisive.”

The interviewer laughs. “Alright, let’s put that to the test. First question: Sukuna, what’s your favorite pre-game meal?”

“Ramen.” he says instantly. Then, a beat later, “Wait. No. Her curry. Yeah, yeah. That one….the spicy one. Final answer.”

Your mouth drops open. “Are you serious? I thought you hated it.”

He grins smugly. “It’s true. I loved it all. Took another plate after you left. Your food hits different, you know?"

You roll your eyes but can’t help the blush creeping up your neck. “O–okay, I guess.”

The interviewer beams. “Cute. Okay, [Your Name], what’s his go-to post-game routine?”

“Oh, easy.” you say, straight-faced. “Complaining about his back. Then how he doesn’t like how Gojo Satoru took that line shot at him at a game. Take a ridiculously long, hot shower. He has a beer before we eat dinner. Then aggressively demands my cuddles.”

Sukuna sputters at you. “Aggressively?!”

You arch a brow. “You corner me in the kitchen. Every time.”

He throws his head back in a laugh, his large hand sliding to your knee. “Okay, fine. Fair point.”

The interviewer chuckles. “Alright, Sukuna — who’s the first person you call after a big win?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Her. Always her. And she picks up, even mid-experiment.”

Your chest tightens, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “You’re too much.”

“Hey, I really do call you the most after every match.”

“And after a loss?” she presses.

Sukuna leans slightly toward you, his arm shifting so his hand now rests protectively on your thigh. “Also her. But I’m significantly more annoying.”

You snort. “So much pouting. He becomes, like, unbearable.”

Sukuna gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “Unbearable?! I’m mourning, babe!”

“You’re sulking. Just like right now.”

“Same thing!”

The interviewer is practically doubled over laughing. “I love this dynamic. Okay, favorite thing about each other — go.”

Sukuna’s answer is immediate. “Her laugh. Hands down. Best sound in the world.”

Your heart lurches, face instantly heating. “Oh my god, shut up—”

“No, like dead serious, babe.” he interrupts, his smile softening. “Could be having the worst day ever, and if she laughs? I’m good.”

You smack his arm, your face now an embarrassing shade of red. “You’re being gross on camera!”

Sukuna shrugs, unbothered. “Truth is truth, babe.”

The interviewer melts. “Okay, your turn, [Your Name].”

You stammer, still flustered. “Uhh—” you scramble to think of something non-cheesy, but instead, your mouth betrays you. “The way he always warms his hands before touching my face.”

Sukuna freezes. “…Huh?”

You blink. “…What?”

“That’s your favorite thing?” he asks, blinking at you like you’d just dropped a bombshell.

You squirm. “I mean, yeah. You do it all the time. Like, even if we’re just watching a movie or something — you always warm your hands first. It’s cute.”

The grin that spreads across Sukuna’s face is devastating. “You’re so obsessed with me.”

You physically groan. “Oh my god, shut up.”

The interviewer is practically swooning. “This is the cutest thing ever—okay, okay, next one. Sukuna, if you could steal any skill from your girlfriend, what would it be?”

“Her patience.” he deadpans.

You burst out laughing. “What?”

“No, like actually, I really think you mastered it so much.” he insists, leaning forward. “You have no idea how insane she is at staying calm. Like, I’ll be losing my mind over a game or a bad practice, and she’ll just—” he waves his hand, mimicking your nonchalant demeanor, “‘Okay, babe, it’s fine. You’ll win next time.’ Like. What the hell? Where do you get that?”

You’re dying of laughter. “It’s called balance, my love.”

“It’s witchcraft.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Then learn it.”

He laughs at your words. “No, but I’m genuine about this. My girl can sit there and deal with a long day where her research yields bad results and do it again even though it takes long. And come home to me sulking and just know how to be just as patient.”

You looked at him, eyes full of love. “You’re so….I love you. Just a lot.”

He smiles back at you. “Love you too, babe.”

The interviewer sighed, whimsically. “I love you two so much. Okay, final question—and you both have to answer this.” She leans in dramatically. “What’s the very first thing you’ll do if you win gold at the Olympics?”

Sukuna’s cocky grin is instant. “Kiss her. On live TV.”

Your jaw drops “‘kuna, my love! Don’t just say that!”

“What?” he laughs, utterly shameless. “Manifesting, babe.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Your boyfriend snickers. “Yeah, you say that now but you’re gonna make out with me after this—”

“Oh my god, not here!”

The interviewer howls with laughter. “And what about you, [Your Name]?”

You glare at Sukuna but ultimately sigh in defeat. “I guess… I’ll let him.”

Sukuna beams, victorious. “See? Obsessed with me. You were lying earlier, hm? Saying you won’t and now here you are, you admit the truth. I am so vindicated.”

You slap his arm, but you’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but I am your annoyance. That's my happy life right there, being loved by you like that.”

The interviewer shakes her head, still giggling. “I swear, if you actually win gold and kiss her on live TV, I’ll play this clip everywhere.”

Sukuna’s arm curls around your shoulder, pulling you in. “You better be ready, babe. I’m serious.”

And the terrifying part? You can already picture it. Because you know that he can do it. He can win it all just like that. You could see the gold medal around his neck, the camera zooming in, and Ryomen Sukuna turning straight to you with that same smug grin before sweeping you off your feet.

You purse your lips into a flat line, blushing. “Yeah, yeah…..I’m prepared.”

The interview finally wraps up there.

You’re still a little dazed. The cameras, the lights, the overly intimate questions about your relationship—but Ryomen Sukuna? He still looks happy, still completely unbothered. Like he lives for this. Which, you suppose, he does.

His arm never leaves your shoulder as you stand to shake hands with the Vogue team, his thumb still brushing absentminded circles against your skin. And just as you think you can finally slink away into the background, done with all the attention, Ryomen Sukuna pulls you right back in.

“Babe, c’mon.” he murmurs, his mouth brushing your temple. “Stay for the photoshoot.”

You blink. “What?”

“The shoot. They’re doing my Olympic feature photoshoot now.” He grins like he already knows how this will go. “Hang around for a bit.”

Your eyes narrow. “I thought this part was just you?”

“It is.”

“Then why do you need me here?”

“Moral support.” he says with a teasing smirk. “Also, you look really cute today, and I need you to stand there and be hot while I take photos.”

You gawk. “My love…..”

“What?” He shrugs, pulling you even closer as he starts walking toward the set. “I’m serious. Just stand off to the side, babe. I’ll behave.”

You have exactly zero trust in that promise. But you sigh and let him tug you along anyway. Because at the end of the day, you can’t say no to him. You never could. Not then and certainly not now. That’s just how much you loved the man.

So you do stay. But you try your hardest to stay out of the way. This is just for him, and only for him. You shouldn’t meddle. This isn’t for you. You do not want to get involved. So you make sure he sees you but sees you preoccupied, as you take food from the snack pile and coffee from the coffee machine.  

The photoshoot setup is expansive. There were grand lighting rigs, enormous backdrops, a team of stylists fussing over Sukuna’s hair and clothes. He’s already swapped his casual attire for his Japan national team uniform, crisp and iconic in its red and white.

And good god, you were stunned.

He looks obscenely good, even better than normal.

You were just hypnotized.

Like, you can definitely say that it's an actual deity-tier sort of beauty. Tall and lean, the muscles in his arms and thighs practically sculpted. His sharp features and dark tattoos look even more striking against the stark white backdrop. And the way he carries himself. It was that dangerous, unbothered confidence that had the photographers practically swooning as much as you were already.

You stand quietly off to the side, as you stuff yourself with snacks. You were doing your best to stay unnoticed and so far so good. But the moment Sukuna locks eyes with you from across the room, in the middle of his solo shoot, you already know you’re already fucked.

Because he grins. That stupid, sharp, predatory grin.

And you just know something is going to happen.

Because, you know that look on his face.

He’s about to pull some bullshit.

“Alright, Sukuna — tilt your chin up a bit. Perfect, perfect — can we get some more intensity in those scarlet eyes?”

He obliges easily, shifting his stance. For a few moments, you think you’re in the clear. Maybe he’ll actually behave. Maybe he’ll just get through his shoot without doing anything that would just throw you off your horses.

“Hey.” Sukuna suddenly calls out — loud enough for the entire set to hear. His gaze zeroes in on you. “Can she come here real quick?”

Your stomach drops.

The entire team turns to look at you.

Your soul leaves your body.

“I swear to god…..” you hiss, mortified. “No—”

“C’mon, babe.” he grins. “Just real quick. Just one picture.”

The photographer, looking intrigued, asks, “Wait — are you talking about her?”

“Yeah. Of course I’m talking about her.” Sukuna says smoothly. “That’s my girl.”

Oh my god oh my god oh my god.

You try to melt into the floor. “My love, no—”

“Babe, come on.” he says, mockingly sweet, “I thought you were here for moral support? Come on, just one picture. I won’t even ask them to include it in the spread.”

The team just absolutely loves what’s happening right now. They’re already whispering to each other, eyes lighting up with interest. One of the assistants, who was clearly a hopeless romantic, suddenly gasps, “Oh my god, can we get her in a couple of shots?”

“No, no, no you don’t have to.” you stammer, mortified. “I-I’m not part of the shoot—”

“You are now, babe.” Sukuna smirks, already striding over to grab your hand.

“My love, I’m not even— I didn’t sign anything—”

“Babe, relax.” he murmurs, tugging you right into the center of the set like it’s nothing. “You’re not doing a solo shoot. Just stand next to me. That’s it.”

The photographer, gleeful, immediately jumps in: “Oh my god! Yes, yes, yes. Let’s do a few couple shots. Just casual. We can get a few ‘power couple’ frames, I love this.”

“No, please, it’s not fair to you all or him.” you say, panicked. “It’s his shoot, I’m not supposed to—”

Sukuna grins down at you. “C’mon, babe. What’s one photo?”

You glare. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” He tugs you even closer. “C’mon, let me show off my pretty girlfriend a little. Please?”

“…I hate you so much.”

The next twenty minutes are the most unhinged photoshoot of your life.

It starts simple. Ryomen Sukuna standing tall in his Olympic uniform, with you just casually next to him. He’s still smug and composed, while you try your best to look like you belong there. But then it escalates, as it always does with him.

“Can you put your arm around her waist?” the photographer asks.

Sukuna immediately complies, almost too gleefully, you might add, as he was pulling you flush against his side, his arm curling snug around your lower back.

“Actually, can you lean down and nuzzle into her neck a bit? Just natural intimacy.”

You really could feel your soul just saying a hail mary and saying goodbye for good. Your Sukuna doesn’t even hesitate. His mouth brushes your temple, his nose drags against your skin, and he actually whispers in your ear: “Told you you’d be in this shoot, babe.”

“I hate you so much, like a lot. Right now.” you grit, cheeks burning.

“You love me, a lot. I can tell.” he grins. “Like look at that bright eyed love!”

“Can we get one with her in front of him? Like, you know, back to his chest?” The director suddenly says.

You barely have time to react before Sukuna’s already wrapping his arms around you from behind, his chin resting atop your head. His long fingers splay warmly across your stomach, deliberately making the pose look far too intimate.

The camera shutter goes crazy.

And then—the final blow from the director:

“Okay, for the last shot—Sukuna, can you kiss her?”

Your brain explodes. “WHAT—”

“Ohhh, I think I can.” Sukuna drawls, thrilled. “Hang on.”

“I swear to god, you can’t just—my love!”

Too late for any arguments, he’s made up his mind. His hand slides up to your jaw, his thumb tilting your chin just slightly. And then, without a hint of shame, he leans down and kisses you. Right there. On the set. With the cameras flashing like crazy.

It’s not even a small kiss. It’s full and lingering. It’s passionate and hot and burning. It was the type of kiss that only belongs to you two. Yet you don’t push him away or pull away. Instead, you let his hand cup the edge of your face, his mouth molds against yours, and you feel his stupid grin against your lips.

The photographer practically screams. “Oh my god, that was too good! That was just perfect!”

You finally part from him. But it took you a bit before you were back down to earth from the spellbound trip to love. “You are so annoying, I swear!”

“Babe.” he says, smug as hell. “I think we just sold out this magazine issue.”

“I’m going to kill you, that was too passionate! That’s just for us—"

“Please. You’re gonna frame these photos later.”

“Ugh, no I won’t!”

“You so will.”

And when the photos do come out, everything just shifts in the world. The entire internet loses its mind over Japan’s national volleyball ace and his head-over-heels-in-love girlfriend like he always is, you realize, miserably, that Ryomen Sukuna was absolutely right.

Because you do, in fact, frame one of the photos.

Well, almost all the photos you got.

And what does Ryomen Sukuna do?

He never shuts up about it.

══════════════════

epilogue

The group chat video call came in less than five minutes after the interview aired. You barely had time to process the fact that the clip of you and Sukuna had already exploded on social media — like a firestorm-level viral. 

Your phone was pinging nonstop with texts, notifications, and Twitter mentions of people collectively losing their minds over “Astrophysicist GF x Olympic Athlete BF” like it was the rom-com of the century. Like it was the most important trope out there.

And just when you thought you could quietly crawl into a hole and die from embarrassment…

Incoming Video Call: “Menaces + Nanami (we tolerate him)”

“Oh my god no—”

“Babe, answer it!” Sukuna grinned, already stretching his long arm to grab your laptop. “I need to see what they’re about to say.”

“Sukuna, I’m literally not ready for this shit—”

“You’re literally adorable, babe. Don’t worry!” Sukuna smirked, already clicking Accept. “Let me enjoy my W.”

The call connected. Chaos immediately erupted.

Gojo Satoru (Camera OFF): “AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—”

Geto Suguru (Camera ON):

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—”

Nanami Kento (Camera ON):

“…Are you all seriously screaming?”

Itadori Yuuji (Camera ON):

“BROOOOOO THEY WENT SO HARD IN THAT INTERVIEW OH MY GODDDD!”

Fushiguro Megumi (Camera ON, Visibly Unamused):

“…I’m logging off.”

Gojo Satoru (Camera ON, Appearing Out of Nowhere):

“NO YOU’RE NOT, MEGUMI— OH MY GOD YOU TWO WERE INSANE.”

You immediately face planted onto the table, groaning. “Kill me. Just kill me now.”

“Babe, why? You were really cool!” Sukuna laughed, wrapping an arm around you. “This is literally my proudest moment.”

“Oh my god, this is just so—” You groaned.

“Bro. Bro, oh my god.” Itadori was crying. “Sukuna. The way you said ‘Her love. You guys heard that, right?’ I— I fell off my couch cheesing, bro. You haven’t changed!”

“RIGHT?!” Gojo practically screeched. “And then he was going like ‘I’ll get you employee of the month, babe.’ I almost died! This was so—I can’t even explain it!”

Sukuna was thriving. His grin stretched wide, his canines flashing. “Ayyyeeee, you finally got it Gojo! You got someone, so you understand right? You see how I held her down? Boyfriend of the year.”

“You really are, bro!”

“My love, stoppppp!” you wailed dramatically.

“Nah, babe. Let me cook from boyfriend to husband!”

“Okay but REAL TALK. [Your Name]. Explain to me why your head researcher just casually let you off work because his daughter’s a fan of Sukuna.Also, how the hell are there fans of Sukuna?” Geto Suguru says as he munches on his popcorn.

“Taking offense to that last part, Geto.”

“Hahaha, I don’t care!”

You groaned harder. “I really don’t know. But it worked. I mean, people are asking me for Sukuna’s autographs for their kids at the research facility.”

“No, cause that’s wild, actually.” Suguru laughed. “Your literal superior was like, ‘Get me his autograph and you can skip work.’ That’s insane. I wish I could do that.”

“Well you could had you gone to the same research dept as me.”

“Nah, I don’t wanna work there. Your deadlines are crazy.”

“Hey, my influence is really good for her right now!” Sukuna grinned, leaning into you smugly. “I’m basically her office’s MVP. They should name a telescope after me, if I’m being honest.”

“That’s not what I'm working on right now! That’s the other team!”

“Eh, same thing.”

“The Ryomen Sukuna Space Observatory, nice ring to it.” Gojo said dreamily. “Iconic.”

“Guys, really.”

“I would like to formally request to be excluded from this narrative.” Nanami Kento deadpans as he puts away his paperwork.

“Oh shut up, Kento. Are you still acting tsundere after all this time?” Gojo cackled. “You enjoyed it.”

“No. I did not.”

“Then why’d you text me ‘how did Sukuna–san improve in comedy? he’s hilarious.’ right after it aired?”

Nanami froze. “I did not do that—”

“YOU DID TOO!” Itadori gasped loudly. “I saw the receipts, senpai. You can’t just lie about that!”

“Lies.”

“Don’t deny it!”

“I will deny it, there’s no proof.”

“…Sukuna–senpai, I have to say, you being in love still after all this time really made me cringe.”

Gojo Satoru lost it. He almost fell off his chair, laughing. “That’s so—what the, that’s so—”

“See? People do cringe when you go lovey-dovey!” You tease him, and then laugh as you lean against him. 

“Wow, didn’t know that’s your true feelings about me, babe.” Sukuna scoffed, faking offense as he playfully rolled his eyes. “No love for the Olympic boyfriend, huh?”

“You sounded like a sickeningly in love golden retriever, and it was disturbing.”

Sukuna snorted. “If I still had the privilege to order you one hundred laps, I would.”

“Hm, but you don’t.”

“All because you’re jealous. How’s your date yesterday? Bad like last time?”

Megumi recoiled like he’d been shot. “Senpai, that’s so—”

“Nahhh, I get it, Megs. Cause I’d be mad too if I was third-wheeling greatness like this, while I’m waiting on Cupid to give me luck.” Sukuna gestured grandly to you and himself. “It’s hard out here.”

“I hate you.”

“Don’t be mad, bro. Just manifest your own [Your Name].”

“I swear to god, senpai.”

“Again, manifest. Hell, I’ll even help you. My sister’s into you—”

“No, thanks.”

“Okay but can we talk about how senpai just easily offers the autograph AND the video like it's nothing?” Yuuji enthusiastically says, smiling from ear to ear.

“REAL! Like, this is so crazy. ” Gojo gasped. “He just casually said ‘I’ll make your boss look like a hero, babe.’”

“Bro is so down bad, man.” Geto snickers, drinking his beer. “Everyone’s losing their shit everywhere.”

“And then he was like, ‘yeah don’t worry, I’ll help sign your paperwork.’’” Yuuji grows louder, more enthusiastic than before. “I can’t believe people are seeing it more closely like this. You’re a lucky lady, senpai!”

“Yeah, who can say they have such a long loving thriving relationship, no?” Gojo teases, as he leans on the screen. “LIke, people are jealous!”

“Guys, please!” you howled, your head hitting the table as your face turned scarlet. “PLEASE STOP—”

“SU-KU-NAAAAA–SENPAIIIIII!” Yuuji screamed, clapping. “You’re built differently, man. This is why you’re not bitchless!”

“This is why you follow in my footsteps, Itadori.” Sukuna laughs proudly. “You will only end your suffering if you follow me. That goes for you, Nanami, Fushiguro.”

“No thanks.” Nanami and Fushiguro say, almost at the same time.

“Nah, cause now that I think about it….my girl’s gonna expect me to do well too, Sukuna.” Gojo says, rubbing his chin. “That’s such a cruel move, Sukuna!”

“Hey, I love my girl as easily as breathing.” Sukuna raises his beer can, like cheers. He grins. “Good luck. I’m here if you need tips.”

“…The fact that this interview is already at 4 million views is baffling.” Nanami whispers as he looks at his phone. “It was just released an hour ago.”

Your head snapped up. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh yeah, it’s viral now.” Megumi deadpanned. “It’s already trending. Twitter’s obsessed with you two.”

“Yup, yup.” Itadori confirmed. “Hashtag ‘Astrophysicist GF x Olympic Athlete BF’ is number one right now.”

“YOU’RE LYING.”

“Dead serious.”

“My love.” you whirled on him, horrified. “What did you do?”

Sukuna, entirely unbothered: “Won.”

“Bro, people are literally shipping you two like it’s a Netflix rom-com.” Gojo snickers, sighing. “I want mine to be like that.”

“Right?” Suguru agreed. “And they’re already calling you ‘The only loverboy to ever loverboy’ which is kinda crazy to say about Ryomen Sukuna.”

Yuuji sighed. “But it fits, don’t you think? He loves his girl.”

Sukuna beamed. “As they should.”

You were spiraling. “I can’t go back to work like this. They’re gonna tease me—”

“No, babe, you’re good.” Sukuna said smugly. “You literally got immunity. They’re too obsessed with me now.”

“OH MY GODDDD.”

“…So when exactly did you two sign up for a publicized rom-com?” Nanami asks.

“Bro, right?” Gojo laughed. “Next thing you know Sukuna’s proposing on live TV after winning gold.”

Sukuna gasped dramatically. “Wait. That’s fire, actually.”

“Hey, don’t you dare!” you screamed.

“Imagine it, though!” Gojo egged on. “He wins gold. Camera zooms in. Sukuna pulls you onto the court. Boom. Proposal.”

“Don’t give him ideas, Gojo Satoru!”

Geto cackles. “Nah, once you give Sukuna ideas and he likes it, he’s not gonna change his mind.”

“Write that down, bro!” Itadori gasped.

“Oh, I will!” Sukuna grinned.

“Ryomen Sukuna, I swear to god—”

“Hey, hey, slow down. That’s not my name.”

“I’m not stopping until you say you won’t do that.”

“Here me out, let me cook on this idea, like this is a really good idea. Come on!”

“No!”

[crushpunky]

actress!reader reveals what’s on her phone

masterlist | actress!reader masterlist

based loosely on the glamour interview, screen time :)

“Hello, Glamour, I’m y/n y/ln and today we are going to be digging through my phone!” Y/n sang, greeting the camera with a grin!

What’s your screen time?

“Oh my god…” Y/n groaned, running a hand down her face. “4 hours and 35 minutes.”

“That’s not too bad!” The interviewer said with a sympathetic giggle.

“Well that’s good to hear.” Y/n chuckled, swiping through her phone.

What’s the story behind your lock screen?

“Awww, it’s very cute.” Y/n said, her cheeks flushing slightly as a grin spread across her face before she held her phone up to the camera:

“So it’s a picture of me, my wonderful husband, Drew, and our dog Charleston.” Y/n couldn’t help but continue to smile at the photo and the memory of the evening. “This is at a beach in… somewhere in South Carolina, I’m not giving away our secret spot. But yeah, I think it was taken by one of Drew’s sisters and it’s just such a good memory of me and my favorite person… and Drew too.”

Y/n teased as she swiped into her phone for the next question.

How about a little tour of your camera roll?

“Ooh it’s about 90% photos of Charleston.” Y/n giggled as she scrolled through her camera roll:

“Well, we’ve got some photos from set, of course, but I can’t share those.” Y/n explained. “Lots of my friends and their dogs, Drew being a goof, some outfit photos… nothing too crazy.”

“The last picture of Drew?” The interviewer asked, referring to the meme of him she had saved on her phone:

“Oh my god I forgot I had that!” Y/n giggled, genuinely tickled by the meme her and Madelyn had stumbled across. “That’s Drew as Glinda from Wicked, of course. Doesn’t he just look so beautiful?”

Y/n quirked her brows, smiling into the camera as she held up the meme.

You’re very honest about your love of Tik Tok, would you mind sharing some of your favorites?

“We’re gonna have to dig deep into the archives… the personal collection.” Y/n teased, scrolling through her numerous saved Tik Toks.

“Well, I’m not shy to admit that I am a bit of a fangirl and do have quite a large folder of saved edits.” Y/n giggled, her cheeks flushing as her eyes landed on an especially entertaining edit of Drew. “Now I’m gonna preface that… yes, a lot of these are of Drew or myself or our characters. I can’t lie, I do have a bit of an addiction.”

As she watched it, she bit her lip and let out a flustered giggle. Behind the camera, the interviewers laughed at y/n’s reaction, causing her to scroll onto the next edit:

“Oh my god I forgot about this one!” Y/n squealed. “I was showing this one to Drew and Madelyn last night and we were in actual tears at the comments!”

“I just want to say, shout out to the editors and commentators on Tik Tok for being so unabashedly horny.” Y/n said, pointing to the camera with a cheesy grin.

What have you been listening to lately music wise?

“I mean… the people already know.” Y/n rolled her eyes playfully as she opened up her Spotify before turning it to the screen:

“I told y’all I was a Swiftie and I wasn’t lying.” Y/n raised her eyebrows as she dove further into her playlists and collections.

“Playlist wise, I have my go-to jams, showtunes, classic rock, rap and hip-hop… a little bit of everything.” Y/n smiled.

"I also like to make playlists for each of my characters," y/n explained. "It really helps me to get into the mind of the character and kind of... explore aspects of them that might not be surface level or obvious."

What’s the vibe on your Pinterest?

“Ooh yay! I love Pinterest.” Y/n squealed as she opened up Pinterest excitedly. “Pinterest is actually the most underrated app, I use it everyday for work, memes, funsies.”

“Fun fact, a lot of my nails and fashion genuinely come from Pinterest.” Y/n explained. “My stylist and I have a shared board and are constantly sharing new ideas.”

“Is your Pinterest public?” The interviewer asked, to which a mischievous grin spread across y/n’s lips.

“No it is not, I like to be at least a little bit mysterious and I feel like Pinterest is pretty personal.” Y/n nodded.

Who was the last person you texted or called?

Y/n giggled, not even needing to open the app to check as she pushed a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Drew. He texted me right before I got here, which we always do right before either of us have an interview.” Y/n grinned, closing her phone.

“Well thank you so much for having me, Glamour, and I hope that you all enjoyed looking into the depths of my phone!” Y/n said, waving to the camera before turning to the interviewer.

“That wasn’t quite as scandalous as I thought it was going to be.” Y/n teased, winking to the camera one last time.

[faiszt]

⠀

⠀⠀⠀ .⠀⠀⠀˚⠀ ⠀⋆⠀ ⠀ROBERT REYNOLDS IN⠀⠀:⠀⠀♥︎︎

01.⠀PROLOGUE⠀꒰ summary ꒱⠀ ❛❛ good men die too, so i’d rather be with you. ❜❜ he looks like he works with his hands and smells like marlboro reds⠀⠀ ─── ⠀⠀never be tempting, never show more than you should, never stop being modest and respectful, the words you heard daily from your mother. you did all that, you were everything your parents polished, until he came into your life. the pastor’s son, robert—or, as he was affectionately nicknamed, bob. the kind of trouble your mother warned you to stay away from, but what could you do when trouble had such a pretty face?⠀ ⠀⠀PLAYLIST

·⠀୨୧⠀·⠀contains⠀:⠀mentions of religion / god topics. age gap ꒰ all characters are of legal age ꒱⠀mentions of cheating. mommy issues. pastor’s son!bob x younger naive!reader.⠀no use of y/n ⠀·⠀ꕀ⠀·⠀ wordcount⠀:⠀2.2k.

·⠀୨୧⠀·⠀diary notes⠀:⠀this is inspired by “ the starling girl ” and i think it’s pretty easy to notice it. ⠀ anyway, this is also my first time writing a series, so... enjoy it! ♡

my masterlist and the guidelines! !! NEW CHAPTER

YOUR EYES were so fixed on the pastor that you didn’t really listen to him, you just stared at him, without blinking, your mind was somewhere else, although your body was there. sitting next to your mother in the church pew, you sighed, noticing how it felt like a sin to think about what you were thinking.

god knows how you would never be a bad girl. the crosses scattered around your house reminded you of who you would always be: a good christian girl, the one who listens to her parents, who respects the laws of christianity and who makes her life a temple of worship for the lord. there was nothing beyond that, or maybe they didn’t want you to know whether there was or not.

it doesn’t matter. what will you do? run away to another state? how? taking a train should be hard enough.

but, since he came into your life, your instinct to escape from the customs has practically become null. robert reynolds, the reason you prayed for god to take away the temptation. wanting a man you couldn’t have not even in your dreams was like wishing you could have bitten into the forbidden fruit.

sin.

your thoughts were thrown into disarray when you felt icy fingers pinching your arm, your mother looking at you as if you had committed a crime by simply staring. “blink your eyes, it’s rude to look at people like that.” she whispered, trying to make you understand what was right—although different people had different concepts of right or wrong, you didn’t, your mother knew what was best for you.

you did it, you blinked and looked away. looking at your feet and the little heels you wore, the highest allowed, just enough to make you look like a well-behaved and demure young lady with your dress below the knees and covered at the shoulders. no low-cut tops, shorts, tight or ripped clothes, there was nothing more important than looking respectful inside and outside the lord’s house.

if it weren’t a little strange it would be funny that you don’t know many people your own age, or even many people outside the community. no way, what could you learn from people like that? just friends from church, your parents made it clear. which, in a nutshell, meant you didn’t have many friends.

at least, you could say that the old ladies talked to you often when they weren’t trying to marry you off to some boy who made your stomach turn just by looking at him.

“mrs. reynolds would like your help in choosing the choir songs for next weekend. go talk to her, yes?” the cold fingers that your mother had always had now gently tapped your shoulder. it wasn’t a request, but an order. go and do it, that’s it.

and again, you did it. if it weren’t for the fact that mrs. reynolds loved to talk, and she talked too much, more than her mouth could handle, probably, since she always had to stop talking and take a sip from her water bottle. this forced you to walk home alone, in the cold, because you left your jacket in your father’s car. great.

you sighed, looking at your feet again, before walking out of the church with your arms crossed and a bored expression, even though that was basically your resting expression.

“are you really gonna go home alone? brave girl.” for a moment, you were startled and turned around with your eyebrows raised, a little confused, until you saw bob come out from behind his car. he was in the shadows, watching you silently until he decided to speak and come closer, he didn’t say much—the problem was how much this only increased your curiosity to understand him, when you should have stayed away.

“i guess i have no other option.” you managed to answer him after a few seconds, looking away immediately when you noticed he was looking directly at you.

bob crossed his arms over his chest, he continued to stare at you in silence as he leaned back against his car. “come in. i’ll ride you home.” it sounded like an offer, but surprisingly he seemed to use the same tone of voice your mother used when she told you to talk to mrs. reynolds, not a request, but an order.

but, you could almost hear her voice telling you not to get into a man’s car alone with him, especially at night. could it be a sign of concern? yes, but it wasn’t. mommy just didn’t want the family name to be tarnished because you decided to be the mistress of some engaged man. she was always expecting the worst from you even without any reason to.

“you don’t have to, i can walk.” you denied his offer profusely, swallowing hard again to the point where you thought he might have heard the slurred noise your throat made. “but... thank you, anyway.”

your stubbornness didn’t please him much, maybe because he could see right through you and you didn’t want to walk alone, just as you didn’t want to be seen inside his car. your concern made sense, the point was that he wouldn’t let you walk alone to your house—which he knew wasn’t as close as it seemed. “i didn’t say you had a choice, but i did said i’m gonna ride you home... so, come in.” he said a little more harshly, opening the passenger seat door as he waited for you. “i won’t park in front of your house if you don’t want me to.”

the last sentence came out as you were approaching him and makes you stop walking, thinking about how he had noticed you were thinking about it when you hadn’t said anything at all. you could have questioned, but you just nodded and got into his car, snuggling into the passenger seat, a little uncomfortable and uncertain about it all.

as the engine roared to life, you took a moment to sigh again, leaning back into the leather seat as you turned your face slightly to face the view outside the window. maybe it was easier to keep your distance from him as much as you could, you found him interesting because you felt you should, not because you knew him.

“older sister?” his voice reappeared beside you after what seemed like less than three minutes of silence, pulling up a conversation, which only makes you look at him with a confused expression. “the bracelet on your wrist... i always see you with two little girls.” oh, the beaded bracelet on your wrist that one of your little sisters had made for you, of course he would notice that, you thought.

it was a bad idea to have a conversation with him, but it was also rude to simply not answer him when you could hear all his words. “oh, yeah... yes, i’m the older sister.” you answered him, looking directly at the bracelet on your wrist as you ran your fingers over the beads gently.

“that’s nice... i really wanted to have sisters, but i only have brothers.” bob looked away from the road for a moment, keeping one hand on the steering wheel as his eyes dropped to the bracelet you were also now looking at. “and i’m not even the oldest son, so... i guess you’re the lucky one here to be the oldest and have two little sisters.”

you felt bad that you couldn’t say anything, but you really couldn’t say anything, especially when your mind was spinning around the fact that you didn’t want to be going through this. how bad would it be if someone saw you getting out of his car and it became gossip? then, your mother would find out, and...

“did you like today’s sermon?”

your thoughts trailed off when he spoke to you, again, he’s a little pushy, you thought. on the contrary, he only noticed that you were silent when you were thinking too much—he noticed every little thing in your behavior: the way your feet started moving, you stopped blinking and were breathing as if you were asleep awake, it wasn’t his insistence, it was just a remark.

“yeah, that was a good sermon... the pastor is... really good with words.” you didn’t even know what you were talking about, maybe because you didn’t remember a single word the pastor said, nor what he was talking about the whole sermon. your words made a short laugh escape bob as he ran his hand over his chin, brushing his long, calloused fingers—where you could see his engagement ring shining—against his freshly shaved beard.

he just found it funny how you seemed to barely know how to talk sometimes. “but, i’m the one who gave the sermon today.” the seriousness in his tone of voice made you raise your eyebrows, thinking that you had really been caught not paying attention to anything, so he laughed a little more amusedly. “i’m messing with you. it was my dad who gave the sermon, but you really didn’t pay attention, huh? you weren’t even blinking.”

as soon as he talked about the fact that you weren’t blinking almost the entire sermon and even imitated the way you were staring at the pastor, you laughed for the first time around him and he appreciated it more than he should have. “oh, you laugh... good to know you’re not in a bad mood all the time.” bob teased you again before his eyes returned intently to the road. “i started to think i’m a terrible driver.”

“terrible driver or not, i’m sure you’re much better at driving than i am.” you were actually talking to him, not just talking, but banter with him. your walls were really down and that was a huge problem, he was observant, more than you could notice.

bob kept that amused expression on his face, although he was keeping his eyes fixed on the road as a precaution, it was not uncommon for animals to try to cross the road at night. “don’t say that, you can’t be that bad with a steering wheel, can you?” he questioned. “maybe i’ll let you drive my car one day just so you can remember what it’s like. if you’re anything like you say, i bet your dad doesn’t trust you to drive his car.”

another laugh escaped you and you nodded, it wasn’t a lie, your father preferred you stay away from the wheel of his car. “you shouldn’t trust me so much.” you smiled, lips parting lightly when you noticed that you weren’t as anxious as before—but, that same anxiety slowly returned when you noticed that you were in your neighborhood.

“i can always give it a try.” he said, returning your smile as he parked his car under a tree about four houses down from your house. “is it okay to park here?”

you looked out the window for a moment, no neighbors around, just the streetlights illuminating the street and the tree above the car blocked the light from reaching the two of you. “yes, thank you for the ride. i owe you one.” you replied, ready to get out of the car as you took off your seatbelt, but bob grabbed your wrist. “is something wrong?”

he sighed when he saw what he did, quickly letting go of your wrist and bringing his hand to his hair, combing it back like he did quite often. “no, no... i just wanted to say goodbye, see you at church, yeah? my mom said you’re going there tomorrow to help her organize the choir song.” he said and you remembered, of course, you helped mrs. reynolds choose the song and would also help her organize everything.

“yeah, that’s right...” you nodded, still a little taken aback by the fact that he had grabbed your wrist earlier.

“i can come pick you up. i have things to do at church tomorrow too, do your parents mind? i can talk to them.” bob didn’t know how harmless this idea was, but he suggested it anyway, perhaps because he himself was only doing what he wanted to do, and not what he was supposed to do.

your breath caught in your throat at the suggestion, it definitely seemed like something you weren’t sure of his intentions for. it didn’t matter, he was just a man trying to be kind, you hoped he was. “no... no need to talk to them, just park here at 2pm and i’ll... come. they won’t mind.” lie. they would care, especially your mother, but it was just... they shouldn’t know, bob seemed so nice, you didn’t want to lose that right now when you could have someone. a friend, just a friend.

he nodded, almost giving a smile, though he suppressed it by just pressing his lips into a line. “fine, 2pm, i’ll be here.”

you got out of his car with calm steps, avoiding making unnecessary noises before crossing the street and walking slowly to the door of your house. for one last time, you turned around and saw him there, watching you from inside the car, just to make sure you were okay.

to be continued...

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©⠀𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐙𝐓, 2025.⠀don’t use my work without my consent.