#angst and fluff and everything in between

[alygator77]

.ೃ࿐ motherhood and matrimony I ch 10 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, smut, fluff, some angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, triggers of prior domestic abuse » 【NOTE FOR THIS CHAPTER - violence. minor character death. blood and brutality. prior trauma. explicit sexual context: handjob, blowjob, face fucking, swallowing, praise, desperate, needy satoru. he's literally so in love with you.

ꨄ words: 14.9k

ꨄ a/n. hi hi!! it's been a while. i'm excited to share this ch with youuu 🥹 !! please caution !! - there IS violence, read my tags bbs. oh man, here we go... the yakuza don't fuck around ya'll. also, welcome nanami!! see you at the bottom. ♡ (art by 3aem )

ꨄ taglist: open (ao3)

♬ playlist

series masterlist ꨄ︎ previous chapter ꨄ︎ next chapter → pending

ch 10 // ruin and reverence

Blood and money.

Two currencies of power.

One, pooling thick and dark, seeping into the cracks of the aged wooden floor. The other, crisp and clean, slipping effortlessly through Mei-Mei’s manicured fingers. The Zenins have always understood both intimately—one is used to buy power, the other to maintain it.

Tonight though, only one is being spent.

The sickening crack of brass knuckles against bone splits the air, followed by a wet, choking cough. The man kneeling before Toji jerks forward, lungs fighting for air they don’t have room for. His arms are bound behind his back, wrists cinched so tight his fingers have gone blue.

And his face?

Well, not much left of it now. One eye swollen shut—the other, barely tethered to consciousness.

He isn’t alone—two others lie slumped beside him, bodies twisted in the way only pain can shape—blood pooling beneath them like spilled ink. Toji hasn’t glanced at them since they dropped. They’d served their purpose.

This one, though? Still breathing.

The room is dim and airless, the kind that holds onto heat and old violence. A flickering overhead bulb swings gently above, casting shadows that crawl across the walls with every shift of movement. The smell of sweat, blood, and something metallic lingers—heavy, but familiar.

This isn’t a room meant for conversation.

It’s a room meant for remembering your place.

“P-please,” then man rasps, wheezing. “I—I told you everything, I swear—”

His knees scrape the floor as he bows, forehead nearly touching Toji’s boot. Shame, surrender, desperation—it’s all there, thick in the air like humidity before a storm.

But Toji doesn’t blink. He just watches. Shoulders rolling, fingers flexing. The brass glints under the low light. His head tilts slightly—calculating.

“Mm… that so?”

“Yes-yes,” the man nods desperately, breath hitching. “I swear. Please, I swear.”

Toji’s lips curl slightly, not in amusement, but in something far less kind, and with no warning, he fists a hand into the man’s blood-matted hair, yanking his head back like a drawn bow.

“Wait—p-please!” the man jerks, his good eye wide with panic, spine pulled tight.

Arching a brow, Toji observes him like a purchase that didn’t hold up.

“You were in his house,” he states simply.

“Y-yes,” a frantic nod. “I—I was—”

Toji hums. “Breathing his air...”

The man nods again, breath shuddering with a quiet sob, his shoulders convulsing involuntary.

“Walking his floors...”

Another nod, another breathless sob.

Toji clicks his tongue, pondering. “…makes you valuable, doesn’t it?”

And there it is. That flicker.

Hope.

Thin as thread.

Pathetic, really.

Toji lets it bloom, just long enough to see it shine in the man’s good eye—let him believe. Then, leaning in, his voice drops to a murmur.

“So why?” he asks, almost curious. “Why do you still look so fucking useless to me?”

There’s no time to answer. The man crumples, folding in on himself as Toji’s fist drives into his ribs—sharp, direct. A wet crunch. Then, without so much of a glance, Toji steps over his body without looking down. It’s just dead weight on the floor. The others had figured it out too—right before the end.

They’d begged.

It hadn’t mattered.

With a slow exhale, he approaches the table, where Mei sits, thumbing through yen with that same detached grace. She doesn’t glance up as he reaches for the glass of sake beside her. But as Toji brings the glass to his lips, taking a sip, he catches movement in his peripheral, and behind him, the grunt coughs—wet and raw.

…he’s still trying?

With a tilt of his head, he turns, watching the man drag himself forward through blood and spit. Ugh… it’s always the ones who stay conscious that think they’ve earned something.

“He’s still breathing,” Mei hums, unmoved. Her eyes stay on the cash, more interested in the spoils than the suffering that paid for them. “That’s a bit generous, Toji.”

“Yeah yeah…” he takes a swig of sake, exhaling, “…not for long.”

Suddenly, the door creaks, and Naoya strolls through its opening. Smooth strides, like it’s just another business report. Golden eyes scan the room, moving from the bodies on the floor to the blood smeared across the boards, then to the one poor bastard still crawling like it might matter.

Huh. Nothing unusual.

“Yo,” his hands shove into his pockets, tilting his head with a smirk. “You’re working late.”

Lifting her chin, a smirk plays at Mei’s lips like the edge of a knife.

“Evening, Naoya.”

He returns the gesture with a lazy tilt of his head, but his attention shifts almost immediately to the table—to the scattered aftermath of whatever poor bastard had made the wrong move tonight.

Gold chains. Scattered bills. Watches stripped from the wrists of men who thought they had more time.

Spoils of failure.

“Having fun?”

Reaching for the next stack, Mei hums.

“More than them.”

Naoya drops into the chair beside her, kicking his feet up like this is a poker night and not a graveyard.

“Well, well,” he exhales, gaze cutting toward Toji. “If I knew it was open season, I’d’ve brought popcorn.”

Lifting his sake, Toji watches it swirl in the glass. He doesn’t spare Naoya a look. Doesn’t say a word.

Naoya waits.

And waits.

And… waits?                    

Eventually, Toji sets the glass down with a soft clink, rolling his shoulders, exhaling. Then, he turns back toward the crawling man—who’s made it, maybe, four inches from where he started.

The fuck?

Naoya frowns slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Psh... not even a hello?” he scoffs, shifting in his chair like he’s brushing off the tension. “Cold, even for you.”

Still no answer.

Just the dull sound of Toji’s boots against the floorboards as he closes the space again.

Then—

A punch.

Then another.

And another.

Each one lands with a dull, final force, like closing a door that shouldn’t have been opened. Bone crunching. Flesh splitting beneath steel-plated knuckles.

As Naoya watches, a subtle unease creeps in—threading through his amusement like a hairline crack in polished glass.

“You’re in a mood…” he offers lightly, rocking his boot idly against the edge of the table.

Toji’s fist drives into the man’s ribs, followed by a wet, wheezing gasp.

“Am I?”

It’s almost conversational.

Almost.

Another hit follows. Harder. Meaner. And Naoya exhales, stretching out in his chair like he’s not watching someone die.

“Yup… quieter than usual,” he muses, clicking his tongue. “Bad news? Or just bad company?”

Toji hauls the man upright, his body sagging like it’s already given up.

“…both.”

Naoya hums, like he’s got a fix for that.

“Well… maybe I can help with that. Got something on Gojo today.”

At that, Toji’s grip loosens—the man dropping to the floor with a heavy thud, and Naoya perks up. Encouraged, like a dog who thinks it’s being tossed a bone.

“Heh… thought you’d appreciate it,” he leans back, legs stretching further, “y’see… I took a little… initiative.” He says it like he wants a fucking gold star. “Dropped by Gojo’s place. Figured I’d get ahead of things.”

Toji’s back stays turned, but he tilts his head, barely—just enough to feed Naoya’s ego. Mei raises a brow, knowing better.

“Gotta say… his security wasn’t much,” Naoya goes on, waving a hand lazily. “Paid them off. Walked right in,” he pauses, his smirk stretching. “Got into his office and poked around. Grabbed a few files… contracts, statements… stuff that’ll sting once we’re in court.”

Toji nods. Slow. Thoughtful.

Too thoughtful.

“That so?”

Naoya’s grin grows—he can’t help himself. “Yup. Even got photos of everything. There was a safe I didn’t crack, but we can go back. Who knows what kind of dirt’s buried in there?”

Toji hums low in his throat. Like he’s thinking. But he’s not.

Why? Because he already knows.

Without warning, his fist swings again—one final, devastating blow. The man’s body jerks violently. Then stills. Toji grabs him by the collar again, lifting him halfway—checking.

But there’s nothing. No breath. No twitch.

Dead.

Behind him, Naoya’s smirking like an idiot.

“Damn. Poor bastard…” he says, half-laughing. “Can barely even tell he had a face.”

“Huh… you’re right,” Toji muses, giving the corpse a second look. Then, he drops it without ceremony, wiping his knuckles off on his shirt, slow and methodical.

“Guess you can’t even tell he was one of yours.”

Naoya blinks.

“…huh?”

Toji finally looks at him, flashing a smug grin. “Oh, yeah,” he nudges the body onto its back with his foot, revealing the ruined mess of a face. “Didn’t you know? These are your men.”

Something shifts—not the blood, not the bodies, but something else, something that had been slowly, steadily unraveling and Naoya had missed it.

“…w-what?” he blinks, speechless, forcing out a dry laugh. “The hell you mean, my men?”

Toji says nothing. Just begins rolling up his bloodied sleeves—one fold at a time—like he’s getting ready to mop the fucking floor.

“Gojo fired his entire staff tonight.”

A pause, because that’s it—that’s enough. Enough to let Naoya know how deeply, irreversibly he’s fucked up. The men Toji beat to death were Gojo’s old employees—their moles.

But Naoya just scoffs. “Tch… you’re fucking with me.” he leans back, arms crossing like he’s trying to hold something in place. “I mean… c’mon. Gojo fired his staff?” 

Toji looks at him, gaze flat. “Did I stutter?” An unnerving pause. “All of them,” he adds casually. “Kept Remi though.”

Jaw ticking, Naoya’s fingers twitch against his bicep.

“Paranoid bastard…” he mutters, too dry, too short. He swallows. Tries to laugh. “Doesn’t mean shit. Just means he got spooked. We knew there was a risk.”

Toji’s head tilts a fraction deeper, a shadow passing through his expression.

“…we?”

That word is a hammer. Naoya stills, because Toji’s voice is calm, but the weight of it drops like a fucking lead pipe.

“Let’s see… if I recall correctly…” he says, stepping closer, voice steady, cold, “I never fucking asked you to go into Gojo’s house, isn’t that right?”

“Well… but…” Naoya stammers. Then tries a shrug, rolling his shoulders like it’ll shake off the weight. “I did what needed to be done. We needed leverage—”

A cruel laugh cuts him off.

Toji shakes his head in amused disbelief, then moves—snatching the dead man by the collar, hauling him up like a ragdoll and slamming him down onto the table in front of Naoya.

The table jolts. A stack of yen shifts slightly. Leaning in, Toji presses a hand to the corpse’s face, twisting it toward him.

“…honestly?” his voice drops to a razor-thin edge. “This is how your fucking face should look right now.”

He holds it there, letting Naoya see every ruin of it. Then lets go, letting the corpse slump back into the table.

“But…” Toji sighs, wiping the back of his hand along his jaw, smearing blood like it’s no more than sweat. “Lucky for you… I need you lookin' pretty. So they don’t catch on.”

Naoya is stunned, frozen, desperately trying to piece together what the fuck to say, while Mei hums, still thumbing through her cash, unfazed. He tries to roll his shoulders back, to remember who the hell he is, but the tension sits thick in his bones.

C’mon now…

He didn’t mess up. Right? Not really.

He was just doing what needed to be done. That’s what he tells himself—over and over, even as his gut twists tighter. After all, breaking into Gojo’s house wasn’t a mistake. It was necessary.

Strategic. Calculated.

He had to find something to use against that smug bastard. Had to find something to remind you what happens when you step out of line.

Clearly it's not because he cared. Not because he gave a shit about what you were doing. Just leverage. Just... business.

That’s all it was.

…except it wasn’t. Not really.

Clenching his jaw, Naoya hates the flicker of truth that stirs under the layers of justification. Because he hadn’t been looking for evidence. He’d been looking for you.

For proof you were miserable without him. For proof you hadn’t actually slipped free. Because Naoya was a man who didn’t lose. Not women. Not anything. It was second nature—the way they folded. Under his voice. His anger. His hands. And you—you had been no different.

Until you were.

Until you walked out without permission. Until you looked him in the eye and told him no.

The thought curdles hot in his blood.

You were supposed to be broken without him. Begging. Waiting. Not smiling. Not building a life. And sure as hell not fucking Satoru Gojo.

So… maybe he hadn’t gone into Gojo’s house for leverage after all. Maybe he’d gone in because he needed to remind himself he still mattered. Still had power. Control. Because if you had really moved on—really slipped away—what does that make him?

Weak? Forgettable? Nothing?

Naoya grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

Fuck no.

Naoya Zenin doesn’t lose. Not to you. Not to anybody.

The silence lingers, and as Toji straightens slowly, his gaze drops, catching on something—just a flicker of red lace peeking from the edge of Naoya’s pocket. He shifts.

“What’s this?” and Naoya tenses as he reaches down, two fingers hooking the fabric from his pocket.

Panties.

Holding them up, Toji’s lips press together in a flat, humorless line.

“…this what you brought back?” he asks, voice dry, tossing the panties onto the table, inches from the corpse’s hand. “Jesus fucking Christ, Naoya…”

Across the table, Mei’s brow lifts, flicking through another bundle. “Classy,” she hums, amused.

Naoya straightens abruptly, chair scraping across the floor. “It wasn’t like that,” he blurts. “I—”

“Don’t.” Toji raises a hand, palm open. His voice doesn’t rise, but it slices through the room.

He looks down at the lace again.

“Let’s see if I’ve got this right…” he says slowly. “…you break into Gojo’s house without my permission… stir up shit we weren’t ready to stir—” His gaze snaps back to Naoya, seething. “And you come back with that?”

Naoya scoffs, brittle and defensive. He fumbles for his phone, tapping the screen like it proves something.

“Look, ‘cuz—this wasn’t about her. I got real shit. Photos. Documents. Things we can actually use. I know we needed leverage—”

“We didn’t need shit.”

Toji’s voice is like ice. He snatches the phone from Naoya’s hand, tossing it onto the table with a heavy clack. It spins, landing crooked against the corpse’s elbow.

Leaning in, the weight of him towers above Naoya, like a shadow.

“We agreed to use her to take him down. Clean. Quiet.” He pauses. “You went off script.”

Naoya shifts, stiff, shoulders tense.

Toji doesn’t back off.

“This isn’t about Gojo anymore,” he says, quieter now. “It’s about you, Naoya. You can’t see straight. You’re too caught up in your fucking toy.”

Blinking, Naoya opens his mouth, only to close it again—jaw flexing. He’s speechless, and Toji nods slowly, as if confirming something to himself. Pulling away, he exhales—running a hand through his hair, contemplating.

“…you know why I’ve let her stay breathing this long?”

Naoya’s brow furrows, “…why?”

Toji’s mouth curls into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Because you wanted her.” He shrugs. “Just me being a nice cousin, I guess.” He leans a knuckle on the edge of the table. “Plus… figured letting Gojo have her would keep you focused. Make it personal. Y'know... keep your edge sharp.”

Mei doesn’t stop counting, but there’s a faint twitch at the corner of her lips as Toji lets the silence stretch. The room holds its breath.

“Buuut… she’s clouding your judgment that badly, huh?” he mutters, rolling his neck, slow and lazy. “…maybe I should just kill her.”

Naoya jerks forward so fast the chair scrapes across the floor again.

“Don’t,” he snaps. “She’s mine to—”

Toji’s fist is moving before his last word is even fully out—straight to Naoya’s chest—brass knuckles biting deep.

Gasping, Naoya doubles over. The air rips from his lungs in one crushed breath, and he grabs the edge of the table, knuckles white, wheezing. But Toji doesn’t even look angry. He just brushes a drop of blood from his wrist, flicking it to the floor.

“That’s the last time you raise your fucking voice to me…” he says quietly, leaning one hand flat on the table. “Get your shit together. Start thinking with your head—not your fucking dick. You’re not the one who makes the calls. I’m the one running this clan, are we clear?”

Naoya doesn’t answer. Can’t. He’s still wheezing, hunched over the table like the air might never fully return to his lungs. Straightening, Toji refills his sake glass—slow, unhurried—as if the conversation’s already over. And across the table, the red lace sits exactly where it landed. Bloodied, silent—still sitting in plain sight.

Mei picks up a ruby ring, turning it under the low light.

“Well…” she sighs, slipping it onto her finger, “if we’re taking votes, I’d love to kill the bitch. She’s getting a little too cozy in my house.”

Taking a slow sip, Toji doesn’t answer. His eyes are still locked on Naoya’s crumpled figure—like he’s weighing whether this was a warning or the warmup.

Propping her chin in her palm, Mei watches the ring flash red as it catches the light.

“She walks the halls like she owns them,” she murmurs. “Like she thinks she’s safe.”

Toji’s gaze flicks back to the lace on the table.

“She won’t be for much longer.”

A deep breath pulls through Naoya’s teeth, rough and shaky. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then plants an elbow against the table—trying to think.

There’s blood in the air, metal in his teeth. The corpse on the table is already cooling, but the heat in Toji’s glare hasn’t faded.

You die if he slips again. And… if you die before he wins—before you look him in the eye and regret leaving—before he gets to make you need him again—then he loses forever.

And Naoya Zenin doesn’t lose.

Straightening, his breath finally steadies, and he forces the words out like they were always part of the plan.

“…she agreed to meet me,” he mutters.

Toji glances at him. Just a flick of the eyes.

“Did she?”

“Yeah…” Naoya nods once. “Tomorrow. The park by the river.” A pause. “She… thinks I want to talk.”

It sounds steadier than it should.

Because the truth is? He’s not sure what the fuck he’s doing anymore. He tells himself this is strategy. A setup. Another angle in the plan.

But in reality?

It’s need. It’s obsession. It’s him clawing at the fraying ends of something he used to hold in his hand like a leash.

Mei hums, unimpressed, setting the ruby down again.

“If she’s dumb enough to show up,” she shrugs, “she’s dumb enough to disappear.”

Naoya scoffs, jaw twitching.

You'll come.

“I never said she was smart.”

Mei smiles faintly, flipping a coin between her fingers. “No. Just smart enough to run before you tightened your leash.”

Leaning back, Naoya’s chair creaks under him.

“She still listens when I talk, doesn’t she?” His voice is low, mean. “Still flinches when I go quiet. Means she remembers her place.”

For a second, he almost believes it.

Mei glances at him, sideways.

“And yet… here you are,” she says. “Fumbling for control like a man who’s already lost it.”

Naoya’s glare snaps sharp, hot.

“Fuck you, Mei. She’ll come crawling back. Just you wait. She still wants me.”

Toji exhales through his nose, sharp and tired—like he’s heard this all before and it’s not worth the energy anymore.

“Oh, shut the fuck up—both of you.” He sets his glass down with a soft clink—a sound that lands heavier than any fist. His gaze cuts to Naoya—sharp, certain. “So. Tomorrow. You set this up?”

Hesitating, Naoya’s hand tightens around the edge of the table. The tension in his shoulders is like a drawn wire.

“Yeah…” he says finally.

Toji watches for a beat—then nods, like the final piece has just slotted into place.

“Alright. Then we’ll use it.” He steps forward, planting both hands on the table—casual, but weighted. “You show up. Smile. Play the part. Whatever version of ‘sorry’ she still falls for.”

Leaning in, Naoya’s eyes narrow. “Okay… sure. And where will you be?”

Toji smirks. “In the trees.” he rises, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “We take her. And once she’s gone, Gojo will lose his goddamn mind.”

Mei perks up slightly, glancing up from her stack of bills.

“That’s the fun part.”

Toji nods. “If there's no mother, there's no custody. She vanishes—and before the hearing? The court eats that shit up alive. They’ll label her unstable. Reckless. Unfit.” He looks at Naoya. “Haru goes to you. And so long as you don’t fuck this up, you’ll get to keep your toy.” A beat. “And Gojo? He’ll fall apart trying to find her. Every camera. Every connection. He’ll tear his whole fucking empire down just to get to her.”

Naoya’s lip curls. Smug. That’s what he wants. But Toji doesn’t let it breathe.

“And when he’s desperate enough…” Toji steps closer. His voice drops. “He bends. He crawls. For her. For the kid.”

Mei smirks faintly, thumbing through another bill.

“Break the girl, break the man.”

Toji nods once. The final move in a game he’s already won. His eyes drop to the red lace still crumpled between the yen and the corpse’s elbow.

“Once you say the word, Naoya. We move.” He straightens, pulling his jacket off the back of the chair and sliding it over his shoulders. “We’ll be sure to wire you in the morning.” His voice is cool. Measured. “I’ll be listening in. Just give me the signal—

a pause

—and I take her.”

ꨄ

A knock at the door.

Haru stiffens beside you, her small fingers curling tight into the hem of your hoodie. You’re still barefoot, still warm from sleep, but something in you mirrors her instinct—your spine straightens, breath pausing at the thought of who’s on the other side.

“That’ll be them,” Satoru is already rising with a low stretch, dragging a hand through his hair as he strides toward the hallway.

The door swings open a moment later.

Nanami Kento.

He stands framed in the entryway like a man sculpted from stillness—tall, clean-cut, his suit so crisply pressed it looks like it could cut glass. Blonde hair swept neatly back, glasses catching the light, his expression unreadable.

Reserved, but not cold—the kind of man who makes silence feel like structure.

Surveying the room, he nods, stepping inside with measured ease, placing his suitcase down by the door. A moment later, Suguru follows behind him, all relaxed posture and familiar warmth—scarf loose, coat half-buttoned, hands tucked casually into his pockets.

“Mornin’,” Suguru greets softly, a quiet knowing nod.

You nod back. “Morning…”

Satoru shuts the door and leans into it, grin already tugging at his lips.

“Well, shit,” he drawls, eyes sliding toward Nanami. “You actually came.”

Nanami exhales like he’s already regretting it. “…you texted twelve times.”

Satoru pushes off the doorframe with a little whine, his steps lazy and exaggerated. “Yeah, well. You weren’t answering your phone,” he pouts. “I was starting to think you finally blocked me.”

“If that worked,” Nanami says dryly, “I’d have done it ten years ago.”

“Aww, you say the sweetest things, Nanamin~” Satoru beams, clapping a hand around his shoulder, giving him a warm, too-familiar shake. “Still stiff as a board, I see. What gives, Malaysia didn’t loosen you up?”

Exhaling, Nanami adjusts his jacket, like he’s resetting the moment.

“…I thought I was retired.”

Behind him, Suguru hums, unwrapping his scarf and hanging it over the rack.

“Was.”

Satoru’s grin broadens, playful as ever.

“You love me too much to stay gone.”

“I regret it already…” Nanami mutters.

“You should,” Suguru adds, smirking as he slips off his coat. “But we’re grateful you showed up.”

“Yes… well,” Nanami smooths a crease from his sleeve, voice quieter now. “…you said it was important.”

Satoru pauses, his smile shifting—quieter now, less playful.

“It is...”

His gaze flicks to you. Then down to Haru, still clinging to your leg like a koala. Straightening, his cocky smile returns—just enough to cut the weight in the room.

“Nanami… meet the only people on earth who still tolerate me,” he gestures grandly, a magician presenting his final trick. “My girls.”

Turning fully towards you, Nanami’s head dips in a small, courteous bow.

“Mrs. Gojo,” he says, voice even. “It’s a pleasure. I’m Kento.”

“Kento,” you echo with a nod, offering a soft smile. “Nice to meet you too.”

Your hand moves gently along Haru’s back, a quiet reassurance she doesn’t take. She’s glued to your leg, her little body half-hidden in the folds of your hoodie, face tucked into the fabric like it’s a shield.

Smoothing a hand down in slow, comforting strokes, you glance up at Nanami with a small, apologetic smile.

“She’s a little shy around new people…” your gaze dips down to her. “Haru? Sweetie… can you say hi to Mr. Nanami?”

Lowering his gaze, Nanami studies her in silence. He doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t crouch. Doesn’t crowd. Just waits—still and calm.

Haru peeks. Then retreats.

“Nanamin, c’mon man…” Satoru groans behind you. “You trying to scare her into a lifetime of therapy?”

Nanami doesn’t even blink. “I… haven’t said anything?”

“Exactly,” Satoru sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “She’s timid around serious people. And you, my friend, look like you do taxes in your sleep.”

But glancing down at Haru, Satoru hesitates—just for a beat.

Because there are still days—quiet, strange days—when he’s unsure how to comfort her. When her small flinches echo louder in his chest than they should. When he wonders if he’s failed before he’s even begun. When her silence makes him feel like he’s still standing on the outside of a door he desperately wants to be let into.

Sometimes he wonders if he’s more stranger than safety.

But then, he breathes out, settling on the rug beside her, careful not to startle. He doesn’t speak at first. Just reaches out, resting a hand gently against the small of her back—steady, grounding.

“Haru…” he murmurs, softer, more measured. “Sweetheart…”

She doesn’t look up.

Leaning closer, he keeps his tone light. “Hey… this is my friend. Nanamin.”

She peeks. Just a flash of her eye.

“…Nanamin?” she murmurs, muffled against the hoodie.

“Mhm,” Satoru nods, grin softening as he gently brushes a knuckle along her cheek. “He’s gonna help protect you and Mommy for me.”

Blinking, her grip shifts, loosening your hoodie slightly.

“He’s not scary,” Satoru whispers, conspiratorial now, as if sharing a very important secret. “Promise. He doesn’t eat kids. Just spreadsheets. And sometimes bad guys.”

That earns the softest giggle—thin and breathy, curling beneath her lips like something fragile finally surfacing. And Satoru’s chest warms with it—like sun cracking through a cloudy morning.

With a heavy breath, his hand settles over her back again, reassuring. She doesn’t flinch this time. Clearing his throat, Nanami brings your attention back to him.

“…may I?” he asks you, removing his glasses, gesturing to the space on the rug in front of her.

“Oh, yes.” You nod, caught a little off guard by his gentle tone. “Of course.”

Crouching slowly, the fabric of his suit whispers against itself as he settles into the space. Not too close. Just close enough.

“Hello there,” his voice is low and warm. “…may I ask your name?”

Hiding her face, Haru grips your sweater tighter. Refusing to answer.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” you lean down, soothing her. “Go on. You can tell him.”

A pause.

Then, she tentatively whispers, “…Haru.”

Nanami nods, like she’s given him something sacred.

“That’s a beautiful name, Haru.”

She doesn’t respond. Not with words, at least. But her fingers loosen, and her eyes lift—still cautious, but no longer retreating.

From it, Nanami reaches into his coat pocket. There’s something about the gesture—precise, but quiet—that draws Haru’s attention. When his hand reemerges, he’s holding a folded crane. Pale blue paper patterned with tiny clouds. He sets it gently on the rug between them, like it’s always meant to be there.

“I made this on the train,” he says simply. “I thought you might like it.”

Haru blinks, slowly lowering herself to her knees, studying the crane with wide eyes.

Still crouched nearby, Satoru raises a brow. “Wait. You made that?”

Nanami doesn’t look at him. “Yes.”

“Origami?”

“Yes.”

“…the fuck?”

Behind him, Suguru’s voice drifts in with a faint laugh. “He’s been folding paper since middle school. You never noticed?”

Satoru whips his head around to look at him, genuinely affronted. “How have I never known this?!”

Suguru shrugs, unbothered. “Because you were too busy getting suspended for throwing erasers out the window.”

Nanami doesn’t react. Just keeps his focus gently on the little girl in front of him.

“You can keep it,” he tells her. “If you’d like.”

Looking up at him, Haru slowly stretches forward, picking up the crane like it’s something precious, like it might fly away if she touches it too roughly. Something meant for her.

“…it’s pretty,” she whispers.

Satoru rises with a groan, stretching as he leans against the wall beside Suguru, arms folded, eyes narrowed in mock betrayal.

“…she warmed up to him faster than she did to me.”

Suguru grins. “She’s got good taste.”

Satoru pouts, muttering, “I make her waffles…”

But before Suguru can toss another jab, the soft click of the front door handle breaks the moment—the familiar twist of metal, the hush of hinges swinging open.

The energy shifts. And then—Remi steps inside.

Her heels tap lightly against the floor, coat draped perfectly over her shoulders, a scarf knotted at her throat with practiced elegance. She pauses in the entryway, looking surprised to see so many people in the foyer, but it fades quickly behind a polished smile.

“Hi Haru!” she calls brightly, saccharine sweet.

Haru’s head whips up, eyes wide.

“Remi!” she gasps, nearly dropping the paper crane in her hands—taking off in a rush of quick footsteps, throwing her arms around Remi’s legs, giggling. “You’re here!”

Crouching down to return the hug, Remi softens with a familiar ease. “Of course I am, sweetheart,” her fingers tuck a curl behind Haru’s ear. “I’m excited to play with you today!”

From his place near the wall, Satoru straightens, unfolding slowly from where he’s been leaning—expression neutral, but watching closely.

“Ah, Remi…” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Meant to text you earlier. Should’ve mentioned.”

You glance toward him, brow furrowing. And she glances up, blinking once.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, sorry you came all the way down here. But you’re not needed today.” He gestures loosely towards you. “My wife’s staying home. So go ahead and take the day off, yeah?”

You blink, startled. He didn’t mention that. Usually Remi stays to help, regardless. Still—

…you guess it makes sense, doesn’t it?

You’re home. Haru’s home. So... of course you wouldn’t need the nanny. Brushing the surprise off, you tuck it away.

Remi hesitates just a second too long—her lashes flickering, eyes jumping from Satoru to you… then drifting, just barely, toward the unfamiliar man crouched on the rug beside Haru.

Nanami is already rising, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with quiet, deliberate calm. And for a moment, you feel it—a ripple beneath the surface. Nothing you can name. Just a shift.

Remi’s smile returns quickly, but there’s a brittleness to it now. “I see,” she smooths her coat, standing upright. “Well…” she shifts her purse on her shoulder. “I’ll just—leave you all to it, then.”

But Haru, still clutching her hand, pulls her back with the urgency of someone who needs to share something important. “Wait! Look!” she holds up the crane, beaming. “Nanamin made this for me!”

Remi blinks, eyes dropping to the crane, lingering for a second too long, and when she looks up again, her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“How lovely…” she murmurs. “You take good care of it, alright sweetheart?”

“I will!” Haru chirps, already turning back toward Nanami, fingers curled around the little wings.

Releasing her hand, Remi steps back, moving toward the door. Her heels tap gently against the marble as she passes behind Satoru, casting a fleeting glance in Nanami’s direction. Then she leaves—the door closing—a soft, decisive click.

“Nanamin,” Haru says brightly, lifting the crane with both hands. “What’s his name?”

Leaning forward, Nanami’s forearms rest gently on his knees.

“He doesn’t have one yet… but I think he’s waiting for you to choose.”

Tilting her head, Haru’s eyes flick between the delicate folds of the crane and Nanami’s face.

“But… I don’t know what he wants to be.”

Nanami hums, studying the little paper bird. “Hmm… he looks like a Sora to me. That means ‘sky’ in Japanese. Peaceful. Light. Brave. Seems fitting… don’t you think?”

Haru’s eyes brighten. “Sora…” she repeats softly, looking down at the crane with newfound reverence. “Okay! That’s his name.”

“A very good choice,” Nanami smiles gently.

Beaming, she inches closer, holding the crane up between them like an offering.

“Can you help me make one?”

You chuckle under your breath, looking down at your daughter.

“She’s going to want a whole family of them by the end of the day…”

Nanami looks up, giving you a wry smile, and you glance toward Satoru, still leaning against the wall. His arms are folded, but there’s something softer in his eyes now. Something almost protective.

His gaze is on Haru, but then it flicks to you. And you know—without him saying a word—he’s relieved. And honestly? You are too. Because Haru’s earlier anxiety has dissolved entirely—like mist lifting from the floor. You hadn’t even realized your shoulders were still tense until now. Because you weren’t sure what to expect with this Nanami Kento… but if he’s someone Satoru is trusting you with? Then… you will trust him too.

“Do you have paper?” Nanami asks you, then turns his attention back to Haru. “If we have paper, I’d be happy to show you Haru.”

“Yay!!” she squeals, scampering off—voice trailing behind her as she rambles about colors, wingspans, and how the next crane should have a name that means rainbow.

Starting to rise, you instinctively begin to follow her, but a familiar voice draws you back.

“Well then… we’re gonna head out,” Suguru calls from near the door, adjusting his coat with one hand.

Satoru groans as he pushes off the wall, stretching his arms overhead. “Duty calls…” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face before walking toward you.

“Oh… right.” Nodding, you meet him halfway—him stopping in front of you. As your eyes meet, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. Something gentler.

“Hey…” his hand lifts to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear—fingers lingering a beat too long. “You’ll… be alright?”

“Yeah…” you nod once, but the gesture carries weight. A dozen things you don’t say. That you’re still a little nervous. That you know he’s been trying to keep you at ease. That you hate this. That you wish he wasn’t leaving. That you know why he has to.

That despite everything… you have a gut feeling why he hired Nanami. And that… you trust him, unconditionally.

He’s studying you—really studying you—gaze moving across your features, searching, as if trying to read the things your mouth won’t form. And when your eyes flick away—when your lips press into something tight and fragile—he exhales.

“Hmmm…” his arms warp around your waist, swaying. “If I tell Naoya to go to hell and cancel this… would you be mad?”

You blink up at him, startled. “Wait… what?”

“I’m serious,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Give me one reason. I’ll stay.”

You pause, caught between the earnestness in his voice and the way it cracks your chest open. A soft breath escapes your lips—a laugh, small but real. And that alone makes his shoulders ease just slightly.

“Satoru…” you say, gently. “You… you can’t,” you sigh, swallowing. “For the custody battle… for Haru. You have to go talk to him.”

“Yeah… I know,” he mutters, exhaling. “Still doesn’t mean I like leaving… especially not when your face looks like that.”

You pause, lifting a brow. “Oh? What face?”

“The one that makes me want to deck him twice before we’ve even said hello.”

A light giggle slips past your lips, and that smile, that sound—it’s everything he needs, every assurance that tells him it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.

...right?

His hand moves again, brushing a knuckle down your cheek, thumb tracing your jaw. Then, slowly, he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead—slow, steady. Like a vow. Like he’s sealing something in the silence.

But as he lingers there, words begin to build behind his lips—the urge to say it.

I love you.

It’s there. Pressing hard against the back of his throat. Lingering. Long enough to consider saying it. But…

No. Fuck… not here. Not yet. Suguru’s watching. Nanami’s waiting. Haru’s nearby, chattering about paper cranes and rainbows like it’s the most important thing in the world.

So instead, he swallows it down, tucking it somewhere safe, resting on something smaller.

“Be back soon…” he murmurs into your hair, a little hoarse. “…I’ll miss you.”

You nod, but your fingers curl into the front of his coat, grounding him for just a second longer. “I’ll miss you too,” you murmur.

Pulling back, a slow smile tugs at his lips—quiet, lopsided. The kind he only ever gives you. Then, reluctantly, he steps away, turning toward the rug where Haru is—Sora in hand.

“Bye, sweetheart,” he crouches beside her, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “You be good for Mommy and Nanamin, okay?”

“Okay…” Haru nods, clutching her crane to her chest. “Bye-bye, ‘toru.”

Chuckling, he taps her nose gently, rising—adjusting the hem of his coat. Nanami is already at the door, waiting with a quiet kind of stillness that feels more like assurance than impatience.

Satoru joins him. But before stepping past, he turns for one last look.

You’re seated now on the rug, watching Haru chatter excitedly about crane friends and rainbows. Your hands guide hers through another fold, her head bows in concentration. And while you’re there, smiling at her, nodding at whatever she’s saying, something about it… roots him.

For a moment, he just stands there, watching. Quiet. Still. Then, without turning away, he speaks to Nanami.

“I’m trusting you with my family.”

Nanami blinks, not answering at first. Satoru’s voice is quiet. Stripped of his usual wit.

Honest.

He hesitates. Not because he’s unsure—but because he knows the weight of that statement. Because he hears something in it that Satoru Gojo rarely gives: vulnerability.

After a moment, Nanami nods. “…I know.”

And Satoru nods back, something faint and unspoken passing between them. A trust that didn’t need proving—but was given anyway.

Exhaling, Satoru steps out as Suguru pushes the door open beside him.

“Try not to give her a spreadsheet to color, kay?” he waves, half-grinning as he steps out.

Nanami lifts a brow. “…I’ll do my best.”

And then they’re gone.

The door clicks closed behind them, the house exhales. The warmth returns, but underneath it… a stillness lingers. Like the moment before a thread pulls taut.

You shift on the rug beside Haru, who’s holding out a new sheet of paper in both hands like it’s a treasure.

“Nanamin!!” she calls. “This one’s gonna be Sora’s friend. Can you help?”

And settling beside her, they begin again.

“Of course, Haru.”

ꨄ

“You’re staring at the ceiling like it owes you money.”

Slouching in the limo’s leather seat, a low hum rumbles in Satoru’s chest—like he’s tuning Suguru out entirely. One leg stretches out, the other hooks casually over his knee. His head is tipped back against the headrest and his arm is tucked lazily behind it—sunglasses perched in his snowy hair haphazardly.

As the car glides beneath them, smooth and muffled, the outside world is reduced to shapes behind tinted windows. Across from him, Suguru sits—phone in hand, thumb idly scrolling. But his eyes linger on Satoru, drawn to the quiet focus in his best friend’s expression.

Suguru sighs, nudging the sole of Satoru’s shoe with the tip of his own.

“Oi!”

Satoru startles just enough to be annoyed. “The hell—”

“I’m talking to you,” Suguru deadpans.

“You could’ve just said my name like a normal person…” Satoru huffs.

“I did. Twice. You ignored me. Kicking you was plan B.”

A long, exaggerated exhale drags through Satoru’s nose—long suffering. He shifts, arms crossing loosely as he leans back into his seat again, eyes fluttering closed like maybe if he fakes sleep, Suguru will let it go.

He doesn’t.

“You’ve been quiet for five whole minutes,” Suguru muses. “Should I be worried?”

Smirking, Satoru cracks a blue eye open. “Wow. You want me to talk more? Frame this moment. Call the press.”

Suguru rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying…” he shifts, slipping his phone into his coat pocket, leaning an elbow on the armrest. “…I’m not used to seeing your mouth closed. It’s unnerving.”

Satoru’s smirk stretches deeper. “Yeah?” he lets his eye fall shut again, shifting deeper into the seat with a low, amused hum. “That’s rich coming from the guy who used to make me sit through his existential philosophy rants after two beers,” he murmurs.

Clicking his tongue, Suguru grins. “Yeah, well. At least I shut up when the beer runs out.”

“Mmm… touché,” Satoru chuckles.

For a moment, the silence returns—lingering as Suguru glances at him sideways, reading between the lines. He sighs.

“C’mon… what’s really up?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’ve got that expression again.”

Raising a brow, Satoru’s eyes open.

“What expression?” he plays dumb.

Suguru rolls his eyes, seeing straight through his bullshit.

“The one where your brain’s running a marathon and none of us are invited.”

Giving in, Satoru exhales—long, deep. Like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in minutes.

“Dunno,” he mutters, arms dropping, fingers running back through his hair. “Just… thinkin’, I guess.”

His gaze shifts toward the window, and the city slides past in streaks of motion blur—gray buildings, flashes of glass and steel. Everything feels like it’s moving too fast and not fast enough all at once.

Suguru doesn’t push. Just watches—tracking the shift in his tone. He already knows where this is going. There’s only one thing that’s been able to slow Satoru Gojo down lately. Only one person.

“…about your wife?”

Satoru’s eyes flick to him, a hum slipping from his throat—low, almost sheepish.

“Yeah…” he says quietly. “She’s in my head a lot lately.”

Leaning back in his seat, Suguru’s arms fold loosely across his chest.

“You’re different with her.”

A slow smile curls at Satoru’s mouth, wry and self-aware. “Psh… is that your way of saying I’m whipped?”

“No,” Suguru replies dryly. “That’s my way of saying you’re not acting like a complete jackass for once. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Wow,” Satoru gasps, clutching his chest with mock betrayal. “Touching. Really. Remind me to put that on a plaque.”

“Yup. With her, your… serious. Less obnoxious. Honestly?” Suguru pauses for effect. “Slightly tolerable.”

“Jesus,” Slouching deeper into his seat, Satoru tosses one arm over his face with theatrical flair. “I’m being bullied,” he whines, muffled. “Bullied in my own limo. Suguru, say something nice before I cry.”

“No,” Suguru corrects, barely holding back a grin. “This is an intervention.”

Satoru peeks out from under his arm, his pout barely hidden beneath the feigned theatrics. “You used to be nicer to me.”

“Yeah, well,” Suguru shrugs, resting his head lightly against the tinted window. “You used to be single.”

That pulls a low laugh from Satoru’s chest, his hand dragging through his hair as he sighs—deep, thoughtful. The humor lingers, but so does something heavier beneath it.

“I dunno…” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not like I haven’t been with people. But with her…” he trails off, struggling to articulate something that still feels too big, too personal.

Suguru fills in the blank for him.

“You don’t want to fuck it up.”

Satoru huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah… that.”

“She’s got you all twisted, man,” Suguru says, shaking his head with a grin. “You, the guy who ghosted a girl for bringing a toothbrush.”

Satoru groans like he’s already regretting ever telling him that story. Grimacing, he tosses a hand in the air. “That toothbrush was aggressive…” he mutters, like that justifies everything. “She left it in my sink on the second date.”

“Right… and now here you are, firing your entire staff after someone steals your wife’s panties?”

Groaning loudly, Satoru drags both hands down his face. “Don’t start.”

Suguru snickers, clearly enjoying himself. “I’m just saying—when Satoru Gojo starts launching internal investigations over lace? That’s not casual.”

“Fuck off,” Satoru groans again, voice muffled by his palms.

Leaning forward slightly, Suguru rests his chin in his hand.

“It’s just…” his expression softens. “I’m pretty sure this is the most serious you’ve ever been about anyone.”

For a moment, Satoru says nothing. His eyes flick toward the passing city again—then shift back to Suguru, and when he speaks, the joking tone is gone. There’s no smirk, no dramatic pout. Just truth, laid plain.

“Yeah… well…” he murmurs, voice low. “She’s it, y’know?”

He holds Suguru’s gaze.

“…she’s my one and only.”

That makes Suguru pause.

Something in his face stills. It’s not like he didn’t know—but hearing it like that, from Satoru, who never says anything like that? It lands.

“Well… damn,” Suguru mutters.

Satoru nods, slow and firm, like he’s still trying to believe it himself. Like saying it out loud makes it more real.

“Last night…” his eyes fix on the skyline again. “I told her I loved her.”

Suguru blinks. A beat of stunned silence settles between them.

“…holy shit.”

A faint smirk tugs at Satoru’s mouth. He nods again, almost sheepish.

Suguru straightens, brow arching. “She say it back?”

Satoru snorts under his breath. “She was asleep.”

Suguru stares. “You confessed to a sleeping woman?”

“I didn’t plan it, alright?” Satoru groans, flopping back against the seat like it physically pains him. “It just came out. We were talking… I was lying there with her in my arms, and it just—happened,” he scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it down in frustration. “And after I said it, I looked down and she was already out. Just… totally asleep.”

Suguru stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head with a quiet laugh. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Thanks,” Satoru deadpans.

“So… now what?” Suguru asks.

Leaning forward, Satoru’s forearms brace against his knees, palms rubbing together like he’s grounding himself. His voice drops again—quieter, more measured.

“I guess… I wait? Or try again,” he sighs, pausing. “But… I want to do it right. This time, I want her to hear it. I want her to know I mean it...” His hands fall still, eyes dropping to the floor. “She deserves that… a real proposal. A real wedding. Not… whatever the hell I dragged her into.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The limo hums along, the gentle rhythm of the road filling the silence like background music to something neither of them wants to admit feels heavy.

Then—click—the intercom above the driver’s seat crackles softly to life.

“We’re about five minutes out,” Ichiji’s voice chimes through, polite as always. “Approaching the south entrance of the park now.”

Satoru blinks, dragging a hand down his face like the sound physically yanks him out of his thoughts. Leaning back, he eyes the window again—but the skyline has faded now, replaced by iron railings and leaf-heavy trees, blurring past.

Suguru exhales, straightening in his seat.

“So… remember what we discussed,” Suguru murmurs. “You want me to start?”

Satoru shifts, pulling his sunglasses from where they’re perched in his hair, sliding them into place over his eyes. His expression hardens, smoothing into something unreadable.

It’s like watching armor click into place.

“I’ll start,” he declares. “If he gets mouthy, feel free to step in and hurt his feelings.”

Suguru huffs a laugh, pulling his long hair into a lazy bun at the nape of his neck. “Sounds like a plan. Just… don’t underestimate him. Stay alert, this is the yakuza we’re dealing with. And try not to lash out. Anything you say, he’s gonna try to use against you.”

"Yeah..." Satoru nods once, slow. His jaw ticks. "I know..."

And he'll do whatever's needed, whatever he needs to do.

For you.

ꨄ

The wind bites through the trees with purpose, and Naoya adjusts the cuff of his coat, eyes fixed on the empty path ahead, foot tapping against the stone beneath him. His nerves are fraying—not that he’d admit it—but this waiting game has never suited him. Waiting implies he’s not in control. And he is in control. Always has been.

Glancing down at his watch, he exhales, irritated.

Where the fuck are you?

You said you’d come.

And you always do, don’t you? Compliance is a habit. He made sure of that. And when you show up today—alone, nervous, eyes soft with apology—it’ll confirm everything. That you’re his.

That’s why you’re coming today… right? Because deep down, you want to come back. You still need him.

And he’s not unreasonable, okay?! God, he’s not cruel. Not unless you push him. Not unless you make him be. He only ever raised his voice because you forced him to. He only grabbed your wrist because you weren’t listening. He had to yell, to break you when you left him no choice.

You’re just being difficult. You’ve always been a little emotional, haven’t you? Fragile. Confused. You run away, cry—then crawl back. Right now, you’re just spiraling—latching onto anything that feels safe. And maybe Gojo feels safe to you right now. Sure. He’s got the money. The house. The image.

But given time, you’ll remember who you belong to.

He almost convinces himself of it, and then, as a black limo rolls into view—tires crunching over gravel—he straightens, lips curling in amusement.

Finally.

Well… that is, until the door opens with a hiss and two silhouettes step out.

Satoru. Fucking. Gojo.

White hair catching the gray light, hands shoving in his pockets, like nothing here is serious enough to touch him. That stupid, lazy grin already on his face. And beside him, Suguru Geto—all quiet control, eyes scanning the space.

Naoya stills. No you.

…where the fuck are you?

You said you’d come. His lips pull back into a snarl.

“God fucking dammit…” he mutters, jaw clenching as the door closes behind them.

The earpiece in his collar clicks. “What?” Toji’s voice filters through.

Naoya doesn’t answer right away—eyes narrowing as Gojo lifts his hand in a lazy wave, like this is some social call, like greeting an old friend. Like Naoya’s the punchline.

“They didn’t bring her…” he growls. “It’s just Gojo and Geto.”

There’s a beat. Static hums.

“Mmm. Yup.” Toji replies. Flat. Like he saw it coming. “Figured this might happen.”

The two men begin their approach, shoes tapping over the stone in slow, deliberate steps—dragging the moment out, letting it stretch. They’re making it a fucking show. And every second of it grates under Naoya’s skin.

Growling, Naoya’s hands curl into fists inside his coat pockets.

“Fuck the plan,” he mutters. “We should just end it here, yeah?”

Toji huffs, unimpressed. “You wanna jump ‘em? In broad daylight?”

Naoya’s jaw tightens. “No one’s around. We move fast—”

“No.”

That single word lands sharp.

Naoya bristles. “What?”

“You heard me. Don’t fuck up again. Remember what happens if you do?”

Naoya falls silent and Toji grins.

Good.

Eyes narrowing, Toji watches them approach—perched in his hidden vantage point, one with the trees. He’s not worried about a fight—he’s just not stupid enough to pick the wrong one.

Gojo’s got that cocky swagger, sure—but it’s not just for show. There’s balance in his stride. Stillness in his arms, even with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His weight shifts like someone who knows where to brace if things go sideways.

He’s not posturing. He’s ready.

Because Satoru Gojo isn’t just some heir with a punchable face. Takemi made sure of that. He didn’t raise a son. Raised a successor. Something sharp in a soft coat.

And Geto—fuck, Toji hates the quiet ones. Geto’s not looking at them—not even pretending to care. Which means he’s watching everything. Lawyer or not, that kind of calm means one thing: he’s broken someone’s nose before, and didn’t lose sleep over it.

Toji could take them. Maybe. Probably.

But this isn’t about if.

It’s about when.

And where.

And what the fallout looks like.

You were easy.

One snatch. Clean. Quiet.

But this? This is different. Two men trained to react, both alert, in a public park?

That’s not control. That’s noise.

And Toji doesn’t like noise.

“They’re right here,” Naoya snaps, again. “C’mon, let’s just end him. This whole thing’s a joke if we don’t—”

“I said, no.”

This time it lands like a gunshot—sharp, final—wind moving through the branches, brittle and dry.

“I’m not here to fight him,” he exhales. “I’m here to break him. Ruin him.” He pauses, a wicked grin stretching across his lips. “And… that takes patience, ‘cuz. Our day will come.”

ꨄ

Satoru’s grin pulls slow across his mouth as they near, all teeth and lazy ease.

"Appreciate you makin’ time for us," he hums, stepping forward without a care in the world, hands tucked deep into his pockets, like he’s strolling through this encounter instead of walking into a confrontation.

Naoya’s jaw ticks.

“You’re not the one I came to see.”

Tilting his head, Satoru studies him with a laziness that’s almost mocking. His grin lingers, but there’s a shift—something colder bleeding in around the edges.

“You really thought I’d let you get within ten feet of my wife…?”

Wife.

The word detonates in Naoya’s blood, cracking through the cold air like a whip.

“Tch. What a load of shit…” he scowls. “She was never wife material to begin with.”

Shifting his weight lazily, Satoru hums, tapping his chin like he's genuinely thinking it over, just to be an asshole about it.

“I’d say it suits her,” he muses. “She looks better beside me. Softer. Happier.” He lets it hang, watching Naoya grind his teeth. “Almost like… she smiles more when you're not around.”

Naoya’s nostrils flare, body tightening under his coat like he’s one wrong word from snapping.

“She’s just clinging to you because she’s scared to be alone,” he spits, stepping forward a fraction, trying to reclaim ground he’s already lost. "Always trembling for attention... doesn’t mean she actually wants you."

Satoru’s grin doesn’t slip. If anything, it deepens—slow, wicked.

"Naaah…” he shrugs, closing the space between them without hurry, savoring it. “She trembles because I actually know how to touch her.” He quirks a brow, grinning. “I just make her feel good, in more ways than one."

Naoya’s eyes flare as Satoru casts him a lazy wink—like twisting the knife is part of the fun.

“Fuck you.”

Satoru laughs. “Did I hit a nerve?” he tilts his head, slowly. “Y’know… she leaves things with me. In my nightstand. Little things. Keepsakes. It’s kinda our thing.” He shrugs, smug. “Weird when they disappear…”

He lets it hang there for a moment.

“…you ever notice when something’s just… not where you left it?”

In Naoya’s ear, the comm hisses softly.

“Don’t react. Don’t take the bait.”

Naoya scoffs, trying to roll his shoulders loose.

“You lose something, or are we just makin conversation?”

Satoru’s grin curves slow, sharp at the edges.

“Nah… not lost. Just gone. There’s a difference.”

Studying Naoya, Satoru’s gaze flicks downward—to his hand—to the bandage wrapped around his palm. Clean, precise, fresh.

“Huh…” he hums softly. “That looks recent.”

Tensing, Naoya glances down at his hand before shoving it back into his coat pocket—like it’s nothing.

“Glass,” he mutters. “Broke something. Cut my palm.”

Satoru nods, contemplative. “You know…” he drawls slowly. “I couldn’t help noticing a bit of blood in my wife’s bedroom the other day.”

“Oh… yeah?” Naoya murmurs.

“Mhmm…” Satoru’s eyes narrow. “Strange, right? Seeing as none of my staff seemed hurt.”

The comm clicks again.

“Push it off you. Change the subject.”

“You’re sounding a bit paranoid Gojo,” Naoya scoffs, shifting. “If this is how you handle losing a memento, can’t imagine how you’ll handle losing in court,” Naoya straightens, smirking. “Figures she’d send her fucking lapdog to speak for her today. Little bitch was always good at pretending she was the victim. Won’t even face me.”

Satoru’s expression hardens instantly—that lazy grin vanishing in a blink. But as he feels Suguru’s hand on his shoulder, he shifts, glancing at his best friend.

Suguru is smiling, wide and unbothered—sliding between them like it’s his turn on the chessboard.

“Come on now, Naoya…” he hums, light with mock sympathy. “As a fellow lawyer, you know how this works.”

Gritting his teeth, Naoya glares. “Suguru Geto…”

“Yo.” Suguru lifts two fingers in a lazy wave. “Long time no see.”

He lets that hang for a moment before continuing.

“There’s a case open. Custody-related. Which means you shouldn’t be anywhere near my client… right?” Suguru reminds him, head tilting in amusement. “So, you’ll be directing all communication through me moving forward. I’ll be representing y/n.”

Naoya huffs, rolling his eyes. “What happened, Geto? Couldn’t cut it in real courtrooms, so you’re doing babysitting gigs for Gojo now?”

Suguru chuckles softly. “You can question my résumé if it helps you sleep at night,” his grin stretches, sharper. “Won’t change what’s coming. This case will be over faster than your career ever was.”

“Pfft. Yeah?” Naoya laughs bitterly. “Good luck building a case on her.” He sneers. “She can barely hold it together for five minutes without crying. Weak, whiny little bitch.”

Satoru’s jaw locks, heat radiating off him. “Hey. Watch your fucking mouth.”

Peering back, Suguru lifts a hand—calm, watchful.

“Satoru...”

But Naoya keeps going.

“You think you won something?” he spits. “She’s nothing but a fucking burden. Always was.”

Satoru’s blue eyes darken into something dangerous.

“I’m serious…” he steps forward, voice lowering. “You better watch your fucking mouth…”

“…that so?” Naoya raises a brow.

Bingo. He just got an idea.

Shifting on his heels, he crosses his arms behind his head lazily.

“And why’s that, Gojo? Did I hit a nerve now?

Exhaling slowly through his nose, Satoru tries to hold himself steady.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve… I’ll tell ya that.” He lowers his glasses to the bridge, glaring into Naoya’s eyes. “She carried everything you couldn’t handle… and you have the nerve to call her a burden?” he scoffs. “Tell me—did you even try being a father to Haru?”

The comm crackles in Naoya’s ear. Toji’s voice, low and amused:

“Careful. You’re about to get punched.”

But Naoya grins. Because that’s exactly what he wants.

“Don’t even get me started on her as a mother,” he scoffs. “Pathetic. A fucking failure. Can’t handle a kid, can’t handle herself. Sure—she’s got a pretty face, a hot body…” He shrugs. “But that’s it. Nothing underneath.”

Satoru’s shoulders rise, slow and stiff. Suguru shifts again.

“Satoru. Don’t…” he mutters carefully.

But Satoru’s eyes hold Naoya’s. Glare sharpening.

“I’m telling you now…” his fist clenches. “You don’t get another warning.”

Smirking, Naoya shrugs again—like he’s tossing scraps.

“Well… at least she spread her legs good,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Decent fuck. Though even then, she couldn’t finish unless someone told her she was worth the mess. Pathetic little—”

The punch lands hard. A sharp, wet crack as Naoya’s head jerks sideways—blood blooming at the corner of his mouth. Stumbling back, he hits the concrete with a thud, grinning. And Satoru surges forward again, but Suguru’s already there—arm around his chest, pulling him back firmly.

“Hey. Hey—enough.”

But Satoru’s not done.

“You say another word,” he growls, fighting Suguru’s hold, “and I swear to God I’ll bury you so deep in the ground, your own fucking clan will forget you existed.”

With an exaggerated groan, Naoya lazily wipes the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Ouch…” he winces, looking up, grinning. “My poor lip… I don’t think the judge is gonna like this little outburst.”

Satoru freezes, and Naoya’s grin stretches—lip split in a red smile.

“What do you think?” he muses mockingly, pulling out a recording device from his pocket. “My daughter’s stepdad… threatening to kill me in a public park.” He tsks softly. “Not exactly a good look.”

Fuck.

Satoru’s stomach drops. For a second, he just stands there, breathing hard—eyes widening. Then, without thinking, he lunges—hand shooting toward the recorder, full of blind instinct.

“Give me that! You fucking—”

But Suguru’s arm is already across his chest, yanking him back hard.

“Alright,” he mutters sharply, “that’s enough. Let it go, Satoru.”

Rising from the ground, Naoya laughs softly, dusting off his pants.

“Aww… don’t be a sore loser,” he says lightly, holding the device up mockingly. “You gave me a gift.”

Satoru’s lips press together—he’s seething. But before he can say or do more, Suguru is dragging him by the arm, heading towards the limo.

“Right then, anyways,” Suguru shouts back, waving lazily. “See ya in court, Naoya. Good talk. Till next time.”

“Sure, sure,” Naoya calls after them, voice lilting. “And you should work on your temper Gojo!” He chuckles, waving. “Afterall, it looks bad in court. Especially for someone around a kid.”

ꨄ

The limo door slams shut—so hard even Ichiji flinches from the front seat.

“Fuck,” Satoru mutters, plopping into his seat. “Fucking fuck…”

With a flick of his wrist, he tosses his sunglasses across the console. Both hands rake through his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration.

“This is bullshit…” he grits.

Exhaling through his nose, Suguru settles into the seat across from him with infuriating calm—folding one leg over the other, like he’s already miles past what just happened.

“You got blood on your cuff,” he says casually, nodding at Satoru’s sleeve.

Satoru’s gaze snaps up.

“I should’ve done more,” he growls. “Fucking prick. You heard what he said!”

“I did,” Suguru nods. “And so did your right hook. Pretty sure that’s why he was grinning through the blood.”

Groaning in defeat, Satoru runs both hands down his face.

“Shit…” he quiets. “I fucked that up…”

“Mmm… I wouldn’t go that far,” Suguru hums. Calm. Assured. “He had that punch coming. You just beat me to it.”

Peeking at him through his fingers, Satoru gives him a flat, exhausted stare.

“Dude… what the hell. You were supposed to stop me. Why didn’t you stop me?”

A slow grin tugs at Suguru’s mouth.

“You think I didn’t know he was baiting you?” he shrugs. “I figured you’d hit him. He figured you’d hit him.”

Satoru blinks. “…seriously?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he sighs, pulling a sleek black recorder from his inner jacket pocket. “Our version will hold up better in court.”

Satoru’s entire body stills. He stares down at the recorder like it’s divine intervention.

“…you were recording too?”

“I’m always recording,” Suguru replies smoothly, leaning back with a faint smile. “Especially when you’re involved.”

“Oh thank God…” Satoru’s expression softens with relief.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Suguru waves it off, shoving the recorder back in his pocket. “Your little death threat won’t matter much once the judge hears him call your wife a whore and a failed mother. Among other things.”

Satoru exhales, slumping further into the leather like all his tension has finally snapped free. His eyes close.

“…I owe you.”

“I know.”

“Like—big time.”

“You do.”

Cracking one eye open, Satoru mutters, “What do you want? Beer? Blood? My firstborn? I’ll sit through one of your 3 a.m. philosophy rants if that’s what it takes.”

Suguru’s grin widens, just slightly.

“Mmm… I’ll let you know when I think of something properly excruciating.”

Satoru huffs out a tired laugh, shaking his head.

“…thanks, man.”

ꨄ

As the limo’s tail lights disappear into the dark, Satoru stands still for a moment at the Gojo estate’s entrance, keys in hand, shoulders tight.

With a sigh, he pushes the front door open, greeted in stillness—the lights low, a soft flicker from the TV illuminating the living room in gentle color. You’re curled up on the couch, blanket tucked under your chin, eyes half-lidded as the glow washes over your face. Your hair’s a little messy, your feet barely peeking from under the throw, remote resting loosely in your hand.

You glance over as the door clicks shut behind him.

“Welcome home…” you say softly.

With a wry smile, Satoru takes a breath, like the sight of you has completely anchored him back to earth, knocking the tension out of his chest all at once.

You’re safe.

From the hallway, Nanami steps forward, hands in his pockets, as if he’d been standing quietly nearby this whole time. Watching. Not looming—just present.

“Hey…” he greets with a nod. “Haru’s asleep. No issues.”

Satoru drops his keys on the endtable. “Thanks…”

Glancing past him, Nanami’s eyes narrow on the still-closed front door briefly.

“So… everything handled?”

Satoru’s jaw tenses for a second. Then relaxes.

“Yeah…” he scratches the back of his head, shrugging. “More or less.”

“Great.” Nanami gives the barest nod. “I’ll be in my room, then.” He says, stepping back into the hallway. “Call if you need me.”

“Got it.”

And with that, Nanami disappears quietly down the hall.

Turning back to you, Satoru stands there for a beat, letting the silence wrap around him, drinking in the sight of you all cozy on the sofa. Then finally—with a soft grunt—he crosses to the couch and drops beside you, landing with a dramatic sigh, head lolling to the side to look at you with those vibrant blue eyes.

You peek over your blanket.

“…you okay?”

He smiles, tired. Lopsided.

“Yeah…” he mumbles. “Now I am.”

Shifting slightly, you lift the edge of the blanket in silent invitation, and he slides under without a word, settling in beside you, shoulders brushing. You feel the tension still clinging to him, like static.

“So…” you ask softly. “How’d it go?”

His head falls back, staring at the ceiling for a second.

“Well…” he sighs. “I only punched him once. So…” he shrugs. “Pretty good I guess.”

You blink. “Wait—you punched him?”

“Yup.”

“Like… in the face?”

He glances at you, deadpan. “Hard.”

You stare at him for a beat. “…was that part of the plan?”

He shrugs. “Define plan.”

You snort, but the edge of your smile fades as you see his expression doesn’t change—still flat, still tired. He’s spent.

“Mmm,” he sighs again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? You’re lucky I didn’t commit a felony. Fuck that guy.”

The way he says it—low, bitter, coiled with something deeper—makes your chest tighten. You don’t need to ask. You already know.

“That bad… huh?”

Exhaling again, his voice softens, like his words are slipping out without thinking.

“Yeah… I didn’t think he could piss me off more than he already did…”

Glancing over at him, you see he’s not joking anymore. He’s not even mad. He’s just quiet. And… tired.

“But, seeing it…” he goes on, barely above a murmur. “Hearing the way he talks about you. About Haru. Like none of it mattered. Like you don’t matter.” He shakes his head once, sharply. “I knew he was garbage. But now… I get it.”

Looking down, his jaw flexes.

“And… I hate that you had to live with that. Every day.”

You don’t speak right away—just slide your hand under the blanket and find his, fingers curling through his gently. You squeeze. He squeezes back.

“I… hated it too,” you whisper.

A silence settles between you—not heavy. Just full. Full of everything that doesn’t need to be said right now.

Then, after a beat, Satoru mutters:

“…next time I’m aiming lower.”

You snort. “Satoru…”

“What?” he says, mouth twitching into a grin. “I’ll break his fucking dick. Piece of shit.”

A surprised, soft laugh slips through your lips—but it tapers off too quickly. Because the weight of what’s happened—what he’s done—lands a little heavier now. The joke fades, and the silence that follows feels different.

Shifting, you adjust the blanket a little higher around your shoulder, voice dipping quieter.

“I… hate that you had to do this for me.”

Satoru’s brows lift slightly, turning to face you more fully.

“What? What are you talking about?” he says gently. “Sweetheart… I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

“Yeah…” you murmur. “I know.”

But your tone doesn’t lift. His smile slips, frowning.

“Alright… what’s going on in that pretty head of yours this time?” Nudging your leg with his knee, his brow furrows in concern. “Hey… look at me.”

You do, hesitantly, meeting his gaze.

“Well… it’s just…” you breathe out slowly. “You shouldn’t have to clean up my mess. He’s my past. My mistakes. And now you’re the one taking the hits for it. I guess I’m just feeling…. useless.”

Satoru’s expression softens.

“Hey now…” he says, voice dipping. “You’re not a mess, and you’re not useless. You didn’t cause any of this—he did. All you did was survive it.”

Blinking, your throat aches with a tightness that you try to swallow down.

“But… now he’s your problem too…”

He snorts, not unkindly, leaning in just a bit.

“Sweetheart…” he says, quiet but firm, “the second he said your name like it was something to spit out? He became my problem.”

Holding your gaze, his blue eyes shimmer, steady and certain.

“Because… you’re mine now. And no one talks about you like that. No one—you hear me?”

Your chest aches in that breathless, blooming kind of way—so full it almost hurts. And before you can stop yourself, before you can think, you’re leaning forward and kissing him.

The moment your lips meet, the tension bleeds from his body like steam. He sighs, inhaling as you’re tugging him closer, his hands finding your waist under the blanket. As your lips move, he begins to shift, groaning from the taste of you.

Your stomach flips as you chase that sound, and suddenly you can’t stop touching him. His breath hitches as your hands explore down his chest, across his stomach, the smooth ridges of his muscle beneath your fingers.

The moment you dip lower, cupping his dick through the fabric of his pants, he whines in your mouth.

“Fuck…” he mutters, hoarse and frayed. “Baby…”

He’s panting against your lips, twitching in your hand as you rub him gently, ocean blue eyes half lidded, framed through snowy lashes.

His hips are shifting underneath your touch, and you surge forward, kissing him harder, working him gently through his pants. It’s electric. Consuming. But then—

Just be good for me.

Freezing, your hand stills, and you break the kiss with a soft gasp—forehead leaning gently against his, breath trembling.

Immediately, he stills too.

“What is it…” he pants quietly, blue eyes searching your face, “…you okay?”

You nod. But it’s not convincing.

“I’m okay… I just…”

Trailing off, there’s a shake in your voice, and you hate it. Hate the way it trembles, hate that he can hear it. But he doesn’t press. He waits.

You’re not even sure how to describe it. The knot in your chest. The way your skin feels too tight for your body. The way the air still tastes like a memory you never asked to keep.

So you settle for, “Sorry… it’s stupid.”

His brows furrow.

“Nothing you feel is ever stupid.”

You glance down, fingers tracing the thick outline of his cock beneath the fabric of his pants. There’s heat there—real, tangible heat—but it’s not just lust. It’s this aching, burning need to give him something. To take care of him. Because he’s done everything for you. He’s seen every version of you—messy, scared, shut down—and never once flinched.

“I just…” you breathe, fingertips ghosting down his length, “…want to make you feel good.”

Satoru groans like you’ve just unraveled him. “Uh… you are?” he pants, eyes fluttering shut. A breathless laugh slips out. “Do you not feel how fucking hard I am right now just from kissing you?!”

Eyes flicking up, you still—holding onto the restraint burning through his gaze. Something wobbles inside you. Not from him, but from the voice that still whispers at the back of your mind.

Just be good for me.

You hate it. Hate how much power those words hold over you. Hate how they’ve sent you spiraling back into an old story you thought you had finally closed the book on. One panic attack, one flashback, and it was like you’d been dropped back into the hollowed-out shell he left you in. And yet—Satoru never looked at you like you were broken. He didn’t need you to shrink yourself to be lovable. He didn’t demand, didn’t take. He waited. He held you through it.

But what do you give the man who’s given you everything?

“What if… I disappoint you?” you whisper. “What if… I’m not good enough?”

Satoru’s expression softens in an instant. His hand lifts gently, brushing a knuckle along your cheek before cradling it in his palm.

“This again? Baby…” he murmurs, low and steady. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I’m not him.” His thumb sweeps across your jaw. “…you’re already everything I want. Whatever the fuck he expected of you, whatever he made you believe you were supposed to be… fuck that. I don’t want perfect. I want you—as you are. Smart, stubborn, brave as hell. You hear me?”

Your chest aches—so full it almost cracks. Because for the first time in so long, you feel seen. Fully. Not just the parts of you that shine under pressure. But the ones that tremble. That doubt. And this man—this beautiful, loving man—is yours.

Nodding, his hand falls away as you shift, and suddenly you’re easing yourself off the couch, sliding onto your knees in front of him.

“Oh, fuck.” Satoru stills, pupils darkening instantly.

“I just…” your fingers work the button of his slacks with a quiet click, “…wanna take care of you, Satoru.”

“Shit…” Satoru is so wrecked he’s trying not to combust. “Fucking hell… you on your knees for me? Fuck. I could die happy.”

You giggle, tugging his pants and briefs down just enough to free him—and when his cock springs out, thick and flushed, your breath catches.

“…God. You’re big.”

The moment the words slip out, you realize what you’ve said, face heating as your eyes flick up to meet his. And of fucking course—he’s smirking. White hair falling into his gaze as he tilts his head, looking down at you affectionately.

“Mmm… ‘course I am,” he hums, smug and glowing with amusement. “But please… keep the compliments coming.”

“Cocky shit…” you mumble, but your hand wraps around the base of him, your thumb brushing over the glistening tip—and Satoru hisses through his teeth.

“Oh, s-shit… fuck,” he groans, shifting his hips up into your touch. “Is this really happening right now?”

“You tell me?” you breathe, and then your tongue is dragging a slow stripe up the underside of his cock—from base to tip—collecting the pre that’s already dripping for you.

Satoru’s breath shudders. “Fucking hell…” he pants, head tipping back, fist curling into the cushion behind him like he’s hanging on for dear life.

And truthfully? He is.

Because as he’s looking down at you, legs spread on the couch, you on your knees for him, lips closing around his cock—fuck. It’s too much. You’re too much. Too good. Too goddamn much.

Your long lashes flutter as you look up at him, humming against him, dick jerking in your mouth while that skilled tongue laps and sucks him eagerly. He’s panting, mouth agape as he watches your head bob. You look so beautiful and filthy as the TV casts a blue muted glow behind you, and your hand strokes in tandem what you can’t fit in that pretty little mouth.

God, the warmth, the pressure, the sweet little hums and slurps dripping from your lips as you devour his dick—he can’t help it. He’s unravelling, needy, desperate moans spilling out of him as his breath shudders.

And the thing is, he’s biting his tongue so fucking hard right now he can taste blood. Because it would be so easy to say it right now.

 I love you.

But how the fuck could he say that right now? While his cock is in your mouth? What kind of dumbass confesses mid-blowjob!? And yet—how could he not feel it?

Satoru is cursing himself, because fuck… when the fuck is he supposed to tell you?! His mind is running a marathon, and his cock is throbbing in your mouth with the need to feed you every drop of his cum. The need to shove you down on his dick and paint that pretty tongue white. The need to bend you over, filling up your cunt with every inch of him, pounding that tight little pussy until it’s gushing and milking his cock, wringing out every sticky spurt of jizz until you’re filled to the brim. The lust, the passion, the love, he wants to give you everything,

You release him with a loud, wet pop, your hand stroking the mess he’s made of himself, each fap echoing in the quiet living room as your eyes flick up, searching his expression.

“You’re surprisingly quiet…” you murmur, rolling your thumb along his head. “Usually, getting you to shut up is the challenge.”

Now you’re looking at him all shyly again, and Satoru groans—deep and guttural, his hand scrubbing over his face like it’s the only way he’ll survive this.

“F-Fuck… y-yeah…” his breath hitches.

Tilting your head, your brow furrows sightly, but your hand keeps moving, massaging the weeping head of his cock with a slow, wet roll of your wrist.

“Is it… okay? Are you liking it?”

“W-What?! Of course I am. Are you kidding?” He blurts. “Shit—s-sorry, baby—I just… fuuuck—” another moan tears from his throat, because shit, forming words feels impossible. What the fuck is wrong with him? Bucking into your touch, his dick drools all over your hand. “Haaa…. ‘m just… t-trying not to embarrass myself…”

“…oh?” your lips curl with curiosity, your voice dipping into a smile as you press gentle kisses up the base of his shaft. “And… embarrass yourself how?” you murmur.

Satoru is whining, high and helpless as you find his head again, that cute pink tongue flicking out to tease the slit.

“B-Because I’m…” he grits out, voice cracking, “F-Fuck… s-shit… I’m just…” trying not to say something I’ll regret. “Nnnngh… trying not to cum in thirty fucking seconds. Fuck, you’re perfect—”

You pull off again, lips slick with spit, smiling all sweet and teasing as his cock twitches in your hand.

“Hmm…” you hum, pressing his dick against your cheek as you look up at him affectionately. “Thought you said you didn’t need perfect?”

God, but how are you so perfect? So his.

Inhaling sharply, he looks down, and he knows it. He’s so fucking gone for you. Loves you so much it’s stupid.

“I… don’t…” he breathes, fingers trembling as they brush back the messy strands of hair that have begun to cover your face, threading through your locks reverently. “But… somehow… I still got you.”

Nuzzling into the side of his cock, you’re grinning at him now, all smug and sweet. Fucking hell you’re going to ruin him.

“Then show me, ‘toru…” your lips brush his tip as you speak, “…how good I make you feel.”

And suddenly you’re hollowing your cheeks down on him, humming as he groans, instinctively gripping your hair as his head falls back.

“F-Fuuuck… oh shit…” he pants, voice thick and broken, cradling your head as you work his dick. “J-Just like that, baby… yeah, fuck… you look so fuckin’ pretty with your mouth full…”

His breath stutters, gaze dropping again to take you in—blue eyes glowing, watching you like he’s in a trance. He’s biting his lip so hard, trying to hold back all the pathetic moans threatening to rip from his throat.

Spit glistens on your chin, your lips stretch around him, gliding deeper—and fuck, it’s all he can do not to fall apart, watching every fucking inch of his cock disappear further and further.

It’s too good. He wants more. Needs more.

Groaning, his hips are twitching forward, shallowly thrusting, begging for you to take him deeper. He’s barely aware he’s doing it until you shift, adjust—and don’t stop him.

“S-Shit… can I—?” he rasps, gently tugging your hair. “Can I move? Fuck your throat a little?”

You nod without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut, humming as you reposition again in silent invitation. And that’s it. That’s all he fucking needs.

“Oh, fuck… fuck—okay,” he groans, cock throbbing, shifting his hips as he grips your head tighter. “Just… tell me if it’s too much, angel.”

He begins moving, rolling into your hot, wet mouth, and though his thrusts start slow, there’s nothing soft about the way he’s looking at you—jaw clenched, head tilted, snowy white hair falling into those pretty blue eyes. He’s whimpering, watching your lips stretch around his cock, spit stringing from your chin to his base as he feeds you more, more, more.

“Fuuuck—fuck, sweetheart—” Satoru’s losing his fucking mind, moaning whorishly, “That’s it… haaa… just like that,” his hips roll deeper, pace picking up. “Fucking hell… y-yes…your throat’s so fucking tight, baby—shit—”

Blinking, your hands brace tightly on his thighs, watching the way his abs begin to flex as he rocks into you. His dick is jerking, leaking sweet pre all over your tongue, holding your head as he thrusts deeper into that hot willing mouth.

“S-Shit…” he pulls you off, blue eyes blazed with pleasure, giving you a moment to breathe. “’m not gonna last much longer…” he murmurs, cock twitching up, soaked in front of your face. “Where you want my cum baby?”

Shifting, you pant, eyes flicking up at him. “My mouth…” you breathe, opening wide for him again, and Satoru’s cock jerks up immediately.

“Ohmygod…” he groans, shoving you back down on him, taking on a pace that’s anything but sane. “Yesss… haaa… good girl… hungry fucking girl…” he’s babbling now, thrusting faster, spit dripping outside the corner of your lips as you let him chase his pleasure. “T-Take it… nngh… fuck. I love…”

You.

Satoru growls, internally kicking himself, taking that frustration out on your pretty mouth.

“I… fuck… love your mouth so fuckin’ much…” he grits.

His cock is slamming into you again and again, and the sounds are obscene—wet, messy, lewd. His hips are unrelenting, but you brace yourself, taking him, eyes fluttering, tears building as you look up at him through wet lashes.

God, he’s panting, whining, whimpering, completely lost in you, looking down at you like you fucking hung the stars.

But the moment you gag, he immediately stills, stuttering. “S-Shit—sorry—fuck—you okay?” he pants, brows furrowing, looking at you like he’s afraid he broke you.

You pull back, nodding, giving yourself a moment, and then, just as eagerly, you’re pushing yourself back down on him, down to the hilt—and he swears you just ripped the air out of his fucking lungs.

“F-Fucking… god,” he chokes, watching with wild eyes as you take it again. “You’re… unreal. What the fuck…”

Whimpering, he’s desperate now, gripping you tightly as he thrusts vigorously. “That’s it… yes, baby… yes…” your throat is clicking, spit dripping from your lips, “Sucha good girl… take my cock… fuuuck…” he’s unraveling, cock so hard it hurts. “You’re too fucking good—‘m close—’m… fuckfuckfuck—gonna cum—"

And suddenly he’s burying himself deep, gasping and whining as hot spurts of creamy cum spill down your throat, fingers tightening as he keeps you there, hips stuttering with every pulse as the sticky thick mess floods your mouth.

And you takeit. All of him. Blinking back tears, moaning as you swallow every fucking drop. It’s only when he finally stills, that you pull back—his cock slipping from your lips with a lewd, wet pop.

He’s staring down at you, completely wrecked in the best way—chest rising and falling, mouth parted, eyes wide and glassy with awe.

“Wow, Satoru…” you hum, smiling all coy, licking your lips slowly as you breathe through your nose. “That was… a lot of cum.”

“Oh my fucking god…”

His voice comes out like a whisper and a whimper all at once. His brain is still buffering—trying to reboot after the holy experience you just put him through. Dragging a shaky hand down his face, he blows out a disbelieving laugh.

“You… wow. You actually swallowed… all of it.”

Giggling, you drag your hand up his thigh, fingers brushing, watching the way he twitches under your touch.

“I told you…” you smile softly, nuzzling against his thigh, eyes gleaming affectionately. “I… wanted to take care of you.”

And god—Satoru swears he might ascend. If only you knew how you make him feel. Huffing, he shakes his head in awe.

“C’mere you…” he’s tugging you up gently, urging you into his lag, and you go easily, straddling his thighs as his arms wrap around you, holding you flush to his chest.

You can feel his heart thudding heavy as you settle against him, and you shift, burying yourself against his neck.

“Feel better…?” you murmur softly, fingers combing through the soft mess of his white hair.

“Better?” a breathless laugh slips out, catching in his throat as he tries to collect himself. “Yeah… that’s the understatement of the century,” he exhales hard, then adds, “I think I might’ve just seen the face of God… with your lips.”

You snort into his shoulder, giggling, and he chuckles too—low and husky, the sound vibrating through your body. But even as he smiles, his grip on you stays tight. Steady. Anchored.

Because you don’t realize it—but this? This is everything. His expression softens, his heart aches so much as the thought replays over, and over in his head.

I’m so in love with you.

It hits him like a train—again, fresh and full and terrifying. Like it’s the first time he’s realizing it all over again. You’ve stripped him bare, pulled every shield from his body with a touch, a look, a laugh. He cherishes you so damn much.

And that’s the scariest, most beautiful thing of all.

“I’m so fucked…” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

“Hm?” pulling back slightly, you’re blinking up at him. “…fucked how?”

He meets your eyes—and for a second, everything softens. The whole world slows. He could say it. Right now. Just open his mouth and say it. But…

“Oh… y’know, just…” he exhales shakily, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Really, really fucking into you…” he says instead.

And god, he means it.

“…yeah?” you whisper.

“Yeah…” he nods, sighing. “Like… no-coming-back, kind of into you.”

Your smile spreads, soft and full of warmth. And as you curl into him, your head rests against his shoulder.

“Me too…”

The moment quiets, settling between you in a hush of breathless heartbeats. And as he holds you close, arms protective and sure, pressing his cheek to the crown of your head, his mind begins to turn.

He’s going to do everything—everything—in his power to keep you safe. To keep you happy. To ensure, you are always here, in his arms. Because if he ever lost you…

No.

Shaking his head, he shoos that thought away, out of existence. He’s not even going to entertain it.

And then, after a minute, he begins to shift, murmuring low against your hair.

“C’mon…” he’s rising from the couch, lifting you up bridal style as he stands. “Let’s clean up… and head to bed.”

Nodding, you wrap your arms around his neck as he carries you away—your body melting against his. Neither of you say the words sitting unsaid in your chest. But that doesn’t make it any less true.

I love you.

a/n. hello my lovelies!! it's been foreverrrrr... i know. thanks for your patience with this chapter. i unforch had to go back to work full time, whilst still being in school 🤪 so it feels like i've had NO time. but, once this semester is over my writing should pick back up. this chapter definitely challenged me. i was worried how you guys would feel about the violence, but alas... that's what the yakuza do. all i can say is if you don't like it, you can chose not to read it! 🤷‍♀️ but as ya'll can probably see, this story is definitely taking a turn... the plot is heating up. nanami has joined the battle! he's so sweet with little haru. i'm gonna have so much fun with the plans i have for his character, hehe 🥰 satoru in the car with suguru... *sigh* 😌 this man is literally so smitten for reader it's too damn cute. my heart can't take it. i've decided to reopen this taglist! if you want to be tagged and you're not on it, lmk. i would love to hear all your thoughts and theories with this chapter, and as always, tysm for reading guys. i love you all sm 🫶🏻 → you are currently all caught upꨄ

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

@angelina7890 @aruraa @han11dh @jonesmelodys @k1ttybean

@a-trashbag @jotarohat @khaleesihavilliard @tsukistopglazer @elliesndg

@maskedpacific @that-redheadd @lovelyartemisa @eolivy

@valleydoli @voids-universe @sukunadckrider @aishies-stuff

@saccharine-nectarine @ilianasau @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

[oldermenfucker]

You’re losing me | Dr. Robby

summary: he doesn’t notice how his behavior in The Pitt is making you fall from his arms, until the consequences of his actions catch up with him.

warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, angst with a happy ending, fluff, Robby doesn’t even realize he’s being a dick until it’s a tad bit too late, fem!reader, resident!reader, Abbot!reader (yes she is Jack’s younger sister), age gap (she’s late 20s/early 30s & Robby early 50s), p in v sex, lots of praise, mentions of blood & trauma (it’s The Pitt soooo), English isn’t my first language<3

word count: 9.8k+

an: hiiii so this is my first fic in this fandom hopefully you guys like this!!! More fics of our gorgeous Dr. Daddy and his bestie our other Dr. Daddy will be coming your way<333

Reblogs & comments are always appreciated!💕✨

You hate the quiet days of ER, as peaceful as it can get through. You crave the adrenaline rush you get from a trauma running through the doors, half bloody and half dead, but today even those cases can’t make your blood pressure as high as the scene in front of you does.

  Collins chuckles at something Robby says, snorting and putting her hand up in surrender, patting his biceps before she leaves him alone. And him? He smiles back, his wrinkles around his eye deepening as his eyes follow her.

He is doing exactly what he labeled as ‘unprofessional’ behind closed doors with her, making you mad at him. He told you you must keep your relationship a secret or it would turn into The Pitt’s hottest gossip, and he didn’t want that, and given how most of the nurses and doctors know about his past relationship with Collins, it upsets you beyond belief.

You took this residency program to be with your brother and Robby, and also to get a steady job in the same hospital. Jack helped you tremendously with your transfer, making sure everything was perfect for you to take the morning shifts with your boyfriend, all so you could spend time with him more often.

  But now, you are rethinking your decision to the point of no return. It has been months since you started your shifts here, and from the very beginning, Robby treated you like shit. Always hard on you, always criticizing your diagnosis, always on your back with a harsh comment.

  You played it off like everyone else did, making sure to nod and say ‘yes, sir’ and move towards the next patient. But every word stung, and when you would tell him at night when you cuddled in his bed, he would brush it off and act like nothing happened.

  It was fine at first, or at least you tried to deny what it truly was, but now, seeing him being so lighthearted with everyone in a slow shift while he barks orders at you left and right tears your heart into pieces, and worse, the smiles are always thrown in the direction of every doctor and nurse but you.

  You look away as best as you can, trying to find a good case as you lean on Robby’s workstation, tapping your fingers in a rhythm as you scan the trauma board, biting your lip as you hear his footsteps approaching.

  “Dr. Abbot,” he says, standing behind you while he looks between you and the board, “What are you looking for?”

  “Something to take the edge off,” you don’t mean to sound snappy, but the words come out harsher than intended, and you take a deep breath because with the uncomfortable silence between the two of you, you are sure he has raised an eyebrow at you, waiting to come up with a snarky comment, “I’ll take the biker, Santos is with me.”

  “Good,” he nods, pushing his fists into his pockets, but you don’t bother yourself to even glance at him, pushing past him as you drop your stethoscope around your neck, calling for Santos to follow you to the trauma bay.

  You do not turn around to see Robby’s reaction; he is probably stunned by the way you ignored him. You have never done that despite how he treats you; it just never settled right inside you to be mean to him, but that was enough to set your mood off for the rest of the shift.

  “Alright, what do we have here?” One question, and you get bombarded with answers, and you get your hands on the patient to stabilize him. Santos answers your questions and helps you with everything you might need.

  You are light on your feet, keeping everyone in check in the trauma room to make sure the best treatment is given to the poor man who had crashed his bike. Santos listens closely, being snarky and witty about her comebacks, but helps you as best as she can, nonetheless.

  “How’s the patient?” You watch as Santos starts to intubate the biker, her hands slightly shaking, ignoring Robby’s presence as he gloves in and moves next to stand next to you, listening to the nurses update him on the patient’s status.

  “I’m in!” Santos beams, looking up at you, and you smile back, giving her a quick thumbs up before you turn around, suddenly chest to chest with Robby.

  He looks down at you, a silent question hanging in the air between you as he keeps staring back, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. You take a deep breath in response, taking off your gloves roughly, making a loud smacking sound of plastic echo in the trauma room.

  “He’s stable and ready to go to the OR,” you fist the gloves in a ball, pulling the white gown off in a hurry, taking a step around Robby to avoid his burning stare, “Santos helped a lot.”

  “You called the shots without telling me first.” It’s not a question; it is a statement, and he does not look happy at all. “You are still a resident, you have two more years to go! Why are you being so reckless?”

  “The patient was dying, Dr. Robby, I had to do what was necessary—“

  “You were unsupervised—“

  “She wasn’t,” Collins steps into the room, looks between the two doctors with a small smile, pointing at Santos, who stands awkwardly next to Collins, pouting slightly and rocking on the balls of her feet, “Dr. Santos came to me and told me about this case.”

  You gape at her, fighting off a small grateful smile before feeling your heart thumping in your ribcage as if it’s ready to jump out; you are angry at him, furious even, and Robby is just as hot-headed if not more. You can see the dark glare in his eyes as he looks between Collins and you, finally settling them on you.

  “Dr. Collins is also a resident, you must consult an Attending. Don’t ever do that again,” he whips out his own gloves, his usual warm brown eyes hold nothing but anger, “You are lucky he is stable.”

  “I am not lucky, Dr. Robby.” You take another step closer, feeling his hot breath fanning against your face, “I am a good doctor, hell, even a great doctor. I can do it on my own.”

  “Trauma coming through in two minutes! Drowning victim!” Dana’s shout stops Robby from firing back a response to you.

  “We’re not done yet,” he points his finger at you, scoffing when you look up, trying your best not to break down in front of everyone. With that, Robby jogs toward the gurney Langdon is pulling into another trauma room, leaving you, Santos, and Collins alone.

  “Walk with me, Dr. Abbot?” Collins smiles, muttering to Santos to go find another patient before she waits for you to join her at the door, watching you closely as you slam your gloves and gown into the trash, using the sanitizer machine on the wall before you give her a quick smile.

  “Sure.”

  You both walk to the nurse station, standing shoulder to shoulder while you look at the trauma board. You are nervous; how can you not be? Collins is Robby’s ex. She is gorgeous, intelligent, and a very talented doctor. But what is making you shake slightly is how she stepped in to save you from your boyfriend’s scolding.

  “Thank you…” You mumble quietly, or as quietly as you can in a chaotic ER, giving her a grateful yet awkward smile as well.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she sighs, pushing her hands into the pockets of her jacket, shrugging before she continues, “I’ve been in your shoes a few years ago. It’s exhausting.”

  “What?” You ask, confused and dumbfounded, your lips parting in surprise when she side eyes you playfully, shaking her head and laughing slowly, “What do you mean? What are you laughing at, Dr. Collins?”

  “You guy are not as subtle as you think you are,” she sighs, wrapping her arm around your shoulders, pulling you into her side as she looks back at the board, squeezing your shoulder, “I can see how you look at him, I used to do the same, having high hopes that one day he’ll quit being harsh on me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you try to play it off cool, acting as if you have no idea what she is saying, but Collins sees straight through your lie, raising her eyebrows at you with boredom. You sigh, dropping your head on her shoulder, “Fine! Yes, he’s my boyfriend, or at least I thought he was. It is… tiresome to deal with his mean words every day.”

  “He’s been riding you for so long,” she sighs too, patting your arm gently, “It’s no excuse, but… he thinks if he pushes you away, he can maintain his professional standards or whatever he calls them. He’s done it before, and he’s doing it again.”

  “I know what he is trying to do,” you shake your head, exhaling shakily, “He doesn’t want anyone to find out he’s dating his resident, and Jack Abbot’s younger sister, so he goes on a spiral to be mean to me and put a distance between us.”

  “Well, he’s doing a poor job at both,” she snorts, letting go of you to reach for an iPad, going through different cases to choose one for you. “He is an idiot, you just have to learn to live with it if you wanna work here.”

  “Sometimes I think he hates me.”

  “Hey, no—“

  “What are you two up to?” Dana interrupts Heather, leaning on the station behind her as she looks between the two of you, “What has he done this time?”

  “He’s being unreasonable to Dr. Abbot.”

  “Not unreasonable, but… just how an attending with a ‘Robinavitch’ last name would be,” you try to crack a joke, but Dana winces and gives you a sympathetic look.

  “C’mon, I’ve known him more than your experiences combined. He is being a dick to you because he is scared, give him hell for it, alright? Now go play doctors until I knock some sense into your loverboy.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Collins says, pointing at one of the trauma rooms, “South fourteen, Twenty-four years old male with a twisted ankle — probably sprained. Take this, Dr. Abbot, it’ll give you a break until you are well enough to come back.”

  “Thank you,” you say, grabbing the iPad from her hands, nodding as you walk towards the patient’s room, head swirling with different thoughts about what those two women just told you.

  You are aware of what Robby is doing, or at least you think you do. It makes sense to some extent; he is a professional man, a doctor who runs The Pitt and barely survives every day, and yet, he gives you the worst treatment out of everyone because he doesn’t want to reveal your relationship to the world.

  And it breaks your heart to tolerate his mean words and being the punching bag to his sour moods, receiving all the blows just because you are in arm’s reach — what makes it worse is that he does not even realize how bad his words are, and when you confront him at night after his long hot shower, he only shrugs and tells you if Dana found out about you, then everyone can.

  Excuse after excuse.

  You roll your shoulders back, knocking on the door as you enter the trauma room, finding Princess going through the patient’s file and waiting for you to join them.

  “Good morning, I’m Dr. Abbot!” You smile and get to work, sitting on the chair next to the bed as you examine the guy’s ankle, looking for inflammation and bruising as you try to distract him from the pain.

  “Well, you’re lucky it’s not broken,” you nod, taking your gloves off before turning toward Princess, “Send him to radiology to get an X-ray, I’m sure it’s only a sprain, but let’s take a look anyway.”

  “Dr. Abbot!” Mel barges inside the room, panting slightly as she looks at you with wide eyes, “New patient! Forty-five-year-old female with a head concussion and a broken stick in her upper arm. She fell on the fence while she was trying to clean the windows of her house.”

  “Let’s go,” you stand up, dropping the gloves you used on the previous patient into the bin, sanitizing your hands before running towards the gurney, finding Mohan and Robby discussing different procedures, “How is she?”

  “Pupils dilated, unresponsive—“ you try to focus on what Samira is saying, you are, but Robby’s gaze moves from the patient to you, watching you closely as you and Mohan start to stabilize the patient, but it is awfully hard to not get distracted with how intense his presence is.

  “She’s having a heart attack—“ you rush to lower the back of the bed, flattening the patient before scissoring her dress, baring her chest to Mel to put the pads on, Mohan increasing the voltage to two hundred, waiting for everyone to step back, “Clear!”

  The patient does not respond to the shock. Mohan and Robby work together to keep her blood pressure high, but all of a sudden, the lines of the monitor go flat, and the beeping stops.

  “Asystolic…” Mel whispers, standing next to you as Mohan takes off the pads, waiting for her Attending’s orders.

  “Start compressions!”

  You put one knee on the bed, interlocking your fingers before starting to push on the patient’s chest, huffing with each move as everyone waits in the room with bated breath.

  “Hold compressions,” Robby tells you, waiting to see if the heart restarts, but when he sees the flat line again, he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face, “Push an epi and resume compressions again.”

  You begin to push down on her chest, body, and shoulders, moving with each press, trying to keep your breathing in check while you look at Robby to say something, anything.

  But the line falls flat again after you stop, but before you can bend down to restart CPR, Robby’s voice stops you, “She’s dead,” he announces, looking down at his watch before he exhales deeply, “16:38…” 

  You step down from the bed, throwing your head back with your hands on your hips, shaking your head as you silently mourn the loss of your patient.

  “Doctor Abbot, a word?” 

  Your fingers tighten at your hips, and when you look back at him, you find him already leaving towards the break room, not even waiting for you to follow him. With a scoff, you move behind him, ignoring Mel and Samira’s confused stares.

  “What is it—“

  “What was that?” He stops as soon as you both are in the break room, pressing his lips into a thin line as he intertwines his fingers behind his neck, letting out a humourless chuckle.

  “What was what, Robby? I did what you told me—“ you try to answer as best as possible, but when he turns around, his chocolate eyes overflowing with disbelief.

  “Who does a compression like that? They were too weak, not deep enough, and they were not helping! Just a waste of time on a patient we could have saved—“

  “Don’t you fucking dare!” You raise your voice, pointing to his chest before fisting your hands and lock your hands next to your body, “They were fine, just as they should have been! Don’t put this loss on me, she had a head concussion and god knows how many wood chips in her bloodstream. We didn’t even get to check that—“

  “You are messing up real bad today.”

  “This case was supervised by you, Doctor Robinavitch,” you spit the words out, gone the calm girl who would brush his horrible words off, now replaced with a furious woman, “How hypocritical of you to say belittling isn’t a good way of teaching and yet, you are insulting and belittling me, your girlfriend, Robby!”

  “This is my workplace, I am your Attending, not your goddamn boyfriend,” he replies, his tone dangerously low, and for the first time, he seems to be taken back by his own outburst, dropping his head as he takes a long breath.

  “Fine,” your lips quiver, voice breaking slightly, which makes Robby’s head snap upwards and his eyes widen as he realizes what unbelievable damage he has done, “I’ll leave you to it then.”

  “Wait, honey—“

  “Don’t.”

  With one last glance, you march out of the room toward the nurse’s station, looking for Dana to see if you can clock out earlier. You cannot stay in this place any longer, it is eating you alive and tearing your sanity apart.

  “Have you seen Dana?” As soon as you see her walking with Collins, you approach her with teary eyes, nails digging harshly into your palms, “Dana, I need out.”

  “What happened to you, kid?” She asks, putting her hands on your shoulders, gently rubbing your arms up and down, “Come on, let’s get you some air.”

  Heather only smiles and reaches to pat your back, shaking her head as she watches Dana guide you towards the ambulance bay, turning to glare at Robby, who just stepped out of the break room.

  You don’t have the strength to keep your tears from falling as soon as Dana leads you out. You cry softly, wiping the tears as they stream down your cheeks, melting into Dana’s motherly embrace.

  “I’m sorry—“

  “Shh, you’re okay, kid,” she wraps her arms around you tightly, holding your face to her shoulder as you cry out, “I’m gonna kick his ass, don’t worry.”

  You cackle a little, squeezing her before letting go, allowing her to cup your face in her hands, giving you a soft, defeated look before she starts talking.

  “You are a great doctor, alright? One of our best residents, don’t let a man fuck it up,” she holds your head straight, forcing you to open your eyes and look at her, “He is a dick, I know that—“

  “There’s a but coming and I don’t like it.” You try to move away from her, but she keeps your head locked in place, her gaze turning serious.

  “But…” you sigh, rolling your eyes at her, but she only cracks a smile and continues, “He is lost. It’s been so long since he has felt like this. The last time was with Heather, and let me tell you it was just as bad in the hospital.”

  “So he treats his girlfriend like shit until she gives up?” Your voice shakes again, finally freeing yourself from her grip, pacing in the ambulance bay, “I hate how he says to remain professional, yet all he does is complain and belittle me for my medical decisions and when I bring it up he says it’s all empty fucking words and he doesn’t mean it!”

  “He doesn’t mean any of it, I’m sure—“

  “I’m done, Dana,” you sniff, wiping your tears with the back of your hand, looking at her with eyes full of sorrow. “I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Look at me,” she raises your head with a finger under your chin, her tone dead serious, “I know it must be exhausting, but do you want to know what it is that makes the thing you have so special and worth the effort?”

  “What?” 

  “He is in love with you,” she smiles, bringing you into her arms again, rocking you back and forth as you smell her hospital-induced scent, “I have never seen him like this.”

  “It doesn’t make it okay for him to insult me… he said,” you hiccup on your sob, “He said that when we are here he isn’t my ‘goddamn boyfriend’ and… he said it like the word repulsed him.”

  “He’s such an idiot,” she groans, watching in confusion as you reach for your phone, pulling it out before you call someone, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling Jack.”

  “No, ah uh, nope,” she shakes her head, giving you a disapproving look, but she knows how hard Robby’s words must be, and they definitely have taken a toll on you and your relationship. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, kid.”

  “Too late for that,” you sigh, tapping your feet on the ground as you wait for your brother to answer, “Jack, answer the fucking phone.”

  “Hmm?” 

  “Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” you scoff, throwing your hand up when he groans at your voice. “Be at least a bit excited to hear my voice, Jack.”

  “The day I do that you���ll bury me six feet deep,” Jack says on the other side of the phone, voice raspy from the deep sleep he must have had, “Usually texting me fills the hole in your miserable life, sister, how bad is it this time that you needed to call?”

  “I…” you try to say it, you really do, but the words get stuck inside your throat, a slow whine breaks past your lips, alerting your brother on the phone.

  “Hey, hey! What’s up?” His usual sarcastic demeanor fades away, his voice shifting into unimaginable concern, “Talk to me, kid. Are you okay?”

  “I…” you suck in a sharp breath, clearing your throat as you look at Dana smoking a cigarette next to you, “No, I’m not.”

  “Are you physically hurt? Do I need to come? What the fuck’s happened, kiddo?” You can hear him shuffle around, probably putting on his pants to bolt through the door and get himself to the hospital.

  “No and yes,” you sit on the edge of the pavement, “I think I wanna move back in with you—“

  “What the fuck?” He says with so much love, you nearly melt at the spot, “What happened? Did he do something? Do I need to break his nose?”

  “You love him more than you love me, so it doesn’t work like that,” you chuckle, sighing softly as you listen to him grumble and put his prosthetic leg on, “But… yeah, I can’t handle it anymore, I think I’ll move back in with you if you’re okay with it.”

  “Of course, kid, whatever you want,” you hear him zip up his jacket, walking towards the door of his apartment to come and get you. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

  “He’s so mean to me on our shifts, I can’t bear to be the only person he speaks to like that. It’s affecting my practices and my fucking sanity,” you drop your head between your arms, back hunching uncomfortably, “He acts more lovingly with Collins than he does with me and it upsets me so much.”

  “Listen up,” he locks the door and walks to the elevator, “He is an ass for whatever reason he must have, but I know you, and I know him. You don’t deserve to be the one on whom he takes out his frustration, and I know you’ve tried to talk it out with him, but he’s probably too far into his head to listen to the voice of reason. I’m gonna come and get you so we can talk.”

  “Okay, call me when you get here, I’m gonna go see a few patients before I clock out, love you.”

  “Love you, too, kiddo. Stay away from him.”

  “Will do my best,” you say and hang up, shrugging when Dana gives you her significant look, “What now?”

  “Nothing, just you’re too sweet and caring. Robby better get his head outta the water and see what he’s taking for granted.”

  You chuckle, shoving your phone back into your pocket, stretching your arms before getting ready to get back into the hellhole you chose to spend the rest of your residency in, Dana following you after she puts out her cigarette with the tip of her sneakers.

  “Let’s hope it’s not too late for that.”

  •••••

  You barely manage to handle a few patients for the next half hour without running into Robby, stabling, and helping with the triage from time to time until Jack gets here to pick you up.

  “I’m gonna go…” You announce to Dana and Collins, sitting down to finish one last report and head out, “I… I think I might take night shifts from now on.”

  “What?”

  “C’mon, no, that’s a stretch—“ Heather says, sitting down on the rolling chair and moving it to sit next to you, “We need you here. You’re an amazing doctor, besides every shift needs an Abbot at most.”

  “Yeah, well, the whole point of getting into the morning shifts was to learn from and spend time with Robby. Now that went down the fucking drain,” you look at Heather, your tone clipped and exhausted, “He is throwing a year and half relationship away for… whatever reasons. I don’t have to tolerate it anymore.”

  “Please, reconsider this,” Dana jumps in, leaning over the station, “Go for now, take tomorrow off, and talk with Jack.”

  “Will do— and my job’s done here! I’ll see you when I take the night shifts from you,” You smile, hugging both of them quickly before you go to the lockers, grabbing your belongings before you reply to Jack’s ‘I’m here, knucklehead’ with a quick thanks.

  You don’t look behind you as you bolt to the exit of the ED, not hearing Robby’s footsteps following you as you make your way to the park in front of the hospital, seeing Jack’s truck waiting for you.

  “Wait—“

  You don’t. You can’t. If you stay one more minute here, you will lose your mind. You pick up your pace, ignoring the calls of your name as you walk faster, sighing in relief when Jack steps down from his truck, but as soon as you reach him, Robby grabs your arm, not hard enough to hurt you but enough to ground you.

  “Where are you going?” He asks, his eyes wide in anticipation, chest heaving rapidly, as if he is imagining all these, “Your shift isn’t over yet…?”

  “I can’t continue working on a shift that my Attending has no respect for me,” you turn around, looking at him dead in the eyes but the tears betray you sooner than you expected, “I have already told Jack I’ll switch to night shifts with him and he said he’ll sign it off for me—“

  “I did?” Jack whispers, raising his eyebrow at you as he glances between you and Robby.

  “Don’t do this, darling, look at me—“ Robby cups your cheeks in his hands, wiping your tears with his thumb, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—“

  “I need time! You clearly don’t like me enough to be a decent human being to me on our shifts! I chose to stay with you, to learn from you and be with you during the hard days but you are fucking unbelievable!”

  “Alright, alright,” Jack interrupts when he sees Robby’s glassy eyes, and it is only a matter of time he will breakdown in front of you — something that has never happened before — so he puts his hand on Robby’s back, “I’ll take her home for now, brother. Both of you need some time away from each other.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then…” Robby replies hopefully, gently stroking your arm as he stares into your eyes, waiting for any sign of forgiveness, but when he sees none, he nods and steps away.

  You miss the warmth of his grip immediately, but the ache in your chest is far too great to push everything aside and cave in. You need this time off, you must think and come up with a solution. Perhaps the night shift might help you take your mind off him.

  “I’m off tomorrow,” you reply, wiping the tear that falls on your cheek quickly, turning your back to the men who are looking at you attentively, “I just need some space.”

  “Okay…”

  “Alright,” Jack hugs Robby, patting his back, “I think you fucked up big time, brother. Let me talk to her and see what happens, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Robby nods, head hanging low as he watches you get inside the truck, sighing deeply before he says his goodbye to Jack and leaves, running a hand through his hair while he walks away.

  “Talk, kid,” Jack starts the truck, waiting for you to say something, anything, but you only stifle your sobs and look down at your hands, squeezing your eyes shut, “Only the senior Abbot gets to be the traumatized sad one. So… “

  “He is… a lot, but I thought I could handle it,” you wipe the tears, resting your elbow on the window’s edge, watching how Jack starts turning the wheel and drives the car out of the parking, “Hell, I was handling it, but I didn’t know he would turn into such a short tempered and spiteful person only towards me. He even…” you choke on your sob before you continue, “He even treats Gloria better than me, can you imagine it? He criticizes every diagnosis I make, every order I give, every single pill I prescribe, but it’s just me, his girlfriend…”

  “I’m sorry,” Jack sighs, stopping the car when the light turns red, reaching to hold your hand, his hazel eyes finding your teary ones. He shakes his head slightly, his heart clenching at the sight of you tittering at the edge of a breakdown before he pulls you closer, resting your head on his shoulder, kissing your forehead as the two of you wait for the light to turn green, “He is being a dick to you because he is scared… he did the same thing to Collins but… It’s pretty different this time. I know it, I can see it, he is afraid of losing you more than losing himself.”

  “It doesn’t make sense!” You hiccup, tears spilling from your eyes, “Can’t he see that being so-so harsh on me leads to exactly what he fears? He is losing me, Jack, and I hate it. I don’t want him to lose me, but every day I spend in the ER with him, I feel him slipping away from my fingers slowly. I don’t wanna lose him either.”

  Jack keeps quiet, kissing the crown of your head once or twice as he starts driving again, letting you tell him everything, opening your heart to him.

  “I saw how he was with Heather years ago before I even began to like him,” you say, no longer crying, just voicing your feelings in a numb tone while your heart aches for some sort of relief, “And I thought we were different, I thought he changed, but… maybe there is no hope for us either.”

  “He loves you,” Jack replies, “He loved Heather too, but… he is in love this time.”

  “How are you so sure?” You ask, straightening your back as you look at his side profile, watching how a small smile takes over his face.

  “I know him better than you do, kid.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” you scoff playfully, “My brother knows my boyfriend better than I. Are you sure he’s not cheating on me with you?”

  “Please, I’ll never lower my standards to Robby.” he winks at you when you snort, “You bet no one wants him, he’s all yours.”

  “Well, I’m not really sure about that anymore,” you shrug, “I don’t think he’s even mine anymore… and mind you, I always wanted my partner to be like you, so take it as an insult with a grain of salt, asshole.”

  “You wound me,” Jack chuckles, glancing at your soft, unsure smile, “on the night shift thing… Are you sure you want me to be your Attending? I can be worse than him.”

  “I’m used to your horrible attitude, and besides, we don’t have sex, so your chances of hurting me are half as likely.”

  “I’m too old to be the victim of your incest jokes,” he reaches for the remote to open the door to the apartment’s parking lot, “And I do have sex, but unlike you, I don’t like shoving it in my sister’s face.”

  “I never did that!” You laugh, nudging his side with your elbow when he safely parks the car, “I’m just saying I don’t take your insults as my Attending seriously because we’re blood related and I know what goes through your head.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” Jack sighs, rubbing a palm over his face, “Not maybe, definitely. He can’t say what goes through his head and… it bottles up inside him until he explodes.”

  “Then that’s too bad, cause the only person he harms is me.”

  ••••••••••

  Robby has been searching for you all through the ER for the past week. You know it is not the most mature way to go through this crisis, but it doesn’t hurt to give him a taste of his own medicine. 

  You start taking the night shifts, meeting with Dana and Collins as night owls take over the floor while you openly avoid Robby at all times, fleeing the scene every time you get so much as a glimpse of his navy blue hoodie in the corner of your eye.

  He, too, has been chasing you relentlessly. Making sure to stay a few more hours to just see you and get to tell you a simple hello, but you go out of your way to hide in the bathroom until Ellis comes and collects you, giving you a thumbs up that means Robby’s given up on finding you again.

  This is the routine for a good few nights; escaping Robby for the first hours of your shift, having a breakdown in the bathroom, save a bunch of lives and argue with your brother — Attending —  until you sneak out of the hospital without Robby seeing you when he comes to take over the floor from your brother.

  Jack forces you to take a few days off this week. You have been running through ER every night on caffeine and energy drinks, four hours of sleep, and a broken heart. So, given how much of a great brother Jack is, he tells you to take a few nights off this week.

  Home alone, comfy under a blanket with a boring movie playing on the TV, the least you could expect is to hear a knock on your brother’s apartment at such a dark hour — and worse? You recognize the pattern of knocks immediately. Three knocks: one slow and unsure, the second one stronger and confident, the last one shy and anticipating.

  You want to disappear, to ignore the knocks and melt through the cushions of the couch. But the very familiar pattern is pulling you in, making your heart race and limbs tingling.

  With some courage that is near nonexistent, you push the blanket off, slowly padding towards the door, flexing and relaxing your fingers a few times, a couple deep breaths before you reach for the door knob, twisting it and revealing a very tired and teary-eyed Robby.

  Your breath hitches as you take him in; shoulders slumped heavily, eyebags much darker than you remember, his body tense with so much unresolved emotion, and his eyes… his eyes, those pools of chocolate brown that always make your face warm and your heart beat rapidly — they are filled to the brim with shame and guilt. It will only take one push to have those watercolor droplets stream down his cheeks.

  “Robby…”

  He closes his eyes, taking a deep inhale as if hearing his name fall from your lips is the freshest air he has ever breathed. You can see him visibly relax, your voice soothing his concerns about your well-being.

  “Hi,” he leans with his hand on the doorframe, looking down at his shoes as he tries to keep his voice from breaking, “Hi…”

  “Hey,” you bite your lip, looking behind him as you try to gather your thoughts, “What are you doing here?”

  “I…” he squeezes his eyes shut, his fingers tightening around the wooden frame, dragging his eyes back to yours slowly, letting you use them as a mirror to his soul, “I had to see you.”

  “Robby—“

  “No, no, let me talk—“ he cuts you off, resting his hands on the bridge of his nose, then sighing and putting them on his hips, “I fucked up, I know that. I-I messed up so bad, I know, I fucking know. You’re a goddamn amazing doctor, my best resident, I loathe myself for how I treated you.”

  “You were so mean…” You can feel your own tears stinging your eyes, and it only gets worse when you look up to him, finding him flushed and on the verge of breaking, “Why?”

  “Just my mind playing tricks on me. I thought if I pushed you away in the hospital, we could work better together, and then-then the lines blurred and I couldn’t notice how far I distanced myself from you.”

  “I was right there, Robby,” you gasp, sucking in a sharp breath as the tears finally burst, “All you had to do was to give us one chance to work together.”

  “Don’t cry,” he whispers, hands shaking as he reaches to cup your face, his face wet from seeing your tears, “I can’t handle it, I will break beyond repair if I see you cry, please…”

  You put your palms on top of his, leaning forward to gently rest your forehead against his, sobbing in his arms. You are quite surprised when you hear him sniff and cry, just as equally pained and sad — he is crying because you are crying.

  “No one deserves your tears,” he leans down and kisses the droplets slowly, his chapped lips making a beautiful contrast with your soft skin. First your cheeks, following the wet path down to your chin before he comes up and pecks your closed eyelids, “Much less me.”

  “Don’t say that—“

  “I’m so sorry, sweet girl,” you can feel him softly crying as he presses his lips to the top of your head, breathing in the scent of your shampoo he so desperately misses, “I can’t function without you on my shifts, I can’t think straight, I can’t… my life is incomplete without you.”

  You tilt your head back, forcing him to look at you, but the way you gaze at him only spurs him on to continue, and when those three words fall from his lips, he can no longer control his emotions.

  “I love you,” he closes his eyes, silent tears streaming down his cheeks, wetting his beard each passing moment, “I don’t show it a lot, I’ve treated you so poorly, you must be thinking I don’t care about you, but I do, a lot. I love you, and there is nothing nearly as good as you in my life. I hang in there for twelve hours, but when I see you, it feels like my entire life makes sense, like I have a purpose, a reason to come back, a reason to move forward.”

  “Oh, Robby…” you cup his cheeks, pulling his face down, brushing your nose against his, “I love you too, so much.”

  You close the distance, pressing your lips to his softly, just a taste, perhaps a promise of a better tomorrow. He doesn’t rush you either, he kisses you back with relief, the weight lifting off his shoulders slowly. 

  He doesn’t deepen the kiss, allowing you to lead him this time, tasting the remaining bittersweet flavor of his nicotine gum. Robby’s hands go to your back, pulling you closer if possible, feeling the heat of your body seeping through the layers of his outfit.

  “Robby,” you break the kiss, hovering your lips over his as you speak, “I still need some time. I… I have been getting along with the night shift, and I need some time away.”

  “Name it and it’s yours,” he nods, his fingers tightening around your waist, “I’ll do anything you ask, anything.”

  “I know, my love,” you pout, stroking his bearded cheek gently, “There are a lot of things we have to work on, but for now… I need to step back.”

  “Alright.”

  •••••••

  Maybe it was a bad decision to listen to your brother and take another night off. You feel useless being home alone without your stethoscope around your neck and those god-awful tight scrubs the hospital gave you.

  Now you are sure it was a terrible decision to take the night off, because now you have to explain to a very anxious brother and a much more anxious boyfriend why you and nearly thirty other injured people are being rushed to the PTMC’s ER.

  “Abbot?” Shen is in the triage they made of the ambulance bay, rushing towards you with Ellis in toe to help you out of the car, “What the fuck? What happened to you?”

  “I was in the same restaurant, fuck, my leg—“ you groan, clinging to the doctors as they sit you on the wheelchair, Shen giving Ellis a look to take you inside, dodging the gurneys and patients left and right until she finds you an empty corner, telling you to wait for someone to come and help you, “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.”

  “Kid?” Dana gasps, jogging toward you as soon as her eyes fall on your face and stretched leg, “Fucking hell, you okay? What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to have a nice dinner out, unfortunately, it was the same restaurant that collapsed,” you scoff, trying to pull the sundress you are wearing down to cover at least your mid-thigh. “Don’t give me that look, I’m fine! Probably just a hairline fracture on my Fibula and a bunch of bruises on my body.”

  “You look like you’ve fist fought a three hundred pound man,” she glares at you, kneeling in front of your wheelchair to take a look at the bruises on your neck and arms, “For whatever’s worth, you look like a piece of candy in this dress.”

  “Too bad no one was there to appreciate me,” you crack a smile, hissing when she pushes the sundress’ sleeve further down your shoulder, her fingers stroking the huge purple-ish spot.

  “I’m gonna order you a CT, can’t wait to get a doctor here,” she looks at you, noticing the sadness in your eyes, “You look beautiful, don’t worry about him, he’s a moron.”

  “I’m more worried about how he’ll lose his shit if he sees me like this—“

  “Sister?!”

  “Jesus fucking christ,” you groan, tipping your head back as Jack runs towards you, kneeling on the other side of the wheelchair as he takes in your state. You look at Dana, giving her a pleading look, “Help me escape?”

  “And miss Robby hovering around you like a mother hen? Hell, nah,” she chuckles, caressing your head before she stands up, “You’re in good hands, kid. Dr. Abbot here knows a thing or two about medicine.”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha. Very funny, Dana,” Jack rolls his eyes playfully before he looks back to you. “How bad is the leg? Did you hit your head? Let’s get you a CT first, then radiology—“

  “Nope, I don’t need a head CT, I just need some painkillers and an X-ray. Think I have a tiny hairline fracture in my leg—“

  “Can you stand on your feet?” He asks, helping you up with his hands on your waist, watching how you stand up in pain, “Where does it hurt the most?”

  “Around my ankle, lateral malleolus,” you hiss again, holding onto Jack’s shoulder as he guides you back on the wheelchair, “Maybe it’s not even a fracture, just a sprain, yeah?”

  “Possibly, but you’re not the doctor here.” he fixes you with a stern look as he applies pressure around your ankle, trying to see where it hurts the most. “Let the adults handle this.”

  “Then get a responsible adult in here,” you say, laughing when he makes a gurgling noise, pressing on the spot where it hurts the most, making you shrink and pull your feet out of his grasp. “You’re pushing fifty and still act like you’re ten. Grow up.”

  “Unfortunately for you your ‘responsible adult’ is Robby who is—“ he turns around, finding Robby stopping midway when he gets a glimpse of you on a wheelchair, “Near freaking the fuck out. Have fun, Miss Abbot.”

  “Wait— no! He can’t treat me, he can’t handle it, I swear, Jack, if you take one more step—“

  Your words die in your throat as you watch Robby walk your way quickly, his hands shaking and his eyes — his sad fucking puppy eyes that have your heart running miles an hour — scanning your entire body in a hurry.

  “What happened?” Robby’s voice shakes as he reaches to hold your cheek in his hands, his touch hesitant and trembling, “What did Jack say? Do-do you need to go up? Are you okay—“

  “Robby, I’m fine,” you reply gently, smiling as he keeps on bombarding you with several questions you have already answered, watching as he closes his eyes and shakes his head when he sees the huge bruise on your shoulder, “It’s nothing. I’ll be back to my very energetic ER resident in a few days. I can even help now—“

  “No, absolutely not,” he purses his lips, ghosting his knuckles over your bruise before he sighs and looks back to your face, “You gonna go home, take some painkillers, you know which ones help you the most, and rest. What were you doing there anyway? What happened?”

  “I wanted to treat myself to a nice dinner, got ready and all,” and you smile shyly when his eyes finally drag on your body, taking in the way the sundress clings to your chest and stomach.

  “Fuck,” he huffs out a laugh, “Bad timing, darling. Now I’ll be thinking about this for the rest of the night.”

  “Good,” you reach for his hand, stroking his fingers as you explain what happened there. “There was some construction work on the building next to the restaurant. One second, everything was fine, but then something dropped on us, half of the ceiling came down, and we ran out. I fell down while I was trying to get past the exit.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t hit your head,” his tone grows serious, bringing your hand to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles, “But what if you did? You should have told someone you were there, you have to stop being so reckless and—“

  “Robby—“

  “What if something worse happened to you—“

  “Robby—“

  “What if you ended up like one of these people, I wouldn’t be able to live—“

  “Michael, stop!” The way his first name falls from your lips freezes him immediately, his eyes widen in terror, but when he sees you smiling at him, he melts down instantly, “Look at me, I’m fine! Nothing a splint and Tylenol can’t fix, besides, I have two doctors hovering around me all the time. I’m fine and I will be fine, okay?”

  “Okay…” he nods, clinging to your hand as he fights a few unshed tears, “I panicked, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, I’d be worse if you were in my position,” you sigh in annoyance when you see Whitaker coming your way, squeezing Robby’s hand to get his attention, “Go, they need you now. I’ll buy the splint on the way home, I just need to find my bag.”

  “I have it!” Dana comes with Jack on toe, “Checked for keys, phone, credit cards, a bunch of lipsticks, and your necklace. All in there and good to go.”

  “Thank you, seriously!” You say, resting your arm around Robby’s shoulder as he helps you up by one hand on your ribs and the other on your waist, “Don’t worry about me, I can get home safely, alright?”

  “You need a key? I can hand you mine,” Jack says, and raises an eyebrow when you hesitate and bite your lip, looking back at Robby before you shake your head and grab your purse, “What?”

  “I think I’ll go back home,” you utter softly, looking into Robby’s eyes as his pupils blow in surprise, “If it’s okay with you?”

  “You wanna come back?” He asks, his voice no louder than a whisper, his grip tightening on you as he waits for an answer.

  “Yeah…”

  “Okay then,” Jack interrupts, “Sorry to be the bearer of the bad news, but we've got patients and you need to rest. So go back to your place and sleep.”

  “Do you…” Robby clears his throat, “Do you have the keys? Or should I grab mine—“

  “No, I have mine,” you smile, leaning up as best as you can on one foot to kiss his cheek, “I’ll see you back home.”

  “Yeah, sure,” you say your goodbyes to others as well, giving Dana and Jack a halfway hug, limping over to the back door of the floor before you call for an Uber and drive back home.

  •••••••

  You take the advice and rest. You don’t know what time it is when you hear the quiet jiggling of the keys and the front door being pushed open, but the familiar sound of footsteps is enough to calm your racing mind.

  “Hey,” you say, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you sit up on the bed, watching how Robby relaxes immediately when he spots you.

  He takes off his hoodie and scrubs, sitting on the edge of the bed topless as he takes off his socks slowly, sighing contently when you scoot closer, rubbing a hand over his warm back, kissing his broad shoulder.

  “How are you?” He asks, turning around so he can take a better look at your face, “Anything hurt?”

  “No,” you reply, gently running your fingers on his neck, caressing his collarbone, “I’m okay. How are you?”

  “Honestly?” He scoffs, looking down at your exposed thighs, under one of his worn-out t-shirts you have on, “Exhausted, but… I’m very happy you are back.”

  “I’m happy to be back too,” you lean down to kiss his shoulder again, “Go take a shower and come back to me. It’ll help you relax.”

  He nods and leans down to peck your lips, sighing in relief when he rests his forehead on yours. Robby nods again and, with a deep breath, he forces himself to stand up and let your hand fall from his skin.

  He comes back ten minutes later, hair towel dried and another one hanging dangerously low on his hip bones. He lets out another tired sigh, smiling when he finds you sitting up against the headboard.

  “I missed having you here.”

  “I missed being here,” you point to the empty space next to you, extending your hand so he knows what to do, watching as he slowly crawls on the bed, carefully resting his head on the soft podge of your stomach, circling his arms around your waist.

  “You’re okay, Michael.” You thread your fingers through his soft hair, gently rubbing his scalp as he hums and buries his face further into your belly, “I got you, my love.”

  “I thought I was losing you,” he tears up, biting his tongue in order to stop himself from crying, but it is in vain because the second you lean down to press a kiss on his head, he is breaking, “I did, for a few days… and it was the worst time of my life. I wasn’t alive, I… I just existed. I breathed, but I felt numb. I couldn’t believe that I let my insecurities get this far, that I had to let go of you.”

  “But I’m here now,” you wrap your other arm around his shoulder, holding him close as he cries silently, his shoulders shaking, but not a sound coming from him, “I’m here to work on these things. I never left to begin with, I… I should have knocked some sense into you when you told me my CPR pose was bad.”

  “That was a low blow, I’m sorry,” he holds on to you tightly, one of his large palms starting to caress your hips to your knees, letting his fingers follow the path of your thigh, “You’re a magnificent doctor, and I’m sorry that you had to endure months of suffering because of me. Fuck, I should have been the one to stop others not to be the one to give you a hard time.”

  “It’s over now, Robby.” You watch him sit up slowly, his much larger body cornering yours to the headboard without even trying to, “We gonna figure this out. I’ll stay on night shifts until we sort out everything, but for now, I just want my boyfriend.”

  He nods, closing the gap between your face until he reaches your lips, pressing a soft, experimental kiss before you grab the back of his neck to deepen it. Robby keeps himself up by one hand on the headboard and the other on your hip, moving his lips with yours in sync.

  “I don’t wanna hurt you more—“

  “Shh,” you nibble on his bottom lip, gently lowering your back on the mattress before you pull him on top of you, your free hand playing with the edge of the towel around his hips, “You will definitely hurt me if you deny my request.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I need you, Robby.” You frown when he doesn’t immediately get rid of the towel, and his eyes lock in on your face. Suddenly, a wave of sadness hits you: “You don’t want to… have sex?”

  “No! I do, I really do!” He chuckles, lowering himself on top of you after he pushes the covers off your body, grabbing your hand gently before he brings it to the very evident bulge under the towel, “See what you do to me? I need you too, so so badly, but I will hate myself if I make you uncomfortable more than you probably are.”

  “Stop overthinking and fuck me already!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he leans down again, kissing you passionately while you untuck the towel and drop it on the floor, making him hiss in pleasure as you wrap your arms around his aching lenghth, “Fuck, I missed this.”

  “Me too,” you reply breathlessly, letting him pull off your — his — shirt and pushing your panties to the side, “If you don’t do anything, I won’t let you sleep on this bed for another week.”

  “Bossy,” he kisses you quickly before he grabs your thigh in his hand, mindful of your other foot being in a splint while he makes home between your legs, his heavy cock resting on your hip as he tries to adjust your positions, “Jack’s wearing off on you.”

  “Don’t talk about my brother when you are about to fuck me,” you wrap both of your arms around his shoulder and your good leg around his waist, “Unless you two have something for each other that I don’t know about.”

  “Have some faith in me, I have a good taste in Abbots, and he is not the one,” you both laugh, and he nudges your nose with his, his warm brown eyes filled with pent-up lust and longing, “I love you.”

  “I love you too, so much.”

  He pulls you in for another kiss, guiding the tip of his cock to your soaked entrance, easing himself into you slowly, careful of your bruises. 

  Both of you moan into each other’s mouths, clinging to the other with every fiber of your being as Robby stretches you out, pushing his cock until he has nothing to give. His dick’s snuggled tightly between your velvet walls, your cunt gripping him like a vice and never wanting to go.

  He gasps when you clench around him, resting his forehead on yours as both of you begin to pant, your chests heaving with each breath.

  “You feel so good, Robby,” you whimper, nails digging into his broad shoulders as he pulls his hips back and snaps them forward, making your breath hitch as his cock reaches deep inside you.

  “You look so fucking beautiful,” his lips fall open as he picks up his pace, burying his face into the crook of your neck, “The most perfect human ever.”

  “Oh, fuck—“ you throw your head back, tangling your fingers in Robby’s soft short hair, tugging at it as he slams himself inside you with a newfound desire — his movements tactical enough not to hurt you but just the right amount of roughness to make your leg shake around his hip, “I’m not gonna last long!”

  “Me neither, darling,” he groans, the sound of squelching filling the room, nearly tripping over the edge when he sees you reaching between your bodies to rub on your clit, “Fuck, baby…”

  “I’m gonna come—“ you release a loud moan, spilling around his girth as you reach your peak, your heel digging into his butt as you writhe beneath him.

  “There you go, sweet girl,” he beams at you, watching as your face twists in pleasure; lips swollen with all the kissing, eyes shut and lashes kissing your cheeks, “I’m so close…”

  “Inside,” you open your eyes, cupping his cheek in your hand while caressing his face, “Come inside me, Michael.”

  “Fuck, fuck—“ he groans, thrusting hard and fast into you a few more times before he begins to tremble, biting down on the skin of your neck as he comes, his cock twitching inside you, filling you up to the brim.

  He comes for an embarrassingly — in his opinion — long time, just holding you close and panting into your skin while he shoots thick ropes of his cum inside your cunt.

  You pull him down until he rests the majority of his weight on you. You have to force him, though, because he thinks it would hurt your bruises and put you in pain, but his weight grounds you.

  The proximity makes his head spin in warmth, but you can feel how worried he is, so you don’t keep him caged on top of you, allowing him to pull away until he can get a better look at your body.

  “Please be careful next time,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss the large bruise on your collarbone, then the one on your arm, then lower on the side of your stomach, “Or better, I keep you locked up so I know you’re safe.”

  “You can’t even get me locked up in a surgery, good luck with doing it for the rest of my life,” you chuckle, thanking him when he helps you sit up.

  “I think I need another shower,” he says, standing up, naked as the day he was born, before he turns to you, extending his hand for you to take, “Care to join me?”

  “You’re far too horny for your age, Dr. Robby,” you tease him, but take him on his offer nevertheless, resting your weight on his arm as he slowly helps you limp to the bathroom.

  “I’m not old,” he scowls, and you laugh at his little frown, smoothing a finger between his brows, “but no, I don’t wanna have sex, I just wanna hold you, sweet girl.”

  “Nothing is stopping you, my love.”

[moonlightdreamzz]

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN YOURS, AND HIS

chapter one — what we don’t talk about ☆ chapter two — half-truths and jungle juice ☆ chapter three — fuck!

chapter summary. a hoodie. a highway. a surprise you never saw coming. everything about today feels like a memory you've been waiting to live—until familiar faces show up.

pairing. jungwon x reader x sunghoon.

genre. college!au, angst, fluff, slow burn, smut.

themes. love triangle, messy relationships and decisions, love or lust?

authors note. sorry for the wait my babies...hope it was worth it. please give me full fledged reviews in the comments. it helps me a lot. shit is about to get crazyyyyy.

you wake up with your heart already racing.

your mouth is dry. your eyes burn. your whole body feels too warm, like your skin hasn’t caught up with the air yet. and for a second—for a split, beautiful second—you don’t remember anything.

just light filtering through the curtain. a blanket draped over your thigh. the faint smell of weed, sweat, and everything else that happened to you last night.

but then it comes back.

not all at once. not like a slap. more like a slow pour—warm at first. then scalding.

his hands.

his mouth.

his voice—“you feel everything, don’t you?”

sunghoon.

you squeeze your eyes shut. God. what did you do? you weren’t blacked out. you weren’t reckless. you were just drunk. and soft. and tired of being the girl who waits around for something that might not even be real.

that’s the part that makes your chest hurt the most. because the truth is—you didn’t think about jungwon at all last night. not once. not when sunghoon kissed you. not when he touched you like you were already his. not even when he asked if you were sure.

and that’s what’s eating you alive now.

you sit up, slow. your dress is bunched around your waist, your lashes halfway off, your head pounding in that slow, angry rhythm that always shows up the morning after.

your throat is dry. your hands are shaking.

you don’t know what to feel first—guilt? or shame? or confusion? or this strange, stupid ache in your chest that sounds like: but does he even want you?

jungwon.

his name hits you like something heavy.

like a weight you forgot you were carrying. like a person you loved in secret for so long, you forgot you were allowed to say it out loud.

you remember the almost-kisses. the nights you laid in his bed waiting for him to make the first move. the way his arms would wrap around you like a question.

the way he’d stop every time things got too close. too warm. too real.

and the way you told yourself that’s enough.

you told yourself his silence was softness. his distance was care.

but it wasn’t just that.

it was the way he always moved the charger to your side of the bed. the way he made sure the room was cold because you liked the blanket heavy.

the way he rubbed your back when you were sick. the way he remembered the way you liked your eggs. the way he’d watch your face instead of the screen when you were laughing at something dumb.

the way he held you like it meant something—even if he never said what.

and that’s what made it worse.

because sunghoon kissed you without fear. but jungwon holds you like he already has you.

but last night… sunghoon didn’t hesitate.

he didn’t second-guess the way your hand found his neck. he didn’t pull away when you leaned in. he didn’t stop to make space between your knees and his hips and your breath and his mouth and your body and his name.

he didn’t stop.

and maybe that’s why you let it happen.

because you were tired. because it felt good. because for once, someone didn’t make you beg for the thing you didn’t know how to ask for.

but now you’re here. alone. sober. skin buzzing like your nerves haven’t caught up yet.

you drag your hands over your face.

do i even owe him anything?

you think it, then hate yourself for thinking it.

you want to cry. or throw up. or crawl under the covers and pretend the last twelve hours didn’t happen.

because you feel like you cheated. like you broke something that wasn’t even real.

but it was. it was.

it’s not just friendship. not with jungwon. not with the way you touched. not with the way you slept wrapped in each other’s limbs like the world outside didn’t exist. not with the way your lips had almost met—how his breath had hit your cheek and his hand had tightened just once on your thigh before he’d backed away like he was scared of his own pulse.

and he never said why.

your legs move before your brain does. out the door. down the hall. through the faded music and soft snoring and tangled blankets on the living room floor.

the clock says 1:03 p.m. most people are still asleep. some aren’t. you don’t care.

you knock.

soft. hesitant.

no answer.

you open the door anyway.

the curtains are drawn. the light hits the wall in that soft, familiar way. and jungwon’s still in bed. fully dressed. half-curled around a pillow that doesn’t belong to him.

his eyes are closed. but his face is tight. his jaw clenched. his brow creased like whatever dream he’s in—it’s not good. you step inside. quiet. like always.

he doesn’t know what you did.

you tell yourself that.

he doesn’t know.

he’s just tired. he’s just sleeping in. he’s just—

his eyes open.

you freeze, and everything goes still. you don’t know what you’re expecting—maybe for him to sit up. maybe for him to ask you what the hell you’re doing.

but he doesn’t. he just looks at you. quiet. still. like he’s taking inventory of every inch of you and trying not to let it show.

your throat tightens. you don’t speak. you just walk over. slow. unsure.

the room is quiet except for the sound of the ceiling fan and the creak of the mattress as you sit on the edge of the bed. your legs are cold. your skin’s still sticky from the night before. you haven’t even showered. you just wanted… this. something soft. something familiar.

you don’t crawl under the blanket. not this time. you just lay down. next to him. he doesn’t say anything for a long time. you lay there. on top of the covers. not touching. barely breathing.

and then—

“you didn’t come back last night.”

his voice is soft. unreadable.

you stare at the ceiling. “i know.”

another pause.

he shifts slightly. his tone doesn’t change.

“did you sleep in your room?”

you blink. your heart stutters.

“i…” you clear your throat. “i was drunk. i didn’t really sleep.”

he hums. not a laugh. not a reaction. just… something.

you risk a glance. his eyes are still fixed on the ceiling, but you can tell—he’s thinking. hard.

“didn’t even say goodnight,” he murmurs.

you look away again. your chest twists.

“you noticed?”

his jaw ticks. “i notice everything.”

the silence hangs.

and then—he glances at you. finally.

“was it fun?”

your breath catches. you don’t answer. he doesn’t push. just turns back toward the ceiling, like it’s easier to look at than you.

you open your mouth. close it.

your throat is burning. your stomach is flipping inside out.

you don’t want to say it.

you can’t say it.

so you pick the only thing that feels safer than the truth.

“nothing happened,” you say.

the words taste like blood in your mouth.

jungwon doesn’t move.

for a second—for one stupid, fragile second—you think maybe he believes you.

but then he blinks slow, like he’s swallowing something sharp.

“nothing?” he says, voice low.

you shake your head. your palms are sweating. you want to cry.

“we didn’t…” you clear your throat. “i didn’t sleep with him.”

he turns his head. looks at you. really looks. and somehow that hurts worse than if he’d called you a liar to your face.

you can’t tell if he believes you. maybe he just wants to. maybe he needs to. you should stop there. you should shut up.

but the guilt is eating you alive. the need to explain yourself—to justify something that doesn’t have an excuse—rises up hot in your chest.

so you say it.

you break your own heart before he can.

“but i don’t know what we’re doing anymore, jungwon,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i don’t know what i’m waiting for.”

his whole body goes still.

the words hang there, heavy and choking, like smoke in the room.

you press your palms into the mattress. dig your nails into the blanket. you’re shaking and you don’t even realize it.

“i—” you try again, but your voice wobbles. “i’m tired.”

you meet his eyes.

“i’m tired of being the only one who’s sure.”

and there it is.

the crack that splits everything open.

you wish he’d say something. fight for you. deny it. pull you back. but he just looks at you. jaw tight. eyes glassy.

and says nothing.

and somehow, that says everything.

he just looks at you—really looks at you—and it’s like everything he’s been trying to bury is clawing its way out at once.

his mouth moves before his brain can stop it.

“i waited for you last night.”

your heart stutters. your throat goes tight.

he leans back against the headboard, palms flat against the sheets, like he needs something solid to hold onto. his voice cracks—just a little—as he keeps going.

“i stayed up all night,” he says, like he’s confessing a sin. “i didn’t even move. i just… sat here. waiting. waiting for the knock. waiting for you to do what you always do.”

you feel yourself sinking into the mattress, smaller and smaller with every word.

“i kept telling myself you were just drunk. that you’d show up eventually.”

he laughs—sharp and hollow and nothing like him. “but you didn’t.”

you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

he drags a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so tight you’re scared it might break.

“and then,” he says, voice dropping low, “i heard you.”

your stomach flips.

“giggling in the hallway. laughing with him like—like it was easy. like it was nothing.”

he blinks hard, like he’s trying to chase the image away.

“i heard you. and i realized…”

he swallows.

“i realized it was my fault.”

you shake your head, tears burning your eyes, but he doesn’t let you interrupt.

“i should’ve told you a long time ago,” he says, his voice breaking for real now. “i should’ve told you when you first started crawling into my bed. when you first started wearing my hoodies and looking at me like i hung the damn stars.”

he lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts.

“i thought i was protecting you. i thought if i didn’t say it, i couldn’t ruin it. that i couldn’t ruin us.”

his hands ball into fists in the blankets.

“but all i did was make you think you were unwanted. and you’re not. you never were.”

your vision is blurry. your chest hurts. everything in you is pulling toward him and breaking at the same time.

he looks at you then—really looks—and it’s all there.

the wreckage. the regret. the love.

“i’m in love with you,” he says, like it’s the only thing that matters anymore. “i’ve been in love with you.”

he breathes out, shoulders shaking.

“and it shouldn’t have taken another guy showing up and not hesitating to make me say it.”

the room is so quiet you can hear both your hearts beating.

you’re crying for real now. silent. broken open.

he reaches for you—slow, scared—like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he touches you wrong.

and you let him.

you fall into his arms like it’s the only place you’re supposed to be. you curl into him, clutch his hoodie, bury your face in his chest. and he holds you like he’s scared to let go.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair. “i’m so sorry.”

you shake your head. you don’t even know what you’re saying no to—his apology, his pain, the fact that you didn’t wait long enough, the fact that he waited too long.

you just know you don’t want to lose him.

not yet.

not ever.

after a while, when the tears slow and your breathing evens out, he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“can i take you out today?” he murmurs. “just us. no parties. no noise. just… you and me.”

you nod against his chest.

you don’t trust yourself to say anything.

you don’t need to.

the car ride is quiet at first.

not awkward quiet. just... heavy. like the air hasn't caught up with what happened yet.

you fiddle with the zipper of your hoodie, thumb tracing the teeth back and forth. jungwon taps the steering wheel with two fingers, staring straight ahead like the road might disappear if he blinks too slow.

outside, the world is too bright. too loud. everything feels a little sharp.

you pull your sleeves over your hands. press your forehead against the window for a second, trying to cool down the inside of your head.

"you cold?" jungwon asks, voice soft but immediate.

you shake your head.

he nods like he believes you, but you know he doesn't.

you sneak a glance at him.

he's wearing the hoodie you like—the one that's too big on him, the one you always end up stealing halfway through movie nights. his hair’s messy from the hood. there's a small scar under his jaw you’ve never noticed before. you stare at it too long.

"i was gonna take you to that café you liked last semester," he says, voice careful. "the one with the swings instead of chairs."

you blink.

you forgot he remembered that.

you forgot how much he always remembers.

"but it closed down," he says, glancing at you quick, then back at the road. "so… plan B."

you hum, low in your throat. noncommittal.

he presses a little harder on the gas.

"we'll figure it out," he says. "i just wanted to get you out of the house."

you swallow thickly.

"thank you," you say, voice small.

he glances at you again.

and for the first time since you got in the car, he smiles.

it's not a full one. it's not the one that lights up his whole face and makes his eyes scrunch and his dimples cut deep.

but it's real.

and it does something awful and beautiful to your chest.

he switches the music on low.

something soft, something slow. you don't know the song, but it sounds like it was made for moments like this — moments too fragile for silence, too heavy for words.

you close your eyes for a second.

breathe.

pretend you’re just two kids in a car again.

pretend the world hasn’t shifted underneath you.

pretend last night never happened.

you glance out the window again. the highway starts to curve and narrow. you see the blue-and-yellow billboard before anything else.

your heart stutters.

no way.

you sit up straighter, eyes narrowing as more signs come into view—familiar landmarks, road names, the snack stand you once swore had the best fries in the world.

your stomach flips.

he doesn’t say anything. just smirks.

you whip your head toward him. “are we going to dreamwheel?”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just plan the one date you always dreamed about but never got to take him on.

“i mean,” he says, flicking the turn signal, “you’ve only been begging me to come since sophomore year.”

“i didn’t beg.”

“you pouted.”

“i expressed interest.”

“repeatedly.”

you’re already grinning. you can’t help it.

the closer you get, the more it hits you. the skyline. the blazing red rollercoaster loop in the distance. the corny welcome sign.

you went with jake once, a long time ago. but jungwon had the flu and missed it. you talked about it ever since. every time you passed the highway exit. every time someone mentioned cotton candy or arcade games or churros shaped like hearts.

the gate attendant leans out and says, “$30 for parking.”

you automatically reach for your phone. “okay, i’ll send you fifteen—”

“don’t you dare.”

you freeze.

he glances over. “put the phone down.”

“wha—jungwon, it’s thirty dollars.”

“i know.”

“i’m not a broke b—”

“i know that too.”

you try not to smile. “you’re gonna make me get soft.”

he just raises a brow. “you already are.”

he parks. before you can open the door, his voice cuts through the silence.

“don’t touch that.”

you blink.

he’s already out of the car, walking around, and opening the passenger side like it’s second nature. you slide out, stunned.

“what is going on with you today?” you ask, squinting up at him.

he shrugs, locking the car. and then he does it—reaches for your hand. no hesitation. just laces your fingers with his like he’s been doing it every day of his life.

and you let him. because what else are you supposed to do?

this is all you’ve ever wanted.

“this place looks even cheesier than i remember you describing,” he says, walking beside you past the front gates.

you laugh. “that’s the point. it’s a tacky paradise.”

“you love tacky paradises.”

“don’t judge me. you’re literally smiling.”

“i’m smiling because you’re smiling.”

you glance over.

he’s not looking at the park. he’s looking at you. and your chest tightens in that way you hate—the way that makes you feel like you don’t deserve this.

because last night, you didn’t come home. and he waited anyway.

you swallow hard.

but then he’s dragging you toward the first ride. it’s nothing huge—just the spinning teacups. dumb. simple. loud.

you let yourself enjoy it.

the screams. the music. the sound of jungwon laughing across from you as you spin the wheel too hard and almost fall sideways.

you’re a mess. dizzy. smiling too wide. out of breath. you don’t even realize you’re holding his hand again until you’re halfway across the park.

lunch is a paper tray of tteokbokki and fries. he wipes sauce from your cheek with a napkin like it’s nothing.

you say, “where has this version of you been?”

he pauses mid-chew.

then swallows, looking away for a second before he says, “hiding. i guess.”

you don’t press. you don’t have to.

the next ride is a water coaster. you get soaked. he gives you his hoodie to wear over your wet shirt and doesn’t say anything when your fingers brush his stomach while taking it off him.

you pretend not to notice. he lets you.

by the time you get near the ferris wheel, you’re buzzing from sugar and secondhand affection.

the sun is starting to dip, casting orange across everything—like the whole park is stuck in golden hour. you almost forget how heavy your chest has felt all day. almost.

jungwon’s hoodie still hangs off your shoulders. your hair is damp from the water ride. your fingers are sticky from churros and powdered sugar and holding his hand like you’ve been doing it forever.

the line curves around the corner. the wheel creaks above you, slowly spinning, each cart dipping into the sky.

you’re about to lean into him again when—

“yo, what the f—?”

you whip around.

jake.

standing three feet away. sunglasses pushed into his curls. holding a jumbo soda. flanked by two girls.

and sunghoon.

sunghoon is behind him. laughing at something one of the girls said. a hand on the railing. his other one swinging casually at his side like it’s not the same hand that was gripping your waist twelve hours ago.

your blood runs cold.

jake blinks. “what the hell are y’all doing here?”

jungwon’s body goes still next to you. you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

jake laughs, like the moment isn’t loaded. “i thought y’all were on house arrest after last night. didn’t even know you were up yet.”

then he glances between you and jungwon.

sees the hoodie.

the hand-holding.

“wait.” his voice drops a little. “are y’all...?”

sunghoon turns at that. looks up.

and everything goes quiet.

your eyes meet. his mouth parts just slightly. he wasn’t expecting to see you.

not like this.

not wearing jungwon’s clothes. not smiling like the world isn’t still spinning from last night.

the girl next to him tugs on his arm, confused. you step back.

jungwon feels it. his jaw flexes, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

he looks at jake. “we’re on a date.”

simple. straight. like it’s always been true.

jake raises both brows. “damn. my bad.” then he grins, recovering. “guess it’s a double date now, huh?”

you want to disappear. but you don’t. you just smile. barely. and pray your legs don’t give out.

sunghoon doesn’t say anything.

he just looks at you.

like he’s trying to figure out what the hell he missed. what changed. when it changed.

his gaze flickers—jungwon’s hand in yours. the way your body’s angled toward him. the hoodie. the smile you’re pretending isn’t shaking.

you feel it. all of it. the weight of last night crashing into the mess of today.

“you okay?” jungwon asks, low.

you nod. barely.

but then—jake claps his hands.

“bet,” he says. “let’s race to the next ride. loser buys funnel cake.”

before you can react, everyone starts moving.

sunghoon walks past you. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t touch you. doesn’t even look too long.

just enough for your breath to catch.

and then he’s gone. walking ahead with the girl still trailing beside him, laughing at something he didn’t even say.

you’re still frozen when jungwon gently pulls you forward, like he’s choosing not to say what he saw in your face.

the group scatters, arguing about which ride is next. jake’s already halfway up the path. the girls trail behind. you and jungwon follow, a little slower.

you’re trying to focus. on the date. on him. on this version of your life where everything feels easy and soft and golden.

but your heart is thudding again. and your mind keeps spinning.

you tell jungwon you’re going to the bathroom. simple. no drama. no lingering looks. just a casual excuse to breathe.

you barely make it two steps past the bathroom when you hear him.

"so you're just gonna ignore me now?"

you stop.

close your eyes.

fuck.

you turn slowly, heart already thudding.

sunghoon’s standing there. arms crossed. jaw tight. no smile. no charm. just tension.

"what are you doing?" you ask, already exhausted.

he shrugs. "same thing you are. pretending."

you roll your eyes. "go back to your little group."

"why?" he tilts his head. "so you can play house with him a little longer?"

your stomach twists.

"don’t do this," you mutter.

"don’t do what? remind you what happened last night?"

you try to push past him, but he steps in front of you.

"don’t act brand new," he says, voice lower now. "you didn’t have this attitude when i had you bent over begging for more."

your breath catches. you stare at him.

"fuck you," you say quietly.

he laughs—cold, sharp, like you didn’t just stab him first.

"already did."

you look away, throat tight.

he leans in, too close. "you’re gonna tell me none of it meant anything?"

you hesitate. only for a second. but it’s enough.

he sees it.

"right," he says. "thought so."

you grit your teeth. "you knew about me and jungwon."

his smirk fades.

"you always knew," you continue. "you just didn’t care. you saw an opening and you took it."

"and you let me."

"i never said i didn’t. but don’t stand here acting like you thought this was something more."

"it wasn’t nothing."

"maybe not," you say, voice flat. "but i’m still choosing him."

his face twitches.

you don’t even hear the footsteps behind you. don’t realize someone’s listening until the hallway drops into silence.

jungwon.

standing there.

frozen.

his face unreadable. but his eyes—his eyes burn straight through you.

you feel your heart seize. he heard everything.

sunghoon scoffs behind you, like this is all too much. "man, whatever. this is a joke."

he turns like he’s about to walk—

"nah."

jungwon’s voice cuts the air like a blade. he steps forward. calm. cold.

"you cool?"

sunghoon spins. "are you?"

you try to step in, but jungwon’s eyes never leave his.

"she told you to back off. she’s here with me. you don’t get to keep pushing."

"she was with me last night," sunghoon snaps. "so what do you wanna do? let me know."

jungwon flinches. just barely.

but it’s enough to make your stomach drop.

"stop it," you say. "both of you—"

"no," jungwon says, eyes still locked. "if you respected her at all, you’d walk away."

"don’t act like you’re some fucking hero," sunghoon growls. “you waited too long. i didn’t. you just watched her walk away.”

jungwon doesn’t blink.

sunghoon tilts his head, eyes burning. “you know what your problem is? you were scared. too pussy to say how you felt. too pussy to make a move. and now a guy like me came around and got your girl.”

you flinch.

jungwon’s fist curls—but he’s still too still. too quiet.

sunghoon shrugs like it’s nothing. like he didn’t just drop a bomb. “don’t be mad at me for seeing her. for acting. for not hesitating.”

he nods at you, just once. and for a moment, it almost feels like a soft truth.

“she’s not a maybe. she’s not some game. and if you really gave a fuck, you wouldn’t have waited until someone else touched her to wake up.”

and that’s when jungwon speaks.

low.

measured.

but deadly.

“i’m a pussy?” he repeats, voice calm in that terrifying kind of way. “nah. you are.”

sunghoon’s brows twitch.

jungwon steps forward. not fast. not angry. just sure.

“because i had a choice,” he says. “i could’ve made her mine months ago. but i didn’t want to fuck this up. not like you just did.”

sunghoon scoffs, but jungwon’s not done.

“you want a medal for not hesitating?” he spits. “for seeing a drunk girl who’s been in love with someone else and still going for it?”

sunghoon opens his mouth, but—

“you fucked her, and the very next day, you showed up with another bitch on your arm.”

your breath catches.

jungwon doesn’t look at you. he doesn’t even flinch.

“don’t talk to me about being a man. if you actually liked her—if you respected her at all—you wouldn’t have touched her like that. you would've waited. you would've meant it. ” jungwon takes a deep breath before shooting his final blow. "and yeah, you two had a good time last night, but when she woke up, who did she want? you, or me?"

sunghoon stares.

jaw tight. eyes burning. but he doesn’t speak.

because there’s nothing to say.

you’re the one who’s shaking now. because every word feels like it landed in your chest.

and still—

you can’t take any of it back.

taglist❤️

@jvngw0nlvr @iamjusttryingtoreadapost @woibeb @xoseraphiina @tunafishyfishylike @onlyticket-home @k1ttyjwon @taehyunsfavmoa @doveblackboat @umanjofantasma

[bernardsbendystraws]

You Don’t Own Me

SERIES MASTERLIST

Chris Sturniolo lives by his own rules, refusing to be controlled. Some see him as a rebel, a troublemaker—but is that the full truth? Meanwhile, Y/N is focused on making the most of her last year of high school, determined to have a normal teenage experience. But when their worlds collide, they realize they may have more in common than they ever expected.

WARNINGS: COPYRIGHT NOTICE. PLEASE READ AND LOOK UP DEFINITIONS OF WARNINGS FOR FURTHER CLARIFICATION. HUGE TW FOR THIS CHAPTER. CSA (only mentioned, not described), angst, fluff, fighting, physical altercation, lying, and more.

A/N: This is long as fuck and have fun on this emotional rollercoaster lol this is barely proofread btw

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

P24: Too Soon?

A week. My mom would be gone on some work trip for an entire seven days.

I really don’t believe it. Part of me always thought she would lie about them being ‘work trips,’ but now I was sure. What kind of work trip didn’t have cell service?

She’s lying. I know she’s hiding something, I know deep down this probably isn’t the first time she’s done this before. But that’s not even the worst part.

The worst part is that she that she left Byalen in charge to ‘watch’ me—like a fucking babysitter, since I couldn’t be trusted anymore because of the time she caught me coming home with Chris early in the morning.

Fucking hypocrite. 

Sure, I wasn’t telling the truth—but neither was she. Like mother, like daughter, I guess. 

Currently, I’m on my bed, staring up at the ceiling as my phone rests on my stomach. Chris’ voice echoes through the device. We’ve been talking for hours. I really want to just go over and see him—see my boyfriend, but I can’t. Not while I’m being fucking babysat. 

“Are you sure you don’t wanna sleep over? You need to sleep.” Chris says.

God, the offer is tempting. All of me wants to say yes, walk over to his house, and cuddle up in his arms. But I can’t. I’ve slept like shit for the past three days and it keeps getting worse. I need him to hold me in order to feel okay, I wanna sleep in a house that feels like a home too. 

It’s not even just him. It’s Jimmy, it’s Matt, and hell—even Trevor. I love being around them, it makes everything feel so much easier. 

I huff, shaking my head against my pillow as I roll my eyes. “I can’t, I’m being fuckin babysat at 18 years old.” I remark. 

A wave of silence washes over for a minute. I can practically hear Chris thinking, the slight vibration of a curious hum sounding through the phone. My fingers callus over my lip, the slight graze of my nails making the muscle tingle in a way that mimics how Chris’ lips feel against my own.

Fuck. I miss that. 

It’s like he has something that I need and crave all the damn time, like he possesses some sort of energy that makes my body feel better—lighter, even. 

“Well…what if I came over there?” He offers. 

My eyebrows twist together. I lick over my lip, gnawing on the muscle as I think of his statement. 

“But…but what if we get caught?” I question. 

I could imagine it. Baylen would see Chris and all hell would break loose. 

I doubt he’d cover for me, he’d probably enthusiastically go telling my mom the second she walks back into the house. 

Chris lets out a dry laugh. “Has he really ever bothered to check in your room? I mean, even if he does, I’ll just hide in your closet or something.”

“That’s kinda gay, bro,” I joke, gnawing on my lip as I hear Chris let out a fit of chuckles that make my heart echo in my ears. 

I love being able to do that. Hearing him laugh—making him laugh, it all feels so pure. It honestly feels as intimate as him in between my legs, just in a different type of way. 

Either are addicting. It was hard to miss only one or the other, I craved both. 

I wanted to feel the euphoric relief from his touch. I wanted to laugh with him to the point where I couldn’t think of anything except how bad my stomach cramped from giggling. 

I wanted everything and all of it—I just want him. 

It’s only been a bit over a week since we made things official, but god—I could feel emotions building so rapidly, so much that they felt like they were consuming every corner of my mind.

Some of it made me sick. 

I never felt this way with Ryan, my ex. The butterflies were there, but not to this extent—not to the point where I caught myself trying to imagine he was holding me in order to fall asleep. 

“Do you want me to come over and not?” Chris remarks, pulling me back to reality as his voice echoes through my phone. 

I bite back a sore smile, humming in approval, “Yes please.” 

___

It feels good like this. Every inch of my body is content, my limbs melted in his hold as I let myself breathe in the fresh air from the cracked window in my bedroom.

His hand is combing through my hair. I hear him clear his throat, his chest rumbling as he begins to speak, “So, um…I…I’ve really missed you.” he says—again.

My lips tug into an unrelenting smile. We’ve been cuddling for hours and he’s repeated the same statement at least ten times. 

It should be annoying, but it’s not. It makes me feel warm—it makes me feel a part of the moment, like every wave of the breeze is infiltrating the pores on my skin to ground me with a profound amount of peace. 

“I missed you too.” I reply, scratching my nails over his chest as I let out another hum of contentment. His lips press against the crown of my head, a lingering kiss placed on my scalp as I feel his warm breath tickle into my hair. 

It’s dark now. We should be tired, but we’re not. A short nap had rendered us a bit sad since we wanted to watch the sunset together, but it was okay since now we got to watch the night sky illuminate with a crescent moon and thousands of stars varying in vibrance. 

I wonder who’s watching. Maybe my dad is one of those stars, maybe he gets to see me finally living after all these years without him. 

The gap of his presence still aches in my heart, but it’s not as exhausting. A tiny splinter of a gap still remains in the pumping muscle, but it seems to be soothed by the added layers of security from Chris’ arms around me. 

“What’re you thinking about, pretty girl?” Chris asks, combing through my hair. 

I crane my head to stare up at him, sparing a soft smile as I give a slight shrug of my shoulders. “I just…” my words float into the air, unfinished as I gulp the lump in my throat that seems to build with how his eyes are piercing into me. “-I really like this. I…really like you…being here with me. It’s just–” 

Chris leans down, pressing the tip of his nose against my own as he blinks, his eyes lashes fluttering against my own with a ticklish sensation that makes a soft sigh fall from my lips. 

“-good. I’m glad you like it because I love it. You don’t understand how much I missed holding you, really,” he whispers, his breath fanning across my lips in a way that makes my stomach swarm with warm butterflies. “-this makes me so, so, so fuckin’ happy—holding my girl, in my arms—”

“You’re never gonna stop saying that, huh?” I tease, biting on my lip as his eyes open and gleam into my own.              

Chris purses his lips, shrugging. “Nah. Getting to call you my girl?” he puffs, his eyes going with before he offers a playful smile, “-could never get old to me. Makes me feel all….” he wraps his arms tighter around me, pulling a gasp from my mouth as he pulls my chest plush against his, “-warm.” 

Ugh. He feels the same way I do—maybe even more so. 

I let myself bathe in his stare, the reassurance of his gaze making me feel like moonlight—calm, radiate, and important. Part of me doesn’t wanna speak at all, the fear of this exact moment ending making my heart pulse in my chest with a sharp sting. 

But it’s okay. 

It’s okay because I know there will always be more moments like this with him. It’s okay because there’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll ever let me feel anything less than cared for. 

Words linger on the tip of my tongue, words I know I shouldn’t say—not yet, at least.

But it’s true. I love him, I really, really do. I don’t know when the realization happened. Honestly, I think it might’ve been when we first met, like some sort of cautious feeling that was warning me of destiny. 

Chris licks over his lips, his smile fading into a serious look as he swallows thickly. “I…I know we haven’t been official for very long, but—I…I feel things for you, I feel so much it hurts,” he breaths. 

My breath halts in my chest, my ears ringing as my bones seem to vibrate inside my body. He feels it too. It’s like everything about us is connected, like everything is falling into place so effortlessly it feels like magic. 

“I…” The words fall flat on the tip of my tongue, my eyes glazing over with pure emotion as I let my eyes wander over his face.

It’s so comfortable. All I can hear is our hearts beating in sync, the way my entire soul is burning for me to say it—say everything. 

“I love you.”

My eyes widened in shock. The words had rambled off my tongue so rushed, the devotion hanging in the air with an accompanied echo of his own voice. 

“Oh.” 

Our words are still in sync. We both let out a small laugh, the giggles falling quiet as we just breath in each other’s presence. 

“I guess that wasn’t as scary as I was making it out to seem, huh?” he tuts. 

I shake my head, laughing under my breath as I shrug, “-I guess so.” 

___

Chris’ POV

I keep waking up. I’m not sure what time it is, but it’s like my body doesn’t want to sleep, even though I’m very comfortable, I just wanna look at her in my arms. 

The slight sound of crickets echoing with the cool night air makes me sigh. My eyes drift over to her nightstand, her empty water bottle catching my attention. She had jugged all of it and fell back asleep within an instant a while ago, waking up a bit later, disappointed to find the bottle empty. 

Maybe I should fill it for her.

Yeah.

Slowly sliding away, I wince hearing her let out a small whimper, reaching out for me as I stand up fully. Her eyes peek open. I pet over her shoulder, cooing, “-hey, go back to sleep—’m just gonna fill your water, okay?” 

She nods hazily, her eyes falling shut with a slight scowl printed on her face. 

God, she’s pretty.

My stomach flutters with warmth as I watch her bottom lip pout slightly, her arms reaching out and tugging the pillow that was beneath my head into her hold as she greedily takes a large breath.

Fuck.

She’s barely awake and she still wants me. 

With light steps, I carefully make my way out of her room, venturing through the halls in hopes of finding the kitchen. It doesn’t take long. I walk into the tiled room, the cold flooring against my feet making me miss the warmth of her touch. 

“Ugh,” I sigh, walking over to the sink and filling the bottle, trying to tilt the object to create as little noise as possible. 

My lips roll together, my mind racing with thoughts as I reminisce on earlier. I was so scared to tell her that I loved her, I was scared it was too soon, too much, or purely insane to feel so strongly when we only made things official a bit ago. 

But she said it at the same time, and somehow that was better than her saying it back. 

“Who the fuck?” 

My eyes go wide as I screw on the cap to the water bottle. I turn around, finding her brother with messy hair and sunken eyes staring at me with a scowl. 

Fuck. 

“Shit.” I mutter, squinting my eyes shut in hopes I’m just having a nightmare. 

But no. 

I open my eyes, he’s still there—closer. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he interrogates, his shoulders broadening as his nostrils flare with an angry huff. 

“I, uh,” I look towards the hallway, mentally cursing myself as I think of her getting in trouble because of me, “-I’m Chris. I’m…uh—”

I don’t get the chance to finish. Baylen’s eyes shift to the bottle in my hand, his tongue prodding on the side of his cheek as he shakes his head disappointedly. 

“What? Are you her boyfriend or something?” he asks, lips tugged into a straight line. 

Gulping, I nod. Surely me being her boyfriend is better than being a stranger breaking in, right?

“No.”

The fuck?

My brows furrow together at his statement. Baylen seems to analyze the confusion on my face, shrugging as he repeats the words with a more tense voice, “-I said no.” 

“What? No? Hate to break it to you, but that’s not really your decision.” I point. 

No wonder she can’t get along with him, he’s a prick. He barely acts like a brother, yet he’s trying to dictate our relationship? 

Fuck that. I’ve done more for her than he has with a fraction of the time. 

I mean, how hard is it to be there for his sister? 

After losing my mom and Nick, no matter how distant or hurt I was, I still hugged Matt when he needed it. I might’ve grown distant, but I never grew heartless.

Baylen couldn’t even suck it up to play video games with her. 

His face contorts with distaste. I let out an angry sigh, my eyes rolling while he let out a scoff. 

“She’s my sister. I’m the one who gets to look out for her, not some guy she’s known for what, a couple months?” he remarks, a slight snort echoing at the end of his sentence. 

His words seem to make my heart pummel against my chest with rage, the statement making my blood boil as I lick over my teeth. “Look out for her? You can’t even sit down and play a video game with her for more than five minutes. Just…” I shake my head, watching as his face shifts into shock before the fury in his eyes starts to become more intense, “-it’s whatever.” 

Baylen clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth, shaking his head, “Shut the fuck up. You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

My nose twitches, my eyes squint as my jaw becomes tight. Who the fuck does he think he’s talking to? 

“Oh, I have no idea what I’m talking about?” I huff, my brows lifting as I let out a dry laugh, “-no, you have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re an awful fucking brother, you have no say in anything when you’re treating her like…like a fucking dick.” 

His jaw clicks. Baylen stalks forward, his hands twisting in the collar of my shirt as he yanks me to the side, pushing me against the wall as his eyes glare into me, the anger radiating off of him making the ache in my head from the impact seem less apparent as I drop the water bottle and clutch onto his wrists, trying to yank him off of me. The loud clunk of the bottle hitting the ground makes me wince. I huff at his unrelenting grip, taking a heavy sigh as I try to calm the pulsing anger in my body. 

I can’t hit him. She cares about him—even if he hurts her, I know that would make her upset.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he repeats, his voice dangerously low as he pushes me harder against the wall.  

“You abandoned her when she needed you most. What kind of brother does that?” I spit, the emotions in my voice leaking with a bit of hypocrisy. 

I wasn’t always the best when it came to comforting Matt after my mom and Nick had died, but at least I came around. Someone had to knock some sense into me—that someone being my dad, but it didn’t seem like anyone was ever gonna set Baylen straight. 

“You—you don’t get it. Stop. Just—just shut up,” he yells, shoving me even harder as I feel the back of my head pulse. 

“I do. Just…ow, fuck—” I hiss, the pain becoming evidentally apparent as my skull aches, “-I lost some of my family. Someone had to knock some sense into me. She—she’s your sister, you both lost your dad, she’s hurting and—shit.” 

It fucking hurts. The back of my head is pulsing, an echoing pain bursting through my forehead as I try to move, only to have him shove me harder. 

“I didn’t lose anyone. You…you don’t understand.” 

My eyes peak open, curiosity accompanied by pain as I hear a slight crack in his voice. His face drops with sadness, the anger fleeting into some sort of sullen emotion as he swallows thickly. 

“You…you don’t understand. That man—he’s not my father. He’s a sick excuse of a man that traumatized her and she doesn’t even fucking remember,” he spits. 

“I…what?” I breathe, my chest tightening as Baylen loosens his grip around the collar of my shirt, his lower lip wobbling. 

“I’m never supposed to tell her. I…I have to hear her mourn a man who would…who’s the reason she’d have to sneak into my room—he’s the reason she could never make it through the night without having an accident. Something was wrong—everything was wrong.” 

“What—what’re you saying?” I ask, my mouth falling open as I let my hands fall from his wrists. 

Baylen’s eyes sink with sadness, his cheek hollowing as he gulps. “She wasn’t potty trained for a long time. At first, I didn’t get it. But…but…he was touching her, her body was showing all the signs of sexual assault, but I was just a kid, I didn’t…I—by the time I understood what had happened, it—it was too late. Now I have to hear her mourn a man who is the reason I feel—he’s…he’s the reason I can’t comfort her, he’s the reason I can’t look at her,” he says, his head tilting as his face scrunches with pain;

“He’s the reason I hate myself—the reason I can’t let myself get close to her without seeing how much of a failure I am.” 

Oh.

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Collision 9/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : SMAU, Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : SMUT (MDNI)

CHAPTER 9 :

Serie Masterlist

Texts messages  :  

Lando 

I’d really like to see you again. 

Just us. A proper dinner. A quiet place. 

You in? 

Ariana 

Yes. 

That sounds good. 

Pick the place. 

I’ll be there. 

Lando 

7PM. 

I’ll pick you up. 

And I promise not to talk about engines for once. 

Ariana 

Not even one metaphor? 

Lando 

Only if it’s a good one. 

And only if it makes you smile. 

The restaurant he chose was quiet, tucked between rows of old stone buildings and dimly lit galleries. The kind of place that still wrote the menu by hand. Where the wine list was spoken aloud and the music stayed low enough not to interrupt a thought. 

He pulled her chair out before sitting across from her, the candlelight between them softening the edges of everything. Her dress was understated and elegant. She wore no necklace, only a hint of lipstick and the weight of something unreadable in her eyes. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. 

“I’m glad you asked.” 

Conversation unfolded slowly, not playful, but personal. She told him about the quiet hours before a show, the meditative routine of stretching, braiding her hair, the way a certain silence meant the performance would go well. 

He told her about noise, how he was used to it. How he’d learned to find peace in the spaces between chaos. 

Their fingers brushed across the table once, accidentally, and neither of them pulled away. 

“I like the way you see things,” she said, over the first course. “ It feels… thoughtful.” 

He smiled softly. “You make me see things like this, meaningfull.” 

They talked about nothing and everything. Favorite authors. Old regrets. Places they hadn’t been. Her voice was low, steady. His was quiet, almost careful. She asked if he ever got lonely. He said sometimes. She said she understood. 

By the time dessert arrived, something had shifted. The air had grown heavier, not tense, just full. Like both of them were waiting for a moment neither wanted to name. 

And then he set his fork down. 

Ariana noticed the change in his face before he said anything. 

“What is it?” she asked, gently. 

He exhaled. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.” 

“Tell me what?” 

“I have to leave tomorrow.” 

She stilled. “Where?” 

“Brazil. It came together last-minute. Some of the drivers, their partners… someone planned a trip. There’s this pressure to be part of it. I didn’t want to go. But—” 

“You’re going,” she said, quietly. 

He nodded. “Just two weeks.” 

Her eyes dropped to the table. Her hands folded into her lap. She didn’t speak right away. 

“And then I’m going back in Paris,” she said finally. 

“I know, and I'm back at the races” 

The silence was brutal. 

The kind that swells in the chest and spreads into the throat. 

“I thought we’d have more time,” she said softly. 

“I thought so too.” 

They both stared at each other, not speaking, not touching, while the candle between them flickered, helpless against the weight of it. 

“It’s just two weeks,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced. 

“And then we’re in different countries.” 

He nodded. “Different routines. Different time zones.” 

They sat like that for what felt like forever. 

Neither of them said it, the thing they were both thinking. 

That this might be it. 

That this night might be the last night. 

That maybe fate had offered them only a single season, a few weeks, a few moments, a few kisses and now it was slipping through their fingers like smoke. 

They left the restaurant without speaking much more. 

Outside, the air was icy but clear, the kind of winter night where everything felt sharper. Their hands found each other instinctively as they walked. No umbrella. Just the sound of heels and boots and breath. 

At her door, he paused. 

She turned toward him, her keys in hand. 

And then he just said it. 

“I don’t want this to end.” 

She looked at him, eyes wide and shining. 

“Then don’t let it.” 

“Ari…” 

She stepped forward, pressing a hand to his chest. “We don’t know what’s going to happen. But tonight, I want you stay.” 

He didn’t answer. 

He just nodded. 

The door clicked shut behind them, shutting out the world, the cold, the noise, the gossip, leaving only the heavy, breathless space between them.

Ariana turned toward him, standing in the golden, muted light of her flat, her hands twisting slightly at her sides like she wasn't sure what to do next.

Lando didn’t say anything. He just crossed the small space between them in two strides, his hands lifting to frame her face, tentative at first, like he needed to make sure this was real and then he kissed her.

Slow. Gentle. Asking.

Her whole body softened into him at once, sighing against his lips, arms lifting to twine around his neck. His thumbs stroked her cheekbones, keeping her close, anchoring her there.

He kissed her again, deeper now, pouring everything into it, the nerves, the gratitude, the pure, aching need he had been trying to hold back all night.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads pressed together, Ariana’s fingers curled into the fabric of his coat.

“Can I?” he whispered against her lips, his hands brushing lightly along the curve of her waist, waiting.

She nodded, heart hammering, then whispered, “Yes. Please.”

Carefully, Lando slid his hands down her sides, letting the velvet of her dress slip from her shoulders. He moved slowly, giving her every chance to change her mind. She didn’t, she only arched closer, helping him, wanting this too much to stop.

She reached for him next, fingers fumbling a little with the buttons of his shirt. She popped them open one by one, her knuckles brushing his chest, his skin warm and firm under her touch.

When his shirt finally fell open, she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his bare chest, just under his collarbone, soft kisses that made his whole body shudder.

He groaned low in his throat, catching her waist to steady himself.

"You’re killing me," he murmured against her hair, voice rough with restraint.

She smiled, small, shy, devastating and pushed his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

Lando's hands slid over her body again, down her arms, around her back, following the curve of her ass. He found the zipper at her back, tugged it slowly down, and the dress pooled at her feet, leaving her only in delicate black lace panties.

He stepped back just enough to look at her, to really look and his breath caught.

"You're so beautiful," he said, voice breaking.

She flushed, shifting slightly under his gaze, but didn't try to cover herself.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, hungrier, his hands roaming, rediscovering every inch of skin he could reach.

He backed her up gently until her legs hit the couch. She dropped down onto the cushions, looking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

Lando knelt between her legs, his hands sliding up her thighs, parting them carefully. He kissed the inside of her knee first, then higher, and higher, patient, deliberate, until she was squirming.

He hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and tugged them down her legs, slow enough to make her whimper.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he said, voice low and thick.

"I don't want you to stop," she whispered.

He kissed her hipbone, then down, nuzzling the soft skin at the apex of her thighs before finally, finally licking a slow, wet stripe through her folds.

Ariana gasped, hips jerking, hands flying to tangle in his curls.

Lando groaned at the taste of her, sweet and sharp and addicting and licked again, slower, more thorough. He wrapped his arms around her thighs, holding her open, pressing his tongue flat against her clit and flicking lightly until she was trembling.

He worked her with devastating patience, circling her clit, dipping into her entrance with his tongue, teasing her until she was panting and begging under her breath.

Then he slid two fingers into her, slow and deep, curling them just right to find that spot that made her cry out, hips lifting off the couch.

"Lando," she gasped, voice breaking.

"That's it," he murmured against her, lips brushing her slick folds. "Let go for me."

He moved his fingers faster now, fucking her steadily while his mouth sucked and licked her clit, never giving her a chance to come down.

She shattered with a soft, keening cry, thighs clenching around his head, nails digging into his shoulders.

He kept going, coaxing every last tremor from her, until she was gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

When he finally pulled away, his mouth was slick, his eyes dark with hunger.

He kissed her knee one more time, almost tenderly, before standing, fumbling in the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet.

He pulled out a condom, tearing it open with shaking hands.

Ariana sat up on the couch, watching him with flushed cheeks and wide, desperate eyes.

He knelt between her legs again, kissing her deeply as he rolled the condom on, her hands clumsy and eager on his shoulders.

"Are you sure?" he asked again, voice wrecked.

She nodded, pulling him closer. "I need you."

Lando groaned and lined himself up, brushing the thick head of his cock through her slick folds.

When he pushed inside her, they both moaned, loud, unrestrained, clinging to each other.

He went slow, giving her time to adjust to the stretch, kissing her face, her throat, her collarbone between every shallow thrust.

She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, her hands scrambling over his back like she couldn't get enough of him.

"Fuck, Ari," he gasped against her skin. "You feel so good."

She whimpered in answer, rocking her hips up to meet his thrusts.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frenzied.

It was deep.

Slow.

Desperate in a way that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with needing : needing to connect, to anchor, to feel.

He thrust into her harder now, faster but still controlled, grinding against her just right to make her gasp every time he bottomed out.

"Look at me," he panted.

She opened her eyes and what he saw there, wild and open and full of him, nearly undid him.

He kissed her again, bruising and sweet, swallowing every sound she made.

Their bodies moved together like they'd done it a thousand times in dreams. The slap of skin against skin, the soft cries, the murmured names, it all blended into a symphony of need.

Her walls fluttered around him, and she sobbed his name into his mouth.

"That's it," he whispered. "Come for me, baby."

She shattered with a cry, nails raking down his back, thighs locking around him.

He wasn’t far behind, with a broken groan, he thrust once, twice more and then came, burying his face in her neck, holding her so tight it felt like he could imprint himself on her skin.

They lay tangled together afterward, breathing hard, bodies slick and spent, neither of them moving away.

Lando kissed her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, like he couldn't stop, like he didn't want to.

Ariana threaded her fingers through his curls, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t need to.

They lay there for a long time afterward, tangled, quiet, skin slick with sweat and still pressed together. 

He kissed her again like it would never happen again as they both fall asleep against each other. 

The morning she woke to find him already dressed, jacket half-zipped, by the door. She padded out of the couch where they fall asleep, hair still messy, wearing his shirt that hung too low on her frame. He smiled when he saw her, but there was a weight behind it. The same weight sitting in her chest. 

They didn’t say much. 

Because what could they say? 

His flight to Brazil was in two hours. A house full of friends waiting for him. A vacation with laughter and heat and late nights. And yet all he could think about was the way her fingers clung to the hem of his sleeve, the way she leaned into his chest one last time, how their lips met, slowly, then suddenly, like neither wanted to let go. 

“I’ll see you again,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers. 

She didn’t answer. 

Because maybe they both knew that even if they did… it wouldn’t be the same. 

He lingered in the doorway. 

Then left. 

And the silence that followed felt like a scream neither of them knew how to stop

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @esw1012, @lilyofthevalley-09, @its-me-frankie; @linneaguriii , @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek

Let me know if you wanted to be added to the taglist !

[nephynes]

You’re broke, exhausted, and desperate enough to take a cleaning job no one else will touch. The client lives alone in a silent penthouse, hidden from the world by rumor and choice. You weren’t supposed to know his name—just clean and leave. But when your journal goes missing and comes back with his handwriting in the margins, everything changes.

• minors do not interact

• pairing: schizophrenic concert pianist!heeseung x afab reader

• wc: 28k

• content tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mental health themes, depictions of schizophrenia, poverty, class disparity, emotional repression, slow burn, journal entries, forbidden closeness, soft smut, loneliness, poetic prose, mentions of blood, trauma, caretaker dynamics, emotionally intense, non-idol au, heeseung x reader, reader-insert.

WARNINGS: mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of blood, emotional breakdowns, poverty, food insecurity, toxic living environment, isolation, possible dissociation, references to past trauma, depersonalization, implied neglect, emotionally heavy content, not a fluff centric story. okay maybe there’s a little fluff.

•a/n: this was meant to be a 15k word fic (don’t ask me what happened) i would still die for recluse heeseung.

nsfw tags under the cut

SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, bloodplay implications, sex during dissociation, power imbalance, emotional dependency, mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm, trauma, possessive behavior, emotionally intense dynamic, obsession themes. (lmk if i missed any) not proofread!

══════════════════════════

You're running. Again. The strap of your tote bag digs into your shoulder as your shoes slap the sidewalk, water splashing up your ankles with each desperate step. Rain mist clings to your skin like sweat—except sweat would be warm. This is just cold and inconvenient. Your Literature lecture ran ten minutes over because, of course, your professor finally decided to acknowledge your existence the one time you needed to leave early. He asked for your thoughts on postmodern fragmentation in the age of digital alienation while you sat there wondering if postmodern fragmentation was what your GPA would look like this semester.

By the time you made it outside, the bus was already pulling up. You waved frantically, almost twisting your ankle as you darted across the crosswalk—nearly colliding with a cyclist. He swerved. You screamed. He cursed. It was poetic, in a tragicomedy kind of way. Now, you're clinging to the pole in the bus's center aisle, damp hair clinging to your cheeks as it rocks around corners, your phone buzzing with the time—12:46 PM.

Mrs. Do expects you at 12:30. Sharp, always sharp but today you're going to disappoint her, again and it makes you nervous cause this isn't your first fuck up. Getting off at the bus stop in Mrs. Do's neighborhood is like stepping into another world. Wide sidewalks, trimmed hedges. Every driveway is the kind of polished grey stone that seems to repel dirt on principle. The kind of neighborhood that smells like generational wealth and imported jasmine diffusers.

The sky's already sour when you round the corner onto the cobblestone lane. Gray and sullen, like it knows something you don't. Your thighs ache from sprinting across campus, your spine's slick with sweat under your too-thin hoodie, and your fingers are still raw from gripping the metal pole on the bus. You hadn't even realized how tightly you were holding on—like the bus was the only thing standing between you and collapse. You're fifteen minutes late, sixteen, actually.

The house looms before you like a museum exhibit—grand, sterile, and quiet enough to make you feel like you've already done something wrong just by being there. All tall glass windows and trimmed hedges, with a front door so glossy you can see your own desperation reflected in it. You ring the bell, sucking in a breath and she opens it almost immediately. Mrs. Do doesn't need to speak to make her opinion known. Her eyes flick down your frame—hoodie, faded jeans, dirt-smudged sneakers—and her mouth flattens like she's biting back something acidic. Her nose twitches once.

"You're late."

"I'm so sorry," you say, voice thin. "My class ran over and I missed my bus, and—" She rolls her eyes, cutting you off, "You people always have an excuse". You people. "I've already called your manager," she says coolly, stepping back just enough to make room for your shame to enter. "This is unacceptable. I hired help, not excuses."

Help. You step inside anyway because she hasn't technically slammed the door in your face yet. The floor gleams beneath your feet and you're careful not to drip on the marble. "I can still clean," you try, gripping the handle of your tote tighter. "I—I'll stay longer if you need. P—Please don't fire me." She turns slowly, folding her arms like she's posing for a luxury handbag ad. "You'll leave," she says. "And next time, be honest with yourself about what you're capable of."

That's it. No raised voice, no chance to plead. Just ice in human form and the creak of the front door swinging back open like a guillotine. You stand there a second too long—long enough for it to become pathetic—then you turn and walk back out with your head down and your heart thudding where your confidence used to be. It starts to drizzle as soon as you step off her perfect property. Of course it does.You jog down to the bus stop at the end of the street, ignoring the way your socks squelch in your shoes. Your bag knocks awkwardly against your side. You still have half a bottle of disinfectant in there, you could drink it and cleanse the humiliation right out of your system.

The bus pulls up late. You board with the same dread you imagine people feel before surgery—knowing it's necessary, knowing it's going to hurt. Inside, it's packed. You stand, gripping the pole, body swaying with every uneven turn. The lights flicker overhead. A kid is screaming two seats over. A man is coughing into his hand and not covering his mouth. You catch your reflection in the window—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, eyes dull, lips chapped from chewing them in nervous spirals. This is your life, this bus ride, this moment, is unfortunately your life. The route winds through the city, away from the clean sidewalks and polished gates, deeper into the cracked edges of town where the concrete is more gum than stone and the streetlights work in pairs—if at all. You get off at the corner near the faded liquor store, shoulders hunched under the growing weight of your day.

Your apartment building is a boxy, red-brick rectangle with iron balconies rusting at the corners. The woman who lives two floors up is yelling at her boyfriend again. You can hear every word, you wonder why they're still together seeing as they're fighting every other day. You climb the stairs slowly, dragging your legs like anchors. The third floor always smells like someone burned toast and sprayed perfume to hide it. Your door sticks and it takes three tries to get it open. The TV is already blaring, some british reality dating show, laughter, the pop of a beer can. Minjae is sprawled across the couch, shirtless, remote in one hand and a bowl in the other.

Your bowl. "Yo," he greets, mouth full. "You look like death."

"Thanks." You kick off your shoes and look around in the apartment that's in pure chaos—shoes everywhere, makeup on the kitchen counter, someone's bra dangling from the dining chair. Probably Jiyoon's. The dishes in the sink are starting grow by numbers. She appears in the hallway, barefoot and probably wine-drunk, wearing one of her boyfriend's shirts.

"Hey," she slurs. "How was the bitch?" You stare at her. "I got fired." "Again?" she groans, flopping dramatically onto the peeling loveseat. "Ugh. I told you to lie and say your grandma died. It works every time." You don't respond, heading to the kitchen to open the fridge, the light flickers when you open it. There's nothing inside except a carton of milk that expired last week and someone's half-eaten burger. You close it and lean against the counter, pressing your forehead to the cabinet above.

This can't be your life. This can't keep being your life.

Your socks are still wet when you drag yourself down the narrow hall toward the shared bathroom. You don't even bother turning on the light at first—just reach blindly into the shower caddy for your body wash, hoping a hot rinse will wash off the day, or at least the last of Mrs. Do's perfume that still clings to your sleeves like a curse. Your hand closes around the bottle.

Empty.

You blink, now flipping on the harsh fluorescent light. The bottle is sitting there—your expensive one, the only thing you splurged on in months, lavender and eucalyptus, bought during a panic attack at the drugstore like a promise to yourself that things would get better but now it's squeezed dry. You stand there, frozen. Cold water dripping off your hood. Your knuckles whitening around the neck of the bottle. "Jiyoon!" your voice cracks down the hallway like a whip.

A pause. "What?" she calls back, annoyed, like you're interrupting something important—like Love Island. You storm back into the living room, brandishing the empty bottle like evidence at a trial. Minjae doesn't even glance up from the couch, he's playing something on his phone now, earbuds in, cereal bowl at his feet. Your fucking bowl.

"Tell me this wasn't him." Jiyoon sits up, scowling at your tone. "What are you talking about?" "This." You shake the bottle. "My body wash. The one you 'borrowed' last week. It's gone. Empty. And I know you don't like the smell—so unless I'm hallucinating, your leech of a boyfriend used the last of it."

She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, it's not that deep. It's body wash." "No, it's my body wash. The only nice thing I own. And he used it, again, after eating the rest of my leftovers and leaving dirty socks in the sink and never ever paying rent!"

Minjae finally glances up, one earbud still in. "Damn. You need a Xanax or something?"

Your mouth goes dry.

Jiyoon frowns. "Okay, first of all, don't talk to her like that—"

"No, don't defend me now," you cut in, voice shaking. "You let him live here for free. You make excuses for him while I scrape together every last cent to keep a roof over our heads. I work two jobs, Jiyoon. I eat scraps. I got fired today and came home in the rain to this—and now I can't even take a damn shower without discovering he's drained the last thing I own that smells like something other than despair."

She shifts, uncomfortable. "You could've said something nicer."

"And you could've picked someone who showers in his own place instead of mine!"

Silence.

You don't cry and you won't. Not in front of him. Not even here. You don't wait for an apology that'll never come. You retreat to your room, slam the door, and lock it behind you—not because you're afraid, but because you're done.

You strip off your hoodie, throw it in the corner, and climb into bed fully damp and exhausted. The blanket clings to your legs. You curl around your pillow and let the tension tremble out of your fingertips like static electricity.

You curl up in bed fully clothed, hoodie damp and clinging to your skin, fingers still aching from scrubbing tile three days ago. The blanket smells faintly like bleach. Jiyoon is laughing in the next room, voice high and bright and grating. You close your eyes.

*•*•*

You wake up to the clink of glassware and Minjae's laugh from the kitchen, that smug, high-pitched snort that always sets your teeth on edge. There's no time to be angry—not this morning. You're already late. Again.

You roll out of bed and throw on the first vaguely clean outfit you can find, dragging a brush through your tangled hair and pinning it up like your life depends on it. Your backpack's already half-packed from the night before. You stuff in your worn-out copy of Beloved, a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbles and half-finished poems, and race out the door without breakfast.

It's colder today. The kind of cold that bites under your clothes and leaves your fingers raw. You catch the bus by sheer miracle—sprinting half a block and nearly losing a shoe in the process—and squeeze into the back seat between a teenage couple whispering too loud and a man who keeps humming to himself.

You reach campus with two minutes to spare. The lecture hall smells like chalk dust and old books. It's one of your favorite smells in the world. You slide into the third row, clutching your notebook to your chest, and feel a quiet sort of calm settle over you. This is your safe place. Literature. Language. Storytelling.

The professor enters with her usual elegance, a tall woman with soft curls and a warm smile that doesn't waver even when her students barely look up. She doesn't need to raise her voice to command the room. She carries presence the way some people carry perfume—effortlessly.

"Today," she begins, "we talk about longing." You feel your chest tighten in the most bittersweet way.

She reads a passage aloud—something from a contemporary poet you love but couldn't afford to buy the full collection of—and for a while, you forget the bruising ache in your back from yesterday, or the hollowness in your stomach. You forget Minjae. You forget Mrs. Do.

After class, you linger longer than usual, pretending to organize your papers while most students file out. Professor Cha doesn't seem surprised when you approach her desk.

"I loved what you read today," you say, voice still soft from reverence. "The way it ached."

Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. "That's a good word. A poem should ache. And yours always do."

You blink. "You read my last submission?"

"I did." She smiles, more maternal than academic now. "You write like you've lived ten lives. There's heartbreak in your syntax, but also something... resilient. It's beautiful. Raw."

The compliment hits deeper than she probably intends. You swallow. "Thank you. I... needed to hear that."

She tilts her head. "You've looked tired lately."

"I got fired," you confess, voice breaking a little at the edges. "From one of my jobs." She doesn't blink or pity you, she nods instead. "Then the world made space for something better. Keep showing up. Your stories matter even if no one pays you for them yet."

It's not much but it's enough to lift your spine straighter as you thank her and walk out the door.

The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.

You're halfway down the campus stairs, still thinking about her words, when your phone rings. A number you don't recognize, but one you know instinctively not to ignore.

You answer.

"About damn time," a gravelly voice snaps through the line. "Did you turn off your phone all day or do you just enjoy making my blood pressure spike?"

You wince. "Sorry, Cee. I was in class—"

"I don't care if you were in confession with the Pope," he growls. "You missed your shift yesterday and you got us fired from the Do account." You open your mouth to explain, but he keeps going.

"Lucky for you," he says, as if the words are knives between his teeth, "no one else wants this new job and I'm too tired to argue. Penthouse gig. Rich recluse. We charge double, client pays in advance, and no one wants to take it because apparently the guy's a freak."

You frown. "A freak?"

"Unstable. Hermit. Been on the news, but who the hell keeps track? Listen, I don't care if he's a lizard in a human suit—he's paying. You're taking it."

Your throat dries.

"How many days?"

"Three a week. Big place. Clean what you can, don't snoop. I'll send the address. Be early." and then, just before he hangs up, his tone softens—barely. "Don't mess this up, kid. You need it."

You really, really do.

You stare at the phone screen even after the call ends, the manager's words still ringing in your ears. Freak. Hermit. Don't mess this up.

The ache in your calves from walking half a mile after the bus dropped you off doesn't compare to the slow sinking in your stomach as you lift your head to take in the building before you.

It's not just big—it's obscene. The kind of place you'd see in a glossy magazine left behind in a waiting room. Black glass, white stone, gold accents on the automatic double doors. No peeling paint, no squeaky hinges, no smell of cheap weed in the lobby. You shift your backpack higher on your shoulder and wipe your palms on your pants, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you look.

The doorman gives you a glance that says you're not the usual type, but he opens the door for you anyway. Inside, the lobby is quiet. Too quiet. Your footsteps echo on the marble like you're trespassing.

You check the note your manager texted again: Penthouse, 45th floor. Don't use the front elevator. Service lift in the back.

Figures.

You find the service lift through a hallway no guest would ever wander down—a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of lemon polish and secrecy. The kind of place you get swallowed in. You step inside the narrow elevator, the floor humming under your boots.

The doors slide shut with a groan. You breathe out. The kind of breath that's supposed to steady you but doesn't.

Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.

Cee: Don't fuck this up. Get there exactly at 10, leave exactly at 4. Even if you finish early, you stay. No exceptions. And whatever you do, NEVER go upstairs. He has rules. Don't test them.

You stare at the screen.

What kind of house has an upstairs in a penthouse? you think, and the second the thought passes, the elevator dings.

The doors creak open onto a hallway draped in shadow. No welcome mat, no noise or signs of life. Just a wide, heavy door that looks more like it belongs on a bank vault than a home.

You step out.

Your boots sound stupidly loud on the marble tile, and you hesitate before raising your hand to knock. But there's no need. The moment your knuckles reach the wood, the door clicks open on its own.

Unlocked.

The place is massive. The ceilings stretch too high, the walls too white, everything too pristine. There's barely any furniture. Just space and silence and air so still it feels like it hasn't been disturbed in years. You don't call out cause your manager said he wouldn't speak to you and that he likely wouldn't even show himself.

Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.

You hold your breath and step inside.

The air smells like cedar and something colder, like snow, if snow could haunt. You set your backpack down, find the gloves and cleaning supplies neatly packed inside, and glance around for somewhere to begin. The living room stretches out in an open floor plan—windows from floor to ceiling, giving a panoramic view of the city that glitters like it belongs to someone else.

You move quietly, gently, like the house might shatter if you're not careful, there's a faint creak above you that makes you freeze.

Somewhere beyond the mezzanine level—a second floor, tucked behind shadows and sleek black railings—you hear slow footsteps. Nothing fast, just the sound of pacing but then it stops and you don't look up.

You don't have to but you can feel the weight of someone above you. Maybe it's just the paranoia settling in or maybe it's the echo of your manager's warning.

Don't go upstairs.

You lower your gaze and start cleaning the untouched coffee table. You don't see a single cup stain or a single fingerprint. You think of the journal in your bag—the one you always carry, the one you use to write about your clients. He'll be in there by tonight, nameless, faceless. The man who lives upstairs like a ghost in the penthouse he knows.

For now, you work. Quiet and invisible. There's a fine layer of dust on everything. Not filth—just time, settled air and neglect. No signs of life, no spilled coffee mugs or kicked-off shoes. Just clean lines, cold surfaces, and untouched space.

You start in the living room, wiping down the windowsills and working your way around the low furniture. The couch looks barely used, the cushions still stiff. You sweep, mop, vacuum, moving silently through the rooms that all look the same—stunning, sterile, too expensive to feel real.

In the hallway near the back, there's a closet.

You pause in front of it.

It's nothing special—just a tall, sleek black door flush against the wall like all the others. But your fingers hesitate on the handle. Something about it makes your stomach twist. A soft wrongness that makes you not open it, that makes you turn around and just keep cleaning.

By 2:30, you've gone through the whole first floor. Kitchen wiped down. Bathroom gleaming. Trash collected and everything you were paid to do—done.

But Cee's voice rings in your head; Even if you finish early—stay. No exceptions.

So you sit.

You settle into one of the chairs by the window, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass lulling you into something between boredom and thoughtfulness. You reach into your bag and pull out your journal—worn leather, pages soft at the edges.

You click your pen open and start writing.

Day one at the penthouse. It smells like dust and something else I can't quite name. The kind of clean that doesn't feel lived in. I didn't open the black closet near the back. It felt like something in a horror film but I'll pretend it's just full of broken umbrellas.

Got fired from the Do account. Still bitter. She had a face like a lemon and a heart to match. Professor was a much-needed balm in comparison—thank God for her and her endless belief in me.

New job might be decent money if I don't screw it up. Cee says the guy who lives here is a recluse. Said he hasn't left the penthouse in two years. But I don't know. Maybe he's just lonely.

You pause there, tapping the pen against the paper. The upper floor is quiet. Still. You underline the word lonely and draw a small star beside it.

At exactly 4:00, you pack up your supplies, double-check every corner, and sling your bag over your shoulder and slide your journal right back into the side pocket of your bag, safe and sound.

You take the service elevator down, your own reflection warping in the mirrored steel walls, and step out into the cool evening air. The sun is already dipping lower, the clouds streaked in gold and gray.

The bus ride home is slower than usual. You sit in the back corner, forehead pressed to the rattling glass, zoning out to the lull of traffic and tired bodies. The city outside blurs past in tired shades.

As your apartment door creaks open, you start praying no one hears or sees you. But it's already too late.

Minjae's voice rings out sharp and annoyed. "I told you I'm looking, Jiyoon. What do you want me to do, lie on a fucking application?"

Jiyoon fires back just as quickly. "No, I want you to try! I'm covering your half of the rent again this month—what do you think I am, an ATM?!"

You freeze in the doorway, trying to shrink into your coat. If you're quiet enough, maybe you can just slip past—

"Hey," Jiyoon says suddenly, spotting you over Minjae's shoulder. Her tone shifts fast—softer now, almost guilty. "You just get in?"

You nod, shrugging your bag higher. "Yeah." "How's the nut house?"

You drop your bag by the door and stare at her. "The what?"

"The place you're cleaning. You know, that recluse guy who's like—off his rocker? Isn't that what your boss said?"

You toe off your shoes and mutter, "It's just a job."

Minjae grins walking away from Jiyoon's presence like the change in topic is suddenly the end of their argument. "I bet he's got some freaky shit there. Hidden cameras. Severed heads. Weird old dude stuff."

"I don't even know if he's old," you say, voice low. "And you don't know anything about him."

Minjae snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

You turn back to Jiyoon, your constant irritation for her boyfriend crawling up your neck. "It's... weird," you admit. "But clean. Quiet. Better than getting yelled at by lemon-faced socialites, I guess."

Jiyoon gives you a weak smile. "Well, if anyone can survive a haunted tower or whatever that place is, it's you."

You hum, tired beyond belief, and slip down the hall toward your room without waiting for more, maybe more will come in the morning.

And when morning does come, it hits like a slow bruise. No alarm, just the muted scrape of a garbage truck outside and the sound of Jiyoon's laughter echoing down the hall, already too loud for the hour. You blink up at the water-stained ceiling, let the ache in your jaw settle, and for a few seconds, you don't move. The blanket's twisted around your leg like it's trying to keep you here. You wish it would.

But you're broke. So you move

You don't eat breakfast. There's no time, and besides, Jiyoon's boyfriend used the last of your cereal. You found the empty box in the sink this morning, soggy and limp with leftover milk, like a personal fuck-you from the universe.

Outside, the streets are still wet from last night's rain, the air sharp and cold enough to crack your lips. You tug your coat tighter around yourself and walk fast, half-hoping your legs will just carry you somewhere else. But the route to the campus library is too familiar, too automatic. You take the side street behind the deli, cutting through the alley behind the 24-hour laundromat where the machines always sound like they're choking. There's graffiti on the brick wall now—someone's drawn a woman with eyes for hands.

The library is warm in that stale, overused way that makes you sleepy, but you know the quiet corner where the heater rattles just enough to keep you awake. You sit with your laptop and your headphones, the cushion on the chair still warm from the last desperate student who used it.

This is job number two.

You click play on the next transcription project; an audiobook manuscript from some retired executive who thinks the world needs to hear about his rise to glory. The audio crackles. His voice is deep, smug, like he's narrating his own documentary.

"It all began with a vision. I was just a boy, standing in my father's study, realizing the empire I'd one day build..." You try not to roll your eyes. Your fingers find the rhythm. You transcribe as fast as he talks, catching every word, every pretentious pause.

"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some, like me, are greatness incarnate."

Jesus.

You pause the audio and lean back, pressing your fingers into your temples. He's unbearable. Still—you need the money, so you press play again. But somewhere in the haze of his bravado, your mind drifts, not too far, just up.

Up to the penthouse you cleaned yesterday. The thick silence, untouched surfaces and the staircase you weren't allowed to climb. It all made something you couldn't name press down on the air.

You wonder what he sounds like.

The man who lives there, the one Cee called a shut-in, a recluse. Heeseung. You only know the name because of the envelope on the front table. You weren't supposed to look, but you did. Of course you did.

You imagine his voice now, layered under the pompous narration. Not loud or self-important. Just... quiet. Measured. Maybe hoarse from disuse. You imagine what it would feel like to hear it. To be the reason it breaks the silence. Your fingers falter. The word "greatness" stutters across the screen three times in a row.

You stop typing.

And for a second, you just sit there, headphones still on, the man's voice buzzing in your ears like a mosquito trapped in a jar, and you wonder if loneliness has a sound. And if maybe you've already heard it.

You leave the library when your laptop battery dies, the sky already smudged with dusk. Your ears still ring faintly from the droning of Mr. Greatness Incarnate. You swing your bag over your shoulder, scarf loose around your neck, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets. The wind cuts sharper than it did this morning. You're too tired to fight it.

By the time you reach your apartment building, you dread the climb to the third floor, not knowing what's behind your door—and your key sticks like always when you jam it into the lock but when the door finally swings open, you freeze.

The apartment is clean. Spotless even.

No laundry tossed across the couch, no cereal bowls fossilized with milk crust sitting on the coffee table. The garbage isn't overflowing. There's even a faint citrus scent in the air, like someone opened a window and let the idea of cleanliness drift in.

And Jiyoon's on the couch. Calm. Legs tucked under her, hair braided down one side, munching on a bag of shrimp chips like this is just... normal. Like this is how things have always been.

You drop your keys into the chipped bowl by the door. "What happened?" She glances at you, shrugs. "I cleaned." You blink. "No, I mean... what happened happened. Did the landlord threaten an inspection or—"

"I broke up with Minjae," she says, and pops another chip into her mouth like she didn't just detonate an-eighteen-month-long catastrophe with five words. "Told him to pack his shit and go."

You stare. "You what?"

Her eyes don't even flicker from the TV. "He was a leech. I hate leeches."

You're still frozen in the hallway, bag slipping down your arm, unsure what dimension you walked into. The silence feels wrong. Too still. Too empty. But... not bad.

Just different.

Eventually, your feet remember what to do, and you drift to your room, slowly, almost cautiously, like something might jump out at you. You twist your doorknob, push it open—and stop again cause there's a gift bag sitting on your bed.

Brown paper, neatly folded at the top, a little gold sticker sealing the tissue paper closed. You don't touch it right away, you just stare at it like it might explode.

Then you sit, gently, fingers trembling a little now. but peel the sticker away anyway, opening the bag.

Two bottles. Your favorite body wash. The same kind Minjae used up without asking. Double this time, still sealed and tucked between them, a note—scrawled in Jiyoon's quick, sharp handwriting on a sticky note she probably pulled from her planner.

"I'm sorry."

It doesn't say anything else. Doesn't have to.

You let out this huff of a sound, half a laugh, half a sob—and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You weren't ready for this, especially not after today, not after everything you've been through this week. You sniff, smile through the sting behind your eyes, and whisper, "What the hell is going on?"

For the first time in a long time, no one answers and it doesn't feel like a threat. Just... peace. Quiet, a rare kind.

And the bathroom is yours again.

*•*•*

The next morning wakes you gently.

Not with screaming or slamming doors or the unmistakable sound of Minjae trying to justify why rent is a social construct—but with the smell of bacon.

You lie there for a moment, still curled in your sheets, nose twitching like it can't quite believe it. Bacon. And eggs. The sizzle, the clink of a pan. There's sunlight bleeding between the slats of your blinds, the kind of sleepy, golden light that feels warm just by looking at it.

You slip out of bed in your socks, shuffle into the kitchen, and there's Jiyoon—hair still messy from sleep, an oversized shirt hanging off one of her shoulders, poking a spatula at a pan like she does this every day, like this isn't a wildly new domestic era you've entered.

"Are you dying?" you ask, voice still rasped with sleep.

She smirks. "Sit your broke ass down. We're having breakfast." You do, blinking dumbly as she plates eggs and bacon and toast like some sitcom mom. The kind of meal that costs too much time and too many groceries for the world you live in. But it's real. It's on your plate. It's hot.

And it tastes like actual heaven.

"Okay," Jiyoon says through a bite, "you're not allowed to cry over eggs." "I'm not," you lie, chewing around the lump in your throat. "Shut up."

It's quiet for a beat, just the sounds of cutlery and your lives slowly stitching back together. Then she speaks, softer this time.

"I missed this."

You glance up.

"I mean—us," she says quickly. "It got weird. And Minjae was—he j—just made everything about him. And I let it happen." You nod, eyes falling to your plate. "I missed you too."

And that's all it takes. The two of you just... fall back into it. Like nothing ever cracked. Like the gap never grew wide enough to drown you.

You're halfway through your second cup of coffee when your phone buzzes. A bank notification lights up the screen.

Deposit: $400.00 — From: H.C.A. CLEANING INC.

Your breath catches and your stomach flips but you don't even have enough time to process it before a follow-up text comes in from your manager.

Cee: Well done. Keep it up.

You stare at your phone, stunned. Your fork hangs mid-air. "What?" Jiyoon leans over, eyes narrowing, trying to look at your screen. "What is it? What's that look?"

You show her the screen.

She lets out a whistle, snatching the phone out of your hand. "Four hundred dollars?! For one day?"

You nod slowly. "It's... the penthouse."

Jiyoon's eyes go wide. "Girl. Are you sure this isn't a sex dungeon?"

"It's not—!"

"I'm just saying!" she laughs, waving the phone in your face. "Do they need two cleaners? Cause I got two hands and a back that only mildly hurts."

You snort.

"No, seriously," she grins, handing your phone back. "Keep this up, and you're gonna sugar mama us out of this hellhole."

"Us?"

"Obviously. I've already picked out my new bedroom. It has a balcony."

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter today. There's food in your stomach, laughter in your lungs, and a number in your bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn't drowning, maybe someone who could start swimming soon.

You rinse your plate in the sink, tie your boots, and throw on your coat with renewed resilience. There's something weird in your chest—not bad weird. Just... fluttery. A quiet excitement you can't explain, maybe it's the money. $1200 a week is enough to make a broke girl like you feel fluttery.

The penthouse is a mystery. The man inside, even more so and something about it tugs at you. You leave the apartment with a full stomach and something flickering under your ribs that almost feels like hope.

The security guard barely glances up when you pass through the front lobby, your shoes echoing across the cold marble. You know the route now—the elevator on the far end, the one with the gilded trim and the keycard scanner that flickers green the second you swipe the little laminated badge clipped to your bag.

Penthouse access. Floor 45.

You ride up alone, the hum of the elevator filling your ears, your stomach still fluttering for some godforsaken reason. It's ridiculous, really. It's just cleaning. A job. A space.

Still—there's something about this building, this job, this man—something you don't have a name for yet. Something a little strange.

When the elevator dings open at the top floor, you step out and blink at the sheer silence. It always feels a little too still up here, like the air's holding its breath. You cross the short hallway toward the penthouse door, adjusting your bag over your shoulder, then pause.

A man is walking out.

Tall. Black coat. Black hair. He doesn't look up as he pulls the door behind him and lets it click shut. There's a thick folder of papers in his hand—some printed, some handwritten—and he's flipping through them like he's on a mission. Brows furrowed as though he's deep in thought. You shift slightly to the side, give a small, polite "Good morning," but he doesn't respond, he doesn't even glance at you.

Okay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, a little unsettled, but before your brain can start drawing conclusions, you catch something else. From behind the door.

Movement. Light.

A quiet creak, then a faint thump from the floor above. Right—he's upstairs. He hasn't come down, just like your manager said he wouldn't.

So, not Heeseung.

You shake it off, and push open the door to the penthouse. It's the same as last time. Too clean to feel lived in, a place more structure than soul. The marble kitchen glints under the soft daylight that pours in through those floor-to-ceiling windows, and the air smells faintly sterile. Like eucalyptus and untouched laundry.

You drop your bag by the door, change into your inside shoes, and head for the linen closet to start where you left off last time.

There's a note.

You spot it taped neatly to the inside of the closet door, white paper against the cool gray shelves. Typed in black ink, neatly, not handwritten.

You folded the towels wrong.

Beneath it, stapled neatly, is a printed diagram. A diagram with steps and numbered illustrations. You blink. It's absurd. It's pedantic. It's—

You laugh, quietly, to yourself. "What a nutjob," you mutter under your breath, echoing Jiyoon's words.

And then you catch yourself.

He's paying you. Four hundred dollars. For one day. To clean and to follow instructions. Folding towels properly is not asking too much—not for this kind of money, not for the kind of life you're trying to claw your way toward.

You shake your head, shoulders straightening, and refold every towel in the linen closet with the care of a military cadet. Corners aligned, fold sharp, just the way the diagram instructs.

Once you've checked them twice, you move on. The floors—again. There's always a thin veil of dust on the hardwood, like no one has lived here in years. The glass in the shower, the streaks on the chrome fixtures. You find a guest room with a window cracked just slightly, letting in the city noise below, and you seal it shut.

It's all the same movements as last time. Your body goes through the checklist while your mind wanders, as it always does. Little fragments of poetry rise up behind your eyes. A line about silence that weighs too much, about towels that speak louder than people. You file them away for later.

And like last time, you finish early.

3:26.

You double-check the space. Everything in order. Then you drift toward the single chair by the massive window that overlooks the skyline. The same chair you sat in last time. You pull out your journal, and you start writing.

He left a note about the towels. Said I did it wrong. I guess... he's not what I imagined. There's something almost neurotic about him, but not messy. Not in a Minjae way. It's all too deliberate. He's exacting. Controlled. Still not a trace of him anywhere—not a pair of shoes, not a book out of place. It's like he's trying to erase his presence even though it's so obviously here, breathing under everything.

Your pen hovers, you almost scratch it all out, but you don't.

A soft thud interrupts you. Distant. Upstairs. You freeze, eyes lifting from the page.

Another sound. A voice—muffled. A man's voice, low and smooth, bleeding through the ceiling like the floorboards are too thin to keep him contained.

You can't make out the words, but you hear the timbre. The rhythm.

You write until your hand cramps and the ink starts to skip. At 3:52, you check the time and shut the journal slowly, your gaze drifting out the window for a long moment.

But then... it happens again.

Your eyes flick to the closet door.

Same as last time. Same quiet weight pressing against your chest when you look at it. You don't know what it is about it—just a regular black door, no lock, no sign, nothing particularly ominous—but it nags at you. And before you know it, your legs are moving.

Soft steps across the hardwood. You don't even really make the decision—you just find yourself there, hand on the doorknob, heart ticking unevenly.

It's probably something stupid. Creepy. Like a skeleton, or jars of teeth. A body. It's always the ones who care too much about towel folding who hide people in their walls.

You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.

The door creaks open.

It's dim, a strip of light spilling in over your feet—and then your eyes adjust.

Not bodies. Not bones.

Photos.

Hundreds of them. Pinned to corkboard walls, stacked in boxes, frames leaning against shelves. Posters rolled into rubber-banded scrolls. A trophy case sits in the corner, glass clean, the metal plaques catching the light like little knives.

You blink, stepping in cautiously.

There are certificates. Paper yellowed with age. Borletti-Buitoni Trust Award. First Place —2022. Van Cliburn International Piano Competition 2021. Tchaikovsky Conservatory Excellence Award 2023. All in English, some in Korean, some in French.

You walk along the wall, fingertips brushing the edge of a matte photo. A group picture. A symphony ensemble, maybe. Then another, a candid shot of a teenage boy at a grand piano, his hands hovering above the keys, his brow furrowed like the music is something physical he's trying to catch.

And then another. A close-up this time. His face.

Heeseung.

Your breath catches.

He's younger in these—baby-faced almost—but you want to believe it's him. There's something about his posture, his expression, that quiet intensity even the camera couldn't wash out.

You crouch beside a crate of rolled-up posters and untangle one gently. The paper's dusty, brittle near the corners. When you unroll it, it flutters open across your lap.

A concert poster. The image glossy and faded with time: a sleek black grand piano under a single spotlight. A man sits at it, back straight, head bowed. His name sprawls across the top in elegant serif font:

LEE HEESEUNG

It's signed at the bottom, right across the curve of the piano. —With love, always, LH.

You stare at it for a long moment.

And then... the pieces begin to arrange themselves.

The penthouse. The silence. The exactness. The distance. And now—this.

He must've been a concert pianist.

You blink again, stunned that you'd never heard of him. Someone who'd clearly been celebrated, decorated, known. At some point, at least.

You tuck the poster back carefully and ease the door shut behind you. But the quiet feels different now. Not empty.

The whole bus ride home, your brain won't stop flipping through those images—trophies, posters, photos, that signature on the rolled-up poster. With love, always, LH. You hold it all in your head like puzzle pieces that almost fit, just not quite yet. But there's no mistaking it—the man in the penthouse was someone once.

The apartment smells like garlic and soy sauce when you walk in. You blink at the strange scent, automatically bracing for another fight—but it's quiet. Peaceful, even. The living room light is on, and Jiyoon's perched on the couch still in her stiff black skirt and her knock-off kitten heels, hair pinned up and eyeliner smudged.

"Hey," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Dinner's in the microwave. I made bulgogi."

You pause in the doorway, still blinking, confused. "You cooked?"

She shrugs. "Had a day. Needed to stir something before I murdered someone."

You heat up your plate and sink into the couch beside her, pulling your knees up and balancing the food on top. The meat is tender, warm and sweet, and the rice is just sticky enough.

"So?" she mumbles, mouth full of chips. "How's the nutjob in the tower?"

You laugh, almost choking on rice. "He's not a nutjob."

"Old man, then."

You glance at her. "He's not old."

She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? And how do you know that?"

You chew slowly, smirking to yourself. "I did his laundry today."

"Oh?" She sits up straighter, grinning. "And what? The briefs don't lie?"

You laugh, snorting, and try to wave her off, cheeks hot. "No, just—his clothes. They weren't... old man clothes."

She gives you the most exaggerated eyebrow wiggle you've ever seen. "Ohhhh. So they were hot man clothes."

"Shut up."

"You want to see what he looks like," she accuses, pointing a chip at you.

You mumble something under your breath, something you don't even realize you've said aloud until she gasps.

"What was that?" she demands. "Tell me. Tell me right now."

You set your plate aside and sink into the couch cushions, eyes on the ceiling. "Okay. Fine. I opened some weird closet in his hallway today"

Her jaw drops.

"And?"

You tell her everything. The photos. The awards. The posters and the certificates. The name. The signature. The signed poster. You recite the words, LEE HEESEUNG.

She blinks. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You mean the dude you clean for is famous?"

"Was," you say softly. "I think he was famous. He was a concert pianist."

There's a beat of silence then she's snatching up her laptop. "What are we doing just sitting here? Let's Google him."

You shift beside her as she types in his name watching it autofill halfway through. She scrolls.

First result: a blurry photo of a younger Heeseung at a concert, fingers splayed on the keys.

Second result: Top 10 Rising Stars of the Classical World.

Third: The Golden Boy of the Grand Piano—Why Lee Heeseung Was Next.

There are photos—clean, posed ones, then live shots of him in motion, bent over the keys, expression contorted like the music is tearing out of him.

"Damn," Jiyoon whispers. "He was hot."

You smack her arm. "Focus."

She scrolls again—and then pauses.

You feel her go still beside you.

Her thumb hovers over the next headline.

Concert Pianist Lee Heeseung Suffers On-Stage Mental Breakdown During Performance.

Your stomach drops. It's dated 2 years ago.

"Holy shit," she whispers.

There's a thumbnail image of the article and beneath it, a video. Your fingers are trembling but you press play anyway.

The video opens on a massive concert hall. Heeseung sits alone at a grand piano under a soft blue spotlight. There's silence—and then music. Soaring, masterful, all-consuming. His fingers move like they're made of air.

He plays so beautifully that you find yourself immersed but then, something shifts.

His hands slow. His face tenses. He mutters something under his breath, eyes wide like he's seeing something the rest of the room can't. Then—

A violent slam of the keys.

The audience flinches.

He starts playing again, erratically, pounding the piano with discordant noise. His head jerks to the side. He mutters again, louder this time. Words you can't make out. Security rushes the stage. The video ends in chaos, with the camera shaking, audience gasping.

You stare at the screen long after it's gone black.

"That's why," you whisper.

Jiyoon nods slowly. "That's why he lives like that now."

Neither of you speak for a long time. There's just the hum of the microwave clock ticking forward, the faint buzz of the fridge, the afterimage of that video burned into your mind.

Heeseung isn't just a recluse. He's a man who was once made of music—and then unraveled by it.

The video plays again in your head when the screen's long since gone black.

Heeseung's face in that last shot—wild and glassy-eyed, haunted—lingers like smoke. Even with the dinner gone and the dishes rinsed, even with the taste of bulgogi faded from your tongue, it clings to your ribs.

Jiyoon breaks the silence first. She sets her phone down with a sigh and rubs her forehead like she's trying to will away her own stress.

"Anyway," she mutters, "my manager's still a raging bitch."

The shift in topic feels abrupt, like someone slammed the door on something unfinished. You blink and turn your head, trying to meet her halfway.

"She moved my report to a different folder this morning and then cc'd her manager asking where mine was," Jiyoon grumbles, tossing a chip in her mouth. "Like she didn't just put it there herself. I swear she's trying to build a case to get me fired."

You hum a vague sound of sympathy, but your eyes are unfocused. Your thoughts are half in that concert hall, half in that penthouse closet, all tangled up with things that don't make sense yet.

Jiyoon squints at you, crunching slowly. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, blinking hard. "Sorry. I just..."

"You look tired," she says gently. "Like tired-tired. Go to bed."

You nod. "I will. Just—gonna change first."

She lets you go, and you disappear into your room, clicking the door shut behind you.

The quiet hits fast.

You peel off your jacket, your jeans. Change into your sleep shirt. The light on your desk is soft and yellow, and you go to your tote bag by instinct, unzipping it without thinking.

You freeze.

Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.

You check again.

Then again.

Your journal's not there.

You turn the bag upside down—shake it, even though you know how pointless it is—and the only thing that falls out is a used lip balm, your wallet and your bus pass.

You drop to your knees beside the desk, rifling through the bag's compartments. Check under your bed. In your drawers. You dig through the laundry pile.

Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.

A whole year and a half. That's how long you've been writing in that journal. Every scattered thought, every tiny win, every loss, every panic attack, every private daydream. It's not just a notebook—it's you. You wrote yourself into those pages, over and over and you can think is; it's gone.

You dart back into the living room, voice already strained. "Jiyoon—have you seen my journal? The brown one?"

She looks up from her phone, blinking. "Journal? No. Did you leave it at the library?"

You shake your head too fast. "No—I had it with me. I know I had it with me. I wrote in it today, I always put it in the tote after, I—I—"

She sits up straighter. "Okay, hey. Don't panic. Maybe it slipped out on the bus?"

You clutch your arms, stomach turning. The thought of it sitting there in some grimy bus seat, left behind, already flipped through by strangers, your handwriting exposed—your insides exposed—makes you sick.

Your throat tightens.

"Hey," Jiyoon says, getting up now, her voice softer. "It's okay. We'll retrace your steps tomorrow, alright?"

But you're already crying. Not big sobs—just quiet, stunned tears, the kind that sting as they fall, the kind you can't stop once they start.

You laugh bitterly through it, pressing your palm to your mouth. "It's stupid," you mumble. "It's just a journal."

"It's not stupid," Jiyoon says, crossing the room and pulling you into a hug.

You close your eyes. Her office clothes smell like starch and soy sauce and the bad perfume her coworker probably wears, but her arms are warm and solid around you.

Still, your heart aches like something's gone missing.

And somewhere—somewhere else—those pages are no longer just yours.

*•*•*

You don't even realize how much weight you've been dragging until it starts to leave marks—under your eyes, behind your ribs, along your spine.

It's been a whole day without it. Twenty-four hours without your journal and you're already unraveling. Not crying anymore—just dulled out. The kind of sadness that makes everything taste like paper, feel like static.

Jiyoon tried her best. She really did. She even called in sick that morning just to help look. Said her manager could go chew on gravel, she didn't care. She pulled you out of bed, made you drink an iced coffee, and walked with you back to every single place you'd been.

You retraced your steps with her hand on your shoulder the entire time—gentle, like you'd break.

Back to the library. Back to the plaza where you sat for five minutes waiting on the bus. You even got on the same damn route, asked the driver if he'd seen a brown journal with an elastic band and too many taped-in receipts.

Nothing.

Just a kind smile from a man who said he was sorry and wished you luck.

So when Friday comes around—when you have to drag yourself out of bed again for the penthouse job—you feel heavy. Disconnected. You brush your teeth with your eyes half-closed. Tie your laces without bothering to double knot them. You're not crying, not even angry, just—

Faded.

You leave the house a little past nine. Jiyoon waves from the couch but doesn't try to stop you. She knows money talks, even when you're too tired to listen.

You arrive at ten sharp like always. Same hallway, same elevator ding, same code punched into the keypad.

The door opens.

And the stillness inside hits you harder than usual. Not just quiet—vacant. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

You don't bother kicking off your shoes this time.

You walk in and turn toward the kitchen to get the supplies—straight to the cabinets under the sink—and that's when you freeze.

There.

On the counter.

Your journal.

You stand still for so long the air starts to pulse in your ears cause it's open. Pages parted like a secret mid-sentence. And the breath that's been caged in your lungs for a whole day catches halfway up your throat.

You move closer. Like if you blink too hard it'll vanish.

It's turned to that entry. The one you wrote after cleaning here the first time—where you wrote about the towels and the light and the strange emptiness of a life lived up high and alone. The part where you called him lonely.

Your eyes track the handwriting in the margin. Small. Neat. Slightly angled.

An arrow is drawn from the word lonely and next to it, in ink that definitely isn't yours:

you have no idea.

Your throat goes dry.

You run your fingertips over the words—his words—like touching them will make them make sense. But they don't. Not really. They just buzz in your chest like something secret and sad and suddenly real.

He read it. He read it.

And not just read it—responded.

You sink into the nearest stool, heart hammering, holding the journal like it might slip away again.

This man—this ghost of a man, the one who hides behind silence and rules and perfectly folded towels—he read you. And then he left this like it wasn't a confession. Like it wasn't a crack in the wall you didn't think you'd ever see.

"You have no idea."

You don't.

But for the first time, you think you want to so you tear a sheet from the back of your journal. The lines are faint blue, the edge ragged where it rips. You stare at it longer than necessary—like the paper's going to change its mind about letting you say what you need to.

Your hand shakes as you write it, "I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest."

You don't sign it.

You fold it in half once, then again. Then you slide it under the coaster on the marble coffee table—tucked, but not hidden. If he wants to find it, he will.

And then you're out the door. Before 4, for the the first time not caring about the rule.

*•*•*

When you get home, Jiyoon's door is locked. You knock once, then try the handle. Still locked. "Jiyoon," you call. "Let me in." Nothing, so you knock harder. When she finally opens it, her hair is a mess and her cheeks are a deep, guilty pink. She looks like she just sprinted a mile and saw God somewhere in the middle of it.

You know what she was doing but you don't care, you just brush right past her and drop your journal on her bed like it's a live grenade.

"He read my fucking journal," you hiss, turning on your heel. "He wrote in it." "What!?" Jiyoon gasps, not even trying to play it cool. "That's where you left it?!"

"I didn't mean to!" "Wait—he wrote in it? Like, wrote wrote? Pen to page?" You nod, pacing like your bones are electric. "He responded to a line I wrote about him being lonely. Just—drew an arrow to it and wrote 'you have no idea.' Like what the fuck is that even supposed to mean!?" "That's—" She stops. Blinks. Then starts again, because of course she has to. "That's kind of hot," she says, lips twitching.

"Jiyoon!" "Okay, okay! It's fucked up, but it's also..." She trails off, thoughtful. "It's kind of giving tortured artist. Haunted tower. Piano-playing ghost with emotional constipation." You flop onto her bed, face buried in your hands. "I feel violated. But also like...I violated him first? Is that weird? I feel like we both got naked and didn't mean to."

"That is the weirdest metaphor you've ever said," Jiyoon mutters, but there's affection under it and you're about to respond but then your phone rings. Shrill and loud against the padded silence of Jiyoon's room. You check the screen and it's Cee. You answer it with a sigh. "Hello?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He barks immediately. "Did you leave before 4?" Your stomach drops. "Yes, I did, but—"

"You had clear fucking instructions! You don't leave before 4. Ever."

"I had to. I was done, I—" "I don't give a shit," he snaps. "From now on? You clean for him every day. That's what he wants." You blink. "Every day?"

"Every. Fucking. Day. Starting tomorrow." The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly and Jiyoon's looking at you like you just told her you're moving to Mars. "You're cleaning for him every day?" You nod, feeling numb. She whistles. "Guess you better start folding towels in your dreams."

You flop back on her bed again, journal beside you, limbs heavy and brain scrambled, because somehow this man has read your secrets, insulted your towel folding, haunted your thoughts and gotten you trapped in a daily cleaning contract. You stare at the ceiling, heart a mess of beats. You truly have no idea what the hell you've gotten yourself into, just like Heeseung wrote.

*•*•*

You hate today. Not in the throwaway I-hate-Mondays kind of way, but in that deep, simmering, "I'd rather get hit by a bus than scrub your already-clean floors for six hours" kind of way. It's Saturday. Saturday. And you're supposed to be doing anything else. Sleeping in. Going to the corner store with Jiyoon in your pajamas. Sitting in silence and mourning the part of yourself that used to be a free woman.

Instead, you're here. The penthouse again. Cold and looming and weirdly beautiful in a way you hate to admit. It's only 9:30. You're early and you could wait. You should wait. But something reckless and slightly unhinged is buzzing in your blood—maybe it's the journal thing, or the fact that he read every single thing you've ever written about yourself. You don't know.

You just know that this time, you're not waiting. You take the elevator up. No code. No warning. Just your footsteps, soft and slow, echoing across the marble as you step into the penthouse and then—you stop. Dead.

Because there's someone already down here, in fact two someones. One of them, you recognize as the man you saw leaving that day—now unmistakably a doctor of some sort, clipboard in hand, every movement clinical and restrained. He's sitting next to another man. A man who's— Oh fuck.

Shirtless.

Barefoot. Wearing only a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips like they're barely there at all. Lee Heeseung, the one on all the pictures and posters in the haunting closet, the one from the articles you saw.He's not a ghost or a shadow upstairs. He's definitely real and he's here, laughing at something he just said, a low warm sound that breaks the silence—and then cuts off the second he sees you.They both stare and you can't help but stare back cause your brain short-circuits because not only is he real—he's gorgeous. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that feels cruel. Sharp jaw, dark hair a mess, skin golden and soft in the morning light and then the audacity of the amused curl of his mouth as he takes you in.

The doctor doesn't laugh at Heeseung's joke, he just closes his clipboard with a hard snap, locks the files into a black case with practiced hands, mutters something clipped to Heeseung, and walks past you like you're air. You don't move, not because you don't want to but because you can't. And now Heeseung just stands there, right in front of you, 6 feet away. Shirtless.

As if this is all some sort of routine, where he expected you to show up early to catch him sitting there. Then he speaks. Voice low, smooth, maddeningly calm. "You're early."

You blink, stunned mute. He cocks his head slightly. Barely.

"Is this how you always barge into my home?" You open your mouth but you have to close it again because no words will come out.Because all you can think is holy shit. Not only is he not old, like Jiyoon said, not only is he not some weird piano hermit ghost—he is breathtaking. And apparently, deeply unbothered by the fact that you've just witnessed whatever strange intimate evaluation that was.

"I—sorry," you finally manage, voice rough to the point of shame. "I didn't think—there was someone—upstairs, usually—" Heeseung raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You didn't think as I didn't think you'd be here before ten, hmm?" You bristle, flustered and mortified and somewhere under all that, burning. "I'm just here to clean." He smiles at that and it's not kind, it's not mocking either. Just... knowing, he's got that look—the kind that says he's already pages ahead in your journal entry for tonight, already memorized the lines, already knows exactly how this ends.

"Good," he says. "Then clean." And he walks past you—slow, easy, barefoot steps—disappearing back up the stairs without another word. Leaving you there, alone with your rage, your humiliation, and your heart pounding so loud in your chest it echoes in the silence. What do you do now? You clean. Of course you do. That's what you're here for, and you already showed up thirty minutes earlier than you were supposed to, so now you're finishing faster than usual—dusting the shelves with extra care just to stall, organizing the rows of books he never touches, wiping down the marble countertops even though they don't look like they've been used in days.

And all the while your brain won't stop looping back to your journal on his kitchen counter, to the handwriting in the margins that isn't yours, to the arrow pointing right to the word lonely and the quiet weight of you have no idea written beneath it.

It's unfair, you think, the way he's just living in his architectural digest penthouse, barefoot and cryptic, while you're pacing through his living room, trying not to wonder how much of your life he's read. You almost forget the weight of it—almost—until he's suddenly back.

You hear him before you see him, the soft sound of his footsteps against the dark wood floor, and when you turn, there he is.

Coming down the stairs like a fucking problem you can't afford to have, still barefoot, still in those jeans that hang too low on his hips, but now in a loose linen shirt that he didn't even bother to button all the way.

It's distracting, infuriatingly so. You don't even want to think about how hot he is—because it's wrong, and messy, and also, you're still mad.

He sees you before you can pretend you weren't watching him descend like some kind of fallen angel with unresolved trauma, and for a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there at the bottom of the stairs, head tilted slightly, his eyes unreadably deep, like he's trying to pin you to the spot with silence alone.

Then he turns, walks toward the closet in the hallway—the one with the photographs and trophies and that signed, rolled-up poster of his own damn face—and you stare after him without meaning to, without even trying to be subtle. There's something about the way he moves, like someone who hasn't had to explain himself in years, like someone who only speaks when the silence becomes too loud to tolerate.

You don't expect him to come back out and walk straight toward you and you definitely don't expect him to stop right in front of you to speak.

"Do you always sit in my chair when you psychoanalyze me in your journal?" His voice is even, smooth, and just sharp enough to make your jaw clench. There's something teasing in it, mocking maybe, or maybe just observant, but either way—it makes your chest tighten.

You straighten where you sit, looking up at him without flinching. "You had no right to read my journal."

He doesn't flinch either.

"You wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?"

And that's what throws you—how casual he says it, how unbothered he is by the violation, like it was never that serious to begin with.

In your head, you're screaming. Not because you're scared, but because it's almost worse that he read it without hesitation. Because that journal was yours, it was everything. A year and a half of pain and boredom and loneliness and softness and tiny bursts of joy that you didn't know where else to put. Little poems about love you've never felt. Sentences that barely made sense to you at the time. Half-finished stories and full-bodied grief. And now he knows. Maybe not all of it—but enough.

You bite your tongue before your mouth runs wild, but your thoughts are already racing.

He read it. He read all of it, probably. God, did he see the poem you wrote about the boy who only existed in your dreams? Did he read the list of things you want to do before you die? Did he see the part about wanting someone to ask you how your day was, without needing a reason?

You want to be mad. You are mad. But under that is the hot sting of embarrassment, the helplessness of being seen without warning, without consent.

He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.

You blink hard. "It wasn't for you."

"I figured."

You exhale sharply through your nose. "Then why did you—"

He cuts you off without cutting you off. His voice is softer this time. "I found your note."

That makes your stomach turn.

You remember the note. I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest.

You didn't even think when you left it. You just wrote it and ran. And now he's standing here, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, chest half-exposed, staring at you like your truth didn't scare him off at all.

"I don't think you're invasive," he says. "You were just... honest, like you said."

That word again.

And suddenly you're not sure what this is anymore—what he is. Because he's not yelling. He's not smug. You don't even think he's trying to humiliate you, he's just standing there, calm, casual—as if this is routine, as if your journal wasn't a goddamn blueprint of everything you never said out loud. As if he didn't drag his pen under the word lonely and scrawl you have no idea in the margins, careless, cruel, and so absurdly calm about it.

You really don't know what to say but you guess your silence must say enough, because his eyes soften just enough to sting.

"People don't usually stay when I'm honest," He says it like it's already written in stone, something that happened, not something he's choosing.

You just sit there, unsure if you're still furious or if your heart just broke a little for a man you don't understand at all.

You really want to ask him why he wrote in your journal, why he felt comfortable enough to reply to it like you were in some kind of conversation. You should get up and walk out, slam the door for good measure, remind him you're the help and he's a man who's too comfortable living above the rest of the world, shirtless and half-smiling at things that should have been private. But instead, you're still sitting there.

And instead of leaving, you ask, "What's with the whole coming at ten and leaving at four thing?"

He blinks.

It's not the question he expected, maybe not the one you expected either, but it's already out in the air now and hanging between you like mist.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly as he leans a hip against the back of the chair across from you. You watch the movement—too closely—and hate how your eyes keep catching on the little things: the curve of his collarbone, the faint line of a vein down his forearm, the way he smells faintly like vanilla and clean linen. You force your gaze back up to his face.

He doesn't answer right away.

Then, after a moment, he says, "I just thought six hours was enough time for you to do what you needed."

It's almost clipped, controlled.

"And..." He pauses, eyes flicking to the side, as if choosing his next words carefully. "It's better for you if you follow it."

You blink. "What do you mean better for me?"

He shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant but not exactly casual. "You walked in on something you weren't supposed to see this morning."

Your mind flashes back to that moment—the doctor, the manilla folders, the way Heeseung was sitting on the chair laughing to himself with no shirt on and then suddenly not laughing at all.

Your throat feels a little dry.

"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.

He nods once. "Yeah." Then, quieter, "There are... things I deal with. Things I don't need anyone witnessing."

It's not quite a warning. Not quite a confession either. It floats in the space between.

You shift in your seat, uncertain. "So the schedule is more for... your privacy?"

He lets out a sound that's almost a laugh but not quite, low and humorless. "Sure. Let's go with that."

There's something in the way he says it that tells you he doesn't really mean it—not entirely. Like there's more he could say if he wanted to, but he doesn't.

Still, you nod slowly, even though you don't really understand. Even though the idea of spending six hours in a place that holds your most personal words hostage is suffocating.

Even though his presence is starting to feel... electric in the worst and best way.

And then, after a beat, you ask softly, "And what happens if I don't follow it?"

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And for a second, something shifts. The air between you turns thicker, heavier. You can feel his eyes like heat on your skin.

"I don't think you'd want to find out," he says, voice low and quiet, but not threatening. Just true.

And you believe him.

Not because you think he'd hurt you. But because there are some parts of him—some stories, some shadows—you haven't earned the right to touch yet.

You don't answer.

You just hold his gaze until it feels like it burns and then drop your eyes to your hands and stand up to walk away, walk towards the door

He straightens then, subtly, pushing off from the chair like the moment's passed. You don't know if you're relieved or disappointed.

"Of course a person as beautiful as you would write so heartbreakingly beautiful." It's low. Almost to himself. Like he didn't mean to say it aloud.

But you hear it.

And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.

You turn—just slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He's not even watching you. He's looking down at the floor, one hand resting loosely on the back of the chair like he hadn't just broken you open and left you bleeding all over his expensive floors.

"What did you ju—" you almost ask but he's already cutting you off. "You're done for the day, right?"

You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.

"Then you should go."

You turn around and walk slowly, legs a little stiff, journal heavy in your bag, chest heavier still.

And as you move past him, toward the front door, he doesn't say anything else.

He just watches you go.

You walk home like your body isn't yours, it feels like your bones are made of sound, the way you hear everything but can't feel a single step. Your bag is even heavier than it should be for some reason.

The door to your apartment creaks as you open it. Warmth hits you in the face. Jiyoon's music is loud—some upbeat synth-pop song she always plays when she's cooking—and the smell of garlic and oil and something spicy wraps around you like a familiar blanket. But you don't step in right away. You stand in the doorway a little too long, still wearing your shoes, still holding your keys in one hand like you forgot what they're for.

Then she turns. She sees you.

And she freezes.

The music doesn't. But she grabs her phone and hits pause mid-chorus, eyebrows already pulled together in the way they do when she's bracing herself for gossip. "You look... feral."

You blink. "What?"

"Your face," she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you. "It's giving war-torn romantic heroine. What happened?"

You close the door behind you. You walk inside. You don't know where to begin.

So you say the first thing that spills from your mouth.

"I saw him."

She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"

You nod.

"Lee Heeseung?"

You nod again.

She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.

You don't laugh. You can't.

"He was shirtless," you add quietly, like it's something illegal.

Jiyoon makes a noise so high-pitched only the dead could hear it.

"No. No. No," she says, rushing over and grabbing both your arms like she's checking for a pulse. "You have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Did he talk to you? Did he breathe near you? Did he smell good? Does he look weird? Did you black out? Are you still alive? Blink twice if you need CPR."

You let out a long breath, barely a laugh. "He was laughing with some man. A doctor, I think. He was barefoot. Just jeans, low. He didn't even look at me at first. Just kind of... existed."

You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles start to ache.

"Then he did see me later when he came back down, I was sitting. In that chair I said I always journal in. And he just... stared. Then he disappeared into that hallway closet with all the photos and came back out without something, and I watched him the whole time like a creep." Jiyoon looks winded. "This is already the best thing I've ever heard."

"He asked me if I always sit in his chair when I psychoanalyze him in my journal." Her eyes explode. "No."

You nod. "Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I told him he had no right to read it."

"Did he deny it?" You shake your head slowly. "He said—and I quote—'you wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?'" Jiyoon puts her whole body on the counter, like gravity's too much. "This is sick. This is sick. I can't believe you're living out the plot of the exact kind of emotionally unstable literature you always say you hate." You let your head fall next to hers. "I'm going to have to switch some of my classes."

She lifts her face, blinking. "Wait, what?"

"I can't keep going in the mornings. Not if I'm cleaning for him every day. The only opening left in my schedule is evening sections and some online ones, and I'll probably miss my favorite professors class."

"You love that class."

"I know."

"I don't know if you can tell but you're kind of acting like it's worth it"

*•*•*

You wake up feeling weirdly... eager. Which is insane in your opinion. It's cleaning. You're going to clean for six hours in a house where the walls are silent and the air feels kind of tight, and maybe—maybe—he'll come down again. Maybe he won't. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You dress in your usual oversized tee and leggings, but you switch your sneakers for the cleaner pair, the ones without scuff marks. You spend longer on your face than necessary. Just moisturizer, a little concealer—nothing obvious. Just in case. You tell yourself it's just habit. You tell yourself a lot of things.

You get there at 9:57. By 10:02, your coat is hung up and the cleaning supplies are laid out in their usual corners. The house is quiet—same as always—but now it's a different kind of quiet. Now you know who it's holding and it makes you all irrationally aware of everything.

You start with the mirrors.

Not because they're dirty. They're not.

But because they reflect the hallway, and every time you glance up, you can see the top of the stairs.

By 11:17, you've vacuumed every rug on the main floor. Nothing.

By 12:04, you've re-organized the kitchen drawers. Again. Not that he'd notice. You don't even know if he uses them.

By 12:58, you're dusting frames that don't need dusting, glancing at the ceiling like footsteps might fall out of it.

By 1:45, you've convinced yourself he's not coming down. That yesterday was a one-off. That he's upstairs doing whatever rich, complicated people do—brooding maybe, like some Austenian shut-in. You try to laugh at yourself for even caring but it sits low in your chest. He's just a man, you only even met him once.

So why does it feel this weird? You're so distracted you almost forget to check the pantry. You always check the pantry. And when you finally do, you find it's already been stocked. Someone else did it.

Maybe him.

Your stomach turns and don't know why. By 3:50, you're packing your things, fingers slow on the zipper of your bag. By 3:56, you're glancing around the room like it might give you a reason to stay longer. By 3:58, you hear it.

Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.

Heeseung. Descending the stairs like it's nothing. Like he didn't make you wait all day without knowing you were waiting. He's wearing another linen shirt—this one in charcoal—and it's loose over his frame, the top two buttons undone. His hair is a little messy, like he's been lying down or pulling his fingers through it and, he's barefoot again. He smiles.

"Hey," he says, voice warm in that slow, easy way. "You're still here." You swallow. "Not for long."

He steps down the last stair. "How was your day?" You blink at him. It takes a second for your voice to catch up. "I spent it here. You tell me." His brows lift a little. Not offended—more amused. He shifts his weight and leans against the banister.

"I missed my favorite class."

"You're a student? And you missed a class? Because of this?" You glance down at your hands. They're still a little red from scrubbing tile. "Yeah."

He's quiet for a second. "Have you had dinner?" You start to say no—but your stomach betrays you before your mouth can lie. It growls. Audibly. Your eyes go wide and he laughs at your expression. "Sit," he says, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."

You blink. "What? No, that's not—" He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Sit." And there's something in the way he says it that has you obeying, hesitantly still. The counter's cool beneath your palms as you lower yourself into the chair, eyes tracking his every movement. He moves so naturally in the kitchen—opens the fridge with one hand, pulls down a skillet with the other, all casual familiarity and soft clattering sounds. It smells like garlic again. Butter. Something fresh.

"What are you making?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."

Heeseung's cutting vegetables like he's done it a thousand times. He slices a tomato without looking down, throws it into a pan, then adds something else from a jar. The sizzle is instant.

You lean forward. "Do you cook for all your maids?"

He pauses, halfway to the sink. Then he glances at you, a slow grin spreading across his mouth. "You're barely a maid."

"Excuse me?"

He shrugs again, that same lazy charm. "Have you seen the state of the guest bathroom?"

You laugh—actually laugh, the sound startling even to you but you catch yourself wondering why you're not offended he just insulted your cleaning skills. You watch his smile grow wider and somehow, in the scent of sautéing herbs and low music playing from the speaker he must've turned on when you weren't looking, it feels normal. Almost. Except not at all. Because when he sets the plate down in front of you, you look up to thank him—and he's already watching you. Eyes soft and focused.

And for the first time all day, your chest doesn't feel so tight.

You dig in and it's stupidly delicious, making your eyes go wide again, mouth still full. "Okay.

That's insane."

Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.

You point your fork at him. "You made this? Just now?"

He nods, watching you intently. It doesn't take long before the plates are empty—yours cleaned down to the sauce, his barely touched—and there's music playing from somewhere in the house, something soft and unfamiliar, all instrumentals and quiet piano.

You're both still sitting at the counter, opposite ends, your elbows propped up, legs curled beneath the stool. He's lounging with his long body twisted toward you, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a wine glass he hasn't taken a sip from yet.

The conversation has slowed into something looser now—easier. He asked what books you've been reading lately. You asked if he's always this good at cooking. He pretended to be modest and then very much wasn't.

And then you ask, "Why every day?"

He looks at you. "Why did you suddenly want me to come clean every day?" There's a beat of silence. Heeseung's gaze drops to the rim of his glass, the edge of his thumb skimming around it once, twice.

"When I saw your note," he says finally, voice lower now, "I didn't know what to do with it." He lifts his eyes, meets yours.

"I knew you weren't going to come again until the day after next. And it made me... restless. Waiting for a reply. Not being able to ask."

You inhale, slow and careful.

"And then I read your journal."

You stiffen a little, but he doesn't apologize. He doesn't even flinch.

"I didn't read all of it," he adds, leaning forward, closer. "I swear. Just some pages. A few entries. And one poem."

You stare at him.

He sets the glass down. Both elbows on the counter now. His fingers lace together.

"I read this line—" he begins, eyes on yours, "Your silence filled the house louder than your voice ever did."

You're stunned like your brain can't comprehend he's reciting your poem word for word.

He doesn't even blink. "I memorized the gaps in your sentences like scripture. I waited for the ending, but all you left was air."

Your mouth opens—just barely—but you can't speak.

"There's still a teacup on the windowsill. There's still a sweater on the hook. There's still a ghost in the shape of you that lives in the room where you never said goodbye."

You whisper the final two lines without thinking.

"And I still set the table for two, like a fool. Like you might remember that you left me starving."

His lips part—just slightly. Your voice had gone soft at the end, cracking a little, like it didn't want to be said out loud. And maybe it didn't. Maybe it never was.

You didn't even think it was that good. You wrote it half-asleep. You'd forgotten you even. "I needed to know," he says, not looking away, "who could write something like that."

You're quiet for a long time. "You shouldn't have read it."

"I know."

"I didn't write it for anyone to—"

"I know," he says again, voice quiet now. "But I couldn't help it. I wanted to meet the person behind it. I wanted to see if you'd look at me the way your words did."

The room is suddenly very still.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if there's even language for the way your body is reacting. There's heat in your throat, under your skin, behind your ribs. You should leave. You really should but instead you ask, "Do I?"

His brow creases. "Do you what?"

"Do I look at you that way?"

He doesn't answer your question, not with words anyway. Just studies you with that same unreadable stare, something flickering behind his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

And then, as if someone's pressed fast-forward on the moment, he shifts his weight back and clears his throat softly. "Do you play any instruments?" he asks, voice casual, like he didn't just memorize one of the most vulnerable things you've ever written.

You blink. "What?"

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the counter. "You write. I assumed you like music."

"I do," you say carefully. "I like listening more than anything. I used to sing."

He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"

You sigh, deflecting. "It's different when people are watching. When you're older. The recorder was more forgiving."

That gets a real laugh out of him. He tilts his head, grinning. "The recorder?"

"Yes, and I was a prodigy. First chair in third grade." You press a hand to your chest dramatically. "The youngest to ever play Hot Cross Buns with such emotional depth."

He snorts and leans closer like he's about to say something else, but the next thing you know, he's not across the counter anymore—he's beside you.

You don't know exactly when he moved, maybe it was when he stood up from the stool to put the plates in the sink, still laughing about the recorder joke.

His elbow brushes yours. His shoulder is an inch from yours. You feel his presence like heat—radiating and dangerous in the best possible way.

And somehow, you're still laughing. You're still talking about childhood instruments and music you like and whether jazz is romantic or just sad in a pretty way. He teases you for not knowing any Miles Davis and you tease him back for quoting poetry like a teenage girl with a Tumblr account.

It's light. Easy. It's so different from the static in the air earlier this week, from the careful distance you both tried to maintain. But now...

Now his hand brushes the counter beside yours. And your breathing changes. And the silence feels like a held breath.

You don't look at each other—you're still talking, kind of. But your voices are softer now. Lower. A little slower.

And then it happens.

Your eyes meet.

His face tilts just slightly toward yours, making your breath catch.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you and doesn't. His eyes drop to your lips. He leans in, just a little—just enough that the space between you crackles—and you feel yourself tilting too, breath hitching, mouth parting.

And then he pulls back, all too quick and 

sudden. He clears his throat, looks away, stepping back so abruptly he almost knocks over the stool that was next to you.

You flinch at the sound.

"I—" he starts, then shakes his head, jaw tight. "You should go."

Your stomach drops.

"I didn't mean to—" he breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to come tomorrow. Go to your class. I'll tell your manager."

You stay frozen for a second, eyes wide, lips still tingling with something that didn't happen.

And then you nod, slow. Trying not to show how much you're shaking. "Okay."

He doesn't say anything else.

You leave quietly.

But your pulse pounds in your ears all the way home and in the haze of it all you don't take the bus home.

You don't want the rush of it—the closed windows and stale air and elbows brushing yours. You want air, real air, the kind that cools your skin and cuts through the confusion curling heavy in your chest. The heels of your sneakers hit the sidewalk harder than usual. You don't notice until your toes ache.

You can still feel it. The almost of his mouth on yours. His voice whispering poetry that used to belong to no one but you. The way he looked at you right before he pulled back—like he could drown and not care.

You don't realize how far you've walked until your phone rings, sharp in the quiet. You check the screen and it's Cee. You sigh, thumb swiping across the glass.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Where are you right now?"

You blink. "Uh... on my way home. I finished cleaning—he told me not to come tomorrow, so—"

"Yeah, well, change of plans," he cuts in, voice tight, clipped. "He called. Wants you in tomorrow."

You stop walking. "What?"

"That's what I said. Twenty minutes ago, he told me you weren't coming. Five minutes ago, he said make sure you do."

Your grip tightens around your phone. You glance down at the pavement, cracked and worn, your shadow stretched long in the streetlight. "That... doesn't make sense."

"Welcome to my fucking week."

You don't know what to say. You try to remember exactly how he said it. You don't have to come tomorrow. You can take your class.

He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.

Or maybe—maybe it was a trick. A test. Maybe you failed.

The line is quiet for a moment. Then, softer—softer than you're used to from him, like he has to chew it first before he can let it out—your manager says:

"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"

Your breath catches.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." A pause. "He hasn't done anything weird, right? Or tried something? You'd tell me, yeah?"

You blink again, hard. It feels like stepping off a curb you didn't see. Your lips part, your heart kicks—because no, he hasn't. But he almost did and you're starting to think maybe it would've been fine if he did. Maybe it would've been more than fine.

"No," you say quickly. "Nothing like that. He's... he's not like that."

"You sure?"

"Yes." You don't hesitate. "I don't want to quit."

There's silence on the line. You can hear him exhale.

"Alright," he says finally. "You're there again at ten. Don't be late."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Okay."

He hangs up.

You just stand there. A low breeze rustles through the trees, brushes cool fingers against your neck.

He asked for you. After almost kissing you and pulling away—after telling you not to come tomorrow—he called and asked for you. Your pulse flickers hot beneath your skin as your mind raced with questions.

Was he testing you?

Did he think you wouldn't come back?

You suddenly realize your mouth is dry, your throat tight. The stars feel too bright above you. Your phone buzzes in your palm, a silent reminder that something has shifted, again.

And for better or worse, you'll be seeing him tomorrow.

You don't even bother to take your shoes off when you get in the door.

The front door slams behind you harder than you mean it to, and Jiyoon—sweet, perceptive, too-curious Jiyoon—is immediately shouting from the kitchen, "Is that you? Are you okay? You've been gone forever, I was about to—"

"I'm fine!" you yell back, already halfway down the hall. Your voice cracks halfway through the word. You don't even try to fix it.

"Wait—" Jiyoon appears around the corner, wooden spoon still in hand, some ridiculous song playing from the speaker behind her. "Wait, wait, what happened? Did you see him again?"

You keep walking.

"Did he—?"

"I'm fine," you repeat, softer this time but not gentler. "He said I don't have to come in tomorrow, so I'll probably go to my class."

"Oh my god, what does that mean?" she laughs, stepping after you. "Did you finally tell him off or did he—?"

"I'm tired, Jiyoon," you mumble, hand on your doorknob. "So tired."

She crosses her arms. "You look like you just made out with someone in a Jane Austen novel."

Your face goes hot.

"I love you," you say, deadpan. "But I need to be alone right now."

She gasps dramatically, "You're hiding something! You always say I love you when you're hiding something—"

You shut the door in her face.

Lock it.

Lean back against it.

Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.

You sink down to the floor, journal already in your hands before you even realize you've moved. Your fingers tremble when you unscrew the cap of your pen. You press it to the page.

And for a moment, you just sit there, not even writing.

Just breathing.

You write, He said I write beautifully.

Then, slower, He said he felt restless about not getting a response.

And then, He pulled away.

The ink smudges beneath your fingers. You don't wipe it away. You just keep writing, your handwriting more frantic than usual, trailing across the page in swooping spirals and crooked curves. You write about the way he looked at you—so real and intense it felt like it burned. About how close he was, how you could feel the heat of him.

About the poem.

How he remembered every word.

How you finished it together.

And when you're done, you stare at the page—like maybe it'll give you answers. Like maybe it'll tell you what it means when a man like Heeseung tells you not to come, then calls your manager like he can't bear not seeing you.

You close your journal.

And press it to your chest.

You crawl into bed, still in your jeans, feet hanging off the edge, journal clutched to your chest like a heartbeat you don't trust to stay steady on its own.

It takes everything in you to peel yourself away, toss the journal aside, and dig out your laptop from where it's tangled in yesterday's laundry on the floor. You log into your evening class with exactly thirty seconds to spare, camera off, mic muted, chin propped against the heel of your palm.

The professor's voice starts droning through your headphones—soft, monotone, familiar—and for a second you think maybe you can do this.

And then your eyelids get heavy.

You blink hard.

You scribble your name into the attendance chat and pretend like you're absorbing something, anything, while your mind floats right back to—

That linen shirt hanging open just enough to see his collarbones. His voice, low and steady, reciting your words back to you like scripture. The smell of garlic and rosemary from his cooking still clinging to your hair. The way he moved closer without you even realizing. The moment before the kiss that never happened—the way your heart caught on the edge of it.

You shake your head violently, try to refocus. The slide on your screen says something about semiotic theory. You don't know what that means. You don't care what that means.

You're so screwed.

Your professor's voice fades into a low buzz, and you press your palm to your cheek harder, like maybe pressure can keep you conscious. It can't.

The laptop screen glares into your face. The chat scrolls with questions you don't have the energy to fake-read. You close your eyes just for a second.

You tell yourself it's only for a second.

Just one.

Just—

You jolt awake six minutes later to your professor asking, "And how might this apply to authorial intent, Y/N?"

You blink, brain empty.

You type in the chat: Sorry, my mic's not working.

And you thank every god that ever existed for mute buttons.

*•*•*

You find yourself hovering just outside the penthouse door, hesitating.

Your fingers are curled in a loose fist, suspended midair like they've forgotten how to move. You've stood in this exact spot every day for about a week now, but this time—this time you're unsure. The same polished floor under your shoes, the same towering door with its sleek gold handle and silent weight, but something about today feels different. You feel different.

You almost turn around.

Almost.

But then—voices. Muffled, low but distinct, curling around the edges of the thick door.

You lean in without meaning to, breath held as if your body knows this is a moment you're not meant to be part of. You recognize his voice first, Heeseung's—light, teasing, a tone you've come to know well, though it still unsettles you how easily it affects you. The other voice is lower, older maybe, with clipped words and a sternness that makes your stomach tighten. It must be the doctor from the other day.

"No," the doctor says, firm and quiet. "Now isn't the time to have a new person around every day. You know that."

There's a pause. You hear something creak—maybe a chair.

"It's fine," Heeseung replies, far too casually. "Nothing's happened. She's just cleaning. It's fine."

"She's not just cleaning."

There's silence. A long one. And then—Heeseung's voice again, softer. "Maybe she's good for me."

You freeze. You don't know what they're talking about exactly, not in full, but the heat that rushes to your face is impossible to fight. Good for him? What the hell does that mean? And why does it make your chest feel like it's caving in? Before you can hear anything else, the door swings open, making you stumble back just in time, blinking up at the man who steps through—tall, with sharp eyes that land on you and skim over every inch of your body like you're being scanned. He doesn't say hello, he doesn't smile just like last time. Instead, he mutters something—so low you barely catch it but the edge is there, sharp enough to wound. Something about "distractions" and "too young" and "another mistake."

You step aside without responding, your mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He walks past you with a slight shake of his head and a long sigh, like your very existence is a burden.

And then—

"Didn't think you'd come."

You turn back around.

Heeseung's standing in the doorway, barefoot again, hair still damp like he just showered, dressed in a loose gray shirt and soft black pants that cling to his hips in a way that makes your head fog. He's smiling—nothing too wide, just soft, like a secret meant only for you. Like he's genuinely happy to see you.

You open your mouth to say something, anything—but he's already speaking again.

"About yesterday," he says, stepping aside so you can walk in. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."

And the whiplash? It's instant. Because wasn't he the one who told you not to come today? All quiet and serious and guilt-stricken after nearly kissing you in his kitchen? Now he's soft again, familiar again, and it throws you completely off.

"You don't need to apologize," you say quickly, almost defensively, as you walk inside.

"I do," he says, just as fast. "I really—"

"No, Heeseung." You stop and turn to face him, heart in your throat. "You really don't need to apologize."

He opens his mouth again, brows furrowing, about to insist—but your voice cuts through the air before you can stop yourself.

Quiet. Barely a whisper.

"You didn't have to stop either."

Silence, all heavy and immediate. Heeseung just stares at you. Still and looking stunned. His lips parted like he wants to speak but the words haven't caught up to his brain. His eyes search your face slowly, like he's not sure if he heard you right—or if you meant to say it out loud.

And maybe you didn't.

But you did.

And there's no taking it back.

The door clicks shut behind you before you can even remember stepping inside.

Heeseung doesn't move at first. Just stares at you like he's not entirely sure you're real. Like maybe he conjured you up somehow. His eyes stay on your mouth a little too long, and you try not to notice the way his chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, as if he's reminding himself how to breathe.

Then you say it again. Softer this time.

"You didn't have to stop."

It hangs in the air between you. Heavy, reckless and unapologetic.

Heeseung blinks once. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shutters. He exhales through his nose—shaky—and drags a hand through his hair, the curls still slightly messy from sleep or stress or something in between.

"That's inappropriate," he says, not unkindly. More like he's trying to draw a boundary he doesn't even believe in.

And the words sting. Maybe more than they should. Maybe because you were just beginning to feel something real stirring between the two of you—something outside of your job, your journal, your blurring lines. You freeze. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first, and it's too late anyway. He's already turning from you.

The confused hurt in your eyes stops him in his tracks, but only for a second. He looks back at you—and really looks. Something passes behind his eyes, quiet and aching. Regret maybe or worse, restraint. You watch his jaw flex, as if he's chewing on something bitter, swallowing all the things he'll never allow himself to say.

Then he's stepping away. A slow, deliberate retreat. His footsteps are soft against the stairs as he disappears up them without another word.

And just like that, you're alone. Again.

The silence is incredibly deafening.

Your hands are still trembling.

They have been ever since you left his place. You could barely wipe the kitchen counters without your fingers missing the edge. The dishes were spotless before you even realized you'd scrubbed them twice. Your head was everywhere but here, rerunning that moment—that look in his eyes, the cold withdrawal of his body after your quiet, desperate confession.

And he never came back down.

You didn't know what you expected, but it wasn't this.

The day drags, and when the clock finally blinks 4:00, you practically flee. Your phone's already to your ear by the time you hit the elevator.

"I can't do this anymore," you say as soon as Cee picks up.

He sounds startled. "Do what? Are you—what happened? Are you okay?"

"Nothing happened. I just—" You press your fingers to your temple. The weight of everything suddenly lands all at once. "I don't want to clean for him anymore."

He's quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Did he do something?"

"No. I just..." You sigh. "It's better this way."

And you think that's the end of it.

But the second you step into the building's reception, the front desk clerk—neatly pressed shirt, neutral expression, his name tag slightly askew—glances up from his computer. "Miss," he says, "Mr. Lee is asking for you upstairs."

You freeze.

Your mouth goes dry. "I—I was just up there."

He nods once, polite. "He asked me to let you know."

You hesitate.

Everything inside you says don't go. That this is how it always begins—with soft invitations and good intentions and doors that don't close fast enough behind you.

But your feet are already moving.

The elevator ride is silent, save the rush of your pulse in your ears. And when you push the door open, Heeseung is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Waiting.

You can't read his expression.

"I figured you'd quit," he says. Not accusing. Not even upset. Just matter-of-fact, like he'd already prepared for it.

"I am," you say. "I think it's for the best."

There's a beat.

"I don't want that."

You scoff before you can help it, stepping inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft hiss. "I'm not even sure you know what you want."

You don't even realize you're walking until you're standing in front of him, so close y

ou could count the lashes framing his eyes if you weren't too scared to look directly into them. There's something in his face—some falter in his composure—that makes your chest feel too tight.

He doesn't move.

So you do.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your heart hammers, and then—you're kissing him.

It's a mess of a thing. Sudden. Brash. Tipped forward on hope and recklessness. Your lips crash into his like a question you don't want answered and—

Nothing.

He doesn't move.

Your lips are on his, but he's frozen. Unresponsive.

The rejection burns so fast it chokes you, and you start to pull back, humiliated—but something in you makes you whisper to him, "Please," you almost sound broken. "Please kiss me back, Heeseung."

That's all it takes.

The air leaves his lungs like he's been sucker-punched. His hands are on your face instantly, his mouth catching yours like he's been starving for it. Like the moment he tasted you, he remembered how badly he wanted.

And this time, he answers the question

His mouth is on yours like he's finally allowed himself to breathe. You're not sure who moves first after that—him or you—but the space between you disappears completely. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like he needs the reminder that you're real and here and kissing him back just as desperately.

And when he pulls away to look at you—face flushed, eyes dark and confused—you whisper again, barely audible, "Heeseung..."

That does it for him because you can swear you see the moment something in him breaks. Suddenly he's not hesitating anymore, like the sound of your voice cracked through whatever restraint he'd been clinging to, and now it was all unraveling.

He's swallowing the soft sounds you make, capturing every gasp, every whimper, like he needs to devour them, and his mouth is hot and insistent as it trails down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin like he's trying to mark the moment there.

You gasp when he lifts you without warning, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It's erratic—wild—matching yours nearly beat for beat.

He sets you down on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, the cool marble biting at the backs of your thighs through your jeans. His lips return to yours before they begin their descent again, brushing over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest. His fingers find the hem of your top and pause, glancing up, breath hitching.

You nod.

That's all he needs.

He peels it off gently—too gently for the look in his eyes—and when your bra joins the growing pile of fabric, he's silent for a second. Just watching you. Then he exhales something like a curse and leans in, pressing slow, reverent kisses down your sternum, the curve of your breasts, dragging his teeth lightly, sucking your nipple into his mouth, making you shiver and arch into him.

Every time you whimper, he presses closer.

Every time you moan, he groans softly against your skin, like your sounds undo him.

And just when you think your legs might give out from how tightly your body is wound, he lifts you again. Not onto the floor—but down, off the counter, and turns you gently, pressing you forward. You gasp softly as your hands meet the marble again, your heart stuttering.

Your jeans are tugged down with unhurried hands. Your underwear follows. You're so exposed. Breathless. And behind you, Heeseung lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a prayer.

One of his hands smooths over your lower back. The other grips your hip. "God forgive me," he whispers.

You don't know how to stay quiet—not when his mouth is trailing behind you, kissing the backs of your thighs, the curve of you, everywhere—and when he finally leans in, when you feel the first sweep of his tongue, your entire body jolts forward like he's short-circuited something deep inside you.

"Heeseung—" It leaves your mouth like a sob.

He groans in response, tightening his grip around your thighs, but his pace doesn't falterr.

And all you can do is press your cheek against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut, biting down on your own hand as he ruins you slowly.

Intimately.

He watches you unravel with so much intensity from beneath you, it's like he's trying to imprint every detail into memory. His tongue maps out every inch of you, teasing and tasting places you never realized could make you feel this way—until he finds your clit again. Instinct takes over; your hips roll down against his mouth, and he responds with a low hum, gripping your thighs to hold them open just enough to tilt his head and drag his tongue lower once more. "Spread your legs for me baby" He whispers it in a way that has you thinking you'll do anything he says, as long as he says it in that voice.

Suddenly and surprisingly, he shoves his tongue deep inside you while using his fingers to rub tight circles against your clit. "Hee—Ah!" You're moaning and whimpering so uncontrollably, the whole thing has your legs trembling where you're stood. You're convinced if he wasn't holding you up himself you'll collapse from the pleasure and pressure of it all.

His tongue is incredibly relentless, slurping you up, not even caring that he's drooling down his chin with your essence, "Wait! W-Wait!" You cry out suddenly.

"What? What? What's wrong? Did I hu—" His words cut through to you as he gets up off his knees where he was, but you're cutting him off and pulling him for another deep kiss, hopping yourself up on the counter again. Heeseung kisses you back like he's starving—like you're the first thing he's ever been allowed to want.

Your hands are in motion before you can think. Clumsy, eager, pulling his shirt halfway out from where it's tucked into his sweats, feeling the heat of his stomach beneath your palms. You moan into his mouth and his hands squeeze your thighs in response, hard enough to leave a mark.

He doesn't stop you when your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. If anything, he kisses you harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it—owns you—and you're letting him. Begging for more.

Your hands are shaking when you fumble at the button of his slacks, but you manage to get it undone, your fingers brushing the trail of skin that dips below the waistband. Heeseung lets out a sharp, broken sound against your mouth—fuck—his head tipping forward, forehead resting against yours as you palm him through the fabric.

You weren't ready for how hard and heavy he would be in your hand. It was like the length of him just went on and on.

You feel the twitch beneath your palm and gasp, and his breath stutters like he's seconds from losing it.

"Jesus—" heeseung grits, his voice deep and wrecked. His head tips back, neck exposed, throat bobbing, you've never seen someone come undone like this.

He's panting now, hips shifting forward like he needs the friction, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him.

"Is this okay?" you whisper, breathless, your voice barely steady as you trace him again, bolder this time.

His eyes find yours, blown wide and unreadable, lips parted. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, but he nods. "Don't stop. Please take it out, please."

Your hand moves again, more confidently now, doing as he says, and his mouth crashes into yours mid-moan—swallowing it whole, like he can't bear the sound of his own unraveling.

And when he groans into you, deep and guttural and feral, you feel it between your legs—hot and pulsing and near unbearable.

He grips your hips like he's trying to anchor himself—like you're the only thing holding him together. He's dragging you to the edge of the counter and pinning your hand behind you, it has you feeling dizzy—the way he has you pinned there, at his mercy.

Before you can pull away to look down at where you have your hand wrapped around him, he's picking you up off the counter yet again, carrying you and setting you down on the couch, ever so gently.

Heeseung is panting into your mouth, your bodies pressed flush—his chest against yours, your legs wrapped around his waist. The fabric between you is suffocating. His sweats are halfway down his hips, your jeans are already abandoned on the kitchen floor, along with your panties, your composure, and any shred of dignity you once clung to when it came to him.

He's got you caged between his body and the couch. One arm braced beside your head, the other skimming down your side until his fingers are slipping between your legs again. You jolt, gasping against his lips, forehead pressed to his as his fingers slide through the mess he's made of you.

"Fuck—" you whisper, clutching at the back of his neck.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice nothing but gravel and smoke, his thumb teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your spine curl. "You're perfect like this...I knew you'd come back."

You moan again, louder, desperate, rocking against his hand—your whole body begging for him.

His mouth finds yours again, kisses sloppier now, and then he's gripping himself, lining up with your entrance, breath hot and uneven against your cheek.

And then—

"Rina," he breathes.

You freeze for half a second.

It's soft—tender as a whispered prayer, effortless as a breath, a name escaping his lips before he even realizes it.

But your brain doesn't quite catch it—not fully. You're too far gone. Too overwhelmed by the stretch of him nudging at your entrance, by the unbearable heat of his body, the quiet, feral groan rumbling from his chest.

You blink, dazed. "What...?"

But the next second, he's pushing in.

And everything else disappears.

Your body arches, mouth falling open around a choked cry as he fills you in one slow, devastating thrust.

The stretch burns in the best way, and Heeseung moans something guttural, animalistic, like the moment he's inside you he's forgotten his own name too.

"So tight," he groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. "Fucking heaven."

Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth finding the shell of his ear.

"Heeseung—move. Please—"

He pulls back, just enough to slam into you again, and you swear the stars tilt. His rhythm is brutal, relentless, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, and you're sobbing now—moaning into his mouth like you've lost your mind. Maybe you have.

Maybe he has.

Because he's whispering things you can't quite understand—fragmented pieces of something almost sweet, almost unhinged.

"My perfect girl... only mine... waited so long—so long—Rina..."

You hear it again. Clearer now, but you're too gone to stop. Too full of him to question it. Your body writhes beneath his like it's what it was made for—like he's been carved into your DNA.

And you don't know what he means but something about the way he's holding you—possessive, reverent, frantic like he'll die without you—sends a chill up your spine even as you're unraveling around him.

Where they meet—the madness and the need—you don't know where you end and he begins. But you're already lifting your hips to meet his just to chase your high. You're pretty sure you're drooling now and by the way he looks down at you a smiles you know he likes what he seeing "You're so beautiful" "So tight wrapped aroun—" He keeps silencing himself with strangled moans, pulling back and sitting up, too overwhelmed to even remember he hasn't apologized for already being on the edge.

"I'm gonna c—" "Oh fuck fuck fuuuuckkk" He drawls on and on, you can feel your release coming too, in fact it almost feel like you're going to pee. "Don't stop! Heeseung! Fuck!" You moan loudly, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss before pushing his hips back, his cock slipping wet and twitching from your cunt. Without pause, your fingers find your clit, working it in savage, relentless circles, each one followed by a sharp slap that makes your thighs jolt. "Fuck—shit!" you cry out, body arching as a hot stream shoots from you, splattering across his stomach and chest.

His breath catches—eyes blown wide, chest heaving—watching you lose control all over him "You're so sexy". You haven't even caught your breath when he suddenly takes over again, letting the mess spill from you as if your trembling doesn't matter, pushing you down and driving himself deep into the pulsing aftermath still rippling through your body.

"Cum on my cock again, please" "Need you to, Rina—Fuck! I'm so close!" He's mumbling half incoherent half desperate and your overstimulated self doesn't seem to hear the alarm bells ringing in your head at the name he just called you again.  You're already on the brink again,

trembling and aching for it, and when it finally crashes through you, it's because Heeseung drags it out with no mercy. He pulls out, cock dripping, and fists it furiously as he paints your stomach—but he doesn't let your cunt stay empty. Two fingers slam back into your soaked hole, curling deep and fast, forcing you to squirt all over his wrist as he talks you through it with a low, filthy grin.

You're both trembling.

Sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Harsh breathing. The deep, ragged quiet of two people who forgot where they were, who they were, what any of this even meant. He slumps forward, collapsing into you with a half-groan, half-laugh, and you let your fingers drift up his spine, your body humming with aftershocks.

You don't say anything and neither does he, not for a long, long moment.

Then he pushes up, slowly, gently—his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifts you off the couch. You whimper softly from the sensitivity, clinging to his shoulders.

"Come on," he says, voice raw and low. "Shower."

Your limbs feel like water, but you nod, letting him carry you. He walks the both of you to the massive bathroom like you weigh nothing—like you're still something precious in his arms—and sets you down on the warm tile floor. The shower clicks on, hot water spraying against his hand as he checks the temperature, then guides you under it with him.

The moment the water hits you, you shiver—more from the way he's looking at you than the heat. His gaze doesn't drop once. Not when he's rubbing gentle soap over your skin, not when he's rinsing between your legs with careful fingers, not when he presses a kiss to your shoulder like an apology he's too afraid to say aloud.

He doesn't speak until you're both out, towel-wrapped and damp.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, toweling off your hair with surprising tenderness.

You nod. And you don't stop him when he pulls one of his T-shirts over your head—soft and oversized, falling to your mid-thigh. You don't stop him when he pulls on a pair of boxers for you either, or when he leads you to the guest bedroom, the sheets cool and clean beneath your bare legs as you crawl under them.

He climbs in next to you, his body warm beside yours, and without a word, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's muscle memory.

There's no more heat. No more tension. Just his heartbeat against your back, his breath slow and steady in your ear and you fall asleep like that, in his clothes, in his bed, in his arms. Not thining about the name he whispered.

*•*•*

You wake up before Heeseung does.

There's no buzzing alarm, no sunlight breaking through the blackout curtains, but your body jolts upright anyway—like your soul remembered what your mind didn't.

Panic grips you first.

Jiyoon. She's definitely called. Probably texted. Maybe even filed a missing person's report.

You twist in the sheets, trying not to disturb the weight draped over your waist. Heeseung's arm. Heavy, possessive, warm. His hand is splayed over your hip like it belongs there.

You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.

What did I do?

Your heart's racing as you carefully, carefully peel his arm off of you, shimmying toward the edge of the bed. You manage to get one leg off, then another, tiptoeing like a thief in the early morning hush—

"Why are you sneaking out?"

You squeak.

Spinning around, your hands instinctively fly to your chest, but you're still wearing his shirt. You breathe a little but then freeze again when you see him. Heeseung is propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. His voice is low and scratchy—one of those voices that somehow sounds like velvet and gravel all at once.

You stare. And then it hits you—like a freight train right between the ribs. Everything he did to you. Every moan he pulled from your lips. The way he tasted. The way he touched you like you were something sacred and sinful at the same time. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth like you can trap the memory there.

His brow lifts just slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, flipping back onto the bed with a sigh, one arm flung over his eyes. "You're trouble."

"I have to go," you say quickly, eyes darting to the door. "My friend is probably freaking out, she didn't know where I was—"

"Okay," he murmurs, voice muffled beneath his forearm. "But can I get a kiss?" You blink, feeling your heart stutter. Then, slowly, you cross the room again, padding back to the side of the bed. His arm lowers just enough to watch you. When you lean down, brushing your lips to his, he hums—like he's been waiting for that exact moment.

But just as you try to pull away, he grabs you. You yelp, landing on top of him with a soft thud as his hands anchor you by the hips. "Heeseung—" He kisses you again and t's not a chaste goodbye kiss this time. It's deeper, hotter—his lips moving slow and sure against yours, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you melt against him without thinking, your fingers clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt over his chest.

You whine into his mouth. "I have to go..." He nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to breathe. "Come back," he whispers. "Tonight. Seven o'clock."

You're blinking at him, breathless. "To... clean?" He shakes his head once, lips twitching. "No. I'll cook." You can't help it. You smile. It's shy and warm and completely helpless. "Okay," you whisper.

He lets you go then, but not before placing one last kiss on your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Don't be late."

You close the door to the guest bedroom behind you, twisting the handle slowly so it doesn't make a sound, like he might stir just from the click, not that he could even be asleep again. Your heart's still thudding, though softer now, your body still warm from how he held you—not just last night, but moments ago. You feel him on your skin. Between your thighs. In your mouth, even. You pad into the hallway, feet silent against the floor, and the penthouse feels even bigger in the morning, stretching out wide and echoey. Sunlight slips in through the tall windows of the living room, golden and faint, catching dust in the air.

Your clothes are everywhere. A trail—your bra laying on the kitchen floor with your jeans close by, your shirt hanging from the edge of a barstool like some kind of white flag.

You sigh.

You gather them quickly, cradling the bundle to your chest. But when you unfold your shirt—well, what's left of it—you remember the exact moment he took it off, how he looked at you like you were some forbidden fruit he'd gone too long without, you hadn't even realized he had ripped it. It's unsalvageable.

So you just... don't put it on. You slip your bra back on, then shrug his black shirt over it. It swallows you, soft and warm from sleep. You wiggle into your jeans next, the ones he peeled off of you. Your hands tremble as you do the button up.

Last thing—your phone. You search the couch. Nothing. Under the cushions. Still nothing. You check the kitchen counter, the bar, even crouch down to peek under the sofa. "Come on, come on..." Then finally, mercifully, you spot it near the edge of the carpet, half-tucked under the dining chair. You dive for it like it's oxygen and fumble to unlock it.

Ten missed calls. Three voicemails. Twenty-two messages.

All from one name. You don't even get a word out when you hit call—Jiyoon answers on the first ring. "You bitch." You wince. "Oh my god," she cackles. "You bitch. Where were you? Don't tell me—no, no actually, tell me everything right now."

"Ji—"

"You slept with him, didn't you? You fucking whore. You got that psycho dick, didn't you?! Tell me. Was it good? Was it crazy?!"

You cover your face with your hand, crouching down behind the kitchen island like you're trying to hide from the embarrassment sinking into your bones. "I'm coming home," you say weakly, voice still raspy from sleep and... everything else.

"Oh," Jiyoon says, tone shifting slightly. "I'm not home right now. I'm covering a shift for my lazy coworker. But I'll be back later—wait, wait, is he still there? Are you still there? What's he doing?"

"Jiyoon."

"What?"

"Bye."

You hang up.

Still pink-faced and hot, you shove your phone in your pocket, tug on your sneakers, and walk to the elevator with your head ducked low—like the doors might open and the walls themselves would whisper what happened between them. You're not sure how to feel. Still floating. Still wrecked. But you know you'll be back by 7.

*•*•*

You unlock the door to your apartment with shaking fingers, pushing it open slowly like you might find the night before still waiting for you on the other side. But it's empty, cause there's no Heeseung here. No soft piano notes echoing from hidden corners. No whispered "be back by seven." Just your little apartment, lived-in and warm and smelling faintly of vanilla from the candle Jiyoon must've lit last night. You step inside, close the door behind you, and lean back against it for a second. Just to breathe. Your body aches so deliciously and shamefully. Your lips are sore. Your thighs. Your heart.

You change into something soft and oversized before dropping onto your desk chair and logging into your online class, the kind of class that requires so much effort to focus on even when you haven't just had... whatever that was. The screen lights up. A professor you don't care about is already talking, already droning on about something you're not registering. You blink at the slides. The bullet points. You try. Really, you do. But your brain?

It's busy. Because it won't stop showing you his face in the dark. The way he hovered over you, lips parted, skin burning hot against yours. The way he touched you like you were something he needed to know. Memorize.

The way he whispered—low and wrecked—"Rina." You flinch.

It hits you all at once. You'd been so caught up in the moment, too far gone to process it then. But now? Now it loops. The way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Rina.

Who the hell is Rina? You shift in your seat, open a new tab, and hesitate. Your heart is racing again—not the good kind this time, as your hands tremble over the keyboard. Then you type it in regardless,

Lee Heeseung Rina

The search bar blinks at you. You hit enter. And there it is.

The very first result is a glossy thumbnail from three years ago. Heeseung in an interview, seated on a sleek navy couch, wearing black slacks and a gray button up sweater and a white shirt beneath it. He's smiling. That breathtaking smile you've only seen a few times up close, so effortless and disarming. You click the video.

The host laughs and leans forward. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone wants to know. Who's Rina?" Heeseung chuckles, mouth tugging up at one side. You sit a little straighter.

"She's my first love," he says. "And probably the only one I'll ever love like that." The crowd awwws and your heart cracks like glass under pressure, you have pause the video. So she was real. A real woman.Someone he loved so deeply he admitted it on camera—publicly, permanently. Your throat closes up. Your chest tightens. He called you that name. Did he think of her while he was—. You don't even finish the thought. Instead, you search harder. Scroll deeper. You need to know what she looks like. If you look like her. If this is some messed up ghost-of-an-ex situation.

Another video pops up—this one titled "Behind the Scenes | Seoul Symphony Ensemble (ft. Lee Heeseung)"

You click it. The footage is candid, grainy. Heeseung's younger here, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, still too beautiful for it to be fair. The camera follows him backstage as he leads a film crew through the dim corridors of a concert hall. Then he stops, turns to the camera. "Come here," he says with a quiet laugh, gesturing to the next room. "You have to meet her." The camera jostles slightly as they follow. Heeseung walks up to a sleek, glossy black grand piano and runs his fingers across the keys. "This is Rina," he says, like he's introducing a person. His voice is reverent. Almost loving. "She's been with me since I was thirteen. She's...kind of everything to me."

You freeze.

The camera zooms in slightly. Heeseung brushes dust from the piano's surface with his sleeve, smiling at it so softly it hurts. "She's my first love." You sit there, staring, mind blank and full all at once.

Rina's not a person.

Rina's a piano.

A fucking piano. A part of you wants to laugh at your delusion but you don't, instead you just sit there.  Eyes glued to the screen. To him. To the way he's speaking—not to the camera, not even to the crew—but to the piano, like it's something alive. Like it's someone he's missed. Someone he still longs for in the softest, most ruined parts of himself. And that name—Rina—sits different now in your head. Not like a rival. Not like someone he's still in love with. But like... a memory. A feeling. Something that made him whole when the world couldn't.

Rina is his piano.

You let the video run, sound turned low, just watching him—barely twenty two, still beautiful, still broken. The way he presses one key gently and listens. How he says, she's been with me since I was thirteen. How he adds, she's my first love like it's a secret and a confession all at once. Your heart folds in on itself. Because in a way it makes sense now. The way he said your name last night, the way he whispered Rina instead—like he couldn't tell the difference. Like in his mind, in that haze of need and obsession and closeness, you had become something sacred. Something he hadn't let himself love in years. Something he used to play like music. And he'd touched you the same way—with reverence and hunger, as if trying to figure out where you end and he begins. You press your palm to your chest, like maybe you can settle your heartbeat if you hold it hard enough.

He doesn't see you as a replacement. You're not her. But in that moment, you think he felt something he hadn't in a long time. Something pure. Something familiar. Something maybe even terrifying. Heeseung, in his fractured, beautiful, obsessive mind, didn't just mistake you for his piano, he associated the moment—you—with what he once felt when he played Rina. And maybe he's so far gone he doesn't even realize he did it. And maybe you should be scared, but all you feel is this deep, warm ache in your ribs that won't go away. You close the laptop, completely forgetting about your class, and press your fingers to your lips. They still tingle from kissing him and you feel your stomach turn with excitement for the night to come.

*•*•*

You hear it before you see her. The clatter of her keys on the counter. The heavy sigh. And then, sharp—like a bullet of disbelief,  "YOU BITCH." "OH MY GOD." You don't even turn. Just let your eyes flutter shut and mentally brace for it. "You absolute filthy little minx," Jiyoon hisses, storming into the hallway in her work flats and crumpled apron, "Don't even try to deny it—I know you did it." "I'm not denying anything," you mumble, turning slowly to face her. She's halfway through unzipping her jacket, eyes wide, expression scandalized.

Your entire face bursts into flames. "Jiyoon—" "Oh my God, you did sleep with him." She points at you like she's witnessing a war crime. "You have sex hair. You're literally glowing. What the hell is that shirt? Wait—don't tell me." She takes a dramatic step back. "Is that his shirt?" You tug the hem instinctively. "It's just... something I had to wear. Mine got—um. Ripped." She stares at you. Blinks once. Twice. Then screams. "Oh my GOD. He ripped your clothes off? That's—like—that's premium movie-level sexy violence."

You bury your face in your hands. "Please lower your voice." "You didn't even text me last night!" she cries. "Do you know how worried I was? I thought he locked you in a cage or something!"

"I was busy," you say, voice strangled. "You were BUSY getting ravenously destroyed," she says, flopping onto the couch like the dramatics are too heavy for her legs. "Okay. Tell me everything. Don't leave out any of the details. Did he talk? Was it intense? Slow burn? Did he like—say your name all rough and gravelly or was he like, all quiet and crazy about it?" You hesitate.

You want to tell her and you almost do, but something about that moment—about everything that happened last night, the hazy weight of his body pressed against yours, his breath in your ear, how he held you like you were a prayer and a ghost all at once—feels too delicate. Too personal. You can't even begin to explain the shift you felt inside yourself, let alone the strange ache in your chest when he said that name. You swallow, keeping your voice light. "It was... really good."

Jiyoon lifts a brow. "That's it? Good?" You shoot her a look. "I'm not giving you a full play-by-play." She gasps. "So it was insane." "I'm gonna be late," you deflect, brushing past her to grab your phone. "I told him I'd be there at seven." "Ugh. Seven is such a romantic time."

"What does that even mean?" "Like. Not too early, not too late. Right in the middle. Candlelight o'clock." She wiggles her eyebrows. "You gonna let him feed you and then fuck you again?""Jiyoon."

"You are. Oh my God. Are you shaving again or are we doing stubble and surrender tonight?" You groan. "I can't talk to you about this." "Yes, you can," she says, pulling her hair into a bun. "We signed a roommate agreement, remember? Emotional nudity clause." You smile despite yourself. "Just wish me luck, okay?" She softens then, eyes scanning your face. "You like him." You hesitate, fingers pausing on your necklace clasp. "I don't know what I feel," you say truthfully. "It's... fast. Messy." "You don't do messy."

"Exactly." Jiyoon walks over, squeezes your shoulder. "That shirt looks hot on you, by the way. Like dangerously I-was-just-fucked-by-a-mentally-ill-man hot." "Thanks, I think."

"Be safe. Don't let him tie you to anything unless there's a safe word. Call me if he tries to perform an exorcism." You laugh, heading for the bathroom door. "You're gonna fall for him," she calls behind you. "You already are, huh?" But you don't answer, because you don't know that yet, and if you do, you're not ready to say it out loud.

You check the time again when it's 6:38 PM. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at you—doe-eyed, glossed lips parted slightly, a tiny knot of nerves cinched beneath your ribs. You smooth your hands down your dress for the fifth time, whispering to yourself under your breath like it might change something. "Okay," you murmur. "Just dinner. It's just... dinner." With Heeseung. At his penthouse. In a dress you specifically picked to walk the very fine line between I wanted to look nice for you and I definitely didn't spend two hours trying on everything I own. A dress that clings at your waist and floats at your knees and makes you feel pretty but also exposed. Not in a bad way, just... in a way that makes your skin feel watched. Known.

You hesitate in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the stairs. And then you groan. "Nope. No way I'm taking the bus." You can already see it—you standing sandwiched between strangers, one arm clutching the overhead bar, the other yanking at your skirt, trying not to breathe too loud. You can feel the wrinkles forming just thinking about it. You'd show up looking like a disheveled little sandwich and Heeseung—Heeseung with his white linen shirts and leather watchbands—would tilt his head and maybe smile and maybe not say anything, but you'd know. You open your phone and call a cab.

It feels ridiculous. Extravagant even. But the moment you sink into the backseat, cool leather beneath your thighs and the city lights blinking past your window like slow breaths, something quiet settles inside you. You take a long, shaky inhale. Heeseung's face comes to mind. The way he looked last night—flushed and breathless and so terribly hungry for you, like you were the first and last thing he'd ever wanted. The way he whispered your name. Except—it wasn't your name. Not the first time. Your fingers tighten slightly on your bag and you push the thought away. You already made peace with it—told yourself it didn't mean anything. Not really. You'd seen the videos. You know what Rina is. And in some strange, abstract way, you think maybe you understand what happened better than you should.

Maybe he sees things in fragments—maybe he feels things in them too. Maybe last night, you reminded him of something he loved once so deeply he carved a home for it in his bones. And maybe tonight, you want him to start carving space for you instead. You glance atthe time on your phone, 6:53. Your stomach flutters. Are you nervous?

God—yes. Your knees won't stop bouncing, and your fingers keep picking at the edge of your dress. But you're also... excited.You don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this ride—don't know if dinner will be awkward or sweet or laced with something heavier—but it feels like something real. Something different. And that terrifies you. Because you've never been looked at the way he looked at you last night. Not like you were music.

The cab pulls up to the building. You pay with shaky hands, thank the driver too softly, and walk inside. The elevator ride is a blur of breath-holding. The ding at the top floor even sends a jolt through your chest. And then you're standing in front of his penthouse door, your hand hovering, not sure whether to knock or just—. It's not locked. The knob turns and you step inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, and you're met with... silence. You take one hesitant step forward into the quiet space. It's too quiet. The air feels still in a way it didn't the last time you were here—when it was thick with the scent of his skin, his hands, your gasps and moans echoing off the walls like confessions. Now it's like the space is holding its breath again.

"Heeseung?" you call, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance at the clock on the wall, 7:01. You chew on your lip, glancing around. The kitchen looks untouched. There's no trace of movement, no clatter of pans or scent of dinner in the air. There's a single light on in the far corner by the bookshelves, casting golden shadows across the couch where he held you just hours ago, his mouth in your hair and his arms locked around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. You exhale softly. "Heeseung?" you try again, louder this time, taking cautious steps farther in. Still nothing.

And then it hits you—you don't even have his number. You came here like some wide-eyed idiot with your heart between your teeth, expecting him to just be there, waiting, arms outstretched. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not hear the door, or might be upstairs, or might have changed his mind entirely.

God. You sink down onto the arm of the couch and try not to panic. You won't text Jiyoon—not yet. She'd tease you mercilessly and then probably tell you to go snoop in case he was sleeping with other people or something absurd. You don't want to snoop. You just want to see him. You shift in your seat, smoothing your dress again, tugging at the edge of it and check the time again, 7:06. You blink, already feeling defeated and ready to leave but then a sharp loud sound echoes from upstairs that has you snapping your head towards the stairs. There's another thud—louder this time—followed by a crash that sends a sharp jolt through your chest. Something shattered. And then, unmistakably, screaming. Blood-curdling. Ragged. Like pain clawing itself out of a throat too raw to hold it anymore.

Your breath snags. Your heart kicks into high gear. Your body's moving before your mind can catch up, instinct overriding hesitation as you bolt through the living room, past the grand piano, toward the stairs. Breaking every rule you were given when you first started working here, but that's the last thing on your mind.

He's upstairs. That's him—him screaming.You take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, fingers scrambling against the banister. When you reach the top, there's only one door that makes sense—tall and black, you sprint to it, chest heaving, and try the handle.

Locked.

Your fist slams against it before you can think. "Heeseung?!" There's no response—just another crash, something metallic this time, like a stand being thrown, maybe a chair. Your knuckles are pulsing against the wood. "Heeseung, open the door! Please!" Still no answer. Just a chorus of garbled words—frenzied, nonsensical, frantic.

"They changed the notes—don't you hear it? It's all wrong, out of key, they're inside the piano! Stop watching me! The rhythm's bleeding, I can't—" Another crash. "It's too loud in here, too loud in my head, make it stop!" Your blood runs cold. Something primal flickers inside you—panic morphing into something sharper, braver. You back up, brace your shoulder against the frame, and throw yourself forward.

Once. Twice—

CRACK.

The door flies open, and you stumble into the absolute chaos, the first thing you see is the floor, and at the center of it all; a piano or what's left of one. Splintered wood. Torn wires. Ivory keys cracked like teeth knocked from a skull. You recognize it instantly. Rina.

There more glass and splintered wood than floor beneath her. Crumpled sheet music. A chair lying on its side. Blood. Blood like paint streaked across the wooden floor, thin trails leading to—

Him. Heeseung.

Standing in the center of it all like a broken monument. There's a deep gash across his forearm, blood still dripping sluggishly onto his hand and down his knuckles. His chest rises and falls too fast, ribs pushing sharply beneath skin that gleams with sweat. His hair sticks to his face. His eyes—wide, unseeing, glazed with something far away and chaotic and terrifying—don't register you at first. He's breathing like he's drowning.

You try to speak, to talk to him, but your throat won't open. He moves before you can. Quick, jerky. Like his body's not entirely his own. He spins, stares at the wall like it's speaking to him, fingers twitching at his sides. "They changed the notes," he mutters. "They changed the fucking notes." His voice is shredded. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours. Maybe he has. You take one step closer, and your heel lands on a snapped piano key. It clicks beneath your foot like a trigger. He whips around, eyes on you now, all wild, unhinged and unfocused. "Who are you?" he rasps.

You freeze. The question slices clean through you. Your mouth opens, but your voice won't come. Heeseung stares, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. His hands curl and uncurl like he's not sure if he wants to reach for you or strangle you. "Who are you?" he repeats. "Why are you watching me? Are you one of them?"

Them? Your heart stutters. "Heeseung..." you whisper, finally finding your voice. "It's me." But he flinches like you've struck him. You take another step and watch as he instinctively steps back. "No," he whispers. "No—Rina? I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You were perfect and I ruined you. My perfect girl. Please forgive me." Your breath catches.

"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know where it comes from. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the way his voice cracks like the word is a wound. "I forgive you," you say, voice steadier this time. "I came back for you." His mouth parts and his whole body stills. You can see the thought slotting into place behind his eyes, crooked and trembling and fragile. But it settles. "...Rina?" You nod. "I'm here."

He walks toward you slowly. So slow. Like every step might set him off again. And still, you don't move. His bloodied hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek—his touch clumsy and too hard at first, like he doesn't remember how to be gentle. But then it softens. His palm cups your jaw, and he leans in so close his breath skates across your lips. "I knew you'd come back," he murmurs. Your throat tightens and swallow around the ache, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. "I'm here now."

"Don't leave," he breathes. "Please don't leave me again. The music stops when you're gone. It stops and I can't breathe, I can't—"

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper. He leans back just enough to look at you. The way he's looking now—it breaks you, because there's no rage or wildness. Just pure, shivering exhaustion. He's unraveling at the seams, and you're the only thread keeping him together. "I want to play," he says softly. "Let me play you."

You nod. And when he tugs you toward the mangled piano, you follow. It's barely standing. The legs are cracked. One pedal's missing. The keys are uneven—some bloodied, some broken. It shouldn't work. It shouldn't sound. But he sits on the shattered bench, breath hitching, and gently pulls you onto his lap.

You settle there, straddling him, your dress bunching slightly against the rough edge of the wood. Your hands brace on his shoulders. His arms wrap around you, drawing you closer. And then—fingers trembling—Heeseung presses his hands to the keys. The sound is... haunting. Off. Warped. But he plays anyway. A melody, jagged and soft. A lullaby with broken bones. The piano cries beneath his touch, but he keeps playing. For you, because of you, it all makes your chest ache for him, you even feel your eyes sting. And all you can do is hold him, let him pour whatever's left of himself into the broken body of his piano—into you.

Because right now, in this room thick with blood and chaos and ghosts, you're the only thing anchoring him to earth. The music tumbles out of him in discordant bursts, crooked and aching like his mind, like his body—like whatever this is between you. And you swear, you'd let him play you forever. But then his fingers slip, not from the broken keys, but because your breath stutters against his jaw. He stills, drifting one hand away from the piano to find your waist instead, the other continues to play, the curve of your back—and then he's holding you so tight you feel the blood from his arm soak warm through your dress.

You don't flinch.

He tilts his face up, searching yours. Your lips part, not for words, but for the way his mouth captures yours the second you breathe in. It's so so desperate. A kiss that tastes like iron and sweat and the kind of madness that wants to be known, wants to be seen.

You whimper into him, clutching at the front of his shirt, and his hands are already moving—shaky, hurried, needing—grabbing at your dress, dragging it up your thighs as if he doesn't care it's stained now, doesn't care it's soft and new and something you wore for him.The keys beneath you clatter with each shift of your hips, and his fingers fumble at the zipper on your side like it's fighting him. He groans low in his throat, kissing you harder, tongue sliding hot against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside of you—trying to disappear there, to lose the noise in his head.

"You came back," he gasps against your mouth. "You really came back—" You nod, breathless, eyes wet, thighs tightening around his waist. "I told you I would." He tugs the dress down your shoulders, hands smeared with red, smearing it onto you, painting you with it. It sticks to your collarbones, your arms, a fever-warm trail of devotion and ruin, but you don't stop him.

He's kissing you like he needs this to survive, like he'll lose his mind all over again if you pull away. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans at the way you pull, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—biting, tasting his blood smeared there, claiming. You tremble. And then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through your panties, a low, reverent moan tearing from his chest when he feels the heat there. "For me," he mutters, delirious. "You're like this for me."

"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips into his hand, nails clawing at his back through his shirt. "Only for you." He groans again, like the words unmake him.

Your dress is halfway down your body, straps hanging off your arms, and you're so tangled together that it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose. He continues kissing you then like a vow. Like salvation. And everything else—the broken piano, the screaming from earlier, the sharp pain in your back from the cracked lid—fades to nothing. The music stutters beneath you—sharp, erratic keystrokes like a hymn being pulled apart at the seams.

But he doesn't stop playing. Even as his bloody fingers slip over the ivories, even as his other hand bunches your dress up around your hips, even as you gasp into his mouth and his teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You're still straddling him, thighs trembling on either side of his lap, and he's shifting beneath you like he can't get close enough, like the distance between your bodies is an insult to the devotion he's shaking with.

"Heeseung," you whisper, breath hitching as his hand slides between your legs, the fabric of your panties clinging to you wet and ruined. "Please—" "Shh," he hushes, mouth dragging down your neck, blood and spit slick on your skin. "It's okay, it's okay—I got you, baby, I got you—" His fingers tremble as he pushes the fabric aside, clumsy and rushed, and you flinch when his knuckles brush over you. He groans against your throat, hand gripping your hip like he might break it, like it's the only anchor he has.

"Fuck, you're so warm—" he pants, "—I missed you so much, I missed you—" You don't know if he's talking to you or to her, to Rina, to whatever memory he's tangled you up with—but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's freeing himself beneath you with frantic hands, moaning under his breath as he fumbles himself through his sweats, panting into your collarbone like he's on the verge of falling apart. And then he's there. Thick, flushed, already so hard it makes your head spin. He grips your thighs, pulling you up just enough—just enough to align—and then sinks you down onto him in one ragged, choking breath.

You cry out, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Heeseung's head snaps back, a guttural sound ripping from his throat, and his hands clamp down on your hips like he's afraid you'll vanish again. "Oh my God—" he gasps, "—move, baby, please, come on—come on—"

He's twitching inside you already, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he's begging for more. Encouraging you, pushing up into you while his hands guide your hips, while his fingers—still stained with his blood—return to the keys beneath him, pressing out that same broken melody. You try to move—hips rising, sinking—but it's messy. Desperate. Your thighs burn, your breath hitches, and your forehead presses to his as he whispers, "Just like that, just like that—don't stop—don't stop—" The piano groans beneath you both. His legs tremble. Your panties are barely hanging on, twisted and soaked, caught somewhere between you, and still—still—he keeps playing.

Keeps playing through the rise and fall of your bodies, through the wet slap of your hips, through the breathless moans and the ache and the madness. He's shaking beneath you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sobs, blood smearing from his wrist to your waist as he holds you tighter—deeper—closer.

"I knew you'd come back," he whispers, forehead to yours. "You always come back to me." You can't answer. You can only cry out his name, again and again, as the notes beneath you unravel into chaos and crescendo Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you rock against him, pace faltering with every thick thrust. The bench groans beneath your bodies, protesting under the weight of it all, but you don't stop. Neither of you could if you tried.

His hands are all over you—up your back, into your hair, clawing at your waist like he doesn't know where to hold, just that he has to hold somewhere.

The piano is completely forgotten now. The keys he was so desperate to press—abandoned mid-chord, half-played notes frozen under bloodied fingertips. But Heeseung's mouth is moving and he's moaning something. At first it's a whisper, hoarse and uneven, barely above the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again. But then—clearer, louder— "Y/N... oh my god, Y/N—" You halt for a second. Barely. Just long enough to catch your breath. To hear him. Your name—your name, not his pianos—spilling from his lips like prayer, like apology, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Heeseung's head drops to your shoulder, and he's panting your name again, so sweet and unguarded it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. "Y/N," he gasps, "you feel so good, baby—fuck—so good—" It's like he sees you now. Really sees you. And his hands are softer now, less frantic, still trembling but reverent in how they hold you—his thumb brushing your waist, his other hand cradling your jaw as he lifts your face to his.

Your noses bump. His eyes search yours like he's never seen anything more precious. "It's you," he whispers, almost awed. "It's really you..."He leans in, kissing you like the world's finally slowed down, like he's finally returned to it. To you. And when you move again—hips grinding, slow now, deeper—he moans your name into your mouth, over and over like it's his undoing. Each syllable spills from him shakily, soaked with disbelief and want and something that almost sounds like worship.

Your hands find his cheeks, thumbs stroking where the dried tears have clung to his skin, and when you whisper his name back, soft and breathless, he shudders. Heeseung's forehead presses to yours. You feel him twitch inside you, thighs clenching around him as you both near that terrible, beautiful edge again, and he breathes your name one last time— "Y/N, I'm—fuck—I'm gonna cum, baby, please—stay with me—stay—" Your hips stutter. His hands seize. And then everything splinters—. Your name tears from his throat in a ragged moan, your own lips parted in soundless release as your body collapses forward, curling into his chest like instinct.

Heeseung's arms close around you immediately. One low on your spine, the other twisted into your hair, as if he can press you into him hard enough to keep you there forever. Your pulse throbs everywhere. Between your legs, in your throat, under your tongue. Heeseung is trembling beneath you, arms loose but shaking, chest heaving like he's run for miles and only now stopped to breathe.

He's still inside you. Still in you, cradled and connected and caught in the softness of what just happened. No piano. No ghosts. Just this.You shift slightly, just to catch your breath, and he shudders around you with a hoarse gasp. His head drops to your shoulder, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stay there a while. No words. No need. Just the sound of the wind against the high windows, the echo of your breathing, and the quiet creak of a broken piano bench holding two too-lost people.

Eventually, his fingers twitch against your waist. "Y/N," he breathes, voice scratchy and soft. You hum, stroking the sweaty strands of hair back from his temple. Your touch is gentle, slow, grounding. He lifts his head—eyes glassy, wide and wet around the edges. You watch them drop down, settle on the stains between you, the faint blood still smudged across his hands and chest. He catches your wrist.Brings your fingers—still trembling—to the mess of red streaked across his ribs. The open cuts from earlier have mostly clotted, but the wounds are still fresh, angry-looking, like they're still listening to the madness that tore them open. He presses your palm there, over his heart.

"This body..." he whispers, eyes still downcast. "It belongs to too many ghosts." Your chest tightens, but you don't pull away. Instead, your fingers spread gently over the damp skin of his chest, pressing softly, reverently. You guide his gaze up to meet yours. "It belongs to me tonight," you murmur, voice quiet but sure. "It's okay, Heeseung. I've got you."

He blinks hard and for a second, something in him flickers. Something soft. Almost boyish and safe. Then his forehead presses against yours again. He leans into the cradle of your hands like he's never been touched this way before—like he doesn't know what to do with it. "...Don't let go yet," he whispers. "I won't," you promise. "Not tonight." Heeseung's head is resting against yours, your hand still pressed to his chest, when he whispers it. So faint, it's nearly lost in your breathing.

"...Call her." You pull back a little, brushing your nose against his cheek. "Hm?" He blinks slowly, like the exhaustion is hitting him all at once. "Phone's somewhere here, on the shelf by the metronome. Just—tell her it's bad, she'll come." You stare back into his eyes cluelessly,

"My nurse".

You nod, slipping gently off his lap. He groans softly at the loss of you but doesn't stop you. Doesn't move at all, really—just tilts his head back against the edge of the bench, hair damp with blood sweat and tears. You find the phone where he said it would be, swipe up, and call the nurse. She picks up after one ring. You tell her to come and you don't have to say much more—she must be used to these calls by now. And as you're hanging up, you hear him say it behind you, low and soft, "Thanks... for coming upstairs."

You turn, heart squeezing. He's still sitting there, shirtless and smeared in blood, legs parted like he couldn't stand if he tried. But he's looking at you—really looking—and something about it makes your breath catch in your throat.

You walk over. Kiss his forehead. Then slip into the bathroom for towels, water, and cleaner. By the time the nurse arrives, you're back upstairs, on your knees by the piano, gently gathering the shattered ivory keys and splintered wood into a pile. You've scrubbed some of the blood from the floor, though the stains are stubborn. The piano looks gutted—her insides exposed, wires torn and twisted like veins. Your heart aches again. Not for the piano. But for him.

Heeseung, who stayed downstairs. Who let someone else tend to him while you tried to do what you could for the mess he left behind. You hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then his voice—calmer now, hoarse, but steady. "Leave it." You glance over your shoulder. He's standing there, freshly bandaged, a clean shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose on his frame. The nurse must have left quietly.

"I'm still your cleaner, remember?" you say lightly, trying to ease the air. "Let me do my job." His lips twitch. But there's something softer in his eyes now—something closer to sorrow than amusement.

"You're more than that." You pause and look down at the broken keys in your hands. "I know."

And he comes to you—sinks down beside you on the floor, still moving slowly like he's holding his bones together by sheer will—and rests his forehead to yours again. Neither of you says anything else, you just sit in the wreckage of something beautiful. Together.

*•*•*

It's hard to say how much time has passed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The kind that blur together, quiet and golden at the edges, like light filtered through gauze. The scar on Heeseung's arm is healing well—just a thin red seam now, barely visible when he rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.

You're downstairs today. The sun is dipping low and warm across the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air. The piano stands rebuilt, restored—not the same one from upstairs, but something new. Something you picked out together.

You're sitting beside him on the bench, your knees touching. Heeseung's hands are guiding yours across the keys with quiet patience.

"No, baby, focus" he murmurs, laughing when you hit the wrong note again. "That's an A, not a G."

"I am focused," you argue, shoulders tensing in mock defense. "I just—I forgot which finger goes where." He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple. "The one I showed you. Your third finger. C'mon. Try again." You exhale, pouting a little as you reposition your hands. Heeseung watches you with a softness that folds itself into the corners of his smile.

You press the keys again. It's still wrong. You groan dramatically. "Ugh, why is this so hard?" And he can't help it—he grabs your chin and kisses you mid-pout. Quick and warm. The kind of kiss that says you're the most precious thing I've ever ruined myself for.

Your lips curve into a grin beneath his. He chuckles. "You know what I think?"

"Hm?"

"I think you just like messing up so I'll kiss you."

You nudge him with your shoulder. "Maybe." Heeseung leans in again. A little slower this time. A little deeper. Then his hands return to the keys. And so do yours.

You sit like that a while—two shadows against the shine of the piano, laughter and missed notes echoing softly in the room. And if someone were to peek in just then, they might think it's a simple thing. A boy and a girl, and a piano between them. But it's not. It's an anchor. A promise. A world rebuilt from ash and ghosts and broken music.

And maybe you never learned to play perfectly, but he never stopped telling you you were the most beautiful song he'd ever heard.

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•taglist-

@immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @inawonderfulworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @starry-eyed-bimbo @strayy-kidz @mheretoreadff @bloomiize @xoenhalover @mamuljji

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Oral [m/f] Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance]

[Tags: Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Note: This was originally a long one-shot but Tumblr's being difficult. So I've decided to break it down to phases. Part 2 to be posted soon.]

[Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

Summer has always felt like a quiet promise to you. There’s something about the way the morning light slips through your curtains—soft and golden—that makes everything feel a little easier, even the things you keep inside. The heat never bothered you. It felt like warmth you could hold onto, like being hugged by the world when no one else could see you slipping.

Maybe that’s why summer became your favorite.

Or maybe it was him.

Because it was summer when you met Jeon Jeongguk.

You remember the sun that day—how it blazed unapologetically over the shoreline, how the heat curled around your ankles as you sat in the sand, watching yachts slice lazily through the water like moving sketches on a canvas of blue. The world felt slow, easy.

Until it didn’t.

A few feet away, he was there. Camera in hand, lens pointed right at you. Bold. Unapologetic. Not even pretending to look away when your eyes met his.

“What the hell? Are you seriously taking pictures of me right now?” you’d snapped, jumping to your feet, brushing sand off your shorts with all the anger a sixteen-year-old could manage. “Do you even get how creepy that is? You freaking pervert—”

“Wait—wait! No! It’s not like that!” he had stammered, hands raised like the camera was some weapon he never meant to pull. “It’s for a portfolio—college applications! I swear! I was just trying to catch the mix of people and nature, you just—uh—you fit into the scene—”

He’d fumbled with the camera strap, trying to explain between nervous laughs and rushed apologies.

And you? You were mortified. If the ocean had opened up right then, you would’ve let it pull you under without a fight.

But somehow — between his flustered panic and your still-burning anger — he said something about not even knowing if the picture turned out, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

That was the beginning.

That summer, Jeon Jeongguk became your best friend.

It was a summer night when everything smelled like pavement heat and distant jasmine, and all you wanted was to peel off your work clothes and melt into the couch. The kind of night where even your bones felt tired.

You hadn’t expected the light. Not the soft glow flickering from dozens of candles tucked across shelves and countertops, or the trail of flower petals curling like a secret through the apartment. It felt surreal—like walking into a dream set up by someone who had memorized all the quiet corners of your heart.

And then you saw him.

Jeongguk stood in the middle of the living room, his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders a little stiff, like he wasn’t sure how to breathe. He looked like a boy caught between fear and flight, only staying because he wanted this more than he feared the fall.

You blinked. Because for weeks—months—he’d been telling you about a girl.

The girl who made his chest tighten. The girl he wanted to impress without looking desperate. The girl he asked you about late into the night, as if your advice were gospel. And you, being his best friend, had answered every question with a brave smile and a cracking heart. You told him what flowers to bring, what not to say, how to read a moment without overstepping.

You played the part. You always did.

You had been there through all of it—those messy college years with coffee-stained notes and shared deadlines, the victory of your first job offers, the tiny celebrations and the quiet disappointments. You watched girls chase him and get turned away, every time.

And every time, he turned to you, his safe space.

“You’re just easier to talk to,” he’d say, kicking at the floor. “You get it.”

And maybe that’s when the lines began to blur.

You weren’t sure exactly when your chest started to tighten at the sound of his laughter. When his name, unspoken in your head, started to feel different. Maybe it was never a single moment. Maybe it was all of them, stitched together into something steady and impossible to ignore.

So that night, when you stepped into that room—into the flickering candlelight and the warmth he’d tried to contain—you thought, she’s coming. The girl he’s been talking about. He’s going to tell her everything.

You even turned to leave.

But then he said your name.

And three words that didn’t belong to anyone else. “I love you.”

At first, you stood frozen, trying to understand. Trying not to hope too hard.

Then he stepped closer, and from behind his back, he pulled a bouquet of tulips. Purple. Your favorite.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

And in that moment, the world quieted. Not in some big, movie-like way—but in that gentle, everyday pause when everything just feels right. Like letting out a deep breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You remember thinking, So this is what it feels like. To be chosen. To be seen without having to ask.

That summer, at twenty-one, with candlelight brushing his skin and tulips in your hands, your best friend had become something else entirely.

The love of your life.

The summer you had turned twenty-three, you expected nothing. Life was moving too fast to pause for birthdays.

Jeongguk had spent almost a year working toward a promotion to Creative Director, buried in late nights and never-ending deadlines. You had just quit your job— nervous but determined—to begin preparing for something bigger, taking over Seora company. Your mother had wanted to retire, and you, with your heart pounding, said yes to stepping into her place.

That year, you hadn’t made any big promises to each other. Just a quiet understanding. Takeout and sweatpants, maybe a quick kiss over leftovers, and the real celebration could wait until life calmed down.

So when Jeongguk texted you that afternoon, “Leaving work early. Be downstairs in ten,” you hadn’t expected much. You figured he’d forgotten a gift and was making up for it with a last-minute dinner somewhere quiet.

What you hadn’t expected was the way he grinned the second you opened the car door, eyes bright despite his exhaustion, hair slightly messy from the wind. Or the way he said, as soon as you settled in, “It’s going to be a long drive,” like he had a secret folded up in his chest.

You spent the first twenty minutes badgering him with questions, poking at his side at every red light, demanding clues. But he only laughed. Reached into the glove compartment. Pulled out your favorite snacks like weapons in an old, familiar war.

“Here,” he said, placing a candy bar in your hand. “Eat this and be quiet.”

It worked.

And somewhere between city roads and country silence, between the music humming low and the smell of tulips that hadn’t yet touched the air—you stopped trying to guess.

You didn’t expect the garden. Didn’t expect the burst of color in the middle of nowhere. The sunset lighting up each petal like it was meant to happen right then. You didn’t expect the table, softly set under hanging lights, or the quiet sound of your favorite song drifting through the air.

You hadn’t even known a place like this existed.

“Happy Birthday, my love.”

Jeongguk’s voice was gentle in your ear, his lips brushing your temple as his arm slipped lightly around your waist. Two years in, and somehow the sound of his soft nicknames still made you melt, still lit up something warm and tender in your chest. It was proof that the spark hadn’t faded. That time had only made it deeper, more real.

Dinner unfolded like something out of a dream, somewhere between romance and playful banter. You’d barely taken your first bite before launching into a full-on interrogation, bombarding your boyfriend with questions, how he found this place, when he had the time to pull it all off.

Jeongguk only laughed, stealing a bite of your food and shaking his head. “Just eat, baby. You ask too many questions.”

You smirked, leaning in as you wiped a bit of sauce from his lip with your thumb. “Look at you evolving. Feels like just yesterday you were panicking about how to flirt with a woman.”

His expression crumpled into mock outrage. “That was my first time! I was going to declare my undying love for you! Had to get it right for the perfect woman.”

That nervous boy, fumbling with his feelings and petal trails—it was hard to believe this confident man in front of you had ever stuttered through a sentence.

“You’re still so cheesy.”

“And you still love me,” The grin that followed, soft and certain.

“I do,” you whispered. “I love you, Gguk.”

By the time dinner was over, your stomach was full and your heart even more so. You leaned back in your chair, soaking in the breeze, the stars above, the warmth of his hand in yours.

Then came another surprise — a small birthday cake, carried over by one of the garden staff with quiet, careful steps. You raised a brow, laughing softly. “You already fed me dessert.”

“Can’t have a birthday without cake,” he said, already lighting the single candle. “Come on, make a wish, baby.”

You smiled, the flicker of the flame reflecting in his eyes. For a moment, everything slowed.

A safe home. A stable career. A loving partner. A healthy life.

What more could you ask for?

And yet, as your eyes fluttered shut, you wished anyway. Not for something new, but for this—this exact moment, this exact love—to last. And if change ever came, may it be the kind that blooms, never breaks.

You opened your eyes, ready to blow out the flame—

But what you saw wasn’t the candle anymore.

Jeongguk. Down on one knee. A ring shinning between his fingers. Eyes locked on yours, trembling, hopeful, sure.

“That day you called me out for being a stalker?” his voice wavered slightly, his smile laced with nostalgia. “That was actually the happiest day of my life.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“It was the day I met you. You were yelling at me, face all red. I honestly thought you were going to explode.” He let out a breathy laugh. “But there I was—sixteen, camera in hand—completely mesmerized by this girl who didn’t even know she looked like she’d stepped out of a painting. Your hair was flying with the wind, and your eyes… they looked like the galaxies. The sun hit just right, and you—” He paused, eyes softening. “You looked like the start of something.”

Your chest clenched, but in the best way. You tried not to smile too hard. Tried not to cry. Tried not to melt under the memory he was bringing to life.

“That day marked the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” he added, his voice gentler now. “One I never thought would turn into this.”

Your fingers were damp with sweat; you quietly wiped them on the back of your dress, hoping to steady yourself.

Jeongguk’s words kept flowing, low and sincere.

“You stood by me when I had nothing figured out. When I failed, when I fell short, when I let things get to me—like that time I cried over failing an exam, or losing my camera bag like the world was ending—” he chuckled, and you did too, tears prickling now from laughter and longing all at once.

“You were just always there. You were my calm. My constant.” He looked at you with such deep care it almost ached. “And you cheered me on through everything. Even the small wins—like that two-hundred-dollar incentive I got from pitching that campaign.”

You laughed again, that memory coming back in crisp detail. Jeongguk had burst into your office, practically bouncing, holding up his bonus slip like it was a golden ticket. He hugged you so tight he nearly lifted you off the floor.

Those small wins… they had felt like the peak of the world back then. Not because of the money, but because you’d been in them together.

And just when you thought your heart couldn’t take more—

“You know me better than I know myself,” Jeongguk said, voice steady but eyes a little too bright. “When I can’t figure out which tie to wear, or what shoes go with my pants, you pick them out instantly. And just like that, everything feels easier. You always look after me. Even when you’re tired. Even before we got together, you were already putting me first.”

He reached for your hand then, softly, like he could sense the storm inside you. And oh, how it churned—your stomach tight, your breath uneven.

“I know you think I’ve done the same for you,” he continued. “That I’ve made you my priority too. And I have. Always have. Always will. But deep down…” he swallowed, thumb brushing over your knuckles, “I still feel like I could do more. As your husband. If you let me.”

You froze, your pulse loud in your ears. You told yourself to stay calm—but they gave you away, trembling against his warm hands.

“Today is for your wishes,” he said softly, drawing you closer. “But I have one of my own.”

And just like that, your world shifted.

“I want to be your husband. Your forever partner. To love you endlessly, for as long as time will allow. Will you marry me?”

Tears spilled before you could stop them. Your voice wouldn’t come, not at first. But your body answered for you—nodding quickly, sinking to your knees, wrapping your arms around him like you’d just found the safest place in the world.

He laughed—half breathless, half crying—and pulled back just enough to cup your face.

“W-wait, babe, I need to hear you say it,” he whispered, grinning so wide it almost hurt to look at. “You’re saying yes, right? This is real?”

“Yes,” you finally breathed. “Yes, Gguk. I’ll marry you. I love you. I love you so much.”

Jeongguk threw his head back with a yell of pure, unfiltered joy. It echoed into the tulip fields like a promise. “I can’t wait to call you my Mrs. Jeon,” he beamed. “Or—hell—I’ll take your name. As long as you’re mine forever.”

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t delicate. It was wild, eager, soaked in love. You tasted it in every press of his lips—every wave crashing into you like a vow unspoken.

“I love you, baby,” he murmured again, forehead to yours, as the tulips swayed around you like they, too, were celebrating.

The sun dipped a little lower, casting gold across his skin. You thought time might stop for you both, just for a while.

And somewhere in the soft drift of laughter and love, you found yourselves in another season, another golden evening—one where the air smelled like grilled food and summer fireworks, and Jeongguk’s hand was laced with yours under a different kind of sky.

The following summer, on the day you turned twenty-four, the world felt still in the best possible way.

You and Jeongguk had come a long way since that quiet birthday dinner in the tulip garden. What once felt like a distant dream—building a life together while chasing your own ambitions—was slowly becoming reality.

Jeongguk had earned the promotion he worked tirelessly for, settling into his new role with newfound ease. The stress that once creased his forehead had begun to fade. And you, with steady determination, took over at Seora, walking the path your mother had gently prepared for you.

Everything started to fall into place. The late nights, the risks, the struggles—they all suddenly felt worth it.

You moved out of the tiny apartment that once held all your early memories and into a house that reflected how far you’d come. It was larger than you needed, tucked away in a quiet compound, but it was yours. Every corner felt like a fresh page.

Jeongguk had picked your birthday for the wedding. “It’s poetic,” he once said, lightly running his finger along your palm. “I get to celebrate the day you were born and the day you chose to stay with me forever.”

And he truly meant it. That choice—so thoughtful and deliberate—wasn’t just romantic. It was the kind of gift you’d hold in your heart always, something only he could give you.

And so, that summer day became more than just a birthday celebration.

It became the beginning of something timeless.

The air smelled of sea salt and lavender as the ocean breeze drifted through the half-open window of the bridal suite.

Your dress shifted softly with each breeze. Light ivory silk with thin layers of tulle that floated like water. The bodice hugged you just right, with lace stitched in soft, wave-like patterns that reminded you of all those summers by the Busan shore. A short train gathered behind you like a memory waiting to happen. Your hair was pulled back in a loose, low twist, with a small pearl comb set gently above your ear.

You had been ready for over an hour. And still… you waited.

A gentle knock broke the quiet.

Hobi’s familiar face peeked into the room, his voice warm. “Ready, Mrs. Soon-To-Be Jeon?”

You tried to smile. Tried. “Hey.”

He stepped inside, practically shaking with unspoken feelings. “You look stunning,” he said, placing a hand to his chest. “Like, Jeongguk-is-gonna-lose-it stunning.”

You laughed, barely. Your fingers kept picking at the hem of your dress. “Hobi…”

“Yeah?”

“What if this… changes everything?”

The question hung in the room like fog. He paused, eyes gentle as he stepped toward you.

“What if we ruin it?” you whispered. “What we had. What we have. We've always been best friends first. What if marriage breaks that?”

He walked over and sat beside you at the edge of the dresser bench. Without hesitation, he took your hand — grounding, warm, familiar. His thumb traced slow circles against your skin.

“You’re scared love might erase the friendship."

You nodded. “Or twist it into something we can’t come back from. What if we lose what made us, us?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you with the kind of knowing only someone who had seen every chapter could offer. “You know what I see when I look at you and Jeongguk?” he said at last. “Two people who always find their way back. Every detour, every almost. You always chose each other, even before you knew you were choosing.”

A shaky laugh slipped out of you, soft and a little unsteady.

“And listen,” Hobi continued, gently but firm. “Love didn’t come to take the place of friendship. It grew from it. You really think that’s something that falls apart easily?”

You shook your head slowly.

“No,” he said. “It’s the strongest kind. You’re not losing anything today. You’re building something new — on top of everything that already made you strong.”

And in that moment, something eased in your chest. Just a little. Just enough.

You finally smiled. This time, it reached your eyes. “How’d I get lucky with you as my man of honor-slash-wedding planner-slash-therapist?”

He grinned, already misty-eyed. “No idea. But I’m billing you later.”

The sun dipped low not long after, golden light spilling over Gwangalli. Purple tulips arched overhead at the altar, swaying gently as the sea whispered behind them.

A hush settled over the small crowd as soft music started. You stepped into sight.

And Jeongguk — waiting at the end of the aisle — looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. His lips parted, eyes wide and bright, hands shaking just enough to make yours start to tremble too.

You walked to him, everything else falling away. He let out a breathless laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

The officiant’s voice faded into the background — because your hearts had already started speaking.

When it was time for the vows, Jeongguk reached for your hands. His grip was warm, steady, even as tears swelled in his lashes.

“I don’t remember the exact moment I fell in love with you,” he began, voice thick. “Because it wasn’t just one moment. It was all of them. Every inside joke, every late-night walk, every time you looked at me and saw more than I thought I was. Every dumb argument about ramen flavors.” A soft wave of laughter rose from the guests. “You were my best friend before anything else. You still are. And I promise, no matter what love turns into, I’ll never stop choosing you.”

You could barely breathe. Still, you found the strength to speak.

“I never imagined we’d end up here,” you said, voice trembling, “but I’m so grateful we did. You’ve seen every part of me — even the ones I tried to hide — and loved me anyway. I promise to keep choosing you. Even when you leave your ridiculous toe socks all over the house.” More laughter. More tears. “I vow to be your rock, your hope, your home. I’m thankful for every moment we’ve shared and every one we’ve yet to live. I love you — always and forever.”

The officiant didn’t even get to finish. “You may now—”

Jeongguk was already moving, hands cradling your face as he kissed you. Soft. Sure. Fierce with every vow spoken and every one unspoken.

The applause, the waves, the music — all of it disappeared.

There was only you and him.

Still standing. Still choosing.

The night folds around you both like a velvet ribbon — warm, private, endless.

You hardly remember making it to the suite — just bits and pieces. His hand holding yours a little too tightly. The soft thump of your bodies pressing into the door as it closed behind you. The way Jeongguk looked at you like you were his whole world — eyes wide, a little out of breath, his smile unsteady with all the feelings he was struggling to hold in.

You’re laughing when he scoops you into his arms — a clumsy, chaotic lift that has you squealing.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” he says, voice rough with awe as he carries you to the bed. The words spill out messy and honest — pure, aching truth. “Finally. All mine.”

He sets you down like you’re the most fragile thing in the world. You’re still laughing, fingers skimming the strong line of his jaw, then the chain of his necklace as it disappears into the hollow of his throat. His pupils are blown wide when he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth — slower this time, savoring.

It feels like the kiss from the ceremony never ended. Like it just melted into this one — deeper, heavier.

“You’re staring,” you tease softly when you pull back, trying to catch your breath.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Can you blame me?”

His hands find your waist, thumbs tracing small, careful circles against the silky fabric of your dress. He’s trembling slightly, you realize — a tremor in him, delicate and charged, like he’s terrified of doing this wrong.

You brush his hair back from his forehead. “We can go slow,” you whisper. “We have all night.”

His answering smile is boyish, crooked, devastating. “No,” he says, tugging you closer until your noses brush again. “We have forever.”

When you finally pull him down onto the bed with you, there’s a flurry of limbs and laughter — the kind of ridiculous tangle that only happens when two best friends try to be lovers and forget, for a moment, how to breathe.

“Wait, wait,” Jeongguk’s laughing into the crook of your neck as he fumbles with his jacket, then your dress. “I’m doing this wrong. I had a plan. It was a very sexy plan.”

You giggle, breathless, reaching for the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. “We’re not doing plans tonight.”

“No plans,” he agrees, voice low and giddy, “just... you.”

He kisses you again, harder now, a little clumsy from how much he wants you. His hands map every inch of you they can reach — shoulders, arms, waist — like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like this time, the stakes are different. Higher.

When he finally peels your dress from your shoulders, he moves slow. Painfully slow. Like unwrapping a gift he’s dreamt about but never thought he could touch. His fingers ghost down your skin, his gaze drinking you in like he’s starving.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like he doesn’t mean for you to hear. His voice is thick, frayed at the edges. His hands shake when he cups your face again, grounding himself with your skin.

“You’re not wearing the socks, are you?” The tease slips out before you can stop it.

Jeongguk snorts against your shoulder, biting gently at your skin in retaliation. “Married five hours and you’re already picking on me.”

“I love your dumb socks,” you promise through a breathless laugh.

He hums, trailing kisses down the slope of your shoulder. “Yeah, well. Tonight, I’m wearing nothing but you.”

The teasing fades into something quieter when he lays you back against the pillows, his body covering yours, warm and solid. You feel every place he touches, every place he doesn’t, like they’re marked on your skin. His mouth moves slowly, in awe — kisses pressed to your chest, the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your hips. Wherever his lips go, his hands follow — stroking, coaxing, making you feel it all.

And God, you do. You feel everything.

You arch into him instinctively, a soft, helpless sound slipping from your lips. His breath stutters at the noise, and he lifts his head just enough to look at you — really look at you.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says. His voice is raw, scraped-down, stripped of anything but restraint. “I’ll stop. Anytime. Anything.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whisper back. You cup his face in both hands, thumb tracing the soft curve of his bottom lip. “I want you.”

A low sound — almost a whimper — slips from him then, and he nods, lowering himself until every inch of him is pressed against you. His hips shift against yours, experimental, a little awkward.

You both gasp.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, burying his face against your shoulder. “Okay. We’re... figuring this out.”

You laugh again, breathless and deliriously happy. You tilt your hips, guiding him, and he groans — grateful, needy.

The first time is clumsy, achingly sweet. There are moments you miss each other, teeth knocking, soft curses murmured between kisses. But there’s laughter too, and whispered encouragements, and the kind of heat that comes from knowing someone so deeply, so completely, that the vulnerability feels natural — like breathing. Like coming home.

“You’re doing so good, baby."

“Fuck,” he groans, voice breaking, “say it again.”

You smile against his skin, wrapping your arms tighter around him. “You’re doing so good, Gguk.”

He moves with you, guided by instinct and the quiet understanding you’ve built over years together. Every thrust, every kiss, every shaky moan feels like a new promise — I love you. I want you. I’m yours.

When you both finally fall apart, it’s not with fireworks or grand declarations. It’s quiet, almost sacred — his name on your lips, yours on his, whispered like prayers into each other’s mouths.

Jeongguk refuses to let you go. His arms band around you, tight and unyielding, even as your skin cools and the room settles into a sleepy hush.

“You’re my best friend,” he murmurs, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, your chin. “And now you’re my wife. How the fuck did I get so lucky?”

You smile, heart so full it aches. “Guess you’re stuck with me... forever.”

He grins against your skin, already half-asleep. “Good. I never wanted to be anywhere else.”

You reach for the blanket draped over the chair, wrapping it around yourself like a shield — or maybe a memory. A soft, bittersweet smile touches your lips as a gentle warmth fills you.

The laughter that muffled into pillows, the way he used to look at you like the world disappeared when you walked into a room. You think of those tangled nights in bed, when wanting each other turned into something deeper, where you'd both go again and again — not for pleasure, but to prove, in the only language you both spoke fluently back then, who loved the other more.

You close your eyes.

And for a moment, you're back there.

You remember the second you stepped through that door. How everything else had faded away.

The house had felt alive somehow, even in its quiet—sunlight spilled generously through the wide windows, the air tinged with fresh paint and the sea salt that clung to Busan’s breeze. It had been perfect. Everything you two dreamed of and bled yourselves dry to build.

You could see it all—lazy mornings tangled in white linen, coffee still warm in hand as the waves crashed just beyond the terrace. No urgent calls from both your jobs in Seoul. No blinking notifications. Just this. Him. The two of you, in your own little world.

You hadn't meant to cry, but of course you did. A single, stupid tear betraying you the moment the front door clicked shut behind you.

Jeongguk noticed before you could pretend. "My love," he’d murmured, pulling you close, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek like it hurt him to see it. "We did it."

You nodded, burying your face against his shoulder, breathing in the comfort you always found there. "We really did."

He kissed your forehead like he was sealing it in—this moment, this house, this dream you’d both chased until your feet bled. For that second, there was no future to fear. Just him, his hand in yours, and a home filled with quiet hope.

But of course, Jeongguk couldn’t stay soft for long.

"You know we have to break it in," he’d murmured against your lips, eyes already dark with intent.

You’d laughed, pulling back slightly to raise an eyebrow. "Already? We’ve been here for five minutes."

He smirked, cocky and shameless. "Five minutes too long. Been thinking about fucking you in this house since the day we signed the deed."

Your fingertips tailed down his neck. “Don’t remember signing up for this version of you.”

“Maybe I’ve been holding back. Maybe you just bring out the braver side of me.”

You remember how you shoved him playfully in the chest, only for him to catch your wrists and spin you against the wall, pinning you there with his hips. You’d felt him, already hard, pressing between your thighs through your clothes, and it set something wild sparking in your veins.

Your breath hitched. That grin—the wicked one that meant trouble—lit up his whole face. "Obsessed," you murmured.

He didn’t even pretend to deny it. "With my wife? Always."

You slipped away, dancing into the kitchen with a smirk. Jeongguk followed like a man chasing salvation, jeans already undone, tattoos on display as he stalked toward you.

"You think you love me more than I love you?" you called over your shoulder, hopping onto the counter.

"Baby," he said darkly, eyes trailing over your body like a promise. "I know I do."

"Then prove it."

He’s between your thighs in an instant, hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow—and you want them. His mouth crashes onto yours again, messy and heated, stealing every ounce of air from your lungs. His hands work with urgency, tugging at your clothes, until your blouse and bra hit the floor and his tongue is tracing the swell of your breast like he’s worshipping you.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he groans, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your sternum. “So mine.”

You tug at his shirt, yanking it over his head, nails raking down his tattooed arms. “Still waiting for the proof, Gguk,” you whisper against his jaw.

He growls again. Real. Feral. Sinks to his knees in front of you like you’re something holy. His hands slide under your skirt, shoving it up, baring you completely. The first sweep of his tongue over your core makes you gasp, your head tipping back, hand flying to his hair. He groans into you, like just the taste of you is enough to ruin him.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he rasps against your soaked skin.

You tighten your thighs around his head, breathless. “Make me.”

And he does.

His mouth is relentless, tongue and lips working you until you’re writhing on the countertop, whimpering his name like a prayer.

But you’re stubborn. You don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing you surrender. Not yet.

When you finally yank him up by his hair and drag his mouth back to yours, he tastes like you—filthy, desperate—and you wrap your legs around his waist, grinding against him through his jeans.

“You need me that bad, babe?”

“Need you always,” he pants, fumbling with his jeans, too wild to care about anything but being inside you. When he finally pushes into you, it’s fast, almost rough with need, and you both groan—loud and raw—as he bottoms out.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he hisses, forehead pressed to yours as he thrusts deep, slow, savoring every inch. “No one... no one loves you like I do.”

You moan into his mouth, biting his lower lip, nails digging into his back as you meet his thrusts, desperate to match him, desperate to win.

“We’ll see about that,” you whisper fiercely, clenching around him just to hear him whimper.

And he does—beautiful and broken—and it spurs you both on, the pace rough and messy, your moans filling the empty house like a chorus. By the time the sun dips lower, you’ve christened the kitchen counter, the living room sofa, the hallway wall. You’re both half-dressed, half-wild, bruised and kissed within an inch of your lives.

When he finally collapses onto the bed with you tangled in his arms, sweaty and wrecked, Jeongguk still doesn’t let go.

“You,” he whispers hoarsely, voice wrecked from moaning your name too many times. “You’re it for me. Always.”

You press your lips to the center of his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart. “Then you better be ready to spend forever proving it.”

His laugh was ragged, but full. "I’ll spend my whole life proving it."

And you believed him. Of course you did.

Because in that house, in that life—you’d been sure you were winning. Together.

Somewhere beyond the walls of your home, Seoul moves on without you – light rain falling in the garden, leaves moving in the breeze, the faint sound of a gate opening somewhere in the compound. In the distance, you heard a neighbor’s dog bark, a car door close.

But in here, everything was still. Silent.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the quiet ache you didn’t dare name. Either way, your mind slipped, without meaning to, back to another time.

A warmer time.

You could still feel it if you closed your eyes—the sunlight in Busan, the salt on your skin, the weight of Jeongguk’s body against yours, the way he had looked at you like there was no one else in the universe. The way he laughed when you challenged him. The way he kissed you when he thought you weren’t looking.

The memory came back easily. His hands on your waist, the two of you laughing, you playfully refusing to let him have his way even as he kissed every bit of you against the kitchen counter.

You smiled faintly, tracing the rim of your mug with your thumb.

It felt like another lifetime now. Like it had happened to different people.

The quiet pressed heavier on your chest, so you let yourself sink further, slipping into an old memory you hadn’t visited in a long time.

Somewhere in the middle of Seoul, in a small, cozy restaurant he loved because they made the kimchi just like his mother’s.

You had been picking at your bibimbap when Jeongguk put down his chopsticks, cleared his throat dramatically, and leaned across the table with that wide, mischievous grin that always meant trouble.

“Wife,” he said grandly, ignoring the side-eye from the ajumma at the next table.

You arched a brow, amused. “Yes, husband?”

He held out his hand like he was about to make a toast at some royal event. “I have a very important statement to make.”

You snorted, trying not to laugh. “Right now? In the middle of lunch?”

“Very serious. Life-altering.” His eyes were shining. Boyish. So in love it almost hurt to look at him.

With an an exaggerated sigh, you set down your spoon. “Fine. I’m listening.”

He straightened, cleared his throat again—overdoing it just to make you roll your eyes—and then said, with theatrical seriousness. "I do promise you, Mrs. Jeon, that no matter what love turns into, I’ll never stop choosing you.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the raw sweetness of it.

He wasn’t laughing anymore. Was just looking at you, like he was falling for you all over again.

Your heart stuttered. Then, quick as a snap, you leaned across the table and flicked his forehead.

“Ow!” He jerked back, clutching his forehead dramatically. "This is why people write their vows once and never bring them out again!”

“You’re lucky you're cute."

He pouted, rubbing at his forehead like you’d truly injured him. “See if I ever get sappy with you again.”

Laughter bubbled up, warmth blooming in your chest, your cheeks hurting from smiling so much. “Please. Nothing’s going to change with you until the kids are running around the house. Maybe even until they grow up. You’ll be that embarrassing dad crying at every school event.”

Discussing children felt natural. Familiar. Without even needing to plan, you both held an unspoken promise that when the time came, you’d face it together, ready to give all your love. Even mundane things—like folding laundry—turned into whispered conversations about baby names, arguments over whose genes would dominate.

Jeongguk groaned like you’d stabbed him. "God, you're right. I’m doomed. Gonna be that dad with the 'I love my kid' bumper stickers all over the car. Jeongguk Jr. or Little Ha-yun will have to live with it.”

"Bet you’re going to come up with matching shirts,"

He pointed his chopsticks at you. "If I ever show up in a 'World’s Best Dad' T-shirt, it's on you."

You laughed until your sides hurt, while he just stared at you, like you were the answer to a prayer he hadn’t known he was whispering.

The memory dissolved as the cold, damp present crept back in.

The rain soaks into the loose weave of your sweater, the tea now forgotten and stone-cold in your hands. The hedges bent low under the weight of water. The petals of the camellias you once planted together lay bruised against the earth.

Absently, you pulled your phone from your pocket, the screen lighting up in the muted gray light.

The wedding photo stared back at you. Frozen in time.

There you were, standing with Jeongguk at the altar, laughter bubbling from your lips, his hand linked firmly with yours. His eyes had been impossibly bright that day—full of promises that felt too big, too boundless to ever fade.

You traced the outline of his face on the screen with a trembling finger, wishing you could reach through the glass. Wishing you could fold yourself back into that moment. Hold onto that feeling just a little longer. Maybe if you had clung tighter, believed harder, things wouldn’t have slipped away.

Change is something no one can escape. You knew that well—everyone does.

Still, when it came, it hit hard at thirty, turning you and Jeongguk into strangers.

The rare mornings you find him in the kitchen, he walks past you on the way to the coffee maker. Casual vows exchanged easily over meals, had turned into clipped, tired arguments about who forgot to take out the trash. Whose turn it was to restock the empty egg tray.

You knew when everything changed. You wish you hadn’t.

You knew the exact moment Jeongguk stopped seeing you as the light in his life. When his love for you became a burden, he didn't know how to carry anymore.

You wished you could erase that night. Wished that when he chose you, it hadn't come with the weight of resentment that now lived between you.

Just because he had chosen you.

When the hospital room spun in blinding, sterile white. When the machines screamed warnings and the doctors begged for a decision—he chose you.

He chose you over Ha-yun.

And in some cruel twist of fate, you survived while your daughter didn’t.

You pressed your forehead against your knees, curling tighter on the rain-damp bench. The garden blurred into a smear of color and gray.

The life you had once imagined for the three of you—Jeongguk’s hand around a tiny fist, your laughter filling the house—died the same night she did. And no matter how much he smiled at you after, no matter how tightly he held you while you cried, a wall had already been built between you. Thick. Unscalable. Brick by agonizing brick.

You were no longer his home. You were his reminder of what’s been lost.

It didn’t begin with shouting. It began in the quiet — in the half-finished conversations, the way his hand hesitated before touching your back, the way you stopped asking, just to spare yourself the disappointment.

Then came the nights where he didn't come home at all.

Like that night.

You had only wanted for him to stand beside you. To support you. To be proud of you again. To be that husband who believed his wife would conquer anything if she puts her heart into it.

But even then, you were already losing him.

"Tomorrow’s the contract signing for the Tuan partnership. Hope you can be there. Eomma’s expecting you to," your voice was careful, like walking a thin line that could snap any second.

You wiped your makeup off mechanically at the dresser, your eyes catching his reflection.

His back was turned to you, the bathroom light glowing behind him as he tugged over his shirt.

The distance between you wasn't just physical. It hadn't been for a long time.

"It’s just a contract signing," His tone’s cold, almost bored.

The words stung more than they should have. More than you let on.

Jeongguk knew the weight of this partnership for you. It was more than another business move. It would be a stepping stone to expand your mother’s clothing line to Europe. Tuan Elegante had years of experience in the fashion world. Their reach was global, with a million-dollar-selling line in Italy and Paris. You and your mother had dreamed about this for as long as you could remember.

Yet here was your husband, treating the conversation, like it revolved around what to buy on the next grocery errand.

“It’s not just another event, Gguk.” You held the cotton pad a little too tight, blinking fast to hold back the sting. “I want you there.”

He didn’t turn around. Of course he didn’t.

"And do what exactly?" he muttered, pulling his towel off the hook. "Play the perfect husband? Show off a perfect marriage? Smile for the cameras so they have more to gossip about? Like they haven’t torn our lives apart enough already.”

Your throat burned, but you forced yourself to stay steady. "Could’ve just said no," you mumbled. "I would’ve understood. No need to be such a dick about it."

"I did say no. More than once." The towel hit the floor with a dull thud. "You just never fucking listen."

You whirled on him then, anger rising sharp and fast. “Maybe I was hoping. Hoping that you’d still care enough to show up. That you’d still want to stand by me.”

His laugh was bitter, mocking. "You really think standing next to you in a room full of strangers will fix this?"

"This isn't about fixing anything!" You cried, voice cracking. "This is about you showing up! Being there for once, instead of finding another excuse to stay away!"

Jeongguk’s face twisted, rage flashing for just a second before something else — something worse — flickered behind his eyes.

"You’re not even supposed to be working yet," he bit out. "Dr. Min told you to rest. Told you not to push yourself. But no, you’re back at it again, throwing yourself into work like it’ll patch up everything you lost."

"Don’t," you whispered, chest heaving. "Don’t you dare put that on me."

He shook his head, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. "You never knew when to stop. Even when it meant risking everything."

"Losing Ha-yun wasn’t on me," you said, barely above a whisper. "You had a choice that night. Be a father, or stay my husband. You chose."

Pain twisted across his face, raw and sharp. "If you had just—" he started, voice rising, but he broke off, breathing hard. " If you had just looked after yourself better—”

"Say it," you snapped, fists trembling at your sides. "Say it. Say you blame me."

He didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t deny it either.

The silence between you was loud enough to drown everything else out.

“If you regret it that much,” Your words trembled, "then maybe you should have let me go that night."

"Never said I regretted it.”

“Yet you can’t even look at me like you love me anymore."

That was what hurt the most. Not the anger. Not the fighting. The absence. The part of him that had once looked at you like you were the sun shined bright on a new hopeful morning.

Jeongguk stared at you for a long moment — then turned away.

“I’m going out,” he said. Cold. Detached. As if you were nothing more than a ghost. Grabbing his wallet and phone off the nightstand, not sparing you another glance, he leaves the room. Leaves you behind.

Sleep was impossible when tears drowned any chance for you to rest. The argument from earlier echoed in your mind, like a song stuck on loop. 1:00 AM. 2:00 AM. 3:00 AM. You stared at the clock, each tick mocking you. Your heart sank every passing hour.

Where was he? Why hadn’t he come back? The silence weighed heavily in the room, your anxiety only growing. Daylight crept through the curtains, a reminder that sleep was futile. You tossed and turned, anxiety gripping you about the big event today. Preparations demanded your focus.

Arguments with Jeongguk had piled up since you both lost Ha-yun. You'd lost track of how many. Yet, he always found his way back home. You lay side by side, even with the chill creating distance. But tonight was different.

You woke up to an empty side of the bed. Cold and untouched sheets lay there, unwrinkled – a reminder of the restless night you had endured. As you prepared to leave for work, Jeongguk returned from a long night. His presence felt heavy. The harsh words from the previous night loomed over you.

Fear gnawed at you. A reality you wanted to escape. You didn’t want this to become your new routine but you knew this was a change you had to bear with from now on.

Stepping back inside the house, your heart sinks at the sight of another untouched dinner on the table. Candles burned low, wine glasses untouched, the dinner you spent hours preparing now rests cold and forgotten under the soft glow of the kitchen lights.

Still, a tiny, stubborn part of you dares to hope.

You glance at your phone. 11:40 PM. There’s still time.

Maybe — just maybe — Jeongguk would walk through the door, the way he used to.

Maybe he’d see everything you put together, maybe he’d smile, call you ‘baby’ in that soft, lazy way, maybe he'd pull you into his arms like no time had passed at all.

Maybe you’d sit together and talk about meaningless things — which coffee you picked up that morning, the weather, the fact that you were both overdue for another Marvel marathon even though you could quote every line.

Maybe, for just a little while, you could pretend the distance hadn’t swallowed you whole.

You set your phone down, pressing your hands against the table to steady yourself.

But hope is cruel when it has nowhere left to go. It eats at you — a sick reminder of everything you've lost. Because if your marriage were still alive, you wouldn't need to hope so hard. You wouldn’t be left pleading to the universe for scraps of what once came so easily.

Years have passed since you and Jeongguk celebrated your wedding anniversary, and your birthday. You can’t recall the last time you celebrated his birthday either. Life has often pulled you both in different directions, especially back when your careers were just starting to build up.

But somehow, even through the chaos, you'd find your way back to each other. Maybe after dancing barefoot in the kitchen, maybe falling asleep mid-conversation, but you’d end the day in each other’s arms

That terrible night was a constant reminder that forgetting these moments was part of the change you didn’t want to face.

The first anniversary after it all fell apart, you got a text. 'Happy Anniversary. Happy Birthday.' No ‘love you.’ No pet names. Not even a damn emoji to soften the blow. Just a clinical message from the man who once promised you forever.

Chuseok later in the year came with another lifeless apology. ‘Sorry, can’t make it.’ No explanation, no efforts to make it right. You faced both your families alone that night, forcing smiles, while you quietly fell apart. Scrambled up with excuses to keep them in the dark. To preserve the illusion that their children were still wrapped in that perfect little bubble of an unbreakable love.

Christmas was worse. No calls. No messages. Just a note on the fridge in his rushed handwriting, ���Will be back late. Don’t wait up.’

And when New Year's came, a foolish hope lit up inside you once more.

Breakfast together — the first in months — and when you asked him to have dinner at Namsan Tower, he said yes.

You clung to that ‘yes’ like a lifeline. You believed.

But belief is brutal when it betrays you.

Because you sat there, alone at a table for two, staring at the unopened bottle of wine and the empty seat across from you.

The fireworks exploded outside the window, showering Seoul in glittering light. The restaurant staff cheered, kissed, laughed.

And you… you cried into your hands, wishing the year could just swallow you whole.

Now, the clock ticks mercilessly toward midnight.

12:00 AM. Another year gone. Another anniversary forgotten. Another birthday abandoned. You pull out a chair and sink down, the untouched meal staring back at you like a cruel joke.

Cruel, how the day you chose him as much as life chose you, has become a reminder of how much you can hold in your heart — and how easily it can break.

“Happy anniversary. Happy birthday to me.”

[zuzu-tries-to-write]

hello! So far you have made really good post, and it made me think, what if you made one about bakugou x y/n, they JUST started making out and started this thing where after class and even the cafeteria hours they would go to the roof top and make out, and then come back to class and act like nothing ever happened. Also somtimes he would throw a paper and secretly desk her under the desk where they would meet up. 😍

Title: “Between Bells and Rooftops”

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Genre: Romance, Secret Relationship, Slight Angst, Fluff, Heavy Tension

⸻

You didn’t plan to fall into this routine—this messy, thrilling, addictive routine. It just happened.

It started with a kiss. Just one. After class. The hallway was mostly empty, your hand brushing against Bakugou’s as you reached for the same notebook on a desk. His eyes met yours, and for once, they weren’t sharp or biting. They were heated, locked, and something in them flickered like a match.

He pulled you into the nearest broom closet like a scene out of a cliché manga, pressed you against the wall, and kissed you like he had been waiting for it for years. It was rough, clumsy, and fueled by frustration he’d probably been burying since day one. But it was also perfect.

And it didn’t stop there.

Now, it’s become a thing.

A whispered nod from across the classroom. A flicked paper note that barely makes a sound as it lands on your lap under the desk. You open it—sometimes it’s blank, sometimes it’s just three words: rooftop. 12:40. now. No signature. He doesn’t need one.

You glance up, and he doesn’t even look at you. His hands are behind his head, feet crossed on his desk like he’s bored out of his mind.

But you know better.

So you slip away during cafeteria hour, brushing off questions from your friends. “Bathroom,” you mutter. “Library.” “Need to grab a book from the dorm.” Lies, sweet and practiced.

When you step onto the rooftop, he’s already there—leaning against the railing, eyes flicking up at the sound of the door shutting behind you.

There’s no time for words.

Your back hits the wall, and he’s kissing you again like he needs to. His hands dig into your waist, and your fingers twist in the collar of his uniform. The wind up here is cool, but his body is warm, burning.

The kiss is all teeth and tongue at first, but then it slows, deepens. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips, the way your breath hitches, the sound you make when he sucks just under your jaw. Like you’re something he’s afraid to lose.

“Damn it,” he mutters into your skin. “Can’t focus in class ‘cause of you.”

“Then stop calling me up here,” you tease breathlessly, tugging on his tie.

He grabs your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. “You love it.”

You don’t deny it. Can’t.

Sometimes, after the kiss, you both just sit down, backs against the rooftop wall, the silence humming between you. He doesn’t say much—he’s never been one to waste words—but every so often he’ll glance over at you, cheeks a little flushed, and nudge your shoulder like he’s saying, yeah, I like this too.

Then the bell rings.

And like always, you dust yourself off, fix your collar, and head down the stairs. You walk into class one after the other, no eye contact, no shared looks. You sit two desks apart like strangers.

And yet—when you slide into your seat, something hits your ankle. A paper.

You glance around, heart skipping, and then reach down and unfold it under the desk.

This one says:

You’re mine. Don’t forget it.

There’s a tiny burn mark at the corner. He must’ve accidentally singed it with his Quirk again.

You bite your lip, folding the paper up and tucking it into your pocket. No one notices the way your smile lingers longer than usual. Not even Iida catches it—and he catches everything.

⸻

You know this thing can’t stay secret forever. Eventually, someone will follow you, or see the marks he leaves on your collarbone when he forgets how sharp his teeth are. Eventually, someone will see the way his gaze softens when you laugh in the common room.

But for now?

This rooftop, these stolen moments, these paper notes?

They’re yours. His. Yours together.

And maybe, just maybe… that’s enough.

[ilovejb]

| Hidden Love |

Pairings : Alexia Putellas x sister!reader Ingrid Engen x sister!reader

Summary : Y/N, Alexia Putellas’ younger sister, plays for Barcelona. When she falls in love with Anika Engen, Ingrid’s younger sister, their relationship must remain a secret. But keeping it hidden from their sisters proves harder than they ever imagined.

Warnings : Angst to fluff, kissing ?

Authors note : Never written smth like this hopefully it’s good around 4k word count

You never imagined being this close to your sister, Alexia. She was your older sibling, a legend in her own right. Growing up, you’d always admired her from the shadows, seeing how fierce and driven she was. Now, playing for Barcelona yourself, it was clear she expected nothing less from you.

But there was a deeper connection between the two of you. Alexia had always been protective of you, watching over you at every practice, making sure you were okay — especially when you joined the senior team. She’d never hesitated to keep a watchful eye, even as you made a name for yourself in the team. It was hard to move out of her shadow.

But things got complicated the moment you started noticing Anika Engen — Ingrid’s younger sister.

Anika wasn’t like most people. She had this quiet strength about her that was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful — it was something in the way she carried herself. Strong but gentle, confident but with a softness you didn’t see in many others. She played for Barça B, just like you, and training alongside her felt like an unspoken bond.

At first, it was innocent — the shared glances between you two after practice, the easy laughter whenever you talked. It wasn’t anything major. But then came the day when her hand brushed against yours while you were walking back to the locker room. It felt like the whole world stopped, the connection between you undeniable.

For weeks, you tried to ignore the feelings growing inside you. Anika had a way of looking at you that made your heart race. But you had to keep your distance. Ingrid was overprotective, and Alexia… well, you couldn’t even imagine how they would react if they knew. The idea of them finding out about you and Anika made your stomach twist in knots.

But one evening, everything changed.

You’d agreed to meet Anika at a quiet café after training, the dim lighting and the soft hum of chatter around you providing a temporary escape from the pressure. You sat across from each other, talking about your day, about the team, and for a moment, it felt like the world didn’t matter.

Then, without warning, Anika reached across the table and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers lingering on your skin. Your breath hitched, and before you could stop yourself, your hand found hers. You looked up, meeting her eyes.

“I… I can’t stop thinking about you,” Anika whispered, her voice low and vulnerable.

And that was it. You kissed her. It wasn’t long, but it was deep, full of all the things you had been holding back for weeks. You pulled away, both of you breathless.

“Anika…” You couldn’t find the words. “I don’t know what this means, but I don’t want to stop.”

“I don’t either,” she whispered back, squeezing your hand. “But we have to be careful. I can’t risk losing you. Not like this.”

You didn’t want to stop either. You didn’t know how to navigate this new, messy, wonderful thing between you, but for the first time in weeks, you felt alive, free.

But you knew it wouldn’t be easy. And you were right.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of emotions. You couldn’t stop thinking about Anika, even when you were on the field. Your mind would wander to her smile, the way she laughed, the way her fingers felt on your skin. But you couldn’t let anyone know. You had to keep it a secret.

You and Anika continued meeting, each time more and more secretive. Quick stolen kisses behind the training field, the brush of fingers in the locker room when no one was looking. Every touch felt like it could send your heart into overdrive. But the fear of getting caught weighed heavily on both of you. And there were signs that someone might be onto you.

Alexia started asking questions. You’d lied, telling her you were just busy with training or that you were spending time with friends. But she could tell. You were distant, distracted. She wasn’t stupid.

And Ingrid… well, Ingrid had been keeping a close eye on Anika, noticing her behavior too. Anika was normally so composed, but lately, she’d been avoiding Ingrid’s gaze and withdrawing from the team.

Ingrid finally confronted Anika after a practice. “What’s going on with you?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “You’ve been acting strange.”

Anika’s eyes widened, and for a moment, you thought she was going to break. But she didn’t. She just shook her head. “I’m fine, Ingrid. It’s just been a lot lately.”

But Ingrid wasn’t convinced. She didn’t trust the way Anika was acting.

It was a few days after that conversation when it all came crashing down. You and Anika had decided to meet after practice at your usual spot. You’d just kissed when you heard the door to the locker room creak open. You both froze, and your stomach dropped.

Ingrid and Alexia stood in the doorway, staring at the two of you with wide eyes.

For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. But the silence was deafening. You and Anika broke apart, but the damage was done. Ingrid’s eyes were filled with shock and something else — hurt, disappointment. Alexia stood beside her, her arms crossed tightly, a cold expression on her face.

“Y/N…” Alexia said, her voice low and steady. “What is this?”

Ingrid was the first to react. “You’re dating her?” she demanded, her voice breaking. “Behind my back?”

You could barely find your voice. “We didn’t plan for this,” you whispered. “We didn’t mean for it to happen.”

But Ingrid wasn’t listening. She was too upset, too hurt. “You should have told me, Y/N. You know better than this.”

Alexia stepped forward, her gaze sharp and unforgiving. “This isn’t just about you, Y/N,” she said, her voice trembling with barely restrained anger. “This is about our family. And you betrayed that.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you choked out, tears welling up in your eyes. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

Anika stepped forward, her hand trembling as she reached for Ingrid. “Please, don’t be mad at her. It’s not her fault.”

But Ingrid pulled away. “I can’t believe you, Anika. You should’ve known better.”

For the next few weeks, things were strained. Alexia and Ingrid barely spoke to you. It was like they were punishing you — ignoring you, shutting you out. They didn’t want to see you, didn’t want to hear your apologies. You knew you’d messed up, but it was hard to find a way back into their hearts. Every time you walked past them, they turned away. You felt the coldness of their silence like a physical blow.

Anika was just as miserable. The silence between you two was almost unbearable. You missed the small moments, the stolen glances, the feeling of her hand in yours.

But there was nothing you could do. Or so you thought.

Weeks passed, and the atmosphere in the house you shared with Alexia and Ingrid became suffocating. Neither Alexia nor Ingrid spoke to you or Anika. But Mapi and Olga, noticing the change, finally stepped in.

One evening, after a tense dinner, Mapi pulled Ingrid aside. “You’re punishing them,” she said quietly. “And you’re punishing yourselves, too.”

Ingrid’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t say anything.

Olga, with a more gentle tone, addressed Alexia. “I know this is hard, but they’re not kids anymore. They’re both adults now, and they made a choice. You have to respect that, even if it hurts.”

Mapi and Olga’s words didn’t immediately change anything, but they planted a seed of doubt in Ingrid and Alexia’s minds. Slowly, the walls they had built around themselves started to crumble.

A few more weeks passed, and the tension between the four of you was almost unbearable. But one evening, as you sat in the living room, Ingrid walked in and stood in front of you.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her voice heavy with emotion. “I was scared. Scared that I was losing you. Scared of what could happen.”

You nodded, feeling your heart ache. “I never meant to hurt you.”

Alexia, standing behind Ingrid, spoke softly, “I didn’t want to lose you either. But I see now… you’ve grown. And I can’t hold you back anymore.”

The four of you stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the past weeks heavy on your shoulders. Anika was beside you, her hand gently resting on your arm, her presence a quiet support. It felt like the world was holding its breath.

Ingrid finally spoke, her voice trembling. “I’ve been angry at you, Y/N. But I’ve been angry at myself too. I wanted to protect you, to keep you safe. But I forgot something important.”

Alexia stepped forward, her expression softening. “You don’t need to hide from us. You can be honest with us, all of you. We’re family. And we should be supporting each other, not turning away.”

The tension in the room seemed to evaporate, replaced by a soft sense of relief that you hadn’t realized you were longing for. You stepped forward, pulling Anika closer, your heart full of gratitude.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to both Alexia and Ingrid, feeling a tear slip down your cheek. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

Ingrid gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I know. And I’m sorry, too.”

Alexia reached over, pulling you into a hug. “I’m still learning how to be your sister, Y/N. But I’ll always be here for you. Both of you.”

Anika, who had been standing quietly, looked at Ingrid with hope in her eyes. Ingrid’s eyes softened, and she smiled, a gesture that spoke volumes.

“Let’s all just be together, as sisters,” Ingrid said, her voice light, the tension finally easing. “We don’t have to hide anymore.”

With that, you and Anika shared a smile, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything was okay. The healing had begun.

The four of you — Alexia, Ingrid, you, and Anika — sat together, talking and laughing late into the night. The love and support that had been tested had only grown stronger, and the bond between you was now unbreakable.

[levanterhaze]

SUPERNATURAL, BANGCHAN

♡  ― 󠀬󠀬producer!bangchan x f!reader praise kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, possessiveness, creampie, mention of anxiety, slightly toxic relationship, phone sex, dirty talk, fingering, thigh riding, overstimulation, masturbation (both receiving), angst and a bit of fluff bc why not?

♡ synopsis ― You left Bangchan to protect your heart. He waited, hoping you'd come back. A silent month, one crowded room, and the gravity between you never left. Some loves don’t vanish—they haunt, they ache, and if you’re lucky, they bloom again.

[14.2k words ]♡― guys, here is part two as promised! thank you to everyone who read and commented. it means a lot to me!

This love's possessin' me, but I don't mind at all It's like supernatural It's takin' over me, don't wanna fight the fall It's like supernatural

You slipped out of the party minutes later, leaving Jisung fretting behind you, calling your name. But you couldn’t bear the thought of going downstairs — of seeing Bangchan again and pretending like none of it had touched you.

Your pride stung where he'd cut it, even if you knew, deep down, that you’d both been guilty of the same cruelty. He had only mirrored what you once did over the phone — pulling away before you could pull him closer.

But the truth was, you were tired.

Exhausted from the push and pull, the games neither of you wanted to admit you were playing. Tired of waiting for promises that dissolved before they could ever reach you.

Somewhere along the way, you had slipped through each other's fingers. The little celebrations that once mattered — anniversaries, tiny milestones only the two of you would remember — faded into afterthoughts, swallowed up by meetings and deadlines.

You have tried. God, you had tried with everything you had to keep the threads together.

But love cannot survive on good intentions alone.

Bangchan's world demanded everything from him, and he had given it willingly. Again and again, you watched him choose the studio over your shared bed. Choose the endless hours of perfecting someone else's music over the simple, stubborn love you tried to offer him.

You had lain awake more nights than you could count, the glow of your phone painting the darkness, waiting for a message that came too late or not at all.

You understood — you always had — that his dreams were colossal and heavy. You had never wanted to be the weight that slowed him down.

But there is a difference between understanding and acceptance. And you could no longer bear being the afterthought, the thing he returned to only when the work had drained him dry.

If Bangchan had decided to chase his future with everything he had, you would let him. You would not beg for space in a life where you were already disappearing.

Even if it cost you more than you knew how to bear.

It all started to crumble the night you waited for him, heart full and hands shaking with excitement.

You had spent hours getting ready for your birthday — slipping into the dress you knew he liked, the soft blue one that matched the earrings he once said made your eyes look brighter. You dabbed your favorite perfume behind your ears, the one he used to bury his face in when he hugged you after a long day.

You didn’t want anything extravagant. No parties. No gifts.

 Just him.

Just a few quiet hours where life didn’t pull him in a thousand different directions. You understood how hard he worked — the pressure of his dreams weighing on his back — but you thought, for tonight at least, you could be his priority.

So you waited. First by the window, tapping your nails against the glass. Then on the couch, your phone cooling in your hand as the minutes blurred into hours.

When the clock struck midnight, your chest tightened around the truth you didn’t want to accept.

Three hours later, the door finally opened. Bangchan stumbled in with messy hair, a hoarse voice full of apologies.

He kissed your forehead too many times. He promised he'd make it up to you. He swore it would never happen again.

But it had already happened. And the ache had already rooted itself deep in your chest, in a place where no amount of love could reach.

You loved him. God, you loved him enough to burn.

But you had learned, slowly and painfully, that loving yourself had to come first. And sometimes — no matter how deep the love ran — it wasn’t enough to patch over everything that had cracked between you. Leaving him wasn't like slamming a door. It was like tearing your own ribs apart with your bare hands.

And it felt even worse because he didn’t let you go easily. He held you in shaking arms, his face wet with tears you had never seen him cry before. He pleaded, whispered over and over that you were his everything, that he could change, that he would do better.

It would have been easier if he had yelled. If he had turned cold. But instead, he broke down in front of you, raw and unguarded — and you hated yourself for every second you had to pull away from him.

You felt like the villain in a story where he had always played the hero.

And that was what made it so much worse. Because loving someone isn’t the same as being able to stay. And breaking his heart didn’t mean yours survived it either.

There were nights when you cried until your pillow was soaked, your chest aching from the memories you couldn't shut off. Nights when you scrolled through the photos — snapshots of sunlit trips, blurry pictures taken in bed, stolen kisses in crowded streets — and asked yourself if any of it had even been real.

Because sometimes the happiness felt like a story someone else had lived, like you had imagined it all just to make the ending hurt less.

Either way, it didn’t matter anymore. You weren’t talking to each other.

After the party, after the final look he gave you in that mirror, you knew you couldn’t keep playing these small, cruel games. No matter how good it felt for a fleeting second, it wasn’t real — not anymore.

Now you were trying to build a different kind of peace. And today, that peace looked like Jisung sprawled on your living room floor, laptop open, working on a song, while you pretended to study.

You both sat there in a comfortable kind of silence, the kind that only existed between people who had seen each other at their worst and stayed anyway.

The TV murmured quietly in the background, a forgotten drama flickering across the screen, while the smell of greasy food filled the air — fried chicken, fries, and way too many dipping sauces.

You were lying on your stomach, highlighter in hand, pretending to read an article for class. But your eyes were burning from exhaustion and your head throbbed dully.

Eventually, you gave up the charade and turned to Jisung, nudging his foot with yours. “What are you writing?” you asked, grateful for any distraction.

He glanced over his shoulder, cheeks puffed out like a hamster from the mouthful of chicken he had just stuffed in. He swallowed dramatically and narrowed his eyes at you, suspiciously.

“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asked, voice teasing but edged with something more playful.

You squinted at him, smiling despite yourself. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well,” Jisung began, eyes flicking down to the crumpled sheet in his hand, “a while ago Chan gave me these lyrics and the melody to analyze. Said he wanted a second opinion, maybe even help shaping it into a full song.”

You nodded slowly, your body still relaxed on the mattress.

“I didn’t get around to it at the time,” he continued, “had other projects on my plate. But now that he’s—” Jisung hesitated for a second, his gaze shifting slightly. “Now that he’s not doing too well, he asked me to finally take a look.”

You sat up like the air had been pulled from the room. The reaction was so fast, so sharp, that Jisung jumped slightly, his eyes widening.

You were on your knees in a heartbeat, sitting back on your heels. “Wait, wait—what do you mean he’s not doing well? Is he sick?”

Jisung sighed, the sound low and reluctant. He rubbed the back of his neck, like he regretted saying anything.

“Yeah,” he admitted, quietly. “Been a couple weeks now. Nothing serious—I think. He didn’t give me details, and he sure as hell won’t slow down. Stay locked in that damn studio like it's the only thing keeping him alive.”

Your chest tightened. Of course he wouldn’t slow down. Of course Bangchan would keep pushing himself until his body couldn’t anymore. He was relentless like that — stubborn, reckless, and always carrying more than he let anyone see. 

You knew that about him. You loved that about him, even when it hurt.

And now, despite everything, your worry comes back too easily, too naturally. Like your heart still had a thread tied to his and it tugged the moment his name slipped into fragile territory.

“Can I see it?” you asked, your eyes fixed on the sheet in Jisung’s hand.

He hesitated. Looked at the paper, then at you. “If he finds out I showed you this…”

“He won’t,” you said, voice low but firm, a quiet promise wrapped in a smile. “I won’t say a word.”

Jisung held your gaze for a moment. Then he exhaled, defeated by your determination, and handed over the paper. You took it carefully, like it might burn your skin. Your fingers hovered for a second before you unfolded the page.

And then, with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, you read the first line.

I hate to admit

I still miss you

How could I forget?

Even though you promised

Don't go anywhere, stay by my side

No point in saying it, it's already too late

You, who I've always dreamed of

Have suddenly changed, what happened?

Maybe you could come back

What are you saying? You said that last time too

In my eyes, it's already over

You're the one who made it crumble, yeah

I can't give up on you

His handwriting. Familiar loops and jagged lines, words crossed out with hesitation, tiny question marks hanging at the ends of uncertain phrases, as if he was second-guessing every syllable. As if every thought of you had been too fragile to capture cleanly the first time.

It hit you like a wave. A tight ache blooming quietly in your chest, the kind of sorrow that made your throat burn. You had to look away from the paper or you were sure you'd cry. Right there, in front of Jisung.

Did he feel just as lost? Did he miss you the way you missed him — in the quiet, in the ordinary? Did he ever consider walking away for good, the same way you’d tried to convince yourself to?

Even after Jisung left, those questions clung to you like static. You didn’t know if this was a mistake, if it would only make things worse. But you moved anyway. On instinct. On hope. You made vegetable soup with meat, pineapple juice on the side — and carried it with shaking hands, straight to the studio.

The hour didn’t matter, even though it was well past nine. You weren’t thinking about time. You were only thinking of him. Of whether he was sleeping enough, eating anything at all, or just burning himself out like always.

The security guards let you in without question. They’d known you for years, smiled as if nothing had changed. As if you were still his. Still his girlfriend. You didn’t have the heart to correct them.

Bangchan heard the knock, confused — no messages, no scheduled work. Still, he stood, the silence of the studio wrapping around him as he walked to the door.

And there you were.

Small, uncertain, standing just beyond the threshold with your shoulders drawn in like you’d stepped out of a storm and hadn’t shaken it off yet. And God — his heart. It stumbled inside his chest at the sight of you.

“Hi?” Your voice was soft, uncertain — like you were trying not to break something delicate.

Bangchan looked at you. Your cheeks were flushed from the cold, eyes bright with something between nerves and quiet resolve.

“Hi.”

“I… um, I heard you weren’t feeling well.” You held up the bag in your hand, a little awkwardly, like a peace offering. It was oddly endearing — so much so that he had to fight the small, instinctive smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh. So, now you care?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Sharper than he intended. But the look on your face — the way your expression flickered — made his chest tighten.

“Don’t say that,” you whispered. “I’ve always cared.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He didn’t mean to sound bitter, but the weight in his voice betrayed him.

He wanted to ask why you were here. Why you’d come. But maybe he didn’t want to hear the answer. Maybe it would hurt worse than silence.

“Look,” you said, voice gentler now, as you pressed the bag against his chest. “There’s soup. With protein, so you don’t end up passing out in the middle of a session. And ibuprofen. Just… take it, okay?”

He accepted the bag, but his eyes never left yours.

“I should probably go,” you said quietly.

But before you could step away, his hand reached for your wrist. Not to trap — just to anchor.

“Don’t.” His voice cracked. “Stay. I’m sorry. I was being an ass.”

You glanced around, feigning indifference. “Do you actually want me to stay?”

“Yes.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you want me to beg?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real bite in it. “No.”

He stepped aside.

“Come in.”

Crossing the threshold felt strange — like walking back into a dream you’d convinced yourself you were done with. The studio has always been complicated for you. You loved it because he did, and hated it for the same reason. This room had given him so much — and taken just as much from the two of you.

But tonight, you were here. And maybe, that meant something still could be salvaged.

Bangchan sank into the familiar leather chair, the one worn from years of long nights and endless sessions. He pulled the bag onto his lap, peeking inside, and for a moment — a brief, genuine moment — a soft smile broke across his face.

“Thank you, princess,” he murmured.

“You're welcome,” you replied quietly, easing down onto the sofa behind him.

For a split second, it felt like nothing had changed — you, sitting there, him at his desk — the comfortable rhythm of old times. But the truth sat heavy between you: everything had changed.

“How did you even know?” he asked, swiveling slightly to catch your eye.

“Jisung,” you said, flashing him a guilty, sideways smile. “Don’t be mad at him.”

Bangchan huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head.

"You don't have to worry about me," he said. "It's just a cold. Maybe some inflammation. It'll pass."

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. Of course he hadn’t bothered seeing a doctor — you could already see it in the stubborn set of his jaw, the tired sag of his shoulders.

"How long have you been here without a break?" you pressed.

The silence that followed was answer enough. You whined, exasperated, the way you always did when he pushed himself too far. “Ugh. You're so annoying.”

He chuckled at your familiar pout, the sound low and warm, settling somewhere deep in his chest.

“Please,” you said, softening. “You need to rest.”

“Angel," he said, voice low with apology, "I have to finish this song tonight.”

You looked at him then — really looked at him. The dark circles under his eyes, the weary way he held himself upright. Your nose was a little red from the cold outside, your eyes so full of quiet concern it almost undid him.

“You're exhausted, Chan.”

And he was. God, he was. But the need to prove something — maybe to himself — weighed heavier than his own body tonight.

He just didn't know how to stop.

"Why don’t you sit your pretty ass on the couch and wait for me? I swear I won’t take long.” His tone was soft, coaxing — the kind that tried to make a command sound like a favor.

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. It wasn’t like you had much choice, and you hated how easily he knew that. “Still an idiot. And still annoying,” you muttered, curling into yourself and hugging your knees.

Bangchan just laughed under his breath, swiveling his chair back toward the mixing table like your barbs were little more than background noise.

And so you stayed, quiet but close, letting the silence between you stretch and settle — familiar, almost comforting — like all the times before when you watched him lose himself in the only world he never shut you out of.

The hours slipped by quietly, marked only by the soft hum of the computer and the occasional sound of Bangchan sipping soup or juice. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, fingers dancing over the keyboard with quiet urgency. There were still a few final touches to make before the track could be sent off — his name attached to it, his reputation carried in each beat.

By the time he leaned back in his chair and exhaled, the clock had already passed two in the morning.

“Okay,” he whispered to no one in particular, voice low and worn. “I’m done.”

When he turned around, he found you fast asleep on the sofa — curled into yourself like a child, your hand resting gently against your cheek. Your breathing was soft and steady, strands of hair falling into your face, your expression calm in a way he hadn't seen in a long time.

A smile formed slowly on his lips, unguarded and aching. You looked so peaceful. So heartbreakingly beautiful. His chest tightened with the weight of everything he hadn’t said — the apologies, the longing, the love that still clung to him like a second skin.

He didn’t want to wake you. He didn’t even want to breathe too loud, afraid the moment might break. But it was late. You needed to go home.

Still, he moved gently, as if cradling something fragile. Slipping one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, he lifted you with the kind of care that said everything he couldn’t.

You stirred in his arms, your voice a soft murmur, your lashes fluttering.

“Shh,” he whispered quickly, brushing your hair away from your face. “No, no, don’t wake up. Keep sleeping. I’ll take you home.”

You were so deeply asleep you didn’t even stir — not when he lifted you, not when the night air kissed your skin. Instead, your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, your face tucking into the crook of his shoulder. The warmth of you, the familiar weight against his chest, sent a quiet ache blooming in Bangchan’s ribs. He inhaled slowly, letting the scent of your hair — something soft and sweet — tug at memories he thought he'd locked away.

He held you a little tighter.

At the car, he draped his jacket around your shoulders before setting you down gently in the passenger seat. His apartment wasn’t far, just a short drive through sleepy streets — yet it felt like a quiet journey through another life. The one where you still belonged to each other.

You didn’t wake, not even when he parked, not even as he carried you up. He laughed under his breath — not mockingly, but in awe of how completely you trusted him, even now. As if no time had passed at all.

Inside, he flicked off the main lights, leaving only the soft glow of the neons — pinks, purples, pale blues — washing the room in a kind of nostalgia. The colors felt like you. The bed, too, still seemed shaped by your absence. He laid you down on what had always been your side, your body curling instinctively into the space as if it remembered more than you’d admit.

You shifted once, a sigh leaving your lips, but didn’t wake.

Bangchan stepped into the shower, letting the heat roll over his tired limbs, trying to shake the heaviness that hadn’t left him in weeks. But it was still there — behind his eyes, in his chest, in the quiet hum of the apartment with you just a few feet away.

When he returned to the bedroom, towel-drying his hair, he moved quietly. Slipping beneath the sheets, he faced you in the low light, watching the calm rhythm of your breathing.

He brushed a few strands from your face and let his thumb trace the curve of your cheek, slow and reverent.

He still loved you. He always had.

And maybe in another life, or maybe even this one, you’d open your eyes and feel it — before the distance between you grew too wide to cross.

You woke to a tangle of soft murmurs, distant and blurred like echoes from a dream. For a second, you weren’t sure if you were still asleep. The world around you was bathed in gentle pink and violet hues, as if reality had melted into something more delicate, more unreal.

But then your heart flipped. Because you knew this place.

The room was unmistakable. The spacious bed you used to share. The neon glow that painted the walls. Even the scent — a mixture of warm cotton and something that was just… him. Wrapped around you like a memory.

You turned your head, slowly, careful not to stir too much. And there he was.

Bangchan, lying on his side, brows drawn as if in thought even in sleep. His lips were a tight line, the muscles in his jaw tense. He didn’t look peaceful — not entirely. Something unsettled pulled at the corners of his expression.

You shifted slightly beneath the covers, your hand moving toward him almost on instinct. But you paused halfway when his breathing hitched, deeper, more erratic. For a moment you thought he might wake.

A few unruly curls had fallen across his forehead, and without thinking, you reached out. Just a featherlight touch, as if you were afraid your fingers would break the moment.

You smiled quietly. Tenderly.

“Sometimes I can’t believe you happened,” you whispered to no one in particular — maybe to the moment, maybe to him.

But then you noticed the sound. Not distant anymore. It was him.

His breath came in broken murmurs, the edge of a whimper slipping past his lips. A quiet sound of discomfort, like he was wrestling with something in his sleep.

“Chan?” you whispered, inching closer. But he didn’t stir.

His body tensed under the covers, caught in some invisible turmoil, and your heart clenched.

He wasn’t just dreaming. He was hurting.

Gently, you laid your palm against his forehead, then slid it down to the curve of his neck. The heat radiating from his skin confirmed what you’d already feared — he was burning up. 

Your heart sank as your hand moved to his cheek, and you stroked it with quiet tenderness, the pads of your fingers slow, as if the gentleness could soothe him.

“You’re burning up, stupid” you whispered, concern thick in your voice.

You reached for his arm through the blanket and gave it a soft shake. “Chan, wake up.”

He murmured something unintelligible, but just as always, he stirred easily — even in sleep, he was attuned to the slightest sound, the smallest touch. His eyes fluttered open after a few sluggish blinks, and instinctively, his hand found your arm.

“Are you all right?” His voice was hoarse, raw at the edges.

But your worry was for him. “You’re not well. You’re shaking with fever.”

He groaned softly and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, as if even gravity had become too heavy. “Did you take the ibuprofen I gave you?” you asked, your voice gentle but firm.

He didn’t answer right away. Just offered a sheepish smile, eyes darting sideways in guilt — and that was enough.

“Unbelievable.” 

But still, your hand never left his.

You sighed again, this time louder, pushing yourself up from the mattress. 

“You can’t just ignore it, Chan. Come on, I’ll get you some water and a fresh dose of ibuprofen. We’ll bring the fever down.”

But as you tried to leave the bed, his fingers tightened around your wrist — not hard, just enough to make you pause.

“Don’t go,” he murmured, voice gravelly from sleep and fever. His eyes were half-lidded, but you could see the truth in them.

He wasn’t just asking you to stay for comfort. He needed you in that moment, in the way people only need the things they’ve missed too long and too deeply.

“Chan—” you began, your voice caught between soft protest and something that ached..

“I feel better when you’re here.” His thumb brushed against the inside of your wrist like a secret. “Just… stay a little longer. Please.”

You gulped. Your body was already leaning toward him, traitorous in its longing. But your brain pushed back, reminding you that no amount of shared silence or pink neon light could fix everything.

“You need medicine. Fluids. Not—” Your words faltered as he looked at you.

“Not me?” he finished quietly.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Because it wasn’t true. You wanted to stay.

“I’ll go get you the meds,” you said at last, trying to sound stronger than you felt.

But he sat up, slower this time, fighting the weight of his fever. His hand reached for yours again, warmer now with the heat pulsing from him. “Just five minutes. I swear. Lie down with me.”

You stared at him for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall too quickly, his eyes already beginning to gloss again from the fever. He was too sick to argue. And you were too tired to fight the part of you that still loved him.

“Five minutes,” you whispered, crawling back under the sheets.

The moment you did, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. His arms slipped around your waist, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck. The heat of his skin against yours made you shiver.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

And yet, your heart screamed every word you weren’t ready to say.

You stayed like that for a while — tangled in silence, in warmth, in everything neither of you had figured out how to say. His breath was uneven against your neck, arms wrapped firmly around your waist like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

“Are you comfortable?” you asked quietly, not without a trace of concern. “You’re burning up.”

He hummed low in his throat, voice rough. “Yeah. I don’t care.”

You shifted slightly to look at him, only to find his eyes half-lidded, watching you through lashes heavy with fever. His expression was soft in a way that made your chest tighten.

“You should,” you murmured. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Maybe I haven’t.” His voice broke a little on the last word. “But you’re here now.”

That silence again — the kind that makes you feel like you’re standing too close to something that still hurts. You swallowed.

“Why didn’t you call me?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

His thumb rubbed the inside of your wrist, slow, almost absent. “Didn’t think I was allowed to anymore.”

Your breath caught. “Channie…”

He looked at you then — really looked. And the playfulness that usually sat at the corners of his mouth was gone, replaced by something rawer, quieter.

“You still care,” he said, more of a realization than a question.

“I do,” you admitted. “I always do.”

He didn’t speak. Just rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in like that alone could steady him.

“You’re still running hot,” you said, breaking the moment before it swallowed you both whole. “You need to eat something, drink more water. Take the stupid ibuprofen.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t tease. Just nodded and closed his eyes again.

“I missed this,” he said after a beat, voice hoarse. “You. Us. Even when it hurt.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, your hand finding the back of his neck, holding him close like maybe that would stop the ache.

“Don’t say things like that unless you mean them,” you whispered.

“I meant every word.”

And somehow, that made it worse.

Eventually, he took the ibuprofen — reluctantly, like it pained him more than the fever — washing it down with the last of the juice. You watched with your arms folded, waiting for a sarcastic remark, but it never came. He just blinked, slowly, eyes a little unfocused, then reached for you.

“Come here,” he murmured, quieter now. His voice had lost its edge. Softer. Like he didn’t want to scare you away.

You hesitated.

But he didn’t push, didn’t coax — he just pulled. A gentle tug, like muscle memory. And that’s what made you give in. You let yourself be drawn back into his space, your spine pressing to his chest beneath the weight of the blankets.

He was too warm — but not just from the fever. It was everything: his arm around your waist, the steady drag of his breath against your neck, the weight of him folding around you like you were something fragile. The way he held you made your throat close up.

“Just for a bit,” he said into your hair, almost a plea. “Let me hold you.”

Your heart answered before your voice did. You stayed.

The silence that followed was thick — not awkward, not even heavy. Just full. Of everything unsaid, of old comforts and too-recent wounds. His hand found your arm, trailing lightly down it, fingertips like memory. Your skin prickled under his touch. Your pulse quickened. It didn’t feel like nerves. It felt like recognition.

You shifted — trying to make space to think, to breathe — and that’s when you felt him.

Hard.

Your body stilled. His breath caught.

“Shit,” he muttered, the word nearly inaudible. He pulled back a fraction, like he was suddenly aware of himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t— It’s not—”

“It’s okay,” you said, too quickly, and not quite steadily.

But it wasn’t. Not when you could still feel him against you. Not when your pulse wouldn’t settle. Not when your whole body was remembering what it meant to be wanted like that, by him.

And you hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

He swallowed hard behind you. “You do something to me,” he whispered, like it was a secret he’d been choking on. “Even now. Especially now.”

You turned your face slightly, not enough to look at him, but enough for him to feel the shift. The silence pulsed.

“Chan.”

“I’ll behave,” he said, his forehead lowering to your shoulder. “But don’t ask me to lie. Don’t ask me to pretend I still don't want you.”

You turned in his arms slowly, like the moment might break if you moved too fast. His breath brushed your cheek, warm and shaky, and when your eyes met his—half-lidded, glassy, filled with something raw—it hit you just how long you’d both been holding this in.

You lifted your hand, tracing your finger across his bottom lip, and he froze like he didn’t dare breathe. Like he didn’t want to risk waking up from this.

Then you kissed him.

Not desperate. Not rushed. Just full—of longing, of memory, of everything you’d both left unsaid. Your mouths moved together like you’d done it a hundred times before, and still, it felt brand new. His hands slid to your hips, tentative at first, then gripping like he was afraid you’d vanish. You melted into him, fingers curling in his hair, tasting every soft sound he gave you.

When you finally pulled back, both of you panting, your forehead rested gently against his. Your palm brushed his cheek, still warm, still flushed.

“How are you feeling?” you whispered.

His answer was breathless. “Never felt better.”

But his body told the truth—tense, trembling, undeniably hard against you. The heat between you was unmistakable, alive. And when your hand drifted down, slowly, his eyes widened in disbelief. You didn’t rush. Just rested your palm over him, gentle, steady.

His breath hitched. Then he caught your wrist.

“You shouldn’t,” he murmured, voice rough and low. His fingers around your wrist weren’t firm—they were trembling. “Not if you don’t mean it.”

You looked at him. Steady. Sure.

“I want to,” you said, soft but clear, like a vow. 

The moment stretched—charged, delicate. His grip loosened, and his gaze held yours like he was afraid he’d fall in if he blinked.

You leaned in, your voice brushing his skin: “Let me take care of you.” A beat. “Let me make you feel good”.

Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweats, fingers searching until you found him—already hard, warm, and slick at the tip with need. He sucked in a sharp breath and caught your wrist, his grip tight but trembling.

Whatever resolve he had left shattered right then. His hand fell away.

You touched him through the soft cotton of his boxers, slow and measured, feeling him twitch beneath your palm. His hips shifted, desperate to stay still, desperate not to beg. You bit your lip, gaze dropping as you peeled the last barrier away and took him into your hand—hot, veiny, heavy against your skin, damp with arousal.

Bangchan’s head fell back, a low grunt breaking from his chest, raw and guttural. His fingers dug into your waist like he was grounding himself, trying not to lose control.

You swiped your thumb along the red tip, catching the silky there and spreading it in slow circles. He made a sound—part moan, part exhale—and you could feel the tension melting in him with every careful stroke.

You licked your fingers, then wrapped it around the length of him, slowly beginning to move. The way he responded—every breath, every quiet curse—felt like a kind of worship. 

And through it all, the tenderness didn’t fade. If anything, it burned hotter—wanting him, yes, but wanting to take care of him, to give him something he couldn’t ask for out loud.

“Kiss me,” you whispered, your hand still rubbed around his cock, your breath warm against his cheek.

He obeyed, almost clumsily, lips crashing into yours like he was falling—into you, into the moment. His moans slipped into your mouth, whiny and broken, like he couldn’t hold them back anymore. It was messy, aching, raw—his body snaking beside you as you pumped him slowly, then deeper, faster, your fingers glossy with pre-cum and saliva.

He gasped against your lips, hips jerking into your hand, chasing every glide like he was starved. “Don’t stop,” he begged, breathless, his voice cracking. “Please, please, don’t stop.”

His eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, head tipping into the pillow. Every sound he made—those ruined, wet moans—tore something loose inside your mind, branding you with the image of him surrendering beneath your touch.

You leaned in and kissed the edge of his jaw, then nipped at his ear gently. “You’re so close,” you murmured, fingers tightening around him, gliding up and down his thick, veiny length. 

Bangchan shuddered, thighs tensing as his whole body arched. His whines turned frantic, throat tight with euphoria as he writhed beneath your hand. His muscles went rigid—then he let out a broken groan, panting through clenched teeth as he came hard, spilling hot into his stomach.

You held him through it, working him through the tremors, his pleasure loud and ragged in the quiet room.

When his eyes finally opened, they were glassy and dazed, but burning with hunger. Like he still couldn’t believe you were real. 

He grabs your waist, dragging you into his lap like he needs to feel your weight, your warmth, your heartbeat pressed to his. His hands tremble slightly against your hips, not from weakness, but restraint—like he’s holding back everything he doesn’t know how to say.

You feel it instantly. The shift. The want. The plea.

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, but not quite your mouth. Not yet. You press a hand to his chest, stopping him.

“Chan,” you whisper, “we shouldn’t. Not like this. You need to rest, not—”

He lets out a low, frustrated sound in his throat, somewhere between a groan and a growl. “Fuck, you drive me insane,” he says, voice low and raw. “You say you want me, then you pull away like you're scared of it.”

You try to explain, to steady your breath, to ease the heat that's already caught between you. “I’m not pulling away. I just… I want to be careful.”

He exhales harshly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. There's nothing careful in his gaze—only fire and ache.

“Please,” he says, almost broken. “Please don’t do this to me. I’m losing my fucking mind without you.”

You can feel every word of it in the way he holds you—desperate, reverent, like you’re the only thing tethering him to himself.

“I don’t care if it’s messy,” he breathes. “I don’t care if I’m not healed yet. I just— I need you. All of you.”

“I think we should sleep now.” Your voice barely carried, but it hung between you like a thread — fragile, teasing, unsure.

Bangchan let out a low laugh, the kind that curled through your spine and settled in your stomach.

“Are you trying to be funny now, angel?”

You gave a subtle shrug, your smile too soft to be convincing. Your hand rose to his neck, thumb gliding along the edge of his jaw before you pressed your palm to his forehead. He leaned into your touch without thinking — the heat of him still there, but dulled, no longer consuming.

“You look better,” you whispered.

He caught your wrist gently, lips tilting into a slow smile. “You just touch me like that and expect me not to feel better?”

Your cheeks flushed before you could stop it. He leaned in and kissed your cheek, then didn’t stop. His lips trailed lower, grazing the line of your jaw, then pausing just beneath your ear. 

The way he moved wasn’t hurried. He kissed like he was trying to memorize you. Like he didn’t know if he’d be allowed to do it again.

His breath skimmed your skin between kisses, his mouth hot and slow. When you shifted slightly, your thigh brushed his, and his hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer with a quiet, shaky inhale.

You felt the tension low in your belly — the ache, the pull, the way his body seemed to mold against yours without trying. Not when he kissed you like this — like your skin was a secret only he knew how to read.

Bangchan kissed your cheek with quiet reverence, then let his lips trail lower, slower — across your jaw, down to the soft skin just below your ear. His mouth was warm and open, tongue brushing in gentle flicks that sent a sharp wave of heat spiraling through you.

“I want you,” he murmured, voice husky against your skin. You felt his breath — hot and uneven — just before his tongue slid along the edge of your neck, tasting the salt of your skin. You gasped, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other lost somewhere in the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Do you want me, princess?” he asked, mouth barely lifting from your skin. “Tell me.”

You shivered, a sound escaping you before you could hold it back. He smiled against your throat, almost like he knew exactly how broken you were — and how much more you still had to give.

“Use your pretty mouth,” he coaxed, dragging his lips up to your ear. “I’ll only touch you if you want me too.”

You didn’t hesitate this time. “I want you,” you breathed, the words tumbling out, raw and honest. “So bad.”

He groaned, low and deep, his hand sliding over your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Yeah?” he whispered. “Show me, then. Show me how much.”

You moved against him without thinking, your body searching for friction, for contact, for the relief only he could give. The fabric between you felt unbearable — too thick, too wrong — and the need coiled tighter in your belly.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes on your face, your lips, the heat in your gaze.

Your chest heaved with raw need, every breath ragged. The ache between your legs was unbearable—you needed him inside you, desperately, hungrily. It had been too long since you felt his weight, his heat, the way he filled every inch of you.

Bangchan watched, completely spellbound, as you stepped back and hiked your dress up with trembling hands. There was something so dirty and sensual in the way you undressed just for him—slow, teasing, knowing exactly what it did to him. Your bare tits bounced free, flushed and heavy with arousal, your nipples already hard from anticipation. Your breaths came in short, needy pants.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Every curve of your body was seared into his memory, but seeing it again like this made his cock throb—aching to be buried inside you. One brush of his fingers over your skin and goosebumps erupted like fire under ice.

“Holy shit” he growled, then latched onto your breast, lips hot and wet. You leaned back against his thigh, your spine arching to offer him more, to beg without words.

His teeth grazed your skin, then bit—not too hard, but enough to make you cry out. He sucked and licked like he was starved for the taste of you, like your body was something he’d been craving for years. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard, and he groaned into your chest before thrusting into you in one smooth, brutal stroke.

His left hand found your nipple again, pinching it between his fingers, twisting, making you tremble. You moaned—low, broken, filthy—as pleasure ripped through you like lightning.

Your hips started grinding faster, the soaked fabric of your panties dragging against the rough texture of his pants. Bangchan muttered under his breath, lifting his hips just enough to shove them down, desperate to feel her heat.

When you dropped down onto his bare thigh—firm, warm, and thick—your body jolted with a violent shiver, your cunt clenching at the contact.

“Is that it, princess?” he rasped against your neck. “You wanna fuck yourself on my thigh like a filthy little thing, huh?”

You bit your lip hard, breath hitching, arousal dripping at the thought alone.

You didn’t even realize how soaked you were until his fingers shoved your panties to the side, letting your swollen clit and wet folds drag directly against his skin. You gasped—loud and unrestrained—as the friction hit you right where you needed it.

“Fuck…” Bangchan breathed, staring down at the way your pussy slid so easily against his thigh, already shining with your soak. His hand grabbed a firm hold of your ass, guiding your movements with a grip that left no room for teasing.

You held on to his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself, but your hips had a mind of their own. You were grinding like you needed it to breathe, chasing the edge shamelessly.

Soft, desperate moans spilled from your lips—raw little cries that only made him harder. His fingers dug into your waist as he watched, jaw clenched, cock twitching in his briefs again. He had just come, but he was ready to lose it all over again just from watching you fuck yourself against him like that.

“Feel that? Your creamy little pussy grinding on my thigh like it needs me to fuck it?” His voice was dark, sinful, hands gripping your waist so tight it made you whimper.

You nodded, biting down on your bottom lip so hard it almost hurt, but the pleasure tearing through your body drowned out everything else.

You were soaking him—slick dripping down his skin, loud and obscene every time your clit dragged across his thigh. The sound alone could’ve made him come again.

“You hear that?” he groaned. “You’re soaked, baby. Can’t even control how messy you get.”

He pressed your hips down harder, locking you in place as you rolled your cunt right over the thickest part of his leg. The friction hit perfectly—white-hot, unbearable. Your body jolted, tits bouncing with every frantic grind. Bangchan leaned in, mouth greedy, sucking your nipples like they were his to ruin.

“Oh, god” you whimpered, voice cracking as your thighs began to tremble.

It was too much and not enough, the pressure in your core burning bright and fast until it snapped. You came hard—hips jerking, abs tightening, a helpless cry tearing from your throat as you soaked his skin even more.

Bangchan caught your mouth with his, swallowing your sounds like they belonged to him. He kissed you through it—deep, hungry, proud.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your lips, smiling like the devil. “Fucked yourself raw on me. Goddamn, angel. You made a mess of me.”

Bangchan flipped you onto your back in one swift motion, his body hovering over yours, eyes dark with hunger. “You want to be filled with my cock, baby?”

“God, yes—please,” you breathed, barely able to speak through the sensitive ache between your thighs.

He tugged your panties down and tossed them aside, spreading your legs wide until you were completely open for him. His cock, hard and throbbing, pressed against your clit, the head rubbing slow, teasing circles that made your whole body tense and shudder.

You purred, soft and wicked, back arching at the torturous friction. Bangchan let out a low, matching groan, eyes locked on your face like he was memorizing every twitch, every gasp.

He slid the tip between your folds, dragging back and forth, never slipping in—just gliding along your dripping heat, slick coating him so well he cursed under his breath. You bit your lip, panting, hands gripping the sheets like you could ground yourself somehow.

Then he pushed in—slow, so fucking slow you could feel every inch stretching you, filling you, your mouth falling open with a silent cry.

“Fuck,” he hissed, staring down at your trembling, spread-open body. “Look at you… already wrecked and dripping, and I haven’t even fucked you properly yet.” His voice dropped lower, filthier. “You love when I drag it out, feel every fucking inch, make that needy little pussy beg for it, don’t you?”

You nodded desperately, words caught in your throat as he stayed deep, barely moving. His voice dropped lower, intimate and commanding.

“Tell me how much you love it, baby. You like when I fuck you like this? Slow and deep?”

“Yes—fuck, yes,” you cried out, trying to lift your hips for more, but he pinned them down with a firm grip.

“Stay right there. Let me give it to you, princess.”

Then he snapped his hips forward—hard. You gasped, legs flying up as he grabbed them and pushed them against your stomach, folding you in half. The new angle had you seeing stars, his cock driving so deep your toes curled and your mind went blank.

He pounded into you, relentless, calling you his good girl, his perfect princess taking all of him so well. You could barely hold on—moaning, twitching, begging.

“Please,” you whined. “Please come inside me—I want it. Fill me up, Chan…”

That broke him.

“Fuck, are you insane?” he groaned, voice wild. “Want me to stretch you out and stuff you full, huh, princess?”

“Yes, I need it, please…”

“You’re mine,” he growled, thrusting harder. “My filthy, perfect girl. You’re gonna take all of it.”

Bangchan’s thrusts grew punishing—deep, fast, each one slamming into you so hard you could barely catch your breath. He angled his hips just right, and it felt like he was reaching places no one ever had, like he was buried so deep inside you he might never leave.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice low and broken. “I can feel your pussy squeezing me. You’re gonna make me lose it.”

Your whole body was on fire—nerve endings lit up, overstimulated, your moans spilling out without a hint of shame as he fucked into you with bruising force. The way he stretched you, thick and deep, had your toes curling, your thighs trembling, your nails clawing desperate red lines down his shoulders.

“I’m close,” you choked out, voice cracking as your body tightened around him, walls clenching with every brutal thrust. “Fuck, Chan, I’m gonna cum—fuck, I can’t hold it…” Your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open as the pressure inside you coiled so tight it was ready to snap.

And then you did—hard.

Your body seized beneath him, hips jerking, your thighs trembling violently as the orgasm ripped through you like a wave crashing, dragging a helpless, high-pitched moan from your throat. You could feel him deep inside, still fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

He grunted, his rhythm faltering for a split second before he cursed and shoved deep one last time, cock twitching as he spilled inside you. You both gasped at the same time—it was obscene, messy, perfect. You felt the heat of it fill you, dripping out almost immediately as he slowly pulled out, watching with a fucked-out smirk as his cum started leaking from your swollen folds.

“Look at that,” he murmured, running the head of his cock over your pussy, dragging it through the slick mess he’d made. “Took all of it like a good girl. You’re perfect.”

You moaned at the overstimulation, your body twitching, but still so hungry for his touch. He leaned down and kissed you—deep, messy, all tongue and teeth, like he still hadn’t had enough. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, your lips moving together with a kind of desperation that made your head spin.

After a moment, he pulled back and smiled, a soft contrast to how wrecked you both looked. Without a word, he scooped you up into his arms and carried you into the bathroom. The warmth of the water washed over you as he held you under the stream, his hands gentle now, so different from the way he’d just been claiming you minutes ago. He washed your skin carefully, massaging your hips, your thighs, kissing your shoulder while whispering quiet praises into your ear.

When you were both clean, he dried you off with a towel, helping you into one of his oversized shirts. You didn’t bother with anything else. He liked you like that—bare and soft under his clothes.

Back in a now clean bed, he pulled the covers over both of you, wrapping you in his arms. You lay on your side, his body pressed to yours, warm and solid. He nestled his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in before trailing soft kisses along the curve of your nape.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice rough with honesty. “So fucking much.”

Your heart clenched. You reached  for his hand beneath the sheets, lacing your fingers through his.

“I love you too,” you murmured, and he smiled against your skin, holding you tighter like he never wanted to let go.

You woke up feeling suspiciously rested — the kind of sleep that made you question if you were dead. Stretching lazily, you reached out, only to be met with cold sheets. Of course he’d vanish and leave the bed like some seductive ghost.

Still groggy, you padded out into the hallway. The murmur of quiet conversation led you to the living room, where Jisung was slouched on the sofa, scrolling his phone, and Bangchan sat across from him, half-curled in an armchair with a mug of coffee, looking far too put together for this early.

You paused. They both looked up. Blinked. Then silence.

“…Morning?” Jisung said, squinting like you were a glitch in the matrix. “What the hell…”

You just raised an eyebrow. Bangchan didn’t even flinch. He glanced at you, then reached out, dragging his fingers down your arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Morning,” he said, soft but smug.

You leaned down and kissed the top of his head, still half-asleep. “Hey.”

“Okay, no. What the fuck is going on?” Jisung asked, tossing his phone aside like it offended him. “Are we just pretending this isn’t weird now?”

“What do you think happened, genius?” you said, resting your hands on the back of Chan’s chair.

Chan, unbothered, tilted his head toward the coffee table. “Brought you coffee.”

Then, as if Jisung wasn’t still having a mild crisis across the room, he pulled you down for a kiss — slow, the kind that ignored all forms of social etiquette.

You smiled against his mouth. “You’re really not gonna explain anything to him, huh?”

“Let him suffer a little,” he murmured.

Then you mumbled a quick thanks and made your way to the kitchen, the coffee already saving your life with each sip.

“You know,” Jisung called out, “it’s kinda nice having you two back. I felt like an orphan. Like… my parents split up and never explained why.”

You gave him a look over your mug. “You’re a grown ass man.”

Bangchan laughed under his breath, clearly enjoying the chaos.

“Hey,” Jisung pointed at you with faux seriousness, “some respect for your kid. I’ve been rooting for this relationship since day one.”

“Appreciate it, bro” Chan said.

You moved back into the living room, the warmth of the coffee grounding you. “Okay, but what are you even doing here this early?”

“First of all, it’s almost noon,” he said, raising his brows. You mirrored his expression behind your cup, mocking him wordlessly.

“Second,” he continued, undeterred, “I couldn’t wait to show this to my guy.”

He held out an envelope like he was about to hand over state secrets. You took it, eyes narrowing slightly. Inside was a glossy invitation. Formal, all-gold serif fonts. A music industry awards event. You scanned the details and caught it near the bottom: 3RACHA nominated for Producer of the Year.

You looked up. Jisung looked like he might actually combust from pride. Your eyes widened before a squeal slipped out. Without thinking, you launched yourself into Chan’s lap, arms around his neck in a tight hug.

“This is huge! Obviously you’re gonna win. No doubt.”

Bangchan laughed, cupping your face to pull you into a kiss—deep and warm, with just a hint of coffee on his tongue. Jisung immediately groaned.

“Oh my god, gross.”

You pulled back, laughing against Chan’s mouth.

“Guess that’s my cue,” Jisung muttered, grabbing his phone. “You two are disgusting.”

You turned to Chan with an exaggerated pout. “Did you hear that, baby? Our son is ashamed of our love.”

Bangchan dropped his head, laughing quietly while Jisung yelled on his way out, “Bye, perverts!”

The door slammed shut. Quiet settled back in. Chan's fingers traced lazy circles over your thigh as he looked up at you, soft and affectionate.

“Sorry I didn’t wake you,” he murmured. “You looked so beautiful. Couldn’t do it.”

You shrugged and curled a little closer. “It’s okay. I slept like the dead.”

One of his brows lifted, teasing. “Wonder why that is.”

You barely had time to roll your eyes before he leaned in again, pressing kisses to your cheek, then your neck, his mouth trailing heat as he bit back a grin.

“Off me, you pervert!” you shouted, using Jisung’s words against him as you slipped off his lap and darted down the hall. Chan laughed, chasing the sound of your footsteps with a low, mock-threatening growl.

Things with Bangchan were better—easier, even—but you still felt like you were tiptoeing through it all. Like if you moved too fast, said the wrong thing, it might all slip through your fingers again.

You texted often, saw each other almost every day. But calling it anything still felt too fragile, like naming it might jinx it. Still, your heart was his. You just had to be careful with it this time.

It was a typical workday, and you had a shoot lined up for a sneaker campaign. You walked into the building feeling good, excited, even. But as you spotted Mingi across the room and smiled, ready to greet him, he walked right past you without a glance. Like you were invisible.

You stood there for a second, blinking. That... was weird.

The vibe had been off for a few days, and you still didn’t know why. Up until recently, Mingi had been friendly—like the start of a solid friendship. Then, out of nowhere, he started treating you like you barely existed.

Later at lunch, you sat poking half-heartedly at your salad while Soyeon was glued to her phone. You’d been trying to ignore the tension, but now it was buzzing in your head like static. You needed to say something, ask someone, before it drove you crazy.

“Haven’t you noticed Mingi acting kind of weird lately?” you asked, cutting through the quiet.

Soyeon didn’t look up from her phone. She just glanced over the top of it and shook her head. “Not really.”

You sighed, pushing a cucumber around your plate. “He’s been cold. Like, actively ignoring me. Did I do something? Say something?”

That finally got her attention. She set her phone down and took a slow sip of her iced tea, like she was trying to decide whether to tell you something or let it go.

“Might be because of that night,” she said casually.

Your brows pulled together. “What night?”

She mirrored your confused look. “Wait… you seriously don’t remember? Girl, you were gone. The drinks knocked you straight out.”

You blinked. “Okay, and…?”

Soyeon leaned back in her chair like she was settling in for a gossip drop. “Some guy showed up, hot, dark hair, built. I’ve seen him with you before, right? He and Mingi got into it. I couldn’t hear much, but it was definitely a thing.”

Your stomach dropped. You didn’t even have to ask. Of course it was Chan. Suddenly, all those unanswered questions clicked into place—how he found you at the bar that night, why Mingi’s been acting weird.

“They argued?” you asked quietly.

“Yup,” she said, biting into her sandwich. “Next thing I saw, mystery guy scooped you up and walked out like some drama scene.”

You sat there, stunned. Bangchan had actually gotten into it with Mingi. At work. Over you.

Your appetite vanished. You pushed your salad aside, jaw tight. You were going to talk to Mingi, clear the air. And then? Bangchan and you were going to have a very real conversation.

Later that day, once the shoot had wrapped and most of the crew had cleared out, you finally caught Mingi alone.

He was quietly packing away some gear when you approached, trying not to overthink every step.

“Need a hand?” you asked, voice casual.

He looked up, a little startled, but shook his head with a polite smile. “I’m good, thanks.”

You nodded, stepping back a bit, watching him work as you tried to line up your words without making it weird. Eventually, you just went for it.

“Mingi... did I do something wrong?”

He paused, hands hovering over the camera case. You pushed through the awkward lump in your throat.

“It’s just—lately you’ve been distant. Like I pissed you off and you’re not saying it.”

Mingi sighed and gently zipped up the bag, his jaw tight like this was a conversation he really didn’t want to have. Still, he turned to face you.

“Look, you’re great. Seriously,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “In any other situation, I’d probably try to ask you out.”

That wasn’t the answer you expected.

“But I’m not trying to get caught in the middle of anything,” he added carefully. “I don’t do drama.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?” 

He didn’t say it outright, but the weight behind his words said enough. This wasn’t about you alone. It was about Bangchan. And whatever happened that night.

“Your boyfriend made himself pretty clear the other night,” Mingi said, biting the inside of his cheek, eyebrows lifting just slightly. “I didn’t want to step on any toes.”

“God, no—Mingi, you didn’t do anything wrong.” You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “I’m sorry. I honestly don’t even know what to say.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just studied you for a second, your furrowed brow, your tight-lipped frustration.

“I liked being friends with you,” you added. “Can we... just go back to that?”

His mouth tugged into a half-smile. “If you’re cool with it, then yeah. No weirdness here.”

“I’m cool with it. Promise.”

You forced a smile, but your chest was already buzzing with heat. As soon as you saw Bangchan, he was going to have a lot of explaining to do—because what he did? Way out of line.

Bangchan opened the door with that familiar, easy smile and leaned in like he always did, ready to kiss you. But you turned your face away.

His smile faltered mid-movement. He blinked, pulling back, his hand still hovering near your waist like he didn’t know what to do with it now. "What’s wrong?"

You didn’t answer. Just brushed past him, walked into the living room like it was muscle memory. You sank into the edge of the sofa, but didn’t relax. You sat like a loaded gun. Rigid, coiled, ready.

He didn’t sit. Just stood there, watching you. Waiting. Slowly lowering into silence.

You looked up at him. “What happened at the bar that night?”

Bangchan flinched like he’d been slapped. His lips parted, but no words came out.

You cocked your head slightly, voice quieter now, more dangerous. “Mingi told me you confronted him. That you made it clear he shouldn’t even try talking to me.”

He let out a breath, raking a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to scare him off. I just—he was all over you. And I—”

“You had no right.” You cut him off. Flat. Final. “He’s my coworker. My friend. And you showed up like a jealous asshole trying to mark your territory.”

Bangchan gulped. He wasn’t trying to defend himself anymore, just bracing. “I thought I lost you. I thought he was taking you from me.”

Your laugh was short, bitter. “You didn’t lose me. You were the one who let me go. And now what? You think you get to control who I talk to? Who I laugh with?”

He stepped forward, but you held up a hand.

“Don’t.”

His whole body was tense, as if holding back an impulse to drop to his knees and beg. “I was scared,” he said, voice rough. “That night, I saw you across the bar and it felt like someone had ripped my fucking heart out. I panicked. I acted stupid. I know I did. But please don’t let that be the thing that breaks us again.”

“You don’t get to pull the ‘please don’t leave me’ card every time you mess up,” you snapped, and your voice cracked, finally, under the weight of how tired you were. “I’ve been walking on glass since we started talking again. Scared of saying the wrong thing, pushing too hard, needing too much. And now this?”

He crouched in front of you, not touching, just looking up like you were something slipping through his fingers. “You’re not too much. You never were. I’m just… not enough sometimes. And I know that.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you blinked them back. “I need space.”

His expression shattered. “Wait… No, no. What do you mean? Space how?”

You stood up, gently backing away from him. “I mean I need to think. About us. About all of it.”

Bangchan stood too, like standing would somehow fix it. “So that’s it? After everything?”

“I’m just… pausing. I need to breathe. To figure out what I want, not just what I’m scared to lose.”

His chest rose and fell quickly. Panic was setting in—real panic. “Can I at least text you? Call you?”

You shook your head. “No. Please don’t.”

He looked like you’d just gutted him. “I don’t know what to do without you.”

You gave him a sad smile. “You’re gonna have to learn.”

And then you walked out, not looking back. Not because you didn’t want to, but because if you did, you might not leave at all.

You kept herself busy. Too busy.

Long hours at the agency. Back-to-back shoots, endless edits, meetings that bled into late evenings and left you blinking at your screen, unsure if the headache was from the laptop glare or the ache behind your ribs. When people asked how you were, you smiled. When they didn’t, you drank.

Sometimes alone. Sometimes with friends. Usually with Soyeon, who knew better than to press too hard and kept the conversations light—clothes, gossip, what filter to use on their latest group selfie. But there were moments, in between the wine and the forced laughter, when your mind slipped.

You’d imagine Bangchan's hands curled around a mic cable. His worn-out hoodie with the sleeves rolled up. The soft rasp of his voice when he said your name like it meant something only to him.

And then you'd down another drink. Or change the subject. Or pretend it didn’t matter as much as it did.

Bangchan was unraveling. Quietly. Efficiently.

He lived in the studio now—figuratively, maybe literally, depending on who you asked. Jisung made a joke about it once and Bangchan didn’t even smile, just said “We’ve got work to finish,” and turned back to his screen.

Jisung stopped joking after that.

Changbin picked up on the shift too—the way Chan would bark about small things, like a slightly off-beat snare or a mic being in the wrong place. The way he’d edit the same track five different ways and then scrap it completely. The way he started bringing energy drinks in like they were oxygen and forgot to eat until someone put food in front of him.

At first, they figured it was just pressure. The nomination. The workload. The usual.

But then the silence started to stretch.

Bangchan didn’t talk about you—not directly. He didn’t need to. Your absence was stitched into every part of him, like fraying thread in a sweater worn too thin. He worked like he was trying to sweat you out of his system. Like if he pushed hard enough, stayed busy enough, maybe the memory of you saying “I need time” would stop replaying in his head like a loop he couldn’t mute.

But it never stopped.

He still checked his phone. Never texted. Just… looked. Stared at your name in his contacts like it might light up on its own.

Jisung saw it once. Chan zoning out at the screen, thumb hovering like he wanted to send something but couldn’t.

“You alright?” Jisung asked carefully.

Chan didn’t look up. “Fine.”

But the next beat he dragged into the session was minor key, dark and thick and heavy.

Changbin eventually pulled him aside. “You need to go home. Sleep. Talk to someone. Do something.”

Bangchan just stared at him. Hollow. “She asked me not to.”

Changbin didn’t push again after that.

He didn’t even turn the engine off.

He parked a little up the street, where the shadows of the trees fell just right to keep him out of sight. Not that it would matter, he wasn’t planning to get out. He wasn’t even sure why he came.

Maybe it was just to see her. Maybe that made him pathetic.

But after another sleepless night and another day of making everyone around him uncomfortable with his clipped tone and cold silences, he needed something that felt real. Even if it was just a glimpse. Even if it was through a windshield.

He watched you say goodbye to your coworkers—Mingi, Soyeon, a couple of others he vaguely recognized. They were laughing. Easy, flushed with wine and the comfort of good company.

You looked radiant. Happy. Effortlessly out of reach.

Bangchan’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. Something coiled in his chest, sharp and bitter and so heavy it made his breath catch. You looked like yourself again. Like the version of you he used to know before everything cracked between you.

And maybe that should’ve made him smile. But it didn’t. It only made the emptiness settle deeper in his ribs.

He didn’t move when you waved to your friends, didn’t blink when you turned toward your building. But then—you paused.

Squinted. Tilted your head the slightest bit in his direction. His heart stopped.

You stood there, on the edge of the sidewalk, wine-warm and unsure, eyes narrowing toward where he sat frozen in the driver’s seat. For a second, it looked like you were about to walk over.

But you didn’t.

You shook your head, rubbed your temples, and let out a little laugh that he couldn’t hear but imagined anyway. You disappeared inside without looking back.

Bangchan stayed in the car long after the door shut behind her.

He didn’t cry. He was past that. Or beneath it. Or maybe too tired to bother.

He just sat there, the engine humming quietly beneath him, the ghost of her silhouette burned into his vision.

You looked happy. And he was the one who used to make her happy.

You were already warm from the wine when you got home, shoes in hand, face still flushed from laughter. It had been a good night, objectively. Mingi had been surprisingly chill again. Soyeon made you snort rosé through your nose at one point. For a little while, you felt light.

But as you stood in the hallway, keys halfway to the lock, a chill crept up your spine.

You could’ve sworn you saw his car.

Same make. Same dark silhouette, headlights off, parked just a little too neatly. For a moment, your heart lurched in that old, familiar way—like it remembered him better than your head wanted to.

You waited. Squinted. Tilted your head like an idiot trying to identify a ghost.

Nothing happened. The car didn’t move. The window didn’t roll down.

So you shook it off. Laugh at yourself. You were buzzed and nostalgic and clearly imagining things.

But the seed had been planted.

By the time you were curled up in bed, makeup wiped away, the silence began to crawl in through the cracks in the walls.

What if it really was him? What if he came just to see you? What if he’s out there right now, alone, breaking apart the same way you are?

And then, like someone twisted a faucet inside your chest, the tears came. Quiet at first. Just a couple that rolled down into your pillow, inconvenient and warm. But they didn’t stop. You pressed your face against the sheets and sobbed.

Because you missed him. You missed him.

The dumb way he talked in an aussie accent when he was trying to cheer you up. The feel of his palm between your shoulder blades when you fell asleep on his chest. The stupid nicknames. The way he looked at you like the whole world lived in your smile.

And you hated that. You hated that you still loved him this much.

Because he had shown up at that bar, and he had warned Mingi off, like you were some prize he owned, not a person he was trying to rebuild something with. That wasn’t love. That was possession. Fear. Ego. You didn’t want to be someone’s territory. You wanted to be safe. Trusted. Chosen, not guarded like a secret.

And the worst part, you weren’t sure which side of him would win. The one that cherished you... or the one that couldn't handle not being in control.

You turned to your side, curling up tighter, like it might hold you together.

“I just want to be okay again,” you whispered into the dark. But it came out cracked. Like a lie.

You wiped your face with the sleeve of an old hoodie—his hoodie. You hadn’t realized you were wearing it until now. That hurt all over again.

You missed him. But you didn’t know if missing him was enough.

A month had passed, but you were still caught in that exhausting loop of should I just fix this? and what if he hasn’t changed?

You missed Bangchan—God, you missed him—but that wasn’t the whole story. Missing someone didn’t erase what they did. It didn’t unmake the silence, the possessiveness, the night you cried yourself to sleep wondering if you were loving someone who might ruin you without meaning to.

Jisung had been relentless for the past week, pushing you to attend the upcoming awards event. It was a big night—the kind that could define careers. “Come for me,” he said. “Not for him. Just support your idiot best friend, yeah?”

And how could you say no to him? He’d stuck by you through every raw, unraveling piece of this mess.

So you agreed.

But the moment your heels touched the red carpet, your heart was already in your throat.

You wore black. Not just any black—but a gown that said you belonged here. Strapless, with a structured sweetheart neckline that framed your collarbones and bare shoulders like sculpture. The fabric clung and then flowed, draped in all the right places—sharp on one leg, dramatic on the other, a mix of precision and softness that echoed how you felt inside. Every step made the asymmetrical hem trail behind you like a whispered warning: Don’t look back.

The flash of cameras hit your skin. Strangers turned their heads. And still, all you could think was: he’s here.

When Jisung, Changbin, and Bangchan finally stepped onto the carpet, the world tilted for a second. They looked like they belonged on a movie poster—black and silver in complementary cuts, all sharp edges and polished confidence.

Chan hadn’t seen you yet.

So you slipped through the entrance, breath tight in your chest, weaving between gowns and tuxedos, careful not to turn around.

You took your seat at the guest table tucked just behind the main section, where the nominees were seated. Jisung’s name was on the front table—he’d be right there with Bangchan and the rest of 3RACHA.

You folded your hands in your lap. Your fingers were shaking slightly. You told yourself it was just adrenaline. That this was just an event. That you were just here for a friend.

But deep down, you knew better. You didn’t come for closure. You came because some part of you still wanted to see him.

The lights dimmed. A soft hush fell over the room, broken only by the gentle clink of glasses and the subtle rustle of gowns. You sat still, almost too still, your heart pounding like a drumline beneath your dress. The night was moving forward, speech by speech, category by category—and your eyes kept drifting to the front table. To him.

Bangchan hadn’t turned around yet.

But Jisung had. He’d spotted you the moment you entered and had given you the faintest nod—a silent thank you across the space.

Then it happened.

The presenter stepped up to the podium, smiling wide under the stage lights. “This year’s award for Producer of the Year goes to…”

A beat. The whole room held its breath.

“3RACHA!”

The explosion of cheers and applause hit like a wave. Jisung was already out of his seat, arms thrown around Changbin, and Bangchan—Bangchan just sat there for a second. Stunned. Eyes wide. Until Jisung grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet.

You clapped, too. Mechanical at first, then more sincere as it sank in. They’d done it. He had done it. You felt pride swell inside your chest—unexpectedly warm, unexpectedly painful.

As they climbed the stage, the lights caught him in full. Bangchan looked beautiful. Exhausted, but beautiful. His black suit shimmered slightly at the edges, crisp and tailored, collar loosened just enough to show that sliver of skin at his throat you always used to kiss when he couldn’t sleep.

Jisung stepped up first, hands trembling just enough to notice, his voice soft at the edges. “I don’t think any of us really expected this—maybe we hoped. But it was just long nights, too many near-burnouts, and holding each other up when we were ready to quit. That’s what got us here.”

The room laughed. He softened. “No, but really… this means everything to us. Years of work. Mistakes. Growing. I think the only reason we survived it was because we stuck together. We kept choosing the music… and each other.”

He looked over at Bangchan then, gave him the space.

Chan stepped forward slowly. The crowd quieted again.

He gripped the microphone, cleared his throat, and then searched for his voice. But it wasn’t the crowd he was searching for.

It was you. His eyes found you instantly—and didn’t move.

“I’ve… made a lot of mistakes,” he started, quiet, voice low and raw. “But somehow, I’m standing here. Not because I deserve it, but because I have two people who never gave up on me.” His hand hovered slightly toward Jisung and Changbin without looking away from you. “They pulled me through when I couldn’t find my way out.”

You blinked, and a tear slid down your cheek. He saw it.

Chan’s voice cracked slightly. “And there’s someone else… someone who changed everything for me. Who reminded me why I do this in the first place. If I could thank her by name, I would. But all I’ll say is—if she’s listening… Thank you. And I’m proud of you. And I’m sorry.”

It was too much.

You stood and slipped out quietly, heart in your throat. The claps behind you blurred. The lights blurred. Everything felt like it was breaking at the seams.

In the bathroom, you braced your hands on the marble sink, staring down at your reflection. Your makeup was a mess—eyes glossy, mascara starting to smudge. You didn’t even care how expensive the setting spray was.

You tried fixing your eyeliner with trembling hands. Took a shaky breath. Another. Then the door creaked open behind you.

You caught his reflection in the mirror before you heard his voice.

“Hey.”

Your heart dropped.

He looked unsure—no longer the man onstage. His jacket was undone now, his hair a little out of place, like he’d run a hand through it too many times. His chest rose and fell too fast. Like he’d sprinted just to catch you before you disappeared again.

You turned, slowly, mascara wand still in hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” he said, stepping in anyway. “But I had to. I needed to see you. I couldn’t let you walk away again without saying something.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” Your voice wavered, and it made you angry. “I came here for Jisung. I wasn’t ready to see you.”

“But you did.” He stepped closer. “And you cried. I saw you.”

“Because you’re still in my life, even when I don’t want you to be,” you snapped, voice thick. “Because I can’t hear your voice without remembering everything we didn’t fix.”

He swallowed hard. “I know I messed up. I was scared. I handled it wrong. I got possessive, and jealous, and angry—and I didn’t trust you when I should have.”

You stared at him, broken open. “I just wanted to feel safe with you. That’s all I ever wanted.”

“I know.” His voice was quiet now, trembling. “And I broke that. I know I did. But I’ve been trying—every day, I’ve been trying to be someone who could earn you back. I just don’t know if I ever can.”

The silence sat between you like a fourth person.

“I don’t know either,” you whispered.

He looked down, pain flashing across his face.

“I still love you,” he said. “That hasn’t changed.”

You shook your head, tears spilling again. The bathroom air was too still.

Bangchan took one slow step closer, like any sudden movement might scare you off again. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The weight of everything, the silence, the months, the unsaid things—held you there like gravity.

His hand lifted, hesitant at first, before it brushed against your cheek. Gentle. Reverent. Like he was scared you might disappear.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” he said, voice cracking. “I swear… I’ll be better. Softer. Honest. Whatever you need—I’ll be it. Just… give me one more chance.”

Your bottom lip trembled. You tried to breathe, but the ache in your chest swelled too fast, too full. You’d wanted this—needed this—but the fear was still clawing at you.

And yet… the second his thumb wiped the tear that slipped down your cheek, you folded into it. Into him.

Your arms found his chest, and the moment you buried your face there, your voice came out small, desperate. “Please, please, keep your promise.”

“I will,” he whispered instantly, hands cradling your back like something sacred. “I will.”

“I love you so much,” you mumbled into the fabric of his shirt. “I tried to stop but I… I couldn’t. I missed you every damn night.”

“I know, princess” he said, forehead pressing to yours now. “Me too. Every single one.”

Your lips found his in the middle of a sob—wet, messy, trembling. He kissed you back like he was drowning in it. Like he hadn’t felt anything real in weeks.

And it wasn’t a fairytale kiss.

It was too full of ache and history and months of unspoken things.

But it was yours.

He held you tight, hands in your hair, mouth never leaving yours for too long. The tears didn’t stop—neither of yours—but neither of you cared anymore. Not when you were here. Finally.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Really look.

His eyes were glassy, rimmed in red. That careful composure he always kept was gone, and what was left was just a man—tired, scared, but still loving you with everything he had.

So you kissed his forehead. Then his cheek. And then curled into him again as he leaned against the wall, arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like he was terrified the world might steal you back.

And then…

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

The bathroom door swung open with a bang.

Jisung stood there, dumbfounded and scandalized. “This is a public bathroom at an awards show!”

Bangchan didn’t even flinch. He just laughed, eyes never leaving yours. “Sorry.”

You giggled, hiding your face in his chest, flushed from crying and kissing and now being caught mid-reunion.

Jisung made a dramatic gagging sound and backed out, hands in the air. “I’m telling everyone you’re a menace.”

Chan snorted. “Do your worst.”

Still grinning, still wiping your cheeks, you laced your fingers with his.

Bangchan didn’t say a word. He just squeezed your hand and took off running, tugging you behind him down the narrow corridor and into the night.

The cold air kissed your cheeks, the slap of your shoes against pavement echoing in the quiet, but none of it mattered. You were laughing—giddy, breathless—and he kept looking over his shoulder to make sure you were still with him, like he couldn’t believe it was true.

He pulled you around the corner, then another, past a delivery truck, past two people smoking near the dumpsters, until finally he stopped—behind the venue, tucked between brick and ivy and nothing but stars overhead. No photographers. No guests. No half-heard conversations.

Just you.

He turned, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding something in for weeks. Maybe he had.

“You’re really here,” he said, almost in awe.

“I’m really here,” you echoed, just as stunned.

You took a step closer. So did he.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer now. “For hurting you. For letting fear get loud enough to ruin the good things. I should’ve never made you feel like love had rules. Like I could stake a claim on you. That’s not love. That’s fear. I’m done with fear.”

You reached up, fingers brushing over his jaw. He leaned into it like a man starved.

“I just want to build this with you,” he whispered. “For real. No possessiveness. No games. Just you and me figuring it out. Even if it’s messy. Even if we trip.”

“And we will,” you murmured, hand resting over his chest now. “We’ll probably mess it up again. Say the wrong thing. Forget to listen. But—”

“But we’ll stay,” he finished. “That’s what matters. We stay.”

The space between you vanished. This kiss wasn’t wild. It wasn’t perfect. But it was full. Full of intention, of breathless hope, of a thousand unsaid things. You kissed him like you meant every word you hadn’t said yet.

When you pulled back, your forehead against his, you were smiling through your tears.

“I don’t want easy,” you whispered.

He let out a soft laugh, his hand cradling the back of your head.

“Good,” he said. “Because I want all of it. The stubbornness. The long nights. The weird little routines we’ll make up. I want the morning coffees and the three a.m. fights. I want to learn how to love you better every day.”

You stood there, wrapped up in each other, the world paused just long enough to breathe.

And then he held your face again, gaze steady. “This is real. We’ll make it work.”

You nodded, the weight in your chest shifting—not disappearing, but changing. Becoming something lighter. Something shared.

And in that quiet, in that tucked-away sliver of night, two people made a silent promise: Not perfect. But real.

And that was enough to begin again.

(taglist) — @diary-of-a-lazy-woman @hwangjoanna

[gazstations]

Blue

ASK REQUEST: find original post here

ᯓᡣ𐭩 SUMMARY

You’re convinced Johnny would be better off without you. Johnny is determined to convince you otherwise.

FANDOM: Call of Duty

PAIRINGS: John MacTavish x reader

WORD COUNT: 3,324 words

WARNINGS: Angst: reader thinks poorly of themselves, mentioned body issues, relationship struggles. Fluff: Johnny being a real one, happy ending, he doesn’t put up with the negativity

◇ Notes: I know some of you only marked down being tagged in fluff and so I figured the little angst was okay because it still ends up fluffy??? Idk. If you have an issue, let me know. I’m new to this tagging system game, lol.

○●○ NAVIGATION MASTERLIST

♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

THERE WAS A VILE SICKNESS MAKING A MESS OF THE WIRING IN YOUR BRAIN. It was always there lingering in every squelching groove, sinking into the delicate, fleshy existence of life. You supposed the darkness was always there. It ate away at everything good until it reworked your DNA down to the very core.

You always lived with this subtle distaste for how you existed. You were a melancholic child who never learned how to purge out that sinister inner voice. It was you. That's not something a few good thoughts could work through. You were born blue in the face and would surely die that way.

Substitutes for temporary release were only that. Temporary.

Infection spread quickly, burning out the live synapses that produced the tantalizing joy. There was a steady muteness in your life. Your core was dispositioned, and that threw off the whole equilibrium.

When John MacTavish crashed head first into your life, he was crafted in an eager, child-like visage. He slithered methodically behind you, pinning you underneath his warm light. Because that’s what he always was: warm. He was this golden light you didn’t know how you lived without before.

And he wanted you. He traced the ridges of your rib cage with a slow, delicate nature as he searched for a way in between the grooves in order to grasp your heart. He was purposeful, laid out his intentions right in the beginning, leaving you no room to question or second guess.

For a long time, you were secured by this lively, bright muse that you somehow captured.

The fog was a gradual ascension. You were too busy with the calloused hands that cupped your cheeks each dewy morning to notice the grotesque, greedy hands that slowly sunk into your jugular. It wasn’t until they pierced your carotid artery that you realized the sickness in your brain had caught up once more.

It was always there. You shouldn’t have gotten so comfortable.

You began to doubt.

At first, the nausea only manifested like a small illness. Heavy behind the eyes as they leaked tears constantly, a tickle in the back of your throat, and a queasiness in the pit of your stomach. It was easy to hide, easy to push into the back of your mind even though you constantly felt the shadow behind you.

Then you became absent-minded. You lugged your weary body by the bone in a trance-like state to the kitchen each morning. Your morning beverage had a sour aftertaste, no longer appealing. Your food was bland, and you no longer felt excitement at the thought of eating. No matter what you did to stimulate yourself throughout the day, your joints still ached.

Then, you began to dismiss Johnny’s attempts to bond. This was where you felt horrible, which delved you further into your self-destructive attitude. He was a kicked puppy with every non explantive rejection as he watched you drift further away. A hollowed out phantom that haunted the halls where you first bloomed.

When you were in public, you stopped holding his hand. What he saw was malice creeping out through your pores. What you felt was that there were softer hands for him to hold. When he tried to hold you from behind while you waited in line or were just existing, you claimed you were too hot. His brow would furrow, and hurt would cross his face. He never questioned, and you hated yourself for ever giving him a reason to feel that agonizing pain and never know why.

As a natural physical touch fiend, Johnny tried to solve your issues with more. You knew all the ways he tried to initiate sex after so long in your relationship, and you could sniff out the desire from a mile away. By the time his voice dropped to a low brogue, his eyes half-lidded, and he was rutting his hips against your body, you were already far too tense.

Not now. I’m too tired.

It was always the fucking same excuse that fell from your poisonous lips. You were so cruel to the man that loved you wholeheartedly and you didn’t have the capacity to let words of confession slip past your lips.

Soon, he’d realize you weren’t worth all the effort to save. And though it would break your heart, you knew it would be for the better. You couldn’t purge this sickness in your mind. It was a chronic, permanent state of your being. Blue for the rest of your life.

You knew you had to play the part sometimes, however. So, when he initiated sex after three or four times of denial, you let him have his way with you. He peeled your clothes off your body, and yet you felt like he was prying the flesh from your bone. He dipped his mouth down between your thighs, and you stared at the ceiling, bile rising in your throat. You were suddenly hyper aware of every imperfect nuance of your body.

You hadn’t been caring for yourself like you should’ve. Your legs were prickly from not shaving for a couple of days. Acne was infested your skin. You hadn’t washed your hair for several days. None of those things Johnny had cared about before. He was never picky, but now, because you had your concerns, you believed maybe he did as well.

He moaned and groaned as he lapped at your slit. His fingers dug into your plush thighs and pushed them further away from each other. Anyone else could see he was seeing heaven right then and there, but to you, his warbles of content were over exaggerated. You despised yourself for convincing yourself at that moment that he only pretended that he had to enjoy it because he couldn’t hurt your feelings.

When he realized you weren’t into it, he lifted his head and softened his gaze. You weren’t going to find pleasure when you were already one foot out the door. When he went to hold you, you climbed from the bed and locked yourself in the bathroom. You turned on the shower to muffle your cries of self-loathing.

You were drifting out in a minefield, and Johnny was struggling to follow you.

He hadn’t tried to touch you since.

He was respecting you. Waiting for you to break and come to him for guidance. He didn’t want to be the one that forced you to change or heal. He was allowing you to come to that conclusion yourself.

No, maybe he was finally realizing you weren’t worth the effort.

A month passed of this disease. You withered away, and Johnny tried to save face in the public eye. Your shared home was a warzone, however. Sleep deprivation made you quicker to snap. It made you further your atrophy. You were trying to fix it, but it destroyed itself even more. Self-destruction was a war not many came back from.

Johnny was a problem solver, however. He broke. Not in the way you anticipated where he separated from his role in your life, but in how he clung to you again. He was a good man. He was observant, empathetic, and loving.

You were having a bad day. You stood in front of your mirror and dissected every physical manifestation of your insecurity. You tried to be good, to find a means to hype yourself up. To build your palaces amongst the rubble. It led to you on the floor of your bedroom, several items of clothing on the floor around you.

You were naked, stripped down to the very core of you. You were overstimulated, tears of frustration pooling out your eyes as your stuffy nose wheezed. Mucus collected in your throat and made it hard to breathe. You could feel the individual follicles of your hair, brushing against your body. You wondered how fast you could shave yourself bald.

“Oh, doe. It’s okay. C’mere.”

Johnny didn’t worry about past boundaries he set for himself in order to give you space. You didn’t realize he was home until his arms wrapped around your heaving body and pulled you back into his embrace. You were too weak to deny him this time.

He kissed your heated temple softly. You were making yourself ill from your deterioration. You choked on spittle and just sagged into his chest. Once the sorrow started, you couldn’t stop it. Your eyes tainted him as well, dampening his shirt as you sobbed pitifully.

You were so exhausted.

“C’mon, doe. Talk tae me,” Johnny pleaded. His hand ran over your head in soothing pats before descending down to your back, where he traced each vertebrae of your spine.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” you choked. “Why I’m like this.”

Johnny shushed you quietly and kissed at your hairline again. He didn’t try to discount your feelings by telling you that you didn’t need to feel this way. That wasn’t how you convinced someone to heal. You could give them assurances, but at the end of the day, they had to take the initiative to believe those words.

“Tha’s okay. Ye dinnae need tae ken,” he said.

You wondered if Johnny was naturally intuitive or if it was a learned trait after years of perusing different social circles. And your brain leaked poison back into your synapses. You weren’t like him. You struggled deeply to empathize with people when you were so caught up in your own gloom. Socially, you didn’t understand, and so you hardly connected with anyone. Not like Johnny.

“Doe…” Johnny’s voice brought you back. He pulled your head from his chest and cupped your quivering jaw. It ached from constant clenching. “Did ye hear me?”

Confusion made you tilt your head. You sniffled quietly and shook your head, admitting that you had disappeared inside your head.

“Ah asked ye if ye could try tae explain it tae me,” Johnny said carefully, as if you were going to frighten and lose what intimacy you had just allowed him.

You swallowed. “I don’t know,” you paused and felt the lump growing in your throat. “I don’t know how.”

“Is it me?” Johnny questioned. He pouted his lip and gave you a saddened look. Had he always been dissolving alongside you?

You have a single clue on which words to conjure. You were at a blockage, and it overwhelmed you. This self mutilation was far too complicated to simply explain. Too many branches grew off of the main trunk. Too convoluted. Too frustrating.

“It’s everything.” Was what you settled for. It was a pathetic response.

Johnny didn’t falter, though. He let out a soft, cooing noise and ran his thumbs along your cheekbones. It took your answer in stride despite all your attempts to absolve him of his responsibility to keep your wither away. You didn’t understand his psyche.

What you didn’t realize was that he understood the unwavering doubt and dissolution. As a soldier, he was well-equipped in the crippling agony that followed every decision. He understood that some days it was just simply everything.

Johnny sat back against the foot of the bed. He simply patted his lap, baby blue eyes watching you closely. Fondly. Sorrowfully. His own eyes were glassy as if he was sympathetic to your treacherous plight. It was almost as if your agony was his burden to bear as well.

You crawled into his lap like a wounded child. He helped your thighs cradle on the outside of his in a straddle as he stared at you quietly. Your damaged heart fluttered when he simply raised your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles. Then he transferred to the other hand.

“Ah cannae help ye if ye dinnae talk tae me, doe,” He said.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. Your heart was leaking, and you were tearing yourself apart.

“Why?” Johnny booped your nose and then kissed the tip. You watched his long eyelashes flutter as he blinked naturally. “Because ye ‘ave a couple bad thoughts?”

“More than a couple,” you muttered.

Johnny smiled faintly at your small correction. He wiped at the underside of your eyes delicately to not disturb that thin stretch of skin. You sighed softly, feeling the callouses rub across your face. It was more comforting than you wanted to admit.

“Ah think yer the bonniest thing ah ‘ave ever seen,” he said.

You scoffed. It was self-pitying. Pained. Those words made your own tongue feel dry even though he was the one who said them. Johnny noticed and frowned, “Not lying, doe. Ye need the truth right now.”

You couldn’t answer. You felt awful for what you worried about. What he had never been privy to this whole time. Or maybe he already knew what thoughts were naturally part of the package when it came to self-deprecation.

“Tell me how tae help ye,” Johnny pleaded.

“I don’t know…” You breathed out. “I’m just tired of my brain trying to sabotage a good thing.”

“Do ye see me runnin’?” He asked.

You shook your head. No, he wasn’t running, and for some reason, that was scarier. You noticed your hands were trembling, and you went to tuck them in between your thighs. Yet, you couldn’t fool your soldier, and he intercepted the movement by cupping both of your hands.

“Doe, look at me,” he ordered softly.

You listened to the command, prompted by the subdued syllables in his tone. It was pleasant on your ears, and your body slackened in his hold. His unwavering hold. That lump in your throat grew bigger. You almost thought you’d suffocate on it. Your throat was burning so deeply, and you swallowed to tamper down the urge to sob more.

“Yer okay…” Johnny assured. “Jus’ us. And ah love ye as much as ever.”

You made the mistake of locking eyes with the perceptive blue, and suddenly, you felt you were lost at sea. Endlessly staring at that one beacon of light to get you back to the shoreline. Except you kicked and tried to just give up, let the current drown you.

“Why?” You asked.

“Could write a novel fer ye,” Johnny said.

You huffed through your tears. You didn’t believe him, but somehow, the words still calmed you. He was trying to appeal to you, even if you spat it back out. You were an infection of hollowness, a husk, and Johnny was this beautiful being that somehow had all the capacity in his heart nurture. Even when he was shackled down by his own demons.

“Serious,” Johnny added. “Already talked silly ‘bout ye in my journals.”

Now, that was surprising. Johnny never showed you what was hidden beneath the leather-bound journals he continuously collected. You accepted it was personal. Some things you didn’t have the right to. Even as his partner.

“There’s no way you have that many good things to say,” you protested.

Johnny tapped your hip and helped you stand up. His bad knee cracked as he followed, a slight tension in his face. He once said it wasn’t painful, only when it got cold. It was just tight and felt like walking through tar. A reckless decision that permanently changed his body.

He grabbed your hand and led you over to his side of the room. He opened a drawer and pulled out two journals. He hummed softly as he checked the contents before turning and offering them to you.

“Read ‘em,” he declared. “Then try tae tell yerself that yer something to be disgusted by.”

He was offering you his heart with this one gesture. It made you more nervous than you expected. You were afraid to see yourself as Johnny supposedly saw you. Like if you weren’t damned then there was nothing worthwhile about you. The churning waters were your home. You were terrified to grab at the shoreline—that beacon of light now right in front of you.

It brought you to safety.

You were taught to snarl at it and question its motives.

Still, you took the journals with bated breath.

Johnny kissed your forehead, pleased. “Find me when yer done.”

He gave you space to stew as he stepped out into the hallway. You didn‘t move until you were faint from locking your knees so tightly.

♡◇♡

You climbed down the stairs with heavy steps. Your body was numbed, tears clumping your eyelashes together. Your emotional output was severely depleted. You had run yourself dry.

Johnny was in the kitchen when you found him. He was leaning back against the counter. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, and his jeans wrapped around his thighs detectably. But your mind wasn’t on that, not right now.

He smiled brightly when he saw your wounded form approaching, and he simply opened his arms. He understood what you needed at that moment. You hadn’t realized how much he saw you until you made it cover to cover in both of those journals.

You sniffled quietly, muffled by his shirt. You didn’t cry. You just sat there in his embrace. He saw you. He always had seen beneath the crippled, hollowed husk you were.

“You mean it?” You questioned.

“Aye, bon. Every single word,” Johnny said. “It breaks my heart tha’ ye dinnae see ‘ow wonderful ye are.”

“I didn’t think you’d…” you bit your tongue as acid burned on the wet muscle.

“Tha’ ah what?” Johnny pressed.

You deep down groaned that he didn’t let you off the hook, that he forced you to put your words out into the air. That your insecurity had to have a body. It seemed more ridiculous that way. Those stupid thoughts that circulated in your brain had less weight once they were out into the clean air.

You caught on to what Johnny was doing.

“I just… I don’t understand why…” you paused, brain pounding in your skull. “I think about your exes and your friends and how easily you just… live. And here I am…”

“Dinnae need the most confident bird, doe,” Johnny says. “Aye, ah yap a ton. But ye help me take a step back. My life is active, ah like havin’ my bon all calm. Ye the one ah chose as my partner. So the other birds ah’ve been with disnae matter.”

You went to speak, but Johnny literally covered your mouth, halting any leakage. You squinted as you stared at him, and he just gave you a boyish grin. It worked. It turned off your mind for a moment.

“If yer gonna talk shite, ye keep tha’ mouth shut,” he said.

You stared at him for a long, calculating moment. Then, you sighed, and your shoulders slumped in defeat. You didn’t have any emotionless replies. You didn’t have a self-deprecating joke. You had nothing. That was a good thing for once.

When Johnny was certain no acid would seep out of your mouth, he dropped his hand.

“What do ye want for dinner?” He asked as if it hadn't been an emotional warzone the past…well…whole time.

“What?” You blinked in confusion, head still reeling.

“Ah'm ordering us something,” he stated matter-of-factly as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

You were at least grateful he didn't offer to take you out because you really didn't want to go out. You weren’t really sure if you were hungry either, or maybe you were. Food didn't sound too repulsive right now. Though, if he hadn't said anything, you probably would've just gone straight to bed.

“Oh…”

You really didn't know what else to say.

Johnny hummed, seemingly picking up on that. He kissed your forehead before peeling himself away from your coiled tight body. The air was filled with a little less anxiety and far more sweetness than there had been in months. It put you at ease.

“Go take a shower, doe,” Johnny ordered softly. “Ah got this covered.”

And you believed it.

°•○●○•°

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[whitedarkmoonflower]

Where the Silence Ends

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female) Canon

Authors note: based on the request by lovely anon - jealous Sihtric doing something foolish that costs him readers heart. Thank you so much for requesting! 💖💖💖The trope and the setting is probably as old as the fanfiction world itself but I loved writing it. A huge thank you to my dear @leftoverp1zza for being my beta and for all the comments and suggestions. You are incredibly good at it 😘😘😘 Without you I would still be stuck in the middle of nowhere😅

Warnings: a bit from everything, fluff, smut, angst, heartbreak, of course jealousy

Word Count: 9,8 K (again 🙈)

Summary: driven by jealousy and fear of not being enough Sihtric decides to break up with reader for her own good without realising what consequences this brings upon her

“What are you thinking about?” you asked, watching Sihtric’s gaze drift, unfocused, toward the sky. Propped up on one elbow, you traced slow, invisible patterns across his bare, muscular chest, your leg draped lazily over his thigh.

The afternoon had grown late, the sun, still high, cast a warm glow over your naked skin, soothing the occasional tickle of the breeze coming off the lake. Beneath you, Sihtric’s fur cloak was as soft as a feather bed, lulling you into a gentle drowsiness. You loved it, that soft, satisfied tiredness that almost always overtook you after making love to Sihtric. It was like getting swept away by a tempest and, at the same time, slipping into a dream you didn’t want to wake from. 

He worshipped your body the way only a man who had known loneliness could – with hunger and with awe, and with a need to show you he would never take you for granted.

There was fire in him, raw, consuming, impossible to resist; when his hands gripped your hips or tangled in your hair, it felt like the wind itself had claimed you. He kissed you like a man starved, like he needed you more than air, and when his muscular body pressed to yours, the world tilted and spun, a storm that carried you far from everything. 

But there was softness, too, beneath that storm, in the way his lips lingered against your throat, in the gentle and reverent drag of his fingers along your spine, in the way he looked at you, as if he couldn’t believe you were real. 

He drove into you with a desperate rhythm, wild, aching, relentless, claiming you with every thrust, and you met him with equal fervor, your body arching to take him deeper, to answer every unsatisfied ache you hadn’t even known was there until him.

You – a lady from one of the most noble houses in Winchester – had fallen in love with him: a Dane, a bastard, a warrior with no land, no title, no claim but his blade, and you had fallen so deeply, so irrevocably, that nothing, even the weight of your name, your duty, your blood, could pull you back.

You had tried, God knew you had, you had tried to forget the way his eyes softened only for you, tried to pretend your skin didn’t burn for him, that your body didn’t recognise him before your mind even dared to admit it and yet, here you were again – in the meadow by the lake, the sun kissing your bare, spent skin, lost in the aftermath of a most crushing orgasm only he could pull from you. 

There was no going back, Sihtric was in you now, in your thoughts, in your breath, in the ache between your thighs when night stretched long and cold. He was not a passing fancy, not a reckless whim, he was your choice, the only one that ever truly felt like yours.

“I’m thinking that I want to marry you,” he said suddenly, turning toward you, as he caught your hand and brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss to each one. You laughed, light and carefree, as his mouth lingered on your fingertips.

“Sihtric,” you murmured with a fond chuckle, “we’ve talked about this so many times.”

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” he said, with more urgency in his voice now. “I’m tired of sneaking around, stealing moments with you like we’re doing something wrong. I want the whole world to know you’re mine,” his voice dipped at the end, softening into something uncertain, as if he was asking, not declaring.

You smiled gently, easing your hand from his and threading your fingers into his dark curls.

“Sihtric,” you whispered, drawing him in, “you know I’m already yours.”

You kissed him, and he moaned against your lips as his tongue slipped greedily past them, hungry for you and the promise in your words. You kissed him back slowly, savouring the way his breath hitched when your fingers tightened in his hair. His body, warm and solid against yours, shifted as he pulled you closer, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you pressed to him.

“It’s not the right time,” you whispered, and he groaned in frustration and rolled onto his back, scrubbing a hand down his face, jaw clenched tight as he stared up at the sky like it had personally betrayed him.

“When will it be?” he asked. “How many more nights do we have to keep pretending this isn’t real?”

You sat up slightly, brushing your fingers over his chest, trying to soothe the tension coiled beneath his skin. He didn’t flinch from your touch, but he didn’t relax, either.

“Is it because of him?” he suddenly asked, and your eyes widened in surprise.

“Because of whom?”

“That lordling. Aethel-something, whatever his name is. I saw you with him yesterday, walking in the market.” Sihtric’s voice was sharp, taut with something close to pain.

You blinked, thrown by the sharpness in his tone. “Aethelred?” you echoed, incredulous. “Sihtric, that was nothing. He asked to accompany me so I could show him where I buy my herbs. His sister wants to learn healing, and he can’t deny her that. That’s all.”

His jaw tightened. “He touched your arm.”

“To stop me from stepping into a puddle,” you replied, voice softening, though the surprise still lingered. “Sihtric, are you jealous?”

He looked away, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “I can never touch you in the open.” Your heart twisted at that, you shifted closer, curling against him, but his arms remained stiff at his sides.

“Sihtric, you touch me like no man ever has and no one else ever will. Do you really think I would choose him over you?” you asked, quieter now. “After everything?”

He didn’t speak right away, his gaze lost in the clouds above you, then, finally, he looked at you again. “I think you deserve more than stolen moments on a fur cloak,” his voice was somewhat hoarse, aching. “And if he can give you that… maybe I should…”

“Stop,” you pressed your palm to his chest, firm and certain. “Don’t you dare to say that. Don’t you dare to break my heart after I have given you everything. He might offer safety, titles, whatever else but he doesn’t see me, not the way you do.” You leaned in. “And I don’t want him.”

Sihtric’s breath caught, his hand moving instinctively without a thought to cover yours on his chest. “Then why does it feel like I’m losing you?”

“Because you keep bracing for it,” you murmured. “Like it's only a matter of time before I walk away, but I’m still here, Sihtric. I haven’t gone anywhere.” You let your forehead rest against his. “You’re the only one I want.”

His hands came up to cradle your face, and the relief in his touch was almost desperate, and when he kissed you it wasn’t gentle, it was hungry, like he needed to feel it, your choice, your certainty, pressed into his lips. 

He shifted over you, and you gasped as you felt his arousal pressing hard against your thigh, your hands slid down his back, nails grazing lightly over muscle, pulling him closer. Sihtric’s mouth moved down your neck, slow, savouring, like he wanted to map every inch of your skin with his lips. 

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, as his hands slid down your sides. “Or I won’t.”

“Don’t,” you breathed, threading your fingers into his hair. “Don’t stop, take me. Fuck me like I’m yours.”

That was all he needed, he shoved your legs apart with rough urgency, grinding his hips against you so hard it made you whimper, his length thick and hot as it slid against your slickness. You felt him tremble, not with restraint, but with the sheer force of holding back just long enough to feel you fall apart beneath him again.

He groaned low in his throat, like the sound had been buried inside him for too long and his mouth found yours again, the kiss turned feverish, your legs wrapped around his waist, instinctive, desperate to keep him close.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he rasped, teeth grazing your jaw as he gripped your thigh and pushed it higher around his waist. 

He lined himself up and thrust into you in one hard, claiming stroke that knocked the breath out of you, and you cried out, fingers clutching at him, your body stretching to take every delicious inch. He didn’t give you time to adjust, he was already moving, pounding into you with a brutal rhythm, his body slamming against yours like he needed to carve himself into your skin.

“I want you to be mine, always and forever,” he groaned, voice rough in your ear. 

You couldn’t answer, not with words, only gasps and broken moans spilled from your lips as he drove into you again and again, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his teeth catching on your throat as if to mark you.

“Sihtric…” you whimpered, already spiraling, your body burning, unraveling.

“I know, love. I feel it too,” he growled. “Come on me. I want to feel it when you break apart on my cock.” You did, with a cry that tore from your chest as pleasure exploded through you, pulsing around him, clenching him tight. 

Sihtric cursed, bit down on your shoulder, and spilled into you with a growl that sounded like triumph and worship all at once. Afterwards, he stayed inside you, panting, his hand still gripping your thigh as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

“Mine,” he murmured, placing tender kisses all over your face.

The music filled King Alfred’s hall, golden and lively, mingling with the laughter that echoed off the walls, as guests twirled across the floor in layers of silk and linen. It was rare for the king to host a feast of such scale, the long tables nearly buckled under the weight of honeyed mead, roasted meat, and fruit, but for the betrothal of his daughter to the Lord of Mercia, nothing less would do. 

Sihtric stood near the edge of the hall, close enough to see everything, far enough to feel like he didn’t belong. And it wasn’t just a feeling, he knew he didn’t belong here, not in this world of polished manners and noble bloodlines, fake smiles and polished bows. 

He had already regretted, for the umpteenth time, asking Uhtred if he could come. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of you, if only from across the hall, to see you, radiant in candlelight, at ease in the world you were born into, to see you in your element but the longer he watched, the harder it became to breathe and the sharper grew the sudden ache in his chest. 

And then he finally saw you, laughing, your head tilted slightly back, eyes glittering in the firelight as you spun in time with the music. Your gown shimmered in motion, fitted tight at your waist before falling loose around your legs and your hand… your hand was resting in his.

Aethelred.

The lordling’s other hand rested in the small of your back (was at your back), a little too low for his liking, guiding you through the steps of the dance with a practiced ease, and you didn’t pull away - No, in fact you smiled back at him. 

That smile, gods, that smile sent something sharp and violent twisting in Sihtric’s gut and his hands curled into fists at his sides. He told himself it was nothing, a dance, a courtesy, something expected of you in a feast like this, in a life like yours. 

But the way the bastard looked at you, like you were already his, made Sihtric’s blood burn. He wasn’t imagining the possessive curl of the man’s fingers, the way his touch lingered at the edge of impropriety, no, it was clear for all to see and you… you didn’t seem to notice or worse, you noticed and let it happen.

Didn’t anyone else see it? How close he held you? How his fingers grazed the curve of your back like he had a right?

It was as if you had felt Sihtric’s gaze burning holes in your skin. Your eyes suddenly lifted to  scan the hall and found him lingering in the shadows. You caught his eye for just a second but long enough for your expression to falter, barely, but he caught it, he always caught everything when it came to you. 

Your breath caught in your chest the moment your eyes met his across the hall, his expression hollowed out by something deeper than anger – betrayal. The hurt in his eyes struck you like a blade and for a single heartbeat, the world tilted but you didn’t stop, you couldn’t, you forced the smile back onto your face and kept your hand in Aethelred’s, your steps perfectly measured and graceful because this was the price of keeping up the facade, of protecting him, of protecting you both, and even as your heart cracked with every turn, you danced.

Sihtric’s grip on the mug in his hand tightened threatening to crush the delicate thing, as he hastily looked away before the rage boiling inside him could break loose. 

It was foolish, he knew. Aethelred had the right to ask for your hand in a dance, he had the bloodline, the lands, the title, everything Sihtric didn’t but the sight of another man touching you in the open, holding you with the ease Sihtric had only ever known in secrecy behind closed doors or during those stolen moments in the meadow, made something primal rise in his chest. 

Finan approached him quietly, holding out a fresh mug of ale.

“Easy now,” he said under his breath, knowing his friend’s expression too well. “It’s just a dance.”

“It’s not,” Sihtric muttered, eyes fixed again on the floor where Aethelred’s hand lingered too long at your waist. “Not to me.”

Suddenly, Aethelred leaned in, whispering something against your ear, and Sihtric found himself moving, crossing the hall with hurried steps.

You saw Sihtric coming before anyone else did, shoulders squared, eyes dark, rage clinging to him like smoke, you knew that look, you’d seen it before on the battlefield, in the training yard… but never directed at you or maybe not at you, but because of you.

Sihtric moved like a storm about to break, cutting through the crowd and this time you didn’t hesitate, you broke from Aethelred’s hold, excused yourself with a light curtsy and crossed the floor to intercept Sihtric, catching his wrist before he could do something that would have both your names whispered behind hands for weeks.

“Come with me,” you said firmly, dragging him away from the center of the hall, he didn’t resist, but his jaw was clenched so tightly you thought he might shatter his own teeth.

You pulled him into an empty side corridor, away from the light, from the hall, from Aethelred and his smug, soft words but the moment you turned to face him, Sihtric wrenched his arm free.

“What was that?” he hissed. “You let him touch you like…like you were his.”

“It was a dance,” you snapped, breathless, your pulse still racing. “That’s all, it meant nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing.” He suddenly laughed bitterly, eyes flashing. “And you didn’t seem to mind it at all, smiling at him like that, letting him…”

“Letting him what, Sihtric? Keep up appearances? Play the game I was born into?” You stepped closer, furious now.

“The game you apparently love to play, while I have to hide in the shadows.” Sihtric’s face twisted like you’d struck him. “Maybe that’s all I’m good for,” he suddenly added more quietly.

“The shadows.” The fury drained from you in a rush. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” He turned away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’ll never be one of them, I have no lands, no title, no gold to offer you. I can’t even ask for your hand in a dance.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “I don’t even know how to dance.”

You reached for him, but he stepped back, just out of your reach.

“You deserve better than me. You always have.”

“Stop it. Just stop.” Your voice trembled with both frustration and fear. “We’ve come too far for this. We just have to be patient a little longer. You know my brother promised that once our father is gone I’ll be free to choose my own path. He won’t stand in the way of my happiness.”

“No,” he interrupted sharply, eyes meeting yours with something hollow and burning behind them. “I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. I’m done, do you hear me? I don’t want this, I don’t want you anymore.”

You froze, like the air had been knocked from your lungs. “You don’t mean that,” you whispered. The words barely left your lips before the ache settled in, it was sharp and disorienting, as if the floor had shifted beneath your feet as you struggled to understand how the man who held you like a lifeline just this morning could now look at you like a complete stranger.

“I do,” Sihtric snapped, angry and sharp, but his voice cracked on the last syllable. Or did you just imagine it?

“Go back to him. Go back to your hall, your games, your proper life. Go and leave me alone.”

He turned from you, back rigid, fists clenched at his sides, and you just stood there, stunned, your heart splintering in thousands of shards as the echo of his words sank into you, tasting of ash. 

You could still feel him on your lips, still feel the bruises of his love on your skin. Just today, you had let him claim you completely - body and soul, given yourself to him without fear, without hesitation and now he was walking away like none of it had ever mattered.

He didn’t look back, he couldn’t.

If he did, if he saw the way you stood there, shattered and still, your eyes wide with disbelief, he would’ve run to you, fallen to his knees and begged for forgiveness he didn’t deserve.

So Sihtric kept walking, even if each step felt like dragging a blade through his own chest.

The hall was loud again, full of feasting and revelry, all blurring into loud and unbearable noise around him. He didn’t stop until he was outside, out into the cool night where he could finally breathe, though each breath still felt like it caught on a rib.

He slumped his back against the stone archway just outside the gates, knuckles white, heart pounding against the inside of his skull, angry and aching, and drew his palm down his face.

“You’re the only one I want.”

It was there, before his eyes, the image of your hand reaching for him, even when he’d been cruel, when he was stepping away, when he was hurting you deliberately, backing off although the only thing he wanted was to pull you in to his embrace, because that was the only way he knew how to protect you now.

He had lost his self control today in the meadow. It had been too tempting. “Fuck me like I’m yours.” 

And the awakening tonight had been rough. He had seen it in the eyes of all the lords, eldorman and other noblings – the way they stared when you entered the hall with your head high and your smile poised. You were beautiful and gracious, a firelight in silk, you were wealthy and your family had impact and power. And he was a bastard, a Dane, a killer dressed in blood and leather, not linen or silk, he would never be one of them.

You belonged to the world of feasts and unburdened existence, not to the shadows where men like him existed, men with scars on their skin and worse on their souls.

“You deserve better than me.”

He spat the words into the night like poison, hating himself for them.

The truth was, he didn’t even really care about Aethelred, he didn’t believe for a second that you wanted that coward even though it had been painful to watch him court you so openly when he couldn’t. 

What he did believe was that there will be other Aethelreds and one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually you’d see what they could offer you and he couldn’t, that you’d grow tired of hiding or even worse if you really accepted his marriage proposal - you’d grow tired of him, of the simple life he could offer, and you would regret your foolish choice. 

Yes, he was jealous, jealous beyond reason of the world that was yours and never could be his, so he’d rather burn now than watch your love slowly extinguish. 

Sihtric’s head dropped against the cold stone, eyes squeezed shut, he could still feel your ghost-light touch on his skin, the softness of your fingers, the way you had kissed him like he was something beautiful, something worthy, the way you had given him everything, even when he offered so little in return.

“You’re the only one I want.”

Gods, he wanted to believe it, but deep down he knew he would never be the man the world would let you have, not truly, not without consequences and so he did the only thing he thought he could – he had to protect you, from the scandal, from the fall, from the unhappiness, from himself, even if it meant breaking your heart, even if it meant breaking his own.

Sihtric hadn’t meant to leave without saying goodbye, but as two days later Uhtred announced they were riding north – trouble brewing, Danes raising an army, talk of raids and people fleeing – Sihtric seized the chance like a man leaping from a burning building.

There had been no time to seek you out, and even if there had been, what would he have said? Leaving without a word felt easier, cleaner. It was better that way, for both of you.

Sihtric didn’t look back when they rode out of Winchester. Had you come to watch him leave? Gods, he hoped so, but he hadn’t dared to turn around, too afraid he’d see you in the crowd and fall apart.

He told himself he’d done what was best for you and yet, you haunted him. At night, in the silence of his furs beneath the stars, you came to him, in dreams, in memories, in the unbearable quiet between battles. He saw your face again and again, eyes wide with pain, mouth parted in disbelief. Sometimes you were angry, sometimes you were crying, and sometimes… you said nothing at all. Those dreams were the worst.

But time, relentless as ever, marched on, battle followed battle, orders were given, roads were ridden, choices and decisions that weren’t his to make led them crisscrossing the land, and Sihtric followed, silent and grateful, every time, when the road led further from Winchester, further from you.

It was raining when they finally returned to Winchester, the sky was gray and heavy, the kind of weather that made everything feel half-dead. It had been almost a year but everything seemed strangely the same. Uhtred had gone straight to report to the king, but Sihtric didn’t follow, he didn’t want to be near, didn't want to risk seeing you.

He barely made it to the stables before she found him.

“You’re back,” Hild’s voice was hard as stone, her cloak clung to her soaked form, rain still pouring down from the sky with no mercy, and Sihtric silently wondered what had driven her to hurry across the town in this storm when they had just arrived.

He looked up, brushing rain from his face. “Hild,” he nodded politely. “It’s good to see you.”

“Is it?” Her gaze didn’t soften. “I doubt you will still think so after you hear what I have to say.” She drew a breath, deep and steadying, but her anger was already spilling through the cracks. “Sihtric Kjartansson - you are a reckless, heartless bastard.”

Sihtric’s brow furrowed in confusion and instinctive defense.

“You broke her heart and left her with nothing. You ran away without a single word, not even a real goodbye.” 

She didn’t need to say your name, he knew. Gods, he knew, and he had never seen Hild – the composed, calm, kind Hild – so utterly furious.

“It was for the best,” he muttered angrily, unsure whether he was speaking to her or trying to convince himself again.

“For the best? For whom, Sihtric?” Hild stepped forward, fierce and unrelenting. 

“I wasn’t good enough for her,“ Sihtric snapped. “She deserves something better. You don’t understand, I had to step away. I didn’t want to ruin her life.” Even as he said it, the words sounded hollow. He’d told himself that so often, it had begun to sound like the truth, but hearing it aloud, it sounded like the coward’s excuse that it was. 

“You didn’t want to ruin her life?” the mocking scorn in Hild’s voice caught Sihtric off guard. “That’s exactly what you did.”

“You left her broken and alone. She bore the shame, the scandal, the disdain, all of it, and you weren’t there. She didn’t even have the hope of your return to help her endure it all.”

Sihtric stared at her, stunned and speechless, having the feeling that the world had suddenly tilted, his legs felt rooted to the earth, and a tremor spread through his hands as a terrible suspicion was clawing its way up his spine.

That last time… in the meadow… when he’d lost control – just that once.

“Where is she?” he finally managed to get over his lips.

“After her father disinherited her on his deathbed, I took her into my convent, where she gave birth to your son,” Hild said flatly. “And then she left for the monastery at Lindisfarne. She wanted peace, solitude and to be as far from Winchester as possible, somewhere no one knew her, somewhere no one would look at her with pity or judgement.”

The world blurred around Sihtric as he stood rooted in place, letting the rain soak into his fur cloak. He opened his mouth gasping for air like a man drowning on dry land, but no sound came, only the echo of Hild’s words ringing in his skull.

A son. Disinherited. Alone.

That was exactly what he’d tried to protect you from, or so he told himself. He had made himself believe he was doing the right thing, that letting you go would spare you pain, that he was the weight dragging you down.

And gods… he was.

What a fool he’d been, blinded by jealousy, convincing himself it was for your sake, when really, it had been for his, to spare himself the pain he thought was inevitable, to avoid watching you one day wake beside him and realize you’d settled for less.

He hadn’t protected you, he’d abandoned you.

The alehouse was half-empty, the hour too early for the usual evening revelry, rain tapped steadily against the warped shutters, matching the rhythm of Sihtric’s heartbeat and the slow drip of spilled ale down Sihtric’s wrist as he stared blankly into his cup.

He’d been there for hours, days, a week, maybe – he’d lost count, every day after the usual training his feet brought him here. 

The serving girl didn’t flirt with him anymore, she didn’t even bother to smile, just brought the next mug, took the coin, and walked away. He wasn’t good company, hadn’t been since their return, hadn’t been anything but a quiet storm pressed into a corner bench, trying to drown himself one swallow at a time.

He had tried to forget, gods knew he had, but no amount of ale could rinse away the sound of Hild’s voice, or your name, or the words "your son" that still rang in his skull like a tolling bell.

He barely looked up when the door creaked open, he didn’t need to, he recognized Finan’s boots before he saw the man. Behind him, Uhtred and Osferth stepped in, the three of them already soaked from the rain and looking like they’d been arguing the whole way over.

“You’ve had your week,” Finan said, slumping down on the bench next to Sihtric. “It’s enough.”

Sihtric didn’t answer, just lifted his mug and downed what was left of it.

“I’m serious,” Finan snapped, while Uhtred and Osferth took their places around the table. “You’ve drunk this place dry, cursed at half the customers, and made the rest too uncomfortable to come near. It’s time to stop sulking and do something.”

“What’s there to do?” Sihtric muttered. “I’ve ruined everything.”

“Then un-ruin it,” Uhtred said, waiving to the serving girl to bring more ale. His voice was calm, but the edge was there. “Find her. Speak to her. You owe her that much.”

“What if she won’t even look at me?” Sihtric asked bitterly. “What if it’s too late?”

“Then at least you’ll know,” Osferth said gently, hands folded in front of him on the table. 

Had they rehearsed this while coming here? slipped through Sihtric’s mind.  

“It’s better to fall at her feet asking forgiveness than to waste away wondering what could’ve been. If it hurts, then it’s what you deserve. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

Sihtric’s jaw clenched, he looked down at the table, where a dried ring of spilled ale had soaked into the wood beneath his cup, his fists curled slowly.

“And what if she sends me away?” 

“Then you walk away knowing you tried,” Uhtred said. “Not like this, not hiding behind drink and pity and pride.”

Silence settled for a moment then Finan added, “She loved you, lad. We all saw it. You were the only one who ever doubted that. The least you can do is ride north and ask her if there's anything left.” 

They were right, Sihtric knew it, he’d been circling the same thoughts for days, drowning in them, pushing them down his throat like bitter potion. It wasn’t pride that had kept him in this place, it wasn’t fear of groveling, he wasn’t afraid to fall to his knees and beg for your forgiveness if it came to that.

What terrified him truly was the finality of your decision because as long as he hadn’t tried, as long as he stayed away, he could pretend. He could pretend there was still hope, pretend the door hadn’t closed all the way. He could try to squash the ache with silence, with regret, with ale. It didn’t work, not really, but it dulled the edges.

The moment you’d push him away and turn your back on him, like he had done to you, that would be the end of it, and he didn’t know how to live with that.

Coward, a voice whispered inside him, the same voice he had tried to drown in ale, to drink away, night after night.

Sihtric stood slowly, the legs of his chair scraping against the wood floor, as he pulled a few coins from his belt and dropped them onto the table, before meeting Uhtred’s eyes.

“Lindisfarne,” he said simply, walking past his friends out into the rain. 

The wind howled off the sea as Lindisfarne came into view, rising from the northern mist like something carved from stone and sorrow. The monastery stood stark against the pale sky, its walls weathered by salt and time, cloaked in silence save for the distant cawing of gulls and the crash of waves against the rocks and the air smelled of rain and peat smoke and the sea, harsh and clean. 

Sihtric reined in his horse just beyond the gate, staring at the worn stone archway that marked the entrance, he dismounted slowly, boots crunching against the gravel as he walked toward the gate. 

It was peaceful here. He hadn’t expected that. What had he expected? He hadn’t slept in a day and hadn’t eaten properly in three, and yet the sight of the place had stirred something, gnawing at his ribs with much greater force than hunger and tiredness could. Fear or maybe hope? If he dared name it.

He knocked, three firm raps, the sound of his fist against the old, weathered wood hollow and strangely loud, somehow too loud for this place. 

Palm still resting against the gate, Sihtric shifted his weight, straining to catch any sound from within, but there was nothing, only the muted grind of small stones shifting beneath his boots. 

The wind, the waves, the distant cries of seagulls, all of it slowly faded beneath the rising thud of his heart, fast and uneven, as if before a battle, but in battle at least he’d know his enemies, know where to strike, how to survive.

Here… he was unarmed… naked.

The silence behind the door stretched until it felt unbearable, pressing against his chest like stone. Sihtric took a shaky breath, his fingers twitching with the urge to knock again, to do something, say something… and then, at last, he heard it – the faint creak of footsteps on stone, slow and unhurried and a moment later, the gate gave a groan and cracked open, just slightly. 

The small walled garden behind the monastery where the abbess led Sihtric greeted him with a tender stillness, the sea wind was gentler here, softened by the walls, and the air smelled faintly of thyme and ripening fruit as bees hummed lazily through the air.

You stood beneath an apple tree, simple wool skirts swaying around your ankles, your arms reaching up toward a low-hanging branch. A basket rested at your feet, half-filled with small, red apples. You hadn’t seen him yet.

You were thinner than he remembered, more delicate, even fragile, your movements quiet but gracious. There was something different in your face now, not sadness, not exactly, but more like a calm. Your hair was tucked beneath a linen veil, though a few unruly strands danced in the breeze and the sunlight, filtering through the leaves above you, casted merry, golden flecks across your skin.

He had imagined this moment a thousand times, rehearsed in his mind, and still he was completely unprepared as the sight of you hit him like a storm, too sudden, too beautiful, too real. 

“Wait here,” the abbess said, before stepping across the garden toward you, leaving Sihtric frozen where he stood, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

You turned at the sound of the abbess’s voice, your fingers still loosely curled around the apple branch, your other hand was reaching for the next fruit, slow and absent-minded until your gaze slipped past the elderly woman and landed on him. 

Sihtric.

Your entire body stilled, breath caught mid-motion and for a heartbeat, you didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Your lips parted slightly, as if the air had become too thick to breathe and your eyes locked on his, while within them visibly flashed chaos of your emotions – disbelief first, then recognition… then something far more complicated… pain, anger or maybe something more fragile, something closer to grief.

Your hand slowly lowered from the branch, fingers curling into your skirts as your chest rose with shallow breaths. 

Sihtric made one single step forward, slow and hesitant as if afraid to dispel the vision before him. Your chin lifted a fraction and then, with slow precision, you shook your head as your gaze dropped to the ground. The motion wasn’t angry, it seemed sad, it was worse than anger – it was the quiet refusal of someone who had waited too long, hurt too deeply and lost too much to let in hope again.

And then you turned, not hurriedly, not with drama or flair but with the steady grace of someone who had learned how to walk away with a heart still breaking. Your hand reached down and lifted the basket from the grass, the apples inside shifted gently as you carried them with you, vanishing beneath the ivy-covered archway without another glance.

The abbess returned back to Sihtric, shaking her head as if repeating your message to him. 

He didn’t move, he couldn’t. It was it, there was nothing more left for him. It had told him everything – that look on your face as you turned away. You had done exactly what he had hoped you would as he walked away from you. You had made peace with losing him and buried what he’d come to reclaim. It had been foolish to hope for something else. 

The candlelight flickered low, casting long shadows on the stone floor, the room was quiet, as you sat near the window, stitching the hem of a worn habit, your needle moving with practiced precision but your mind hovering elsewhere.

The abbess approached without ceremony, she didn’t sit right away, she simply stood beside you, hands folded neatly in front of her, gaze fixed on the rhythm of your stitching.

“This can’t go on,” she said softly.

You didn’t look up.

“It’s been a week.”

Still, you said nothing, your fingers moved steadily, but the needle snagged just slightly.

“He’s still out there, you know. Camped in the rain just beyond the gates. Refuses food. Refuses shelter. Just sits by the wall like some half-drowned penitent, waiting for a sign.”

Your jaw clenched, but you kept sewing, one more stitch, then another.

“He’s not eating, child.”

Your needle paused for a beat, just one, but the abbess saw it.

“He is not a saint,” she went on, gentler now, “but he is a man with sorrow heavy in his bones. And whether you forgive him or not, this silence is almost cruel. It is punishment, for him, and for you.”

You finally looked up, your eyes tired but unwavering. “Yes, it is. He left me, when I needed him most.”

“He did.” The abbess nodded. “And it wounded you. Deeply. I know.”

“I don’t want to need him again.” Your voice was barely more than breath.

The abbess sat beside you now, laying a hand gently over yours.

“Needing someone does not make you weak,” she said. “But holding on to pain for too long can.”

Silence settled again, save for the low hum of prayer from the chapel beyond the corridor, you looked back down at your needlework, but your fingers had gone still.

“Just speak to him,” the abbess urged. “That’s all. You don’t have to forgive. Not yet. But give him the dignity of a voice, if only to close the door with truth, not silence. It might help you, maybe even more than him.”

You swallowed hard. The stitch in your lap remained unfinished.

You sat still, hands folded in your lap, eyes fixed on the wavering candlelight as it cast flickering shadows across the floor, listening to the wind howling faintly from the cliffs. 

Another night falling. 

Seven days. 

Seven days he had waited just beyond the walls.

You had watched from your window once, just once. He had been sitting beneath the old yew tree, soaked to the bone, shoulders hunched as though the weight of everything he’d lost was dragging him into the earth itself. You’d turned away before he could lift his head.

Why had he come? Why now? To claim some imagined right to your son? Only over your dead body. 

You owed him nothing. You had nothing to say to him. How dare he invade your life again and demand attention as if he had any right to it. This was what you had told yourself all these days, that had been the story you clung to, the armor you wore.

But now… to your own surprise the edges of your anger were slowly beginning to fray. Not all at once but just enough to make you feel unsteady. And you hated it, hated the weakness of it, the part of you that flinched at the sight of him soaked in rain, eyes hollowed by sleeplessness, the part of you that felt something like… sorrow? Pity? Compassion? 

Why? 

Where had his compassion been when you were left picking up the shards of your broken heart alone?

You stood slowly, carefully, every movement measured and deliberate, not because you felt calm, but because it was the only way to stop your hands from trembling.

The corridor was cold as you stepped into it, your footsteps silent against the stone as you passed the chapel, the garden, the place where you had last seen him, stunned and unmoving as you walked away.

You didn’t tell anyone, you simply walked out through the side gate, the night air rushing in like a held breath, crisp and sharp with salt. The moon hung low above the sea, its light silvering the path ahead and there, just beyond the outer wall, where the cliff began to slope down to the rocky shore, you saw him.

He was sitting on a fallen log by a dying campfire, hunched forward, cloak pulled tightly around him. His hair was damp, curling against his forehead, and his face looked hollowed out by exhaustion, by waiting, or was it guilt that seemed to clung to him like a second skin?

You stopped several paces away, heart hammering in your chest.

For a moment, he didn’t hear you, then his shoulders tensed, he must have felt you before he saw you.

Slowly, as if afraid to believe it, he turned. You didn’t speak yet and neither did he. Sihtric rose slowly, as if unsure whether the moment would vanish if he moved too quickly.

“You came,” he said at last, voice low and rough from disuse, he didn’t step closer. He didn’t dare. You nodded once, but said nothing. The wind stirred your veil and Sihtric watched it, as if it might tell him what you were feeling.

“In truth I didn’t expect you to,” he added. “Not after… everything.” Still, you said nothing, your eyes never left him, but your expression remained calm and distant. Sihtric swallowed hard, gaze dropping for a moment to the earth beneath your feet.

“I don’t have the right to ask for anything,” he said. “But I need you to hear it. From me, not Hild, not anyone else.”

You folded your arms, but not in defiance, it felt more like a shield, a quiet bracing of yourself. “Then say it,” you replied, as your fingers dug into the fabric of your sleeves. He looked up again.

“I was a coward,” he said simply. “I told myself I was protecting you, sparing you from a life tied to someone the world would never accept, but the truth is – I was protecting myself, from the pain and from the fear that you’d one day wake up beside me and regret everything.”

You didn’t flinch, not visibly, but your throat moved with a swallow.

“And now?” you asked. He breathed out, slow and ragged.

“Now I regret everything instead.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your silence heavier than any scolding, and when you finally spoke, your voice cracked like a fault line. “You left me to bleed alone.”

Sihtric closed his eyes. “I know,” he whispered. “And I will carry that for the rest of my life. I just need you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a moment.”

You stood there for a long moment, the fire crackling between you, your gaze lowered, thoughtful, the breeze of the sea tugged at your veil and cloak, but you didn’t seem to notice. 

Sihtric stood in silence, waiting, not pushing, not pleading, just… waiting.

Then, slowly, you moved, you walked around the fire carefully, like the earth itself might crack under your weight and lowered yourself on the log beside the fire he had been previously sitting on. 

You didn’t look at him, not right away, you sat with your hands folded in your lap, your knees drawn close, the hem of your cloak pooling softly around your ankles.

Sihtric didn’t speak, he barely breathed as he settled near you. You were so close, closer than he’d dared to imagine and yet you felt worlds away.

Still, you were there.

You sat beside him in silence, close enough to share the warmth of the fire, but not touching. 

Sihtric didn’t look at you first, he stared into the embers, jaw tight, hands clasped between his knees.

“There’s a place,” he said at last, his voice rough with hesitation. “In Coccham, a house. Uhtred gave it to me.”

You glanced at him, but said nothing.

“It’s quiet there, near the river. The kind of place where no one asks questions, where a child could grow without whispers.” He paused. “Where you could live freely.”

The wind caught the edges of your cloak, lifting it gently as you watched him.

“It’s yours,” he said, turning to you now, eyes steady, vulnerable in their honesty. “If you want it. Everything I have and everything I will ever have is yours. I know it’s not much but I’d do anything it takes to provide for both of you.”

He faltered a moment, then added, more quietly, “If you’ll allow me.”

You stared at him, heart tightening, throat constricting with the weight of words you weren’t ready to say but he didn’t press.

“I know I can’t ask anything of you,” he said, gaze dropping again. “Not forgiveness. Not love. I lost the right to even hope for those.”

He drew a breath, slow and steady, like a man walking willingly into pain. “But if you’d let me just be nearby… or just to see you both now and then, to know you’re safe... ”

The fire cracked between you and a spark drifted upward, lost in the dark.

“That’s all I ask,” he said, softer now. “Only to be allowed to care, from whatever distance you’ll permit.”

You looked at him fully then, really looked. He was thinner, quieter, worn in a way that went deeper than flesh and yet, in his brokenness, he was more honest than you had ever seen him.

You didn’t speak yet but something inside you shifted and for the first time in months, the ache didn’t feel quite so sharp.

It was still there, deep, raw and far from healed, but something in the way he looked at you, in the way he spoke, offering you everything without expecting anything in return, made the pain easier to bear. It didn’t press on your chest the same way anymore, it didn’t feel like drowning.

You turned your gaze back to the fire, letting the silence settle again, not because you had nothing to say, but because you didn’t trust your voice to hold steady.

A few minutes passed, or maybe longer, you weren’t counting, and after a long pause, Sihtric spoke again.

“Is he well?” he asked softly and his voice trembled at the edges. “Our son?”

You looked over at him, your expression sharpening, guarded. You hadn’t expected him to say it, to speak the word “our” like it was something sacred, and yet it wasn’t enough to stop the sudden rise of anger tightening in your chest.

“My son is healthy and strong,”  you replied, the edge in your voice unmistakable as you stood abruptly, gathering your cloak around your shoulders.

Sihtric’s breath caught, barely audible, but unmistakable, he stared into the fire, his hands still in his lap. His head bowed, eyes closing for a moment as if bracing himself against a wave and when he looked at you again,  the firelight glinted in the tears welling in his eyes.

“Wait, please,” he said quickly, rising halfway to his feet as it suddenly dawned on him. “You think… you think I came to take him away from you?” 

You didn’t reply but the shift in your expression was answer enough. 

Sihtric took a step forward, careful not to close the space too quickly.

“I would never,” he said. “That was never my intention.”

You stopped, half-turned away, your hands clenching at the edges of your cloak, you didn’t look at him, but he saw the disbelief lingering in the set of your shoulders, the way your breath trembled just slightly in the cool air.

He felt it like a blow.

“I didn’t come here to take anything from you,” he continued. “I came only to offer what little I have left to give.”

And still, you didn’t believe him, not fully.

He saw it in your eyes when you finally turned back to face him, the fear, the weariness, the quiet ache of someone who had been stripped of too much already.

In that moment, something in him broke open and without another word, he dropped to his knees. The motion wasn’t dramatic, it was quiet and honest. 

He bowed his head and wrapped both hands tightly around the Thor’s hammer that hung at his chest. 

“By Thor, by the gods, by every breath in me, I swear I would never try to take him from you,” he said, voice almost breaking. “Not now. Not ever. No matter what you decide, whether you accept what I’ve offered or send me away and tell me to never come again - he will always be yours.”

His grip tightened on the pendant as he lifted his head slightly, meeting your gaze.

“You don’t owe me kindness. You don’t owe me a place. But please, don’t believe I came to steal because I never could. I love you, I love you both more than my life, more than anything in this world. This is the truth.”

The fire’s light flickered against his face, casting him half in shadow, half in glow, kneeling not as a warrior, not as the man who once left you behind, but as someone stripped down to nothing but guilt and regret.

You stared at him, motionless, and in that shifting light, he looked both utterly broken and fiercely alive.

And you hated that your heart still responded to him, you hated how the sight of him, humbled and trembling, undid you in places you’d tried so hard to fortify. 

You cursed yourself for it, for how much your heart still answered his name, for the way your chest tightened just seeing him like this.

You wanted to say something, something sharp, accusing, final.

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came, nothing except the tightening of your throat and the sting rising behind your eyes. No. You bit down hard, pressing your lips together. You were so tired of crying for him.

But still, the tears came, hot and soundless, slipping down your cheeks no matter how hard you willed them not to. You raised a hand to swipe them away, to salvage what dignity you had left, but your body betrayed you, trembling under the weight of too much grief, too many memories, too much emptiness.

Something inside you simply gave up, you felt the ground shifting and your knees buckled as a choked sound broke from your throat, not a sob, not a scream, just hurt and loss made flesh.

In an instant, Sihtric was there, his arms were around you before you could resist, before you managed to hit the ground, pulling you into him, holding you as if he could shield you from everything, even the pain he’d caused.

You didn’t push him away, you buried your face in his chest, his leather armour cold and damp against your skin, and you hated that it still felt like home.

He held you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped around your waist. He just held you, and you let him. Because you were tired, because you were broken and because, somewhere beneath the wreckage of your love, there was still a pulse.

“I was so alone,” the words broke from you in a sob, ragged and unstoppable, before you could even decide to speak them.

Sihtric’s eyes locked onto yours, pain tightening his features.

“And I was afraid,” you choked out. “You weren’t there when I couldn’t sleep for fear, when I thought I might die bringing him into this world. You weren’t there when I held him in my arms and didn’t know how to be enough for him.”

“And still, part of me waited,” you whispered. “Even when I hated you, even when I cursed your name.”

You drew in a breath that shook all the way down to your bones.

“I don’t know what this is anymore,” you muttered through the tears. “I don’t know what I still feel and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust you again.”

Sihtric wrapped his arms tighter around you, cradling you like a small child.

“You don’t have to,” he whispered. “Not now. Maybe not ever. I didn’t come here hoping to be loved again. I came here because I couldn’t stay away, not when I knew you were carrying all of it alone.”

You closed your eyes, the warmth of him seeping through your skin, settling somewhere deep inside you.

“And I’ll stay,” he whispered. “Always and forever, even if you never let me be closer, even if all I’m allowed is to watch from the edges of your life, I will be there. For him and for you, I swear it, if you’ll let me.”

Slowly, tentatively you leaned into him, letting your hands rest on his, not pulling him closer but not pushing him away.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice breaking on the words. “It’s already more than I deserve.”

The room smelled faintly of woodsmoke, herbs, and broth. You stood quietly in the doorway of the small bedroom, wrapped in your shawl as you watched.

Sihtric sat at the edge of the bed, his broad frame hunched slightly forward, one calloused hand resting protectively beside the small, sleeping frame in the center of the mattress. Your son – your son, his son – had already begun to drift off, his tiny breaths slow and even, his small and thick fingers wrapped around Sihtric’s thumb.

Sihtric gently freed his hand to adjust the edge of the woolen blanket around the boy’s shoulders and his fingers paused at the child’s hairline, brushing back a fine wisp of dark hair. He smiled softly, his lips barely parting, his eyes shining in the low light with something so tender it made your chest ache.

And then he leaned down, so close his nose nearly touched the boy’s temple.

“Sleep well, little warrior,” he whispered, barely audible. 

He placed the faintest kiss to the top of the boy’s head, then lingered for a moment, simply watching him as though memorizing the curve of his cheek, the rhythm of his breathing. You saw him reach down, his fingertips grazing the carved wooden horse the boy had taken everywhere for days now - his own making. Sihtric gently moved it closer to the child's hand, easing it into his fingers so he wouldn’t wake up and find it missing.

He rose with care, casting one last look at the child before turning toward the door and then he saw you.

You hadn’t spoken, hadn’t made a sound, but you stood there, watching him, something fragile flickering behind your gaze.

He didn’t smile, not quite, but something in his face warmed, softened, as he stepped closer.

His breath hitched the moment your eyes met.

Sihtric slowed as he approached, when he reached you, he didn’t pass, he paused, standing just beside you, close enough that you could feel the lingering heat of him, smell the faint scent of leather and smoke that clung to his armour.

He didn’t look at you right away, his gaze remained fixed ahead, toward the fire-lit room behind you.

“I’ll come by again in two days,” he said quietly. “I’m riding patrol tomorrow. Up near the old border tracks.”

You didn’t answer at first. You were watching him now – the tired set of his shoulders, the faint weariness that lived in his eyes even through the warmth.

He glanced at you, just briefly.

“Just to check in,” he added quickly, like he needed to explain himself. “To see you’re both well,” but you could hear what he wasn’t saying, that he hated leaving, even for a night, and yet he always did, like he had promised.

Sihtric made to step back, to say his farewell and slip into the night, and that was when your hand reached out, fingers brushing against his.

He froze, the touch was soft, tentative, his eyes dropped to where your fingers rested lightly against the back of his hand, as though not quite believing it. You looked up at him, and your voice came, barely louder than a breath.

“Stay,” you said softly.

He stared at you, stunned, hope flickered then faltered as he furrowed a brow in disbelief as if questioning if he had heard you right. 

You held his gaze, you didn’t flinch. “Stay.”

He didn’t speak, just looked at you for a long moment, like a man who had lived a thousand lifetimes in exile and had just now been told he could come home. His hand remained in yours, and you felt the slightest movement, his thumb brushing across the back of your knuckles, slow, tentative.

He stared at your joined hands for a moment, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind your touch before slowly lifting his eyes back to yours.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice low and rough. “You don’t have to… not out of pity. Not because I’ve worn you down.”

You shook your head gently, your fingers tightening around his.

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”

Sihtric drew in a shaky breath and stepped closer, close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours, but he still didn’t pull you in, still waiting for something more.

His free hand lifted toward your face, pausing in midair, a silent question trembling at his fingertips but you didn’t flinch, you didn’t turn away. His fingers cupped your cheek, warm and trembling slightly his thumb brushed over your skin.

His lips parted, but you reached up, gently pressing a finger to them.

“Schhh,” you silenced him. “Don’t say anything. Not yet…”

He closed his eyes and leaned in, resting his forehead softly against yours, his breath shaky and uneven.

Sihtric’s thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone again, then down, just barely grazing the corner of your mouth, a touch so light it might have been imagined. His hand was rough, calloused, yet his touch was anything but. 

His breath caught and so did yours.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you and his eyes searched yours as if asking one last time – are you sure?

You didn’t nod, you didn’t speak, you simply tilted your face up, just slightly, your lips parting with the softest of exhales in an answer he felt rather than heard.

Sihtric leaned in, agonizingly slow, giving you every second to change your mind and then, finally, his lips touched yours, not with hunger, not with fire, with wonder.

His lips were warm, uncertain at first, resting against yours without pressure, testing, waiting.

You kissed him back, gently, slowly.

His mouth moved against yours, deepening the kiss by degrees, careful, tender, every shift of his lips telling you what words never could. His hand slid from your cheek to the curve of your neck, thumb resting at your jaw.

Your fingers curled in the edges of his leather armour, pulling him just a little closer and he responded with a soft moan.

The kiss grew fuller, more certain, more passionate, full of aching sweetness, the kind that says: I remember you. I missed you. I never stopped loving you.

And yet for the first time in what felt like forever, it didn’t feel like looking back, it felt like a beginning.

[hy0rii]

still here

Pairing: Kento Nanami x F!Reader Genre: Angst to Fluff Word Count: 3,101

we will find our way back to each other

He arrived home late once more, his seven-month-old daughter already tucked in and fast asleep. Nanami Kento could already picture the conversation that awaited between you and him. His hands move the key to open the front door, while the other holds his briefcase. Being an office worker is tiring, but being a father is even more so. 

Nanami understands that he's not the only one working hard each day. You chose to stop working to focus on caring for your child while he continued with his job. A few months after your precious daughter was born, tensions started to rise between the two of you, even though you both loved her dearly.

When Kento entered, he heard sounds coming from the kitchen. You were pouring yourself a glass of water in the middle of the night. “I’m home, sweetheart,” he whispered, knowing his voice would be heard clearly in the silent house. After leaving his briefcase and jacket on the couch, he approached the kitchen. You’re not upset with each other, yet the relationship feels different. More distant, and that hurts him deeply. Nanami Kento refused to become one of those men who are only tied to their spouses because of their children. 

You hear his voice before you see him, quiet but clear in the stillness of the night. Your hand stills around the glass of water. You hadn’t expected him to be back so soon, though you suppose “soon” has taken on a new meaning lately. You don’t rush to turn around, but you don’t ignore him either. A heaviness in your chest, familiar now, rises whenever he comes home, and you realize how little you’ve spoken that day.

You finally speak, softly. “Hey. Long day?”

And he noticed how your hand stilled around the glass of water when he greeted you. His eyes then traveled to your back. You weren’t even turning to greet him. A small sigh escaped his lips when you finally spoke softly. He was tired, and seeing you avoid his gaze when he was right behind you hurt him.

“Yeah…” he quietly replied. His hands rested on your shoulders now that you had stopped pouring the water. Now he could tell how stiff your shoulders were. 

You didn’t pull away when he touched your shoulders, but you didn’t lean into him either. Your body remained tense, like you had forgotten to relax under his touch. The warmth of his hands should have been comforting, it used to be, but now it just reminded you how long it had been since you felt close.

You closed your eyes for a moment, the sting of tears threatening, but you held them back; you didn’t want to cry, not because you were angry, but because if you started, you weren’t sure you’d stop. Because you didn’t know how to say everything that had been building up: the loneliness, the resentment, the guilt. How every time he left before sunrise and returned after dark, it felt like you were both slowly forgetting how to be each other’s person.

A mixture of emotions washed over him when he felt the tension in your shoulders. It starkly contrasted how you used to relax under his touch. He remembered how natural it used to feel, but now it felt awkward, distant between the two.

His grip on your shoulders tightened just a bit as he noticed how you closed your eyes. Seeing you like this, trying to hold back tears, made his heart ache. He knew he hadn’t been a great partner lately—a great husband, to you, his precious wife.

“I’m tired, Kento,” you said finally, your voice thick. “I don't want to feel so alone with you anymore,” you admitted quietly.

He felt a pang when he realized how much you were carrying. You felt alone even though he was physically present. “I know…” he replied, gently massaging your shoulders to soothe your pain. His breath hitched before he continued. “I’ve been a terrible husband.”

His words hung heavy between you, their weight pressing against the space that had grown between you over the months. His hands, warm and tentative, tried to convey everything his words couldn’t fully reach. But the tension in your muscles didn’t ease. Maybe because it wasn’t just physical exhaustion, but the emotional weariness that had settled in. 

“You haven’t been terrible,” you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t an excuse for him, but it was the truth, even if it didn’t make it all better. You couldn’t deny how much he had sacrificed, how hard he had worked. But you also couldn’t ignore the absence that had slowly crept into your life, longing for him to.

He felt a strange mix of relief and guilt hearing your words. Relief at your understanding, but guilt for letting it come to this. His hands moved from your shoulders to your waist, pulling you closer than before.

He leaned into you, his head resting against your shoulder. He inhaled your familiar scent, the scent he’d missed so much.

“I’ve been distant,” he murmured, his voice heavy with remorse. “I’ve been so focused on work that I haven’t been here for you. For us.”

You turned your head just slightly, enough that your profile was visible to him. The water glass was still in your hand, forgotten.

“I didn’t want to make you feel like I was angry with you,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “I just…I felt invisible. Like I was handling everything on my own. And I didn’t know how to tell you that without making you feel like you were failing me.” You paused, the words coming faster, like a dam finally breaking. “I didn’t want to add to your burden, Kento. But my fears came true. I became someone’s mom. I miss working. I miss having you around. I feel like I’m losing my purpose, and I hate it. I needed you.”

His heart ached. His grip on your waist tightened as if he were trying to hold on to you. He rested his chin on your shoulder. His gaze never leaves your profile. You were expressing your feelings, and he was listening to them—the feelings he’d been unintentionally causing. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he let your words sink in. They were a painful but necessary wake-up call. He wrapped his arms tighter around you, pulling you even closer. 

“Do you not love us?” you asked quietly, fat, hot tears rolling down your face.

He was taken aback by the sudden question and the sight of your tears. It broke his heart even more. He spun you around to face him, bringing his hand up to cup your tear-stained face.

“No, how can you think?” His voice was filled with desperation and pain. “I love you and our little one with all my heart.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, your noses nearly touching. 

“I miss you,” you whispered, your voice cracking, betraying how much you meant it. 

He heard those words, and a bottomless pit of guilt formed in his stomach. He had failed. Seeing the pain in your eyes, the tears streaming down your face. Gently, he moved your face, angling it so he could kiss your tears away. He kissed them away one by one, his lips gentle against your skin. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I made you feel this way.” He whispered. 

 The gentle press of his lips against your skin, each kiss a silent apology, sent a wave of emotion crashing over you. The warmth of his touch, so tender, so full of regret, was enough to unravel everything you had been holding back.

You could feel the sincerity in how he kissed each tear away, his hands trembling slightly as they cupped your face. The rawness broke something deep within you. The man who had been so distant, wrapped up in his struggles, was finally here, reaching for you.

You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t, the pain wasn’t gone, but the softness in his touch, the way he held you so carefully now, was something you hadn’t felt in so long. The space between you that had once felt insurmountable was now filled with a quiet hope– a whisper of what could be if you tried. 

“I didn't mean to push you away,” you mumbled, your voice fragile, still shaky from the tears.

Kento knew he pushed you away, not intentionally, but the result was the same. The distance between you is slowly bridging again. “I know, and I should’ve noticed. I should’ve been there for you.” His thumbs caressed your cheeks, the touch both tender and desperate. He leaned closer, his mouth hovering just above yours. He’d missed this intimacy, this closeness.

You let your eyes flutter closed, the closeness between you almost suffocating in its intensity. You missed this, too. The tenderness, the affection, the feeling of being seen by him in a way that had once come so naturally but had been buried beneath the weight of life. 

His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, like he was waiting for your permission and giving you the space to decide if you both needed this.

Slowly, you closed the gap, allowing your lips to meet his. The kiss was soft, slow, and laden with everything you couldn’t say. The tenderness in the kiss made your heart ache, but it also brought relief. It was a promise, an unspoken agreement to start again, to find each other in the quiet spaces where the words had been too hard to say. 

The simple act of closing the gap between your lips was almost overwhelming for him. The flood of feelings it stirred within caught him off guard: pain, regret, and intense longing that had been suppressed for far too long.

As your lips met his, they moved together in a slow, gentle dance. It was a dance of forgiveness, of understanding, and of a love that had been tested but refused to crumble completely. 

He deepened the kiss, his tongue lightly tracing the contours of your mouth. His touch was both tender and possessive. You responded in kind, your lips parting slightly, inviting him closer, the kiss growing deeper with each movement. You let yourself feel the intensity of the moment. Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. It was a reminder that, despite everything, he was still here, still with you. 

Nanami pulled you closer, molding your body against his. Your touch on his chest, feeling the rhythmic beating of his heart, sent a jolt down his spine. The kiss grew more urgent, more desperate. Your lips moved in sync, parting and coming together in an intimate dance, a language you’d forgotten to speak but were now rediscovering. His hands moved down to your waist, his grip tight, pulling you closer.

The kiss slowed, your foreheads met gently, both of you taking a moment to breathe and feel the night's quiet settle against you. His hands still rested on your waist, keeping you close, not wanting to let go of this fragile closeness that had returned between you.

Kento wasn’t just apologizing with his lips. In this quiet, intimate moment, he was showing you that he was here and ready to rebuild. Ready to fight for you, for the love that had been tested but was still worth holding onto.

You pressed your lips to his again, softly, a promise this time—one that said, I’m here too.

He felt your forehead against his, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around them like a comforting blanket. His hands still held your waist, the touch saying more than his words could.

When your lips met his again, in a softer, promise-filled kiss, he drew in a smooth, shaky breath. It felt like a revelation, a validation that you were in this together.

His grip on your waist tightened slightly, the gesture protective and possessive. He didn't want this closeness ever to fade again. "I love you," he murmured, his voice rough and choked up.

“I love you, too, Kento.”

Hearing those three simple words, it was as if a weight lifted off his shoulders—the weight of his guilt, failures, and the distance that had grown between you.

Hearing you say you loved him, too, was a precious reminder of what he nearly lost.

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping tightly around you. He buried his face into your neck, his breath warm and shaky against your skin.

"I promise I'll do better," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"I believe you," you whispered back, your hands finding his back, gently pressing into him as if you needed to be reminded of his strength, which both of you could find together. "I just need you to be here."

Your words washed over him like a wave, filling him with relief and determination. He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze. "I’m here. I'm here."

The raw honesty in those words, the quiet promise they held, echoed through the stillness of the night. He pulled you even closer, his body pressed against yours.

"I’ll make it up to you," he murmured, his voice determined but gentle. "All of it.”

“I know you will,” you whispered, your voice a soft murmur against his chest, filled with a quiet belief that had been absent for far too long. “You’re already doing it.”

The faintest of smiles curled the corners of his lips as he heard your words. They were both a reassurance and a challenge.

His hand moved up to gently cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles on your skin. "We’re doing it," he corrected you softly, his eyes never leaving yours.

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, their breaths mingling in the intimate space between them. "Together."

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice soft but firm, as your hands found their way to his cheeks, grounding yourself in his embrace. “Together.”

His heart skipped a beat as you whispered the word back at him, your hands on his cheeks anchoring him to this moment of vulnerability and connection. In the quiet of the night, the word 'together' held a powerful meaning, a promise to face the future as a unified front.

He pulled you impossibly closer, his arms encircling you in a tight embrace, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck. "I won’t leave your side again," he vowed softly, his words a quiet declaration of devotion.

EXTRA

As the first rays of morning sunlight peeked through the curtains, you stirred in your bed, slowly emerging from a quiet slumber. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the gentle luminosity creeping into the room.

Beside you, the other side of the bed was empty. The sheets are cool and untouched. Your heart skipped a beat as your mind fully woke, the absence of your husband not unnoticed.

A soft scoff escaped your lips as you sat up in bed, the coolness of the sheets beside you more of a sting than you expected. After the vulnerability of last night, the closeness you’d shared—it stung to wake up and not find him there. You had hoped that he’d at least be beside you in the morning after everything, but there was only a space.

Shaking off the sleepiness, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, your feet meeting the cool floor. You heard faint giggles and soft chatter from downstairs, a sound that immediately drew you out of your thoughts and toward the source. A soft smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you walked toward the stairs.

You couldn’t help but pause just outside the doorway as you approached the kitchen. You saw him, Kento, shirtless, moving around the kitchen with a comforting and familiar ease. His back was to you as he hovered over the stove, the smell of something sizzling in the air.

But it wasn’t just him. He held your seven-month-old daughter in his arms, the soft giggles and the cooing noises coming from her mixing with his quiet, soothing murmurs as he gently rocked her in his arms. The scene before you was enough to stop you in your tracks, your heart instantly softening at the sight.

He was absorbed in his task, oblivious to your presence in the doorway, focused solely on the breakfast that sizzled in the pan, and their daughter.

His gentle swaying movements were like a calming dance, his voice low and soft as he whispered quiet reassurances to the little girl. Now and then, he’d nuzzle his face into her, eliciting another series of giggles.

As your heart melted at the spectacle, a thought crossed your mind, a subtle realization. This man, this stoic and hardworking husband, was also very much a daddy.

You leaned against the doorway, watching the quiet dance of fatherhood unfold before you. There was peace in your heart for the first time in a while. The tension from the night before felt like it had melted away with every soft giggle, every gentle movement.

He continued to move around the kitchen, tending to the food on the stove and stealing moments to play with their little girl. She’d reach for his face, her tiny fingers trying to grab his nose, and he would gently catch her hand, placing a soft kiss on her wrist before returning to the task at hand.

He must have sensed your presence, though, as he must have picked up the subtle sound of your breathing. His gaze darted towards the doorway, where you stood, watching him.

“Morning,” you said quietly, stepping closer.

He nodded. “Morning.”

You glanced at the stove, then at the little one clinging to him, her wide eyes following every movement he made. “This is… probably the best breakfast I’ve ever woken up to.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, a little sheepish. “It’s just pancakes,” he said. “She insisted on helping.”

“Ah. The sous-chef?”

“She takes her role very seriously,” he deadpanned, glancing down as your daughter babbled in agreement. He kissed her chubby wrist absentmindedly, adjusting her on his hip.

You laughed softly, the sound lighter than you expected. “You’re not too bad at this, you know.”

He looked up again, meeting your gaze for a long, quiet beat. No more walls. No more weight. Just him. Here. Present.

“I’m trying,” he said.

And that was enough.

author's note: i finished my 6,000-word project proposal (!!!), so here’s a little treat for you<3

again i would appreciate any feedback or thoughts on how i can improve going forward.

[evenyvn]

Love Know no Bounds

Poly! WooSan x Fem! Reader

summary : Bound by years of friendship, you, San, and Wooyoung teeter on the edge of something more—where every touch lingers too long, and every glance says what none of you dare to speak.

cw : she/her reader, sfw, slightly suggestive, fluff, a little angst, fast-burn, bestfriends to lovers, un-established polyamorous relationship, three of them are in denial and oblivious, yearning, more to be added.

masterlist — next

You’ve known them for as long as you’ve known yourself.

Choi San and Jung Wooyoung—your constants, your other halves—your world. From the moment you all could walk, it was always you three. Stumbling toddlers, mischievous kids, awkward middle schoolers, and now high school seniors standing on the edge of adulthood together.

Your parents would often laugh, shaking their heads fondly whenever the three of you tumbled into someone's living room, backpacks half-zipped, snacks stuffed in your hands, talking over each other without any care of the world. Three peas in a pod, they'd say.

But somewhere between childhood adventures and high school hallways, things shifted.

It’s subtle at first. An accidental brush of San’s fingers on your waist that lingers a heartbeat too long. The way Wooyoung’s gaze burns on your skin, especially when you laugh a little too freely—it's lingering, or how he sometimes watches San with a look that makes your stomach knot.

You pretend you don’t notice. But you do.

Because you’re guilty of the same things.

You've seen it when San sits beside Wooyoung on the couch on a movie night, thigh pressed flush against his, San's hand idly stroking slow, lazy circles on Wooyoung’s thigh. You see how Wooyoung leans into it without a second thought, biting his lip, pretending he doesn't crave more.

You feel it when San's arm curls around your waist protectively in crowded hallways, his hand splaying a little too possessively on your hip, his body pressed against yours like a silent promise as your heartbeats with his against his chest.

You feel it when Wooyoung’s eyes, usually so bright, so mischievous—now soften whenever they land on you, dipping down briefly to your lips, like he’s imagining a thousand different ways to kiss you, like he craves the taste of your lips.

And God, you can’t even blame them. You’re just as bad.

Your body reacts instinctively—tensing under San’s touch before melting against him, heart hammering when Wooyoung’s gaze pins you, it makes you squirm and blush and ache for something you’re too scared to ask for.

Because you're all terrified.

You’re terrified that one move, one word, could shatter the bond you spent a lifetime building. Terrified that giving in to the wildfire burning between you would ruin everything.

So you stay silent.

You laugh, you tease, you cling to each other with trembling hands, pretending the world hasn’t shifted under your feet. Pretending you don't notice how San’s breath hitches when Wooyoung leans too close, or how Wooyoung’s fingers brush your knuckles like a secret apology.

Love, real love—not in a platonic way like it used to be—it buzzes in every glance, every touch, every stolen moment too intimate for words.

You wonder sometimes, lying awake at night, what it would be like if you were just a little bit brave. If San pulled you into his lap and kissed you breathless while Wooyoung pressed close behind you, his lips finding the hollow of your neck—Sharing an unspoken devotion between the three of you.

If you could all stop pretending and start belonging to each other the way your hearts already do.

Because love doesn’t know bounds.

Not between you, not between San and Wooyoung, not between Wooyoung and you, not between San and you.

And deep down, you know—it’s not a matter of if.

It’s when.

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divider by @.adornedwithlight | likes, reblogs, and comments are very appreciated ♡

[enha4everr]

pirouettes and petty arguments

PARING: dance rivals riki x reader

GENRE: dance rivals to lovers, mutual pining, teasing, fluff, teensy bit of angst.

SYNOPSIS: At the Korean National University of Arts, Nishimura Riki is the most admired dancer, the ‘golden boy’ of the department —infuriatingly talented and always two steps ahead. When you’re unexpectedly paired with him for the lead role in Lacrimosa, your world tilts, as you struggle to maintain the blurring lines between rivalry and another emotion you’re just not ready to admit.

You know how every department has that one person?

The one who makes everything look effortless. The one who somehow manages to charm professors, classmates, and the janitor who mops the practice floors at 11 PM. 

The one who spins through life like gravity just—isn’t a thing.

Yeah. At the Korean National University of Arts, Nishimura Riki is the most admired dancer in the department.

"Riki, with his too-perfect turnout, the infuriating, half-hearted grin, and that slouchy grey hoodie. He moves with an infinite amount of control, so effortless that it makes your best pirouette feel like a warm-up.

Yet he never stretches long, never complains, never seems to try—at least not in the way you do.

But Riki’s always watching, and somehow, that’s what makes it worse.

And you hate him. Mostly.

Okay, maybe not him, exactly. Maybe it’s more the way you feel, whenever he walks into the room—like suddenly you're auditioning for your own life.

The auditions for the winter showcase were always intense. Both of you are going for the same lead in Lacrimosa. It’s brutal choreography—dark, sweeping, emotional. It’s supposed to strip you bare. And you’d been working your ass off, running that solo every night until your muscles trembled and the pads of your feet go numb.

Meanwhile, he strolls in ten minutes late, hair tousled as if he’s just rolled out of bed, headphones around his neck, like this was just another Tuesday. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t apologize, just moves through the door as if time and space bend to him. Riki’s presence fills the room without trying. The class is already in motion, but he’s unfazed. You swear he doesn’t even notice the way everyone's eyes dart toward him— he’s too busy slipping into his ballet shoes.

He barely warms up, stretching with a casual slouch, his arms wide in lazy arcs as though his body knows exactly what it needs without any effort. He yawns— during barre of all things. And still—still— when the music starts, it’s like someone flips a switch. He moves like liquid gold—smooth, fluid, so attuned to the rhythm that it's almost like the music was made just for him. Every beat is a part of him. He doesn’t just dance, he becomes the dance, as if it’s coursing through his veins.

Afterward, you’re toweling off when he walks past, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nice try, Twinkle Toes. You almost nailed that last sequence.”

You don’t even bother to look up. Almost? What is this, kindergarten?  

“Was I supposed to get a gold star or something?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, just enough to make even you wince

Riki sports his signature smirk “Gold star?” he chuckles, eyes glinting with his usual mischief.

You don’t respond, but you can feel it—the way your heart pounds in your chest, blood rushing in your ears. Warmth creeping up your neck despite yourself. You desperately avoid his taunting gaze, but it’s pointless.

Riki notices. He always does.

The nickname. Twinkle Toes. It lingers in the air like it always does, etching into your skin like a mark that won’t fade. A permanent reminder of that first moment, two years ago, the one when it all started—when you learned how to hate that nickname, how to hate him.

He pauses just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “Almost doesn’t count, though, does it? Or maybe you’re just waiting for me to give you a hand...?”

“Prove you’ve got what it takes. Go on, try again.” His voice is unusually light, softening ever so slightly — just enough to make your pulse pick up.

Your hands tremble as you try to hold onto the towel, but it's hard to focus when every nerve is firing in response to his voice. That familiar feeling—the one you hate and yet crave—starts to curl up inside your chest. It’s a dare wrapped in a challenge. You want to prove him wrong, to show him that you can do it, even though every part of you is screaming to just let it go—to let him have this one. 

You take a deep breath locking eyes with him for a split second. His smirk, that infuriating smirk, is still there, like he knows exactly what you're feeling. Like he’s waiting for you to crack.

But you don’t. Not this time. You refuse.

With a tilt of your head, you drop the towel and push past him, stepping back into the practice room. You straighten your shoulders, taking in a deep breath as you let your gaze touch the mirrored wall in front of you.

For a moment, it feels like everything goes still as if the air itself is holding its breath. Then with a sharp, quick, decisive motion, you push yourself back into the rhythm. Every step, every movement is precise. You don’t need to look at him to know he’s watching, but you can feel his presence. His eyes boring into the back of your neck like they always do.

But this time, you don’t falter. You don’t let his words hold you back. This time, you nail it—every motion, turn and leap is utterly flawless. The sequence feels effortless, almost like you’ve been doing it your whole life.

And when the music fades, there are a few beats of silence that feel like victory.

You don’t turn to look at him. Instead, you take a moment to breathe, to ground yourself in the stillness. 

Now you’ve proved something, not to him, but to yourself. You don’t need his approval to know what you're capable of.

And Riki? He’s still there, probably waiting for a reaction. But the only thing that matters now is the quiet satisfaction of knowing you’ve come this far, no thanks to his mockery.

“Checkmate” you mutter in satisfaction, your tone is just a little too calm. Just a little too confident. 

And this time, the challenge is yours.

Riki stays silent, his gaze locked on you from the practice room but he hasn’t admitted defeat. 

A fluke

You may have won this round, but now… now things are about to get more complicated.  — It’s been a week since the auditions. 

The cast sheet is tacked up, a simple, innocent piece of paper at first glance. The names listed are familiar, but one stands out—Your name. His name. Side by side. Double leads. Shared choreography. Partners. You blink, rubbing your eyes as though to clear the fog, but it doesn’t change. The words are still there, mocking you, the ink thick and permanent.

It’s supposed to be a dream, right? The roles you've fought for, the part you’ve worked tirelessly to earn. But something about it gnaws at you. The other names are just names, but his, his name—it feels wrong in your throat, like trying to swallow something sharp.

You reach for the page, fingers trembling, and your breath catches when you feel the edge of the paper, almost too smooth. Too cold.

Around you, the others are congratulating each other, but the noise fades, muffled, as if you’re underwater. His name glows in the corner of your vision, searing into your mind. The laughter, the chatter, the excitement — all of it seems so distant, so foreign.

And then, from the corner of your eye, you catch him looking. Not just glancing. But staring. His lips curve into a small smirk as though he knows exactly what’s happening inside you. 

A slow, creeping dread starts to coil in your chest. You’re not sure if it’s the role or the person beside it that’s more terrifying. But one thing is clear: this isn’t just dance anymore. It’s a trap. And you’re caught in it, no way out, no way back.

— Now you're stuck holding his hand in rehearsal, pretending it doesn’t fit too well in yours. The heat of his palm against yours is a little too warm for your own good. You fight to keep your grip steady, even as it betrays you. 

It’s just the steps. Just the routine.

You’re pretending your breath doesn’t hitch when you land that lift together, even though you’ve done it a hundred times. His chest presses against your back, and for a second, the movement feels too easy. Too natural. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. 

That tight pull in your chest is just the adrenaline, the effort, the fight. 

Nothing more.

But you feel it anyway. The way his fingers interlace into yours and the way he moves with precision, like he’s memorized every part of you.  

Please focus. You’re forcing your eyes to stay forward, even though the mirror feels like it’s tormenting you. And so is his reflection. 

Don’t look at him. Don’t give him any reason to think you’re noticing.

Yet, the moment he catches your gaze in the mirror—just for a fraction of a second—your stomach lurches. 

Dammit. You can’t be doing this.

You’re supposed to be competitors, not—your thoughts are trailing. It’s leaving a gnawing sensation in your chest. It’s a struggle for the spotlight. It’s not anything else. It can’t be.

But when he steps a little closer during the last sequence, you can feel the heat radiating off him and you can’t ignore the way your pulse races.

 Skin pricking with awareness. 

You’re not falling. 

Not yet.

But the thought feels weaker now, like it’s just a matter of time before you do.

[lazyjellyfish300]

Heyyy🤍 I hope you are doing well.

I personally don't know where to start, I recently started following you and I'm a writer myself. I read something you wrote for nanami and personally everything you write for him is so exquisite and domestic I love it so much :') in general your writing is such a breath of fresh air.

Which is why I was wondering (only if you take requests) that it's possible if you can write something about reader, having exams :') and how the reader might be pushing herself too hard at times and sometimes have no motivation to study, and struggle to find the confidence that they could go to university or something or just that they lack confidence, with Nanami / Gojo. I have exams in three weeks and to tell you the truth I'm so nervous, haven't been eating well (lost weight), and all these things come whenever it's that times so... if you could write me a comforting thing like this :') it would mean so much. I hope this ask finds you well and thank you so much for your writing it's great to find writers a like you 🤍

Ps:if you could add the profession the reader wants to go into, definitely medicine or law :')

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒃𝒆𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅𝒔 ݁ ˖☁︎ ⚡︎

☁︎ nanami kento x gn!reader. words 2.8k

☁︎cw: fluff, angst w comfort, insecurity, difficulty eating, scarred!post shibuya nanami, established relationship.

☁︎ a/n: thank you for these sweet words nonnie! it means the world to me!! 💞 you're too kind. i wish you the best of luck with your exams. you CAN do it! 💞 my heart goes out to you and to anyone else suffering from the joys of finals rn. i went with Kento and med school if that's okay with you. 💞 Hope you enjoy!! 🥰 dividers by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more

You wished you hadn't forgotten your umbrella today. The streets of Tokyo gloss over in a river of afternoon rain. The sky sets off a latent rumble that echoes between the ashen clouds that the sun has all but disappeared behind.

"Storm sounds serious." You muse to yourself, relieved to be free from the shackles of your morning classes and that your next destination was the blankets and pillows that awaited you at home.

The rain was a welcome distraction from all the stress that bogged you with the looming onset of finals, particularly your vascular systems test, and the imposter syndrome that chased you like a plague. It felt like a to do list with no clear ending.

Despite summiting the daunting task of being accepted into your dream school, you felt pressure like you needed to prove yourself week after week, narrowly dodging the ever lurking shadows of failure. You were a burnout being asked to run on an empty gas tank.

You put your earbuds in as you board the train, mind transporting itself elsewhere. Even in his absence, your lover's calm and steady voice echoes assurance in your eardrums and you lay your head back as the song begins, watching the mossy dark turquoise world of outside layered in cloud cover rush by your windows.

---

You fumble with your tote bag for that pain-in-the-ass key that loved to tumble to the very bottom and open the door to your apartment.

Already it's so much warmer, not thanks to the familiarity of your home, but the person in it.

Kento looks up at you from where he's sitting at your small table with stacks of haphazard papers, coupons for restaurants you'll probably forget and never use, utility bills, and folders with sticky notes where you normally sit in scattered chaos. It was a rather hilarious contrast to the bareness of his side, an agglomeration of your two worlds that was uniquely endearing, opposites in origin that were ultimately better together.

He has a worn novel in hand that he's pausing with the Totoro bookmark you got him for Christmas, subtle indentions along the spine marking the several times he had opened it- suggesting a story well-loved. Next to him is a mug on a cactus coaster and a half eaten bacon egg and cheese on the other.

"Home early, sweetheart? Wasn't expecting you so soon."You smile at him and hang up your coat, shedding your shoes as you walk up to greet him.

"Well, Masamichi gave me the option to leave early." He closes the book with a hum.

The hidden sun behind the rain clouds outside it seems had been plucked away and found residence right in front of you, all the sunshine in his gaze whose adoration could not be obscured by the plain black eyepatch on his left side.

He gives you that handsome close-lipped smile, subtle with the sprinkle of crows feet on either side of his face, still wearing his navy dress shirt and slacks, a pair of fleece slippers on his feet.

It was that adorably frustrating propriety he never seemed to shed, but the presence of slippers suggested he was slowing giving into casualness, cracking just a little under your cozy influence.

"I had hoped to see you after your classes. And I'm glad I did."

He sweeps you into a hug, not minding the remnants of chill on your crewneck sweater and his heartbeat swallows you slowly.

Kento was not like the intense rays from direct sunlight, rather the patches of warmth that live along a windowsill in between pockets of shade where a small cat would lull to sleep. The kind that spells the promise of comfort admist a world drowned in cold, much like outside, whose sunlight graduated to its own form bottled and personified in the soul of this beautiful man you loved so much.

"Hungry?"

He takes note of the slight wilt in your eyes, the tension in your shoulders that had not unraveled, the weariness he sensed that weighed at the back of your mind he had picked up in the time he spent loving you.

"You should eat, love. There's coffee." He suggests carefully if a sandwich seemed too formidable in the moment, taking your hands in his with a gesture towards the kitchen.

"Mkay....coffee."

He smiles as he wins you over, one mug at a time. He crosses to the cupboard, finding your second favorite since the one you loved the most was characteristically dirty, possibly still living next to your keyboard in your office as it so often did.

The dark elixir trickles into the mug with a thin plume of steam, hands graceful as he endeavored in preparing the brew just the way you like.

He's pleased with himself as he watches you take it with the ends of your sweater pulled over your palms like hot pads, before you retreat under the sanctuary of a blanket on the couch.

He drinks you in one last time before the sandwich station commands his full attention.

If he was the sun, then you must be the rain in his meteorological equation. The dissonance of raindrops you bring to his life are not enough to clash over the persistence of warmth he delivered, but instead result into something pleasant, a summertime shower of rain like the ones in the evening that invite respite and suggest closeness after spryness and the energy of constant daylight.

You to him were a period of refreshment that flourished the endless gardens he watched over. Both souls enriched from wandering in each other's paths despite the unlikely way you came to be.

He joins you on the couch with a turkey avocado sandwich on a plate with both your legs outstretched on the ottoman until they tangle in each other, giggling as you afforded him room under the blanket that was just a hair too small before he surrenders and leaves to get one more from the closet.

He rejoins you again, allowing you to settle into the familiar left side of his body that you all but created a home in. His scent, subtly citrus, with a bite of ocean, slightly weakened by the rain and the hours he had been at work. The sandwich goes down much more easily after the coffee and with the steadiness of Kento next to you, turning on a rerun of your favorite show.

Your chests rise and fall in slow synchrony, anchoring faithfully to the present when even a million things that called your attention could not break through the peaceful barrier you built together in a fortress of warmth, blankets, coffee, sandwiches, and episodes you've seen a million times.

"How are you?" He asks softly when a commercial comes on, his index finger and thumb lingering at your nape, grazing the dainty chain of your necklace in gentle preoccupation.

"I could be better." You shyly admit as his fingers travel in a subtle dance down your arms.

A shadow of dissatisfaction casts over his expression, his gaze searching for the source of your discomfort.

"Do you feel better than since you got home, at least?"

"Yeah." You nod, managing a smile, a little piece of lettuce stuck to your lip.

"Good." He echoes your grin, gently removing the lettuce with a swipe of his thumb.

"It's just these exams. I'm exhausted. Feels like I'm being asked to remember a million things with no way to recall them. And no pauses in between. Like....like sweeping a floor with a matchstick while somebody's dumping a trashcan of dust onto it every five minutes."

He pauses, eye widening and nodding slowly at the remarkable brilliance of the metaphor and the stickiness of the situation. "That's a...very specific and accurate way of putting it."

"Baby, I don't know if I'm cut out for this."

"Why do you say that, darling?" His voice cuts to worry, disapproval apparent as he clicks his teeth.

"It's kicking my ass. Feels like the concepts just come easier to everyone else. The wave of knowledge is literally hitting everyone but me."

"That's normal, my love." He hums, continuing his soft ministrations on the back of your neck, your arms, keeping your hair at bay as you slowly eat. "The material will become clear in due time."

"What if it doesn't?"

"It will. You're just being hard on yourself." He remarks, as his middle finger slides up and down your nape.

"It will come. You're diligent, and hard working. I've seen you make it happen. But with that also comes rest." His tone becomes a tad more serious, but there is nothing but love intended behind his words. "You don't need to struggle on your own."

"I feel like I need to, though."

His brow furrows. "That's a foolish thing to put yourself through. There's no award for struggling the hardest."

"Well my brain says I gotta." You state blandly as you take another bite, eyes fixated in a robotic stare at the television.

Kento leans back at your rebellion, still not satisfied with your tone. "That so? Well, I won't let you."

"Really?" You turn to him, keeping your face straight as you take another bite, a dot of mayo on your nose.

"Yes." He answers, solidifying his point as he dabs the mayo with a napkin.

"Controlling mister."

"A caring mister. More for yourself than my own." He corrects as he folds up the dirty napkin. "I only interfere when it's becoming clear you're doing damage to yourself."

The irony of it all is a little too uncanny. Perhaps now Kento knew how you felt almost every single day with his own self-sacrificial tendencies.

"You know, You need to take your own advice." You tease, burden a little more light with more sandwich in you. "Usually it's me telling you to rest."

He huffs a short puff of air from his nose, a sigh in surrender as he knows you're right, but pulling you closer all the same.

"You're right. But, this isn't about me. We're focused on you right now."

"Hmm. It's why you fell in love with me, isn't it?"

"Haha, a reason among thousands, darling." His voice and his expression seems to glisten as the words leave his mouth.

"But yes, it is one of them." He muses, happy as you continue to take small bites of the sandwich, the savory taste combined with the coffee settling in your belly with the calming flash of the television, and the stalwart command in his presence slowly fulfilled you the longer you stayed side by side.

"You still should've fell in love with a genius instead."

He looks over and glares at you, eyebrow curling with his displeasure at your remark.

"That's uncalled for."

"Why? Then you wouldn't need to baby me so much with my studies." You pout, leaning into his arm.

"It's not babying. It's called being a partner." He hums. "Stop that negative talk. You're wonderful and intelligent and I wish you knew that all the time."

He places your empty plate on the coffee table and holds you. As much as he disliked hearing your self-critiques, he knew underneath it was a silent plea for his affection. You knew better than to trouble yourself with begging for what he always gave you so easily just like oxygen. But in times like the present, sometimes you needed just a little bit more.

"Why are you so good to me, Ken?"

The innocence of the question begs the very faint semblance of a smile on his lips, and he relents his sterness a little with a sigh.

"Because that's my job. That's the duty of loving." His fingers brush at your collar, the warmth of his hand leaving the surface of the skin where he found it to be reduced to a cloud.

"To be strong where you feel you can't. To shoulder the burden when it gets to be too heavy. That's partnership." He reminds you, looking at you, praying his words sink in. "I'm not doing my part if I see you suffer."

"I'm tired, Ken."

"Then rest, darling." He replies simply, cradling your face. "I'm not going anywhere."

"But I need to study."

"You can." He hums, pad of his thumb flicking your bottom lip. "But you're trying to pour from an empty cup right now, my love. You need to rest."

"But-"

"No buts." He says firmly. "Just rest."

You close your eyes and relent under his insistence. He exhales, happy with the reunion of your head against his chest, fingers lingering in that familiar dance up and down your arm.

You cuddle there in silence, the calm of the afternoon washing over you with the incessant trickle of raindrops and the dialogue of the TV. The silence giving light to the tender dynamic of your relationship that always called him back to the beginning where it all started.

It was little things like the serenity of right now that affirmed that his decision to visit his mother and pick up her ring that now lived in the back of your closet was the best he had made in such a long time.

"Sweetheart?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Can't sleep."

"Hm." He looks you over, heart tightening slightly at the anxiety still obvious in your disposition and how it remained despite the moments of silence, wishing he could dash it all at once. "Let's go to bed?"

"I'm too cozy to move."

He chokes out a laugh, taking note of your limbs wound tightly in your blanket burrito and how cute you are when you're in your snuggly element. "Well, then let's stay here."

"But I can't sleep."

"Just relax and close your eyes.""

"Ohhh, you don't say?"

"Don't be facetious, darling." Kento scolds. He rubs your shoulder, slow and methodical. "Should I start counting sheep?"

"Mmm...no, thank you. That's boring. Rather just keep talking to you..."

You trace over his scars, your favorite trail to blaze in its familiar pattern of a forest among the earth of his exterior.

"Having fun?" He raises a brow, that tenderness clawing at his firm heartstrings that always made it impossible to stay stern.

"I'm having a freakin blast."

"Good." He turns his attention back to the TV for a long while, not minding your ongoing exploration, doing his best not to succumb to sleep before you did, knowing you'd sneak back to your studies when you weren't allowed.

After a long while, he asks,

"Sleepy yet?"

"Not really..." You yawn. "I should really study."

"You should really sleep." He murmurs, brushing his nose against yours.

"But I cannnnn't." You pout and Kento's heartbeat does that subtle throb in his chest when you were being unintentionally adorable.

He tsks again and takes one of your hands in his, fingertips tracing over the embedded lines of your open palm, tickling your knuckles as he gets an idea.

"Very well. How about a pop quiz?"

He runs his pinky from the top of your hand to the bottom.

"What is the name of the vein that runs along here?" He asks, allowing it to linger in a circle as he awaits your answer.

You yawn again,"That's easy. The cephalic vein, part of the dorsal venous network."

"Mhmm. And what about here?" He pauses at your wrist, pad of his index finger paused over the vitality that thrummed in the vein underneath.

"That's the radial...." You answer, your tone a little more heavy this time. Kento smiles to himself as sleep begins to slowly tug at you.

"Mhmm..and this...?" His finger trails to the crook of your forearm.

"Um..." You blink slowly. It's becoming more difficult to keep your eyes open, but you jerk your head, in denial about the gradual hold your fatigue was having on you. "It's uh...the uhm...median cubital."

"Good." Kento says more softly this time as your head hits the plane of his chest, not noticing the kiss he leaves in your hair as he tucks the blanket over your shoulder.

"And...this?" He whispers, stoking your cheek.

There is no answer from you this time, just pounding of raindrops on the roof, the cozy smell of coffee and his cologne along your cheek that made you melt deeper into him, not minding the background noise of the ads from the TV.

The sound of his heart thrummed in your eardrums like a metronome tethering your body to him on Earth while your mind slipped into the river of dreams under his loving watch and the tender, sleepy echo of his voice.

He holds you even tighter to him, assured in the curve of your spine, the flutter of your lashes as you enter the deepest realm of sleep, the way slumber rises in your chest and rolls off your shoulders.

You. Beautiful, alive, breathing, asleep, at peace.

He'd give his life to always see you this way.

"I love you."

Those three little words are uttered in adoring succession in kisses on your forehead. But, he can't escape the lull of the rainstorm lullaby either. His breaths quickly follow the snuggly pace yours set into the intimate melody of afternoon slumber, tangled up in you.