#s: shards of memory | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

senascoop · 6 months ago

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TIL DEATH DO US PART , S.JY !

PAIRING: husband ! jake × afab reader

SYNOPSIS: In an arranged marriage where sparks never flew, you finally chose divorce as the only path to freedom. But when your husband died in a sudden accident, life took an unexpected turn, binding you to a reality marked by guilt, grief, and the shadows of unfulfilled words. Now, you must navigate a world that holds him forever gone.

GENRE: fluff + angst

WARNING(S): not proofread, kissing, dirty jokes, a little bit suggestive, mentions of suicide and death, insecurities, mentions of pregnancy. lmk if I missed anything.

WORD COUNT: 16.2K

FEAT: JAY from ENHYPEN + some ocs

MASTERLISTS ARCHIVE !!

NOTE FROM SENA ┊ had this idea going from quite a lot of time (two months lol) though i wasn't sure of posting it... but here you go i guess. was supposed to post this a day ago for Jake’s bday (🎂) but I hope this still works. definitely won't claim this as one of my best works but hope it's not too bad. would love to know your opinions <3

DEAR JAKE,

I’m sorry, but I can’t continue living like this. I’m leaving. Our marriage has become a constant battle, and I believe we’re both suffering more by holding on than we would by letting go. I know neither of us wanted it to come to this, and I wish things were different. But deep down, I think we’re better apart. I hope one day you’ll understand.

With regret, Y/N.

TEARS BLURRED YOUR VISION AS YOU STARED AT THE CRUMBLED NOTE IN YOUR HAND—the one you had written to Jake months ago. The one that now felt like a curse. Your hands shook as you traced the familiar words, guilt twisting your insides. I’m leaving. I’m sorry. He had never known the true weight of those words. And now he never would.

The police had found it in his pocket. They said he’d carried it with him, even after everything. Even when he... when he was gone.

You collapsed onto the couch, clutching the note like a lifeline, but it only felt like a reminder of how far you had pushed him. How much you had wanted out, and now, how deeply you regretted it. A year together, two lives constantly at odds, and it had ended in this way. A divorce that never came, an accident that did. You didn’t want this, didn’t want him gone, but now, all you had was this—regret, and a body that was too still in your bed to hold. The anger, the frustration of him being gone—it consumed you, ate at your soul.

Why couldn’t you have waited?

You had hoped time apart would fix things, give you both breathing room. But he hadn’t lived long enough for you to see the good you could have made of it. The guilt ate you alive, deeper than the frustration ever had. You tried to convince yourself it wasn’t your fault, that you couldn’t have known, but deep down, the truth stung. Your note had been his last reminder of your marriage. His last memory. He had carried your rejection right until the end.

Would things have been different if you hadn’t written that letter?

The thought raked at your mind like shards of glass, shredding everything in its path. What if you had kept fighting for him, for the marriage? Would he have been here? Would you have learned to love him? Or would he still have left, still have been gone, no matter what?

Your thoughts flickered back to moments with him—so small, so easy to overlook. The way Jake had rolled his eyes every time you’d scolded his niece Semi for spilling juice, or how he had tried to hide his smirk as he pretended to act innocent. The little things that used to irritate you, that you had never really appreciated until now.

You remembered the way he defended you against his relatives, his words sharp and protective as they made cruel comments about your body. They didn’t understand, but Jake did. He had always been there, not perfect but trying.

“She suits me well enough.”

The memory felt like a slap now, a cruel joke. You had spent so much time pushing him away, not seeing that he cared. You hadn’t seen that he had tried.

“Why couldn’t I have seen it?” you whispered to the empty room, curling up on the bed, pressing your face into the pillow. The tears soaked into the fabric, and the sobs wracked through you like a storm. Why was it only now, when he was gone, that you realized how much he had mattered?

You had never kissed him, never held him the way a wife should. You thought you had the luxury of time, but now you had nothing left but his memory. The memory of a man you barely knew but had somehow been the one constant in your life. How selfish of you to push him away. How stupid to think it was all about the fights, the annoyances, and not about the love you could have had.

“Please... Jake. I’m sorry...”

The words escaped you as your sobs grew louder, choking your breath. Your body trembled with grief, the weight of regret pressing down on you until you couldn’t breathe. If only you could undo it, go back and rewrite the note. If only you hadn’t given up on him, on the marriage, on the chance for something more.

The room felt suffocating now, as though the walls were closing in around you. What now? you thought. There was no future with him anymore. No next step. No reconciliation.

Why had you waited so long to realize how much he meant to you?

You sank deeper into your pillow, tears soaking your face and your hair, wishing for the impossible: for him to walk through the door, to come back, to make everything okay again. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

And all that was left was you. And the note.

YOUR MOTHER IN LAW’S HANDS TREMBLE AS SHE EXTENDS THE ANCESTRAL RING TOWARDS YOU, her eyes glistening with raw grief. The ring's delicate gold band catches the light, an unwanted reminder of everything Jake represented��strength, love, an unfinished story.

“He wanted you to have this… but I never thought I’d give it to you now. Not like this,” she whispers, her voice breaking before dissolving into quiet sobs. The sound is so raw it scrapes at your heart. For a moment, the room feels unbearably small, closing in with the suffocating weight of shared loss.

You stare at the ring, fingers hovering uncertainly. The thought of accepting it feels like admitting he’s really gone. Yet, you know you can’t refuse it; Jake’s wish, even unspoken now, feels sacred. You slip the ring onto your finger, a silent acknowledgment of the man you had once promised yourself to, a man you’ll never get the chance to truly know.

With a hesitant step forward, you place your hand on her shoulder, the touch meant to soothe but feeling fragile, as though it could shatter under the weight of her grief. The older woman leans into you, body racked with tremors as she buries her face in her hands. Her sobs rise and fall in uneven waves, echoing in the otherwise silent room.

“Please… don’t cry,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and cracking at the edges. The night had drained you, leaving your eyes dry yet still burning, poised for more tears that you no longer had the strength to shed.

Her grief pierces deeper. “He wouldn’t want to see you in pain,” you add, voice low, carrying the weight of a plea that even you don’t believe.

“I-I know,” she manages between sobs, her shoulders trembling. “But… he was so young, so full of life. It should’ve been me, not him. He barely started his life, and now…”

The room seems to warp under the heaviness of her words. You know she’s right. The unfairness of it all gnaws at you. But what would Jake want? The question echoes in your mind, clawing for answers you wish you didn’t have to seek.

You close your eyes for a brief second, conjuring his face in your memory—the way his smile would sneak out when he thought you weren’t looking, the stubborn tilt of his chin when he was determined. You imagine him here, telling you what to do, how to be strong for her when he couldn’t be.

Drawing in a shaking breath, you shift, wrapping your arms around your mother-in-law. She stiffens for a heartbeat before collapsing into the embrace, her body convulsing with grief. Her head rests on your shoulder, and you stroke her back, the gesture rhythmic, almost desperate, as if the act itself could soothe the unsoothable.

“My poor boy… he must’ve been so scared, so alone in those final moments,” she chokes out, and it’s as if a knife twists in your chest. The image of him in pain, of his last moments, blurs the edges of your control. A tear slips down your cheek, a singular escape among the multitude waiting behind your lashes.

“I’m so sorry, Jake,” you whisper, barely audible. The guilt is relentless, intertwining with the ache of loneliness that had settled deep within you long before he passed. You were alone when he was alive, and now that emptiness has transformed, sharpened by grief, into something more unbearable.

Her sobs quiet, just enough for her to lift her head and take in your expression, your tears mingling with unsaid words. She studies you, eyes clouded by grief but touched with understanding.

“You must feel so alone too… You and Jake… barely had time,” she murmurs, her voice a weak echo of empathy.

The silence stretches, heavy and uncertain. You meet her gaze and see the exhaustion, the pain mirrored back at you. It anchors you for a moment, before she speaks again.

“You’re still young. You should think of moving forward one day. Remarry, maybe… You’ll always be like a daughter to me, but you have to live, too.”

Your heart clenches, rejecting the thought. You don’t want to. The ache of wanting Jake, even in a marriage that had felt distant, is a raw wound you can’t imagine healing. The loneliness was familiar; life without him is uncharted, unbearable.

“I won’t… I can’t,” you admit, voice shaking as the tears finally spill, unchecked. “I just want him back. Even if it means being lonely again.”

The words break you open, and this time, neither of you tries to stop the crying. You hold each other in the ruins of shared loss, hoping, against hope, that the pieces of your shattered hearts will one day feel less sharp.

YOUR HANDS CHILLED FROM THE BRISK AIR, DIG DEEPER INTO YOUR COAT POCKETS AS YOU GAZE OUT INTO THE SWIRLING SNOW, a faint numbness settling in your bones. Each snowflake that brushes against your cheek feels colder than the last, a physical reminder of the frost that’s taken root in your heart, a void Jake's absence left behind. Life has lost its rhythm, its purpose, and the bustling world seems foreign, moving on a beat you no longer recognize.

Nursing, once a passion that filled your heart, now feels suffocating. The once-simple act of caring for patients, seeing them through their darkest times, now stirs something darker inside you—an envy for their hope, their chances. These creeping, bitter thoughts had scared you enough to step back from the only profession you knew. The faces of crying relatives haunted your dreams, their grief striking chords too familiar, too close. You’d sworn to heal, never harm, yet here you are, carrying shadows of guilt too heavy to bear.

The café’s warmth hits you as you push through the door, a momentary comfort against the gnawing cold. You shuffle forward, fingers fumbling in your pocket for money as your eyes wander the room. Jake had always spoken fondly of this place, a little corner shop with its cozy mismatched chairs and the sweet aroma of cocoa and baked pastries. A small pang clenches your chest, regret whispering its usual 'what ifs.' If only you’d agreed to visit here with him, if only time hadn’t been a cruel master.

The barista, a young woman with weary eyes, glances up as she speaks. “Ma’am, are you ordering?” Her voice, though polite, carries a slight impatience with the growing line behind you.

“Ah, yes… a cold coffee,” you manage, the words falling flat as if they don’t quite belong to you. Her brows lift, a flicker of confusion.

“In this weather?” she asks, a hint of genuine concern lacing her tone.

Realizing the absurdity, you swallow, forcing a small, resigned nod. “Hot chocolate then,” you say, the warmth of Jake’s recommendation tugging at the edges of your memory.

The exchange is brief, the hot drink pressed into your hands a minute later. As you turn to leave, the weight of the ancestral ring around your finger pulls at you, its cool surface grounding and yet suffocating. The bittersweet metal reflects a dull glow, a silent reminder of promises made and broken, of the love lost and the void left behind.

The wind picks up outside, tugging at your coat as you sip the hot chocolate. Its warmth spreads through you, but it’s fleeting, never enough to touch the ache within. You shake your head, Jake’s face vivid in your mind, his teasing smile as he’d planned your future dates. You’d push the thought aside, but every step feels like dragging a part of him behind you.

“Why can’t I let go?” you murmur, voice snatched away by the icy air. Your brother-in-law’s words echo in your mind, urging you to stop living in Jake’s shadow. But how do you tear yourself away from the ghost of a love that never got to finish its story?

Snow clings to your coat as you continue to trudge through the city, each step heavy with an ache that refuses to fade. The glow of the streetlights bathes the snow in a warm, golden hue, contrasting the bitter chill that settles in your chest. Sipping the hot chocolate, you try to focus on the warmth sliding down your throat, but the sweetness only sharpens the emptiness inside. The steam curls from the cup, a fleeting comfort as your breath mingles with it in the frigid air.

You pause near a park bench, eyes darting to couples bundled up, their laughter piercing through the quiet snowfall. One couple stands close, the man adjusting the scarf around his partner’s neck with a smile that makes your heart clench. You bite the inside of your cheek, the taste of copper sharp on your tongue as you fight back the sting in your eyes. The jealousy gnaws at you, sour and uninvited.

The memory of Jake’s voice flits through your mind, warm and teasing: “Good things happen to good people.” You scoff, the bitterness in that statement now a cruel joke. Were you not good enough? The universe seemed to think so, because it had ripped him away, leaving a hollow shell in his place.

Lost in thought, you find yourself on the bridge, fingers trailing over the iron railing that has frosted over, leaving cool streaks on your gloves. This place, once so filled with light and memories, feels haunted now. You trace a path where your and Jake’s hands once met, where laughter and shared secrets once echoed.

A voice, small and familiar, intrudes on your thoughts. Semi’s question echoes, fragile and innocent: “Aunty, when will Uncle come home?” You close your eyes, the lump in your throat thickening as the memory sharpens. You remember her wide, unknowing eyes searching yours for an answer you couldn't give, the guilt of that half-truth searing into you as you whispered, “I’m not sure, sweetie.”

You grip the railing tighter, feeling the cold seep through your gloves as the ache of regret claws at your heart. The river below moves steadily, unaffected by the chaos in your chest. You look down, watching the water catch the light in rippling patterns, your reflection distorted and wavering. The noise of the city fades as you breathe in the freezing air, each exhale a shuddering attempt to steady yourself.

A gust of wind stings your face, and you force yourself to look up, straightening with a resolve that feels fragile. Jake’s brother and his wife were inside your apartment, their watchful eyes filled with concern disguised as casual chatter. You know why they stay—it’s not out of pity, but out of fear, a silent agreement to keep you tethered when your world felt like it was splitting at the seams.

The laughter from the park drifts over again, mingling with the hum of distant traffic. For a moment, you let yourself remember the warmth of Jake’s embrace, the way he’d nudge your shoulder and murmur, “Life doesn’t stop, even when we want it to.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t,” you whisper into the night, the words barely a breath as they dissolve in the chill.

The warmth of the hot chocolate fades as the biting wind grazes your skin, a cruel reminder of the numbing void left behind. You stare at the bridge, eyes tracing the railings where Jake’s laughter once echoed. A memory surfaces, unbidden yet vivid.

“I know this isn't what either of us planned, but... I wish we could work it out,” Jake had said, a touch of hesitation softening his confident voice. His hands, hesitant but steady, hovered near you, respecting the space you held between.

“I wish that too,” you had murmured, the lie sliding off your tongue too easily. You’d convinced yourself you didn't care enough for Jake then, but the pang of that memory now gnawed at your insides. Regret had a way of reshaping the past, twisting even the most indifferent moments into sharp blades.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Jake had prodded gently, eyes bright even as he leaned down to meet your gaze.

Caught off guard, you’d raised an eyebrow. “Like what?” The question felt foreign, untouched by anyone's curiosity until now.

“Your ideal type,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting as though challenging you. His height had always made you tilt your head back to catch his expression—a detail that now felt like a cruel nostalgia.

“Why would you ask that?” You'd played along, teasing but curious.

Jake chuckled, the sound resonant and warm. “Because we're getting married, and maybe knowing each other better will make it feel less... strange. Maybe, just maybe, we'll fall in love.” His hand, finally settling on your shoulder, had felt reassuring, a silent promise in its touch.

The memory cleaves through you like a knife, leaving behind a raw wound that no time or distance can heal. A single tear slips down your cheek as you blink, the reality of the moment washing over you like a wave. The park across the street bustles with couples walking hand-in-hand, laughter and warmth breaking through the cold that wraps around you. A fresh ache takes root, sharp and relentless.

You drop the empty cup into the trash can, the metallic clang breaking your reverie. The grief, heavy and suffocating, presses you to the edge as you turn and begin the long walk home. Your footsteps are heavy, every step an effort against the pull of the past.

“Aunty, you're so late. Did you bring Uncle with you?” Semi’s small voice meets you at the door, eyes bright with innocent hope. The guilt hits you like a punch, stealing the air from your lungs. Your throat tightens as you shake your head, eyes avoiding her searching gaze.

Jieun, seeing your reaction, sighs softly as she pulls Semi closer. “Semi, we talked about this, remember?” Her voice holds the practiced patience of a mother trying to shield her child from the pain.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Semi mumbles, eyes dropping to her tiny hands that fidget nervously. The sight twists your heart, guilt layering over the grief that refuses to ease.

You force a hollow smile. “It’s okay, Jieun. She's just a kid,” you say, your voice low and void of emotion as you shrug off your winter coat and hang it up. The familiar routine feels like a play you no longer wish to act in.

“Still, I just—” Jieun’s words falter as you cut her off, your voice breaking the tension.

“Please,” you murmur, the word sharp and desperate, silencing the room. The stillness that follows is suffocating, your breaths shallow as you fight to keep your composure.

Jieun's eyes search yours, understanding but hesitant. “We just don’t want you to be alone,” she whispers, her voice thick with worry.

“I know,” you reply, sitting on the couch with your head hung low, hands clenched tightly in your lap. After a long pause, you add, “But you need to leave. This is your home too, but you have your own life to get back to. I need time... time to figure out how to grieve.” Your eyes don’t lift to meet theirs; you can’t bear to see the disappointment or concern there.

Semi’s voice pipes up again, the innocence piercing through your defenses. “Are you sending us away, Aunty?”

The weight of guilt deepens, pressing into your chest. You close your eyes, feeling the sting behind your lids before you answer. “No, sweetie, I’m not sending you away. You can come whenever you want. Aunty will always be here.” The words come out flat, and you feel them land like lies in the air between you.

Jieun picks Semi up, nodding at you as if she understands, though her eyes glisten with worry. “We’ll give you some space. But we’ll check in. Don’t forget that, please.”

When the door clicks shut, silence wraps around you, heavy and thick. Your gaze shifts to the note you’d prepared earlier, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. The words, written in your own hand, feel foreign now: apologies to the people who stayed, memories they never knew you held, and the final confession of a heart too weary to go on.

You were battling with the urge to just end it all.

The rational part of your brain told you that you were young and had your whole life ahead and that you'd meet a lot of guys in your life but the stubborn heart won't give up and held onto the memory of the guy you once called your husband.

So, you gave up.

A smile, then another.

The city glows beneath you, lights sprawled like constellations cast on earth. The wind at this height is sharp, tearing through your clothes and chilling your skin, as if trying to pull you back from the edge. Your shoes scrape against the concrete ledge, the slight tremble in your legs betraying the battle waging within. The night air smells faintly of rain, metallic and crisp, mingling with the faint hum of traffic below.

You steady your phone in your trembling hand, its cold surface grounding you momentarily. A notification pings, an ironic reminder that life continues to tick on, indifferent to the turmoil within you. The camera lens reflects the shimmer of unshed tears as you hit record, the small red dot staring back like a silent witness.

A smile forms—hesitant, broken. Then another, and another, each one a mask that crumbles too soon. “To everyone who still cares,” you begin, your voice low and cracking, “Semi, sweet, innocent Semi. Jieun, always so patient. Jongseong... my husband’s shadow in every way. My sister, my friends, all of you who tried.”

The wind picks up, whipping strands of hair across your face as you pause, the weight of the unsaid pressing on your chest. You blink rapidly, tears slipping free, their warmth stinging against your cold cheeks. “Jake wouldn't want this. I know he'd call me stubborn, weak even.” You let out a hollow laugh, the sound swallowed by the wind. “But he wouldn’t understand how loud it is in the silence he left behind.”

Your heart hammers as you shift your weight, the city seeming to inhale with you, holding its breath in anticipation. The edge of the building digs into the soles of your feet, the space between you and the world below both terrifying and liberating.

“I miss the little moments, Jake,” you whisper, voice breaking as you squeeze your eyes shut. “I miss you making me feel lonely, and now... now I’m lonelier without you.” The ache in your chest is unbearable, a cavernous void that steals your breath.

One last deep breath, air burning through your lungs, and you step forward. The world blurs into a rush of sound and sensation—wind roaring in your ears, your body weightless, suspended in a moment between despair and peace.

And then the fall hits.

Pain surges through you, sharp and overwhelming, before darkness takes over. Around you, the chaos erupts into a cacophony—screams, the frantic pounding of feet, and the sharp cry of ambulance sirens slicing through the night. But these sounds are drifting away, becoming faint murmurs from a world slipping out of reach.

Silence wraps around you, one that made you feel like everything would be okay after this. Maybe, just maybe, peace waits on the other side. In death.

YOU WALK THROUGH THE DENSE, MILKY FOG, EACH REVERBERATING IN AN ECHO THAT NEVER QUITE SETTLES. The air is cool, feather-light, whispering like distant memories. Is this heaven? The question circles in your mind, unspoken. If it is, where is Jake? A quiet laugh escapes your lips, hollow. He couldn’t have done enough wrong to land in hell, you think, the hint of humor biting through your longing. Yet, the anticipation twists your heart—an ache that makes you want to see him so desperately.

You try to call out, “Jake?” but the sound stays trapped in your chest, choked by the thick fog. Another step forward and there’s nothing but endless white, stretching out, swallowing you whole. Your breath catches; suddenly, the air thins, compressing your lungs, squeezing out every ounce of oxygen. You gasp, your hands clawing at the invisible force stealing your breath. It feels like drowning in emptiness.

Then—without warning—everything shifts. White light erupts around you, blinding and all-consuming. You brace for oblivion, muscles tensing for an end you’re sure is near. But instead, there’s a softness beneath you—a mattress that cradles you like an embrace you forgot.

Your eyes snap open, pupils adjusting to the familiar pale ceiling. It’s your ceiling. Your shared room. The bed, the faint scent of Jake’s cologne still lingering in the sheets, as if he just left. You sit up, heart thundering, hands brushing over your body frantically. No pain, no bruises, no broken bones—nothing. You’re whole, intact.

Then the realization hits you like cold water, and your fingers tremble as you pull them away.

“What the…?” you murmur, eyes darting around, seeking answers that the silent room won’t give. Your gaze falls to the phone on the bedside table, its screen blank and mocking in its stillness. You grab it, breath hitching as the time blinks to life.

January 29th, 2024. 6:30 a.m.

A shiver races down your spine. The date stares back at you, sharp and impossible. You set the phone down, legs feeling weak as you stand and approach the mirror. Your reflection isn’t that of a woman who has been weeping endlessly. Your eyes, dry and wide, reflect confusion rather than the storm of emotions that you carry.

“Is this one of those flashes they say you see before death?” Your voice trembles as the words escape, and you reach up to touch the cold glass. The girl looking back at you does the same, fingers meeting yours in a silent plea.

Then, your eyes catch it. The blue gel pen resting on the dresser—a pen that has no place outside your drawer. It’s a small thing, but the sight of it makes your breath hitch. Memories slice through you, sharp and unforgiving. That pen was the one you’d used for the note to Jake, the one that demanded space, an end.

“No,” you breathe out, shaking your head, bile rising in your throat. The pen feels like a cruel token, mocking you for what came after. In a swift motion, you snatch it up, the cold plastic biting into your skin as you grip it tight. The weight of your guilt, your regret, turns your stomach, and with a sudden burst of anger, you hurl the pen into the trash, its clatter punctuating the silence like a final plea.

Chest heaving, you close your eyes. If this is some kind of twisted second chance, you don’t know if you should feel terror or relief. But the room, the sheets, the absence on the other side of the bed—everything points to one impossible truth.

You’re back.

But this isn't a romance novel, is it?

Your eyes trail back to the empty bed, where Jake should be. “Jake?” The name falls from your lips, hopeful, trembling, but the silence stretches on, suffocating.

Your heart thuds like a wild drumbeat, erratic and desperate, the rhythm matched only by the single hope that propels you forward: seeing Jake. Alive. Healthy. Breathing.

You practically jog out of the shared bedroom, your bare feet sliding slightly on the hardwood floor as you turn the corner. The guest room door is ajar, a sliver of dim light illuminating the narrow hallway. The pulse in your chest quickens, breaths shallower with each step until you reach the threshold. You pause, drawing in a trembling breath before stepping inside.

There he is. Jake. Lying on his side, dark hair fanned messily over the pillow, the soft rise and fall of his chest hypnotic in its simplicity. Relief washes over you so powerfully that your knees almost buckle. You inch closer, careful not to make a sound. The blanket is snug around his torso, exposing his bare, muscular chest—the way he prefers when he’s alone. Your throat tightens at the sight, familiar yet so foreign now.

Your hand, almost on its own accord, hovers over his face, fingers trembling as you place them under his nose. The soft, warm breath that meets your touch is enough to sting your eyes with unshed tears. Your hand drifts down, resting against his chest, where you can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat—a rhythm you thought you’d never sense again.

Jake stirs, the sudden shift pulling you out of your trance. His eyelids flutter open, dark eyes glazed with sleep but sharpening as they land on you. He blinks once, then again, brows drawing together.

“What are you doing?” His voice, rough with sleep, carries a note of confusion that makes your hand fall away as though burned.

“I-I…” The words snag in your throat, scrambling to make sense of the madness. How could you possibly explain? Your eyes dart nervously to the floor, heat searing your cheeks as you mutter, “I missed your kisses.”

The room freezes. You can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy with disbelief. He shifts, sitting up, and the blanket slips down to his waist, revealing the sharp lines of his torso. Your eyes betray you, flickering over the familiar planes before darting away in embarrassment.

“But… we never kiss,” he says, voice low and edged with confusion. The statement slices through you, painfully reminding you of the distance you both had grown used to.

“I know... I...” you whisper, fingers clenching into fists at your sides. The silence stretches, heavy, until the sharp trill of his phone alarm shatters it. Jake’s attention shifts, eyes narrowing as he leans to silence it. When he looks up again, the space where you stood is empty.

You rush back to your room, shutting the door behind you with a soft thud, heart hammering in your chest. Sliding down until you sit with your back pressed against the cool wood, you cover your flushed face with shaking hands. Your pulse thunders in your ears, mixing with the replay of his sleepy voice, the fleeting touch of his warmth.

Is this really the past? The question festers, tugging at the edges of logic, but the ache in your chest and the rawness of your emotions tell you it is. And if so, this year holds one horrifying certainty: Jake’s death.

The mere thought twists something deep inside you, bringing back the soul-crushing grief, the endless nights of regret. You glance down at your wrist, breath catching as your eyes lock on the ink-black date that marks it: November 4th. The day Jake dies.

Frantically, you rub at the skin, as if the stubborn mark will simply smudge away under your touch. But it doesn’t. The date remains, stark and immovable, taunting you.

A shiver crawls up your spine, but then a thought—a glimmer of defiance—roots itself.

What if you change it? What if this was given to you, not as a cruel joke, but a chance to rewrite what went so terribly wrong? To love him in a way you never did and save him from the fate that once tore your entire world apart.

“I can do this,” you whisper, determination threading into your voice. The regret may have once paralyzed you, but now it fuels you. If you only have until that date, then every second will be spent fighting fate, no matter how impossible it seems.

THE SOFT MURMUR OF THE COUPLE’S CONVERSATION DRIFTS DOWN THE STERILE HOSPITAL CORRIDOR, brushing against your ears like a whispered secret. The woman lies propped against crisp white pillows, her leg encased in a cast, eyes fixed on her partner with a blend of exhaustion and comfort. He leans forward, fingers interlaced with hers, voice low and tender.

“Can you please see what's wrong?” he asks, eyes glistening with concern. He gently squeezes her hand, words spilling out as quiet reassurances. “You're doing so well, love. It's going to be okay.”

A tight warmth coils in your chest as you approach, a familiar pang of bittersweetness shadowing the sight. The love, the unwavering devotion-it's moments like these that remind you why you cherish your job. The fragility of life, held together by threads of connection, has always moved you, even when those threads unraveled in your own life.

When you started nursing, blood was your greatest fear, the sight once enough to turn your stomach. Time had softened those edges, transforming anxiety into steady resolve. It was also during those early years when you married Jake, the man whose smile was warm enough to banish shadows but whose presence now only haunted your memories. The marriage had lasted five years before everything shattered with the crash.

No. Stop. The thought rushes at you like a wave, cold and suffocating. You grit your teeth, eyes burning as you push it down, push him down, refusing to let the grief claw at you. He's alive here, in this fragile present you've been thrust into. Don't let the past bleed into now.

“Sure,” you say softly, the practiced smile you wear settling on your face. You reach out, fingers moving gently over the girl's cast, checking the edges, ensuring everything is as it should be. She nods in silent gratitude, eyes fluttering shut with relief as her partner exhales.

The end of your shift arrives with the deep hues of twilight stretching across the sky. The drive home is long, punctuated by the soft rumble of the engine and the anxious thrum of your thoughts. Your fingers drum against the steering wheel, tapping out a nervous rhythm. Avoid home, your mind suggests, listing off a million errands you suddenly think of, any excuse to delay the inevitable.

But the excuses run dry when you're standing in front of your door, keys cold against your palm. The air outside is crisp, biting at your cheeks as you draw a deep breath and hold it. The weight of the morning—Jake's sleepy, questioning eyes and the ghost of your impulsive words-hangs between you and the door.

“Is it too late to back down?” The whisper escapes your lips, trembling in the chilly silence. You picture his expression, the puzzled furrow of his brow as he replayed your words. The way his fingers brushed over his phone, gaze lifted just in time to see you flee. He isn't stupid. Jake never was.

With a sigh, you slip the key into the lock, the click loud and final. The door opens, and warmth spills out to meet you, along with the faint scent of his cologne. Your pulse quickens as you step inside, the hum of your heartbeat louder than the quiet creak of the floor under your weight.

Don't run, you tell yourself, even as the urge coils tight in your muscles. You close the door behind you.

As you push open the front door, the faint glow of the television casts flickering shadows across the living room. There he is-your husband, Jake, reclined on the couch, eyes fixed intently on the news. His brows knit slightly as a montage of suited politicians gestures on screen, their voices droning promises as hollow as a whisper in the wind.

He is basically watching those politicians give some weird and untrue promises for the sake of votes.

How romantic. How normal. The bitter thought twists in your chest. But it isn't. Nothing about this is normal. Why would he be watching the news, of all things? Then, a pang of irony hits you like a wave. How hypocritical, you think. You promised Jake your forever in a ceremony that now feels like an echo. The vows shared between you had been spoken out loud but never truly lived.

You shake the memory away, an old wound you refuse to pick at as you step inside, the floor cool under your feet. Jake doesn't notice you at first, his attention locked on the screen, oblivious to the fact that the person who left him a note asking for space now stands in the doorway, wrestling with the tension roiling inside her.

“Hey,” you finally say, the word falling between you like an anchor. It comes out awkward, unsure, a fragile hope that he won't read too much into it. But Jake's eyes flick to yours, a spark of recognition cooling to something unreadable.

“You're back home?” His voice is measured, neither warm nor cold, but there's a tightness to it that you can't ignore. He shifts, the blue glow of the screen catching the sharp line of his jaw as he waits for your response.

The note. You had slipped it into his hand, asking for a break from a marriage four years deep but hollow. Your heart thuds in your chest, fingers clenched at your side as you speak before fear can pull the words back.

“The note-I take it back. I don't want a break from you or this relationship, Jake.”

The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the low hum of the news anchor's voice. His eyes search yours, a hint of disbelief darkening the warm brown you once memorized. “Why?” The question slices through the quiet, clipped and cautious. You almost flinch at the hardness there, a wall built brick by brick in your absence.

“Because I don't want to stay away from you.” Your voice trembles, raw honesty exposed between you like an open wound. Jake's eyes widen slightly, the stoic mask cracking as a flush creeps across his cheeks.

“Y-You're blushing?” The soft, astonished laugh tumbles out of you, a momentary break in the storm that makes you feel like you're standing on the edge of something new. The corners of his mouth twitch, the faintest sign of a smile, but he shakes his head.

“No, I'm not. I'm just... cold,” he mutters, the lie transparent.

“Sure, sir. You're just cold.” You chuckle, sinking onto the floor beside the couch, knees drawn up as you hug them close. The laughter is sharp, almost giddy, the sound foreign in the room that has held so many silences.

Jake watches you, confusion settling into his features, the red on his cheeks fading as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You're acting weird,” he murmurs, the words half swallowed, uncertain.

“How am I acting weird if I'm seeing my husband show some attraction to me, which isn't platonic, for the first time?” The jest slips out, tinged with sincerity, but it brings a hush over both of you. The truth stands stark between you, glaring and painful. For a moment, neither of you speak, each of you weighed down by memories, by the heavy knowledge of what's been lost and what still aches to be found.

But determination flares in your chest, a stubborn warmth. So what if love had been absent before? So what if promises were half-kept and hearts guarded? You could start again. You could relearn how to be two flawed people willing to try. Your gaze meets Jake's, the hope in your eyes unyielding.

Don't let go, you silently plead. Let this be the start of something real.

Jake clears his throat, a subtle attempt to dissolve the tension settling over the living room like a blanket too heavy to lift. His fingers fidget, running nervously over the seam of the couch as he shifts his gaze downward. There you are, still seated on the floor, legs tucked to one side, eyes catching the soft glow from the TV. Cute, he thinks, the word rolling silently through his mind, too heavy with unsaid truths to speak aloud.

“So...” The word escapes him, thin and unfinished, hovering in the air. His eyes flit over your face, searching for a reaction. The awkwardness clings to the silence, but you don't falter.

“So?” you echo, your tone a notch steadier, holding the slight tremor that betrays your effort. You lean forward just slightly, a gesture that feels braver than it is. If courage could rewrite fate, you'd wield it now, not just for yourself, but for him. For Jake, who might not know the sharp edge of reality that's cut you.

He rubs the back of his neck, glancing to the side where the blue light paints his profile in soft, wavering lines. “You know... Semi's birthday is next week.” His words stumble, trailing off as if second-guessing their own existence. But you aren't in the dark. You know exactly what this moment leads to.

“Yes, I'd love to go shopping for gifts for her,” you respond, your voice quick and practiced. His eyes widen, caught off guard, the surprise stark against his usual composed expression. The tension in his jaw slackens, and he blinks, unsure if he heard you right.

“Excuse me?” He stares at you, the faint crease between his brows deepening.

“Isn't that what you were about to ask?” You tilt your head slightly, a small smile playing at your lips, testing him. He hesitates, realizing that denial means trouble, but his face softens into a relieved kind of acceptance.

“No, no... of course. You could... accompany me to shop for Semi's birthday presents.” His voice picks up, the uncertainty lifting as he finds the path back to normalcy. He notices your smile widening, the tension slipping just enough to let him breathe.

“Okay then, see you tomorrow, husband.” The word slips from you, unbidden, laced with a warmth that surprises even you as you turn on your heel. You make your way toward the guest room, feet padding softly against the floor. Jake's brows knit again, eyes following your form until you pause, hand on the frame of the doorway.

“Why are you heading to the guest room?” His question is quick, a thread of confusion laced with something else-something vulnerable.

“Because we sleep apart, and I wouldn't want my husband's back to break on that stiff, rough bed. The sheets aren't even comfortable,” you say, voice light but with an edge that dares him to react. You step into the room, but glance over your shoulder with eyes that glimmer, a playful smirk pulling at your lips. “Besides, I'd rather you break your back or get tired doing me than struggling on a bed.”

His jaw drops, eyes wide with stunned silence as the door closes between you. Jake sits back, eyes fixed on the now-empty hallway, replaying the moment in disbelief. The wife who barely spoke above a whisper at their wedding, who tiptoed through years of silence, had just turned the tables with a single teasing line. His pulse hammers beneath the stillness.

What on earth just happened?

“ARE YOU TELLING ME Y/N JUST TURNED INTO A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT PERSON?” Jay's voice, casual yet curious, echoes through the phone. He's speaking to Jake, who shifts from foot to foot, eyes glancing around the boutique as he waits for you to finish picking out a dress for his niece. The sound of soft music drifts around him, mixing with murmurs of other shoppers.

“Exactly that!” Jake's voice comes out louder than intended, drawing looks from the store's staff. A woman in a sleek uniform, brows raised in disapproval, approaches with a pointed glare.

“Sir, please keep your voice down or refrain from talking altogether,” she says, sternly but professional.

Jake's ears burn as embarrassment blooms across his face. “Yeah, I'm sorry” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Through the phone, Jay's laughter rings clear and unapologetic. “You seriously got told off by staff? Man, you're killing me!” Jay's chuckles fade into a smirk that Jake can practically hear. Jay's the same as he's always been-playful, relentless, the older brother who teases but listens when it counts.

“Fine, fine, I'll stop. Tell me what you mean by Y/N changing, just... keep it PG, will you?” Jay's tone is teasing, but curiosity laces through.

Jake's jaw tightens, eyes scanning the store for you as if your sudden return would put him on the spot. “There's nothing intimate going on between us,” he blurts, the words a knee-jerk reaction. His chest tightens with the memory of you resting your hand on him in your sleep last week, the way warmth had crept through him then. He clears his throat. “I mean, she's talking to me more, being... sweet. She listens. It's almost... submissive.”

“I told you, no bedroom details!” Jay chimes in, sarcasm sharp enough to make Jake's teeth clench.

“THIS IS NOT A BEDROOM DETAIL!!!” Jake retorts, frustration coloring his tone. It earns him another hard look from the store associate across the room, who pointedly glances over her glasses. Jake sighs and mouths an apology again, shoulders drooping as he lowers his voice.

“What I mean is, she's more... attentive. She's not arguing as much. It's like she's listening to me for the first time.”

Jay's voice softens, just a hint of seriousness slipping through. “Isn't that how she always is with others?”

“Yeah, with everyone else. Just not with me,” Jake admits, the admission heavy with a history neither of them mention.

“Interesting.” Jay's reply is contemplative, but before he can say more, Jake's voice interrupts, distorted through the line. “Oh shoot, she's coming back. I'll call you later.”

As the call ends, Jake pockets his phone, glancing up just in time to see you walking back with a smile. Jay, on the other side of the city, sets his phone down, a smirk playing at his lips as he thinks of sharing this tidbit with his wife later. Whatever was happening between his brother and sister-in-law, it was about to get even more intriguing.

On the other side, Jake stands, a mixture of amusement and curiosity on his face as you hold up a tiny pink dress. It's perfectly frilly, fit for a little girl. But all he can think is how charming it would look in a size for you—a thought that makes him shake his head, realizing how ridiculous it sounds.

“So, what do you think? Should I get this for Semi?” you ask, eyes sparkling with anticipation. There's already a growing collection of clothes for his niece in your arms, a reminder of how you've embraced being part of his family.

“Are you getting all of them?” he asks, more out of shock than judgment. He never imagined children's clothes could come with such hefty price tags.

“Yes, why? Is this too much? I can cover it if—”

Before you can finish, he interrupts, affronted. “I'll pay. It's for my lady, after all.”

The statement hangs in the air, not romantic as he'd intended but awkward, making your brows twitch slightly. You resist the urge to grimace, forcing a polite smile instead.

A staff member, the same one who had shushed Jake earlier, walks over with an unimpressed expression, exchanging a silent, almost comic glare with him. She gave Jake a look that said 'you're weird and I don't want to talk to you'

'what have I ever done to you' was the look that Jake presented back to the staff before she looked away. You glance between them, slightly confused. Then Jake clears his throat, moving the conversation forward.

“Do you have a similar dress in a bigger size?” His voice drops to almost a whisper. He feels self-conscious asking, but the idea has stuck.

The staff member blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?” She tilts her head, uncertain if she heard right.

“Yeah, do you have something like this,” Jake gestures at the dress in your hands, “but, you know, for an adult?” A flush of red creeps across his cheeks as he points to you. The staff member nods after a moment, walking off to search, while you stand there stunned, watching her go.

“Why are you buying something for me? Semi’s dress is already pricey. A woman's size will be—”

“It's just a dress,” he interrupts with a small sigh, eyes softening. “Think of it as a gift.”

“But today isn't anything special.”

“Maybe not. But I'd like to make it special,” he replies, voice lowering. “I haven't given you anything since our wedding. That was four years ago.” His words carry a quiet vulnerability as he looks at you, taller and more serious than you expect. You hold his gaze before shifting and mumbling a reluctant, “Fine,” looking away to hide the way your cheeks warm.

The staff returns holding a similar dress, but in an adult size. It's pink, short, and undeniably cute-something that looks a little too daring for your style.

“Will this do?” she asks.

“Absolutely not,” “hell yeah,” you and Jake say in unison. The staff's eyebrows raise as she turns to you, sensing you as the more level-headed one.

“We're not buying it,” you insist, giving Jake a look.

He doubles down. “We are.”

“Jake, no.”

“Why not?”

“It's too short!” you argue, exasperated. He shrugs, eyes softening as he counters, “It's knee-length. That's normal.”

With a dramatic sigh, you roll your eyes and give in. But you don't try it on in the store; the idea of wearing it in front of him makes your heart thud with a mix of nerves and embarrassment. After all, you've barely even shared a bed in weeks—how could you possibly show him a dress like that now?

JAKE’S HEART STOPS FOR A MOMENT AS HE TAKES IN THE SIGHT BEFORE HIM. You, standing in the baby pink dress that hugs your figure just right, with its soft fabric brushing just above your knees. The playful, shy smile you wear as you twirl slightly sends a wave of warmth through him. He never expected to see you like this; the reality strikes him so suddenly that it leaves him breathless.

The laughter of Semi fills the room as she runs around in her matching pink dress, giggling and pulling you along by the hand. The soft glow of the post-birthday celebration lights casts a golden hue, warming up the atmosphere in the living room. Jake sits on the edge of the couch, one hand resting on his knee as he watches you and Semi, his gaze softening with an emotion he hasn't felt in what seems like ages.

A gentle nudge breaks his trance, and he turns to see his mother looking at him with raised brows and a hopeful gleam. “When are you two going to have kids?” she asks, her voice light but laced with longing.

The air in the room shifts. You pause mid-spin, eyes darting to Jake with a look of surprise. This isn't part of the script of your past life; this question throws you off balance, the sudden attention making your heart race.

Jake's father, seated across with a glass of wine in his hand, lets out a dramatic sigh. “I think I'll be long gone before I see any grandchildren from this one,” he jokes, though the weight behind it is unmistakable. The statement slices through the room's cheerful mood, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. Jake's jaw tightens, a subtle tension creeping up his spine. He wants kids too, he really does—but not in a house that feels as unstable as theirs has become.

Before he can respond, you surprise everyone, including yourself. “We're trying,” you say, the words slipping out with practiced ease, even as your pulse pounds. The room freezes, all eyes turning toward you in shock.

Jake's eyebrows lift in silent question, but he plays along, shifting to put on an unreadable expression. He nods, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he covers the uncertainty boiling beneath. The room shifts back into a mixture of excitement and surprise.

“Is that true? You're both trying?” Jake's mother's eyes glisten, her hope rekindled as she looks between you and her son.

“Really?” Jake's father echoes, leaning forward, his earlier sarcasm replaced by genuine interest.

Jay, standing near the fireplace, furrows his brow, lips parting in disbelief. Only last week, Jake had confided in him about how distant and weird things had become between you two.

Jake forces a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah... we've been trying for a while.” The lie feels heavy in his mouth, and he shoots you a look that says, Why'd you lie about that?

Your sister-in-law, Jieun, raises her hand, pointing at you with wide eyes. “Since when?” she blurts out, unable to contain her shock.

Jake stutters, “It's been a-a month,” the answer sounding rehearsed yet shaky. He glances at you again, his eyes pleading for an explanation that won't come.

The conversation quickly shifts into an excited buzz, with well-meaning wishes from your in-laws filling the air. You catch Jake's gaze, and despite the tight-lipped smile you give the family, there's a flicker of humor in your eyes. The absurdity of it all makes you want to laugh.

You both know the truth: the notion of trying for a child is impossibly far from reality.

Heck, it was funny for you to watch.

You were still a virgin. You two didn't even kiss more than once in those four years and they expect a baby to suddenly pop out of you?

And once the party winds down, you find yourself sitting on the couch with Semi by your side. Her wide, curious eyes shine with excitement as she swings her legs back and forth. At just four years old, she's a bundle of endless questions and innocent wonder.

You smile, reaching over to gently ruffle her soft, dark hair. “Does the birthday girl like her dress?” you ask, voice playful.

Semi beams, glancing down at the pink ruffled dress with pride. “It's so pretty,” she chirps, then looks up at you with a thoughtful expression. “But yours is prettier. You always look pretty, Aunty.”

Your heart melts, and you chuckle softly. “Aww, you learned how to give compliments, huh?” you tease, watching as her cheeks turn rosy and she averts her gaze to fiddle with her fingers.

“Aunty!” she whines, wanting you to stop teasing. Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she leans in closer and motions for you to do the same. With a curious tilt of your head, you move closer, letting her whisper into your ear. “Will you eat a baby to have a baby?” she asks, voice so serious it makes you freeze for a moment.

You stifle a laugh, your eyes crinkling at the edges. Gently cupping her cheek, you whisper back, “No, sweetie. That's not how it works. But that's grown-up stuff, and we don't talk about it now, do we?”

Semi giggles, her little fingers playing with a toy she received from her grandmother. The sight makes your chest tighten in a bittersweet way. You can almost picture your mother-in-law doting on a future child, fussing over toys and tiny clothes. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, making you shake your head lightly as if to dispel the image.

But a small part of you can't help but smile at the idea, a blush rising to your cheeks. The dream is distant, almost unreachable, and not yet yours to claim.

When you and Jake step out into the cold night, the air nips at your exposed legs below your knees. The dress he had picked out for you, delicate and pastel pink, offers little warmth, and the heels are beginning to pinch with every step. You trail behind him, taking careful, aching strides to avoid twisting your ankle.

Jake notices, stopping suddenly to turn toward you, eyes scanning your shivering frame. “What’s wrong?” His gaze softens as he realizes how exposed you are, legs trembling from the chill. Without hesitating, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. The sudden warmth is welcome, but your teeth still chatter as you mutter, “Wish I had something covering my legs instead.”

He exhales, half exasperated, half amused, before a wry smile forms. “Should I carry you like a princess? You’d be warm then.”

Surprised, you bite back a retort, matching his teasing tone with confidence. “Maybe you should.”

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, stunned. “Wait, what?”

“Chill, I was just joking,” you mumble, looking down at the ground. But before you know it, he’s stopped again, this time dropping to one knee. Your eyes widen in shock. “WHAT THE HELL?” you blurt out, stepping back in reflex, heat rising to your cheeks at the unexpected gesture. (more so because you believed he was trying to look up your dress)

Jake looks up, mildly annoyed but patient. “I’m helping you,” he says simply. Before you can argue, he pulls out a pair of slippers from a little carry bag he had brought from home. The realization hits, softening your expression as he glances up. “Lift your leg.”

You comply, feeling foolish for your earlier outburst. He slips the heels off your feet and replaces them with the soft slippers, careful and precise as if proving he has no ulterior motive. The chill in the air suddenly seems less biting.

“You had these the whole time?” you ask, voice softer now, eyes wide with realization. He places the heels into the carry bag, stands up, and meets your gaze with a smirk.

“Yeah. Thought you might need them,” he says, a hint of smugness in his tone. You’re about to thank him when he reminds you with a mock-accusing look, “And you were ready to accuse me of being a pervert.”

The memory makes you feel small, but you muster a sheepish, “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, a touch of amusement in his eyes as the two of you start walking again, your steps now confident and comfortable. His jacket around your shoulders holds a warmth that seems to seep straight to your heart.

“So...” Jake’s voice cuts through the silence, the question you've been dreading finally arriving. “Why did you lie about... us trying for a baby?” His tone is cautious, probing.

You sigh, the answer already clear in your mind. “It was the only way to get them to stop bothering us,” you admit. A pause follows, your gaze flitting up to meet his. You don’t dare to say more, not with your secret burden looming—coming from a future where he is no longer alive and your mission is to keep him safe.

Jake hums in agreement, the tension easing a bit. “I can’t argue with that.” A comfortable silence settles between you, only broken by the sound of your footsteps. He glances at you again and asks, “Are you hungry?”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Relief flashes across his face before he reaches out, taking your hand and leading you forward. The two of you approach a small, tucked-away restaurant, its sign faded but familiar. Jake’s eyes light up. “You have to try the cold coffee from that café across the street,” he points out, the fondness in his voice unmistakable.

You nod, memories flickering back. His odd, endearing preferences were things you never forgot. “Fish curry with plain rice and some shrimp on the side?” you guess, eyes twinkling with recognition.

Jake’s head snaps to you, surprise clear as day. He stares, a laugh escaping him as he shakes his head. “Since when did you start memorizing my favorites?”

You had heard about his fav things to eat from your brother in law, Jay. But Jake never said it to you himself so the boy was pretty much stunned when you literally memorised them, as if you were waiting to flex this whole time.

You offer a small, knowing smile. “I have my ways.”

The waiter arrives promptly with your orders, and the rich aroma fills the space between you and Jake. He takes a bite, but pauses, eyes drifting to you with a soft, contemplative expression. “We’ve never done this before…” he murmurs, his tone a mix of realization and gentle amusement.

You tilt your head, savoring a piece of shrimp. “You mean this date?” you ask, half-smiling.

“Yeah. I guess that’s what I mean,” he replies, taking a moment before continuing, as if gathering the courage. “I like it. I like how we are now.” He takes a sip of water, and the way he watches you is tender, raw. His hand slides across the table to rest over yours, fingers warm against your skin.

“I don’t know what changed, but I…” He hesitates, eyes locking with yours, a profound intensity that silences you. “I like how we’re not avoiding each other anymore, how we talk instead of fighting over every little thing.”

The sincerity in his words pierces through you, tugging at memories of a future where his absence left a hollow ache in your chest. The pain you’d carried, the distance, the loss—all of it feels heavy in this moment, but now, something else unfurls within you. An unexpected warmth that swells as his thumb brushes over your knuckles.

He draws in a shaky breath. “I know I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes, maybe too many, and that’s why we kept drifting apart in those four years we were married. But I want us to stay like this. Is that too much to ask for?” His voice cracks, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

The depth of emotion he shows takes your breath away, and your vision blurs as your own tears spill over. The raw honesty in his confession reaches a part of you that had long been buried under grief and guilt. But this isn’t grief—it’s something different, a warmth that wraps around you and fills the spaces that loss once consumed.

“Jake…” you whisper, voice trembling. He blinks rapidly, tears tracing paths down his cheeks as he tries to manage a laugh, a hand lifting to wipe at his face. “Did I go too overboard?” he chuckles, awkwardly, brushing his fingers over yours, an attempt to ease the intensity.

But you can’t answer with words, your heart too full. Instead, you wipe your own tears away, watching him as he takes a deep breath and resumes eating, eyes still red-rimmed, his emotions raw and vivid between you. The silence that follows is... a little satisfying this time around. Your chest tightens, and you realize this feeling—this unexpected, overwhelming tenderness—is the spark you hadn’t felt in what feels like forever.

The confession... It did something to you. It made you feel things or you believed so.

You reach for his hand, this time without hesitation, and hold on as if anchoring both of you to this moment. A shared glance tells him everything you can’t yet put into words: you’re here, with him, and for now, that’s enough.

AS THE DAYS PASSED FOLLOWING THAT UNEXPECTED DINNER, a subtle shift had occurred between you and Jake. It had been a month since then, and despite your hectic lives—you, a dedicated nurse, and him, an ambitious lawyer—something had changed. You continued to sleep separately, a necessity due to your conflicting schedules. Late nights saw you returning home to find Jake already asleep, and early mornings had him leaving before you awoke. This unspoken arrangement was born out of mutual respect for each other’s rest.

However, the reminder of the future haunted you. The date on your wrist, November 4th, hadn’t faded or smudged. It remained stark and vivid, a grim reminder of the fate you knew awaited Jake, filling you with silent dread.

Despite your busy lives, the dinner at that small restaurant had stirred something unspoken between you. A shared tenderness had taken root, and in the brief pauses between work, you found yourself drawn to those moments that whispered of possibilities—moments that spoke of a bond that hadn’t existed before.

The room feels charged with an unspoken tension as you stand there, watching Jake. The question slips from your lips, “Are we sleeping separately again?” masking the tremble in your voice with an attempt at confidence. Jake’s eyes meet yours, an amused smile playing on his lips as he tilts his head. “Do you want to sleep with me?” he asks, casual yet knowing.

You stammer, trying to find an answer that won’t reveal how vulnerable you feel. “No—yes—but—” The uncertainty in your voice makes him chuckle softly, the sound sending warmth through your chest. The realization of your feelings for him washes over you again, clear and inescapable.

“It’s normal to want to sleep with your husband. Don’t worry,” he says reassuringly. His tone is light, yet there’s an edge of tenderness as he turns and walks to the bedroom. He pauses at the doorway, looking back with an expectant eyebrow raise, and you follow.

Inside, the dim light casts soft shadows. The atmosphere feels different tonight, heightened by the realization that, while you’ve shared this space before, this moment feels profoundly intimate. He hesitates for a moment, the usual playful confidence in his manner replaced by a quiet consideration.

Should he lie down first?

Wait for you?

Or speak?

“You don’t need to worry. I won’t touch you unless you want me to. We could even put a pillow between us if you prefer,” he says in a rush, trying to ease the tension. But his words leave you both flushed. You respond, flustered yet honest, “No—you can touch me—I mean...”

Jake’s eyes widen, and a surprised silence falls over you both, broken only by your slightly quickened breaths.

Finally, you break it, murmuring, “So... do we sleep?” You wish the dim light hides your expression, but Jake’s shifting on the bed signals that he’s as unsettled as you are. He lies down first, and you follow, settling into the bed with a space that feels simultaneously too close and too distant.

Minutes pass as the darkness deepens around you. You’re aware of every sound, every breath he takes, and the slight rustle of sheets as you both try to find comfort. The knowledge that he’s staying dressed out of respect doesn’t escape you, and neither does the chill that seeps through the room, despite the blanket. It’s enough to make sleep elusive, even as your heart drums with quiet, unspoken hope.

The air feels thick with tension as neither of you can fall asleep, despite the dim light and the shared silence. Jake gently sits up, his voice breaking the stillness. “I’ll get changed into my night clothes—this is uncomfortable. You should get changed too,” he suggests. His words are practical, but they stir a shyness inside you. The thought of wearing shorts around him makes you feel self-conscious, though the blanket and darkness give you some comfort.

With a deep breath, you agree. You grab your oversized top and shorts, retreating to the bathroom to change. When you return, Jake is already asleep, dressed in a soft T-shirt and shorts. His peaceful expression makes a pang of guilt settle in your chest. You feel both relief and unease at the same time, knowing he’s so close yet so far away.

You lie there, tense in the stillness of the night. Jake’s hand lands instinctively on your stomach, the warmth of his touch sending a jolt through you. You hold your breath, carefully shifting his hand away. Just when you think you're safe, his leg shifts under the blanket, pressing gently between your legs. A rush of heat floods your chest as you gently push his leg away, silently exhaling in relief.

In the quiet, you watch him sleep. His messy hair, a small trail of drool escaping his lips—something inside you stirs. Without thinking, you bring your thumb to wipe away the drool, brushing it lightly against your shirt. You stare at him for a moment, your heart racing in ways you can’t fully understand.

For Jake though,

He wakes to find you so close, your noses nearly touching. A small breath escapes him as he pulls back, but then he notices your body, curled into him—one of your legs and arms wrapped around him, as if clinging to his warmth to escape the cold. You’re nestled so comfortably against his chest, and though a small part of him wants to get up, he finds himself content in the moment.

He stares at you, watching as he slips his fingers through your hair, the quiet intimacy settling around him like a comforting blanket. When you stir, half-awake, he expects you to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you bury yourself further into his chest, and he smiles, a little amused by your unconscious need for closeness.

“Morning... Baby,” he says softly, though he’s hoping you’ll move just enough for him to slip out of bed.

“Morningg,” you murmur, nuzzling his chest. He notices how you don’t seem to mind the nickname, a small sign that you’re still in that dreamy, sleepy state. He wants to pull away, but he doesn't want to disturb you, so he asks, “Can you move a bit, baby?”

You barely stir, your arms and legs still tangled with his. “Too cold,” you mumble, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“I know, baby. I’ll turn the heater on for you, is that good?” he whispers, his voice tender. He’s careful not to wake you fully, knowing you won’t even remember this when you wake up.

An hour later, you wake up alone in the bed, the soft comforter still wrapped around your legs. You stretch and yawn, rubbing your eyes, only to hear the door creak open. Jake stands there, a plate in hand—an omelette and a fruit salad. You blink, unsure if you’re still dreaming, and pinch your cheek, just to make sure this isn’t some figment of your imagination.

“What's that?” you ask, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Breakfast in bed,” Jake says with a playful grin, setting the plate down in front of you.

“For me?” you ask, surprised and touched.

“Who else?” he replies with a shrug, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

“Why...?” You blink at him, unsure of why he's being so considerate, so affectionate.

“Why not?” he answers, teasing, but there’s a sincerity in his eyes that makes your heart flutter.

You stare at the food in front of you, but the nerves kick in. “Well, uhm... I haven’t brushed.”

“It’s okay,” he reassures, waving off your concerns.

“No, it’s not. It’s gross. I do care about germs,” you argue, a bit embarrassed. Before he can say anything else, you rush off to brush your teeth, feeling a little self-conscious. You quickly freshen up, brushing your teeth with the toothpaste, hoping that’ll help with the lingering awkwardness.

When you return, you take a bite, and the emotion hits you harder than you expect. You don’t quite know why, but the tenderness of his gesture fills you with gratitude, and a soft lump forms in your throat.

“Why?” you ask again, your voice shaky, as you sip some water. The question has been swirling in your mind ever since you saw him standing there, holding that plate.

“Hm?” he hums, genuinely confused, not fully understanding why you're so emotional.

“Why are you being so nice... and romantic?” You wince after speaking, regretting your words, but you can't take them back now.

Jake tilts his head, his smile fading slightly. “Like I said a month ago... I meant those words. I want us to stay like this... And not go back to how it was in those four years.. Are we really that immature to let it happen again? ” The vulnerability in his tone catches you off guard, and for a moment, you can see the hurt in his eyes.

It's raw, honest, and you feel a knot twist in your chest, not having a reply to his genuine question.

THE DAYS AND MONTHS THAT FOLLOW ARE UNEXPECTEDLY TENDER, filled with moments that remind you of what being husband and wife is meant to feel like. The shared smiles, lingering touches, and quiet mornings are sweeter than they have ever been, and for the first time in a long while, peace seems attainable. Yet, there is an undercurrent that stirs beneath it all—the date that looms, casting a shadow over your contentment.

November 4th.

With the month drawing nearer, your heart starts to tighten with an anxious grip. Paranoia seeps into the quiet moments, the fear of what November 4th could mean—what it has meant in the past—makes the days feel more fragile. Your mind races, replaying scenarios and doubts that you can’t shake off. Each sweet gesture, each kind word from him, is tinged with the knowledge that the date approaches, threatening to unravel everything you’ve rebuilt.

Jake’s expression is heavy with exhaustion, dark circles under his eyes hinting at the long day he’s had. You offer, “I’ll heat up the dinner,” and turn toward the kitchen, but he stops you with a gentle grasp around your wrist. Before you can react, he pulls you back, pressing you against the wall. The soft strains of a romantic song drift from the living room, creating an intimate, almost fragile atmosphere.

He’s close—closer than usual—and you feel the warmth radiating from his body as well as the subtle scent of his cologne. The proximity sends your pulse racing.

“Jake?” you say softly, confusion lacing your voice as you look up at him. His face is unreadable, the dim lighting casting a shadow over the tired lines of his features. His eyes meet yours, carrying an unspoken emotion.

“Mm?” he murmurs, his voice hushed, as if not to disturb the moment. His hands find their way around you, holding you securely against him, and he leans his chin on your head. The gesture feels protective, desperate even.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your words barely above a whisper, unsure if you’re seeking clarification or reassurance. His embrace tightens for a moment, and you feel his chest rise and fall against yours as he takes a deep breath.

“Can you stop calling me Jake?” he says quietly, the request landing softly, yet weighted.

Surprise flashes through you. “What do you want me to call you?” you ask, voice muffled against his shirt. The question feels vulnerable, as if shifting something fundamental between you both.

“I don’t know... something like... baby, darling, honey... or anything,” he admits, a subtle flush spreading across his cheeks despite the solemn tone. You catch the shy dip of his eyes, and a faint smile tugs at your lips.

“You’re being quite demanding,” you tease, looking up into his face. His lips part slightly as he considers your words.

“This isn’t being demanding,” he counters, pausing just long enough for the silence to underline his meaning. His eyes search yours, raw and full of an unnamed plea. “I just want to spend my last months with you, thinking we’re just... normal. Like any other couple.”

His words sink in, bringing with them an ache that spreads through your chest. The silence that follows is heavy, laced with all the things unsaid and the truth that’s pressing in on both of you. You lift a hand, letting your fingers brush the hair at the back of his neck. His eyes soften, dark lashes casting shadows against his skin as he watches you.

There’s something fragile in this moment, a bittersweet understanding passing between you that makes your throat tighten. The future looms, uncertain and unkind, but for now, you’re here, held close, suspended in the tender present.

Jake’s voice lowers, a tremor in its depths that betrays the weight of his words. “You might not believe me, but... I come from a reality where I’m dead. So, I hope we can at least be nice to each other in my last moments. Can you do that?”

A stunned silence follows, your breath catching in your throat as his confession hangs in the air. You believe him; how could you not when you come from the same reality? Eyes widening, you step back, raising your wrist to show the dark, unerasable mark: November 4th. The ink-like number seems to pulse, a constant reminder of a fate that binds you both.

Jake’s eyes mirror your shock. He releases you, just enough to reveal his own wrist. There it is, the same haunting date. The mark seems alive, almost mocking, as if counting down with every heartbeat.

Neither of you speaks for a moment, the silence heavy with shared grief and realization. The next second, you’re in his arms again, your face buried in his chest as he pulls you close, his own face pressed into your hair. The world around you blurs, reduced to the rapid thumping of your heart and the warmth of his embrace.

“I... please don’t... leave me this time,” you plead, your voice breaking under the weight of your fear. The memory of finding him lifeless in the world you came from, the coldness of that reality, rushes back with a cruel force.

“I will try,” he whispers, his voice barely steady as he runs a hand down your back in a soothing gesture. “We changed the relationship, right? So maybe... just maybe, we can avoid death too.”

You both stand there, unmoving as the moment stretches out. It feels absurd, two souls transported from a fractured future, now clinging to each other in the present in a fragile hope. Yet the thought of letting go is unbearable, so you don’t. For now, the reality of the present is enough.

JAKE’S FINGERS TREMBLE SLIGHTLY AS HE HOLDS OUT THE SMALL BOX, A HINT OF NERVOUSNESS CREASING HIS BROW. “This is for you.” His voice is softer than usual, his eyes searching yours for a response. The box is familiar, a relic from the present you left behind, steeped in memories. Inside is the ancestral ring, one that Jake’s mother entrusted to you after his death—a token that held more value than any wedding ring could.

“I wasn’t... couldn’t give it to you before, but now... I’d like you to have it.” His voice is almost a whisper as he takes your hand, slipping the cool metal onto your finger. His touch lingers, warm and careful, as if anchoring the moment between you.

You look down at the ring, its delicate design catching the dim light and glistening softly. The weight of it brings back a rush of memories that mix grief with an unexpected warmth. Meeting his gaze, you let a small, genuine smile curve your lips. “Thank you. After you… I mean, after your death, your mother gave it to me,” you say, voice thick with the past, “but I’m glad it’s you giving it to me now.”

The way his eyes widen before softening speaks volumes—acceptance, regret, and hope, all blending seamlessly as he draws you closer.

Jake’s expression shifts, a soft smile forming as he leans in, his body pressing yours gently against the bedroom wall. His breath mingles with yours, warm and scented faintly with his cologne. His eyes trace your features, holding a glimmer of something tender and fragile. You raise a brow in playful defiance, a silent challenge, and a sheepish smile tugs at his lips. Without another word, he cups your face, his thumb grazing your cheek, and leans in until the space between you disappears.

The first touch of his lips is tentative, testing. A shiver races down your spine as his mouth moves with a gentleness that makes your heart stutter. Your eyes flutter open for a second, catching the serene expression on his face before closing again as you respond, deepening the kiss. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to reality.

When he finally breaks away, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing in short, uneven gasps. The room is silent except for the soft crackle of a song playing somewhere in the background. Jake’s eyes open, and in them, you see a question—a hesitation laced with anticipation. “Do you want to go further?” His voice, barely above a whisper, holds a vulnerability that makes your pulse quicken.

You exhale softly, a hint of a smile teasing your lips as you match his boldness. “How far can you go?” The playful edge in your voice makes him chuckle, low and breathy.

“As far as you want to go.” The words are a promise, and before you can respond, his lips capture yours again, more confident this time, as his hand moves to the strap of your dress, gently sliding it off of your shoulders.

THE NEXT FEW WEEKS PASS IN A COMFORTING CALM, the bond between you and Jake strengthening with each passing day. You're no longer weighed down by the regret of the past, but instead, you focus on cherishing the present. Yet, there's still a lingering unease.

Jake driving the car is something that continues to gnaw at you. It's not just a simple fear; it's the haunting memory of the future you came from, where that very action led to his tragic end. As November nears, the pressure builds. You look at the date on your wrist—November 4th—and the thought of losing him again, of it becoming reality, is too much to bear. Your chest tightens, and you feel a mix of helplessness and dread, hoping with every fiber of your being that this time, things will be different.

Jake offers a reassuring smile, the kind that tries to mask his own unease as he softly says, “Chill, I’ll be back in an hour, alright?” His hand moves up to gently smooth your hair, eyes soft with understanding as he takes in the worry etched across your face. You cling tighter to his arm, voice trembling as you ask, “Is it important?”

He nods, and the hopeful part of you crumbles. The instinct to keep him close, to refuse, is almost overwhelming. But before you can protest, he leans forward, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. His hands slip down to rest on your shoulders as he looks at you earnestly.

“I promise I’ll be back. Now, will my pretty wife give me a smile so I can come back even sooner?” The playful plea tugs at your lips, and despite the fear swirling inside, you manage a small, forced smile. He chuckles softly, ruffling your hair before turning to leave.

You trail behind him to the door, eyes glued to the taillights of his car as they fade down the street. The ache in your chest sharpens, and you glance down at the ancestral ring on your finger, tracing its smooth surface as if the touch alone could make your wish come true: Please, come back safely.

The minutes stretch painfully long, and every ten minutes, you can’t resist sending a text, the same anxious message: “If you’re okay, just send a heart emoji.” True to his word, Jake replies with a heart every time—until the fifty-minute mark.

The silence is deafening. Your heart thunders as you stare at your phone, willing the screen to light up. Nothing. The dread coils tighter, stealing the air from your lungs. You take a shaky breath, but it barely settles you. Panic sets in, and you hit the call button. The phone doesn’t connect; the ring tone never plays. Your chest tightens.

In desperation, you call Jay, your brother-in-law. His voice is laced with confusion as he picks up. “Jay, is Jake with you?” The silence that follows your frantic question only amplifies your fear. “No, why? What’s going on?” he asks, suddenly serious. Before you can answer, he cuts the call, sensing the urgency and attempting to help in any way he can.

The next hour drags like an eternity, your anxiety swallowing every rational thought. You pace the room, eyes darting to the clock, phone clenched in your shaking hand. Then, after what feels like a lifetime, you hear the distant purr of an engine. Your pulse stutters as Jake’s car comes into view, whole and unharmed.

But you don’t relax. Not until you see him. The door swings open, and there he is, frustration etched into his features as he steps inside. Your breath catches, relief and anger colliding within you.

Jake's expression softens as he speaks, keeping his voice low despite the frustration. “Why’d you call Jay over something like this? My phone died while I was working. I charged it and got caught up in the case. It’s embarrassing.”

Your eyes well up, the weight of worry turning to a sting of hurt. “So? It’s not important?” Your voice wavers, raw with emotion. “I was terrified, Jake! I didn’t want to lose you again. Sorry for being the clingy wife you’re ashamed of.”

Turning to leave, you barely make a step before he’s there, blocking your path. His eyes search yours, but instead of a defensive remark, he pulls you close, enveloping you in an embrace that tells you more than words could. His arms tighten, anchoring you to him as he murmurs in your ear, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s strange, but I promise I won’t say that again, okay?”

His breath is warm against your hair as he leans his cheek on your head, his heartbeat steady against your own erratic one. Despite the tension, you sense his understanding, a silent acknowledgment of your fear. He’s learning to hold your worry without judgment.

“I was so scared, Jake. I thought I’d lose you all over again.” Your voice cracks, and he feels the tremor in your body. He wants to say the right thing, anything to soothe the tremble in your words, but all he can do is hold you tighter.

Both of you are haunted by that date imprinted on your wrists, “November 4th.” A reminder that looms like an uninvited shadow, a constant whisper of what could happen.

THE DAY ARRIVES, a heavy silence filling the air between you and Jake. His promise lingers like a protective shield around you both: he won’t drive, he won’t leave. His presence is a balm for the fear that pulses in your chest. As the two of you snuggle on the couch, the soft glow of the TV playing a rom-com, you turn to him with a worried look, your voice low and unsure.

“What if something bad happens while we’re in the house?” you whisper, nuzzling into his warmth. The thought of losing him, of the world continuing without him, feels unbearable.

Jake shifts, his arm wrapping tighter around you as he looks down at you, his breath warm against your neck. “Nothing will happen. And if it does, I’ll protect you,” he assures, his tone strong and sure, though his own heart is heavy. He knows how much your fear weighs on you, and he wants to shoulder it for you.

But the thought of you living without him—he can’t imagine it. He brushes your hair from your face gently, his voice a soft promise. “I love you too much for that.” His words come out naturally, like it’s something he’s been holding back but feels right now to say. It’s the first time you hear him say it, and the weight of those words floods your heart with warmth, knowing this is real.

“I get it. I won’t put my life at risk,” he murmurs, though there’s a quiet uncertainty in his words, an unspoken truth that he would never let anything harm you—even at the cost of his own safety.

You glance up at him, your lips pressing together in a worried frown. “You better not,” you mumble, not able to let go of the fear completely. You’ve spent the whole day together, in the safety of your home, trying to ignore the impending dread that the date will pass and nothing will change. Watching TV, cooking together, each small moment a reminder of how much he means to you—and how fragile life can be.

You curl up closer to him, as if physically wrapping yourself around him can keep him safe. Your eyes glance at the clock, the seconds ticking by too slowly. Every moment spent together now feels like a treasure, and you want to hold on to it forever.

The two of you lie in bed, the soft glow of the nightlight casting a gentle warmth over your forms. His hand rests tenderly over yours, fingers interlocking. He watches you as you sleep, your face relaxed, peaceful. A quiet whisper escapes his lips: “I love you.” His eyes linger on your peaceful expression, your other arm still clinging to him as if you’re unwilling to let go even in sleep.

He leans over to turn off the lamp, and then his gaze falls to his wrist—where the date once was. It’s gone. A wave of disbelief washes over him. The tension that has gripped him for so long begins to melt away. Perhaps it wasn’t an omen after all, but a reminder that after November 4th, a new chapter awaited them both.

He takes a deep breath, reaching for your wrist to find the same thing: no date. Relief floods him, and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, pulling you even closer into his arms, savoring the moment.

But he knows, as much as this moment feels like a new beginning, there will still be challenges ahead. The fear you carry about him driving is not something that will fade overnight. Your worry, rooted in a past he knows you can’t shake, will take time to heal. But for now, he holds you close, understanding, and promises silently that he’ll be patient, allowing you to find peace in your own time.

TWO MONTHS HAVE PASSED SINCE THE FATEFUL DATE, and though life has taken you and Jake through different stages, there’s an undeniable warmth between the two of you. Sitting at the family dinner table, surrounded by loved ones, the air is filled with laughter, conversation, and the quiet hum of joy.

Semi, now a cheerful five-year-old, eats her meal quietly, occasionally looking up with shy glances.

You glance over at Jake, noticing him take a deep breath as he prepares to speak, his hand resting on the table near yours. It’s clear he’s nervous, even though it’s just family. He clears his throat, the words finally tumbling out: “So… We’re having a baby.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Jake’s father scoffs, not giving him an ounce of reaction, while his mother rolls her eyes. “Oh, c’mon, you can fool us one time, not twice,” she says, clearly referencing the last family dinner, where you had tried to casually mention trying for a baby, only for him to play along. He felt the blame was entirely on him, but you knew the truth—it was a team effort.

You chuckle softly to yourself, leaning into Jake’s side, your heart fluttering at the thought of a new life, a new chapter. He meets your gaze, his lips curving into a small smile, even amidst the teasing.

This moment, while filled with playful mockery, marks something deeper. You’re finally here together, stronger and more united than ever before. And this new adventure? It’s the start of a new journey that no one can take from you.

"Really, Y/n’s pregnant. We're having a baby," Jake says, his voice laced with excitement. His mother, skeptical, eyes you closely. "Is that true?"

Without waiting for Jake’s confirmation, you nod, feeling his fingers intertwine with yours beneath the table, his touch calming your nerves.

"I won’t hesitate to beat your ass if this is fake," his dad grumbles, irritation mixing with a hint of hope.

Jay, barely containing his amusement at the scene, watches the family react, while Jake proudly pulls out the ultrasound pictures, revealing the truth. His parents take turns looking at the images, jaws dropping in surprise. Jay, knowing already, can’t help but chuckle.

"Father was starting to question your masculinity. Glad you proved him wrong," Jay teases, earning a gentle nudge from Jieun, urging him to keep it light.

"Wait... So there’s a grandkid on the way?" Jake’s mother recovers first, grinning with hopeful excitement. Jake nods, and your heart swells at the thought of everything that's to come. This moment, this family, it feels like the beginning of something truly special.

Jake’s mother leans forward, still processing, but the excitement is slowly bubbling up. “A grandchild? Really? My little boy having a little one? I’m going to spoil that baby so much.”

Jake chuckles, glancing at you. “Well, you already spoil Semi enough, so I guess it’s fair.”

“Hey, I’m a great grandma-in-training,” she quips, giving Semi an affectionate pat. “But if you two need any advice, I’m here.”

Your heart swells seeing the warmth in her eyes. But then, Jake’s dad, clearly trying to keep his cool, mutters, “I’ll believe it when I see a baby in my arms.”

“You’ll see him,” Jake says, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “Or her, right, Y/n?”

You smile, feeling the weight of the moment. “Definitely,” you whisper, feeling a rush of emotion.

Jay, still grinning, can’t help but poke at his younger brother. “So, what’s the plan, huh? You two gonna have one of those perfect Pinterest-worthy baby showers or just skip the whole thing?”

Jieun smacks his arm lightly. “Don’t make them nervous, Jay. Let them enjoy the moment.”

Jake laughs, looking over at you with that same loving gaze. “Honestly, I think we just need to take it one step at a time. But yeah, we’ll get there.”

“You know, when you have a baby, you’ll see just how much you need each other,” his dad says more seriously now, a rare moment of wisdom breaking through his tough exterior. “It’s not just about being a parent, it’s about being there for each other even more.”

Jake nods, his hand tightening around yours as if to say, “I’ve got you, always.”

The whole family seems to settle into a comfortable silence after that, everyone soaking in the news in their own way, but all of them sharing the same unspoken bond.

“Guess we’ll need one more chair for next time,” Jay jokes, breaking the silence, and everyone bursts out laughing.

You glance at Jake, his eyes full of joy, and your heart feels fuller than it ever has. There’s something about being surrounded by family—being with him—that feels right. “Yeah, we’ll need one more chair,” Jake agrees softly, his gaze drifting to the future, to the family that’s just beginning.

In the end, you and Jake had proven the vows true—til death do us part. Through all the challenges, fears, and moments of doubt, you had always found your way back to each other. The promises made, the trust built, and the love that had endured everything now stood as a testament to what you had together. With every touch, every shared laugh, and every quiet moment, you knew that no matter what, your hearts were bound—for life—and beyond.

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pukefactory · 14 days ago

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•☽────✧˖°˖ PINEAPPLE PLAZA ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA Making The Reader Eat The Food In Her World

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ When ENA first offers you food, it’s presented like a business transaction. She places a flickering silver platter in your hands, balanced on one clawed finger, whispering, “You look depleted. Here, a mutual investment opportunity for your taste receptors.” The food is…alive. It giggles. You can’t tell if it’s meat or if it’s trying to sell you real estate. ENA grins brightly. “Bless you for your business.”

☆ Her Meanie side bursts in just as you poke it with a fork. “WHAT KIND OF PEA-BRAINED FREAK EATS INCHWORMS THAT REEK OF TAX FRAUD?!” You’re relieved. Maybe she gets it. Then she shoves a glowing orb into your mouth. “Now THIS is cuisine. Tastes like regret, right? It’s seasonal!” You can’t feel your tongue. Or your past. Or time. You nod politely.

☆ You once tried to explain human digestion to her. ENA tilted her head—red side blinking thoughtfully. “Fascinating! You mean, you can’t metabolize uncut mercury shards wrapped in memory foam?” She sounds genuinely surprised. She writes a note in a ledger titled: “Consumer Weaknesses: Organic Digestive Systems.”

☆ Sometimes she forgets you’re not like her. One day she bites into a chalky cube labeled “FAKE MILK (with spores)” and beams at you with crumb-dusted joy. “It tastes like childhood trauma. You’ll love it.” You chew once. Your stomach throws a protest rally. You cough. ENA claps. “Success! I’ve found your palate’s language: pain.”

☆ You wake up to her crouching over your bed with a picnic basket. “Did I catch you at an okay time? I prepared us a morning charcuterie of fire salt, serotonin poppers, and a whole glass of tomorrow.” She hands you a drink that hums. It glows like a dying star. You sip. Now you’re glowing. Slightly. “You’re beautiful,” she says, already scribbling the recipe onto your arm.

☆ When you try to refuse politely, she flips to her Meanie side and screams: “IS IT BECAUSE I CAN’T COOK?!!” You reassure her you’re just not hungry. She throws the whole feast into the air. It hovers midair, spinning like a satellite. “NOW EAT IT ANYWAY, YOU STUBBORN FLESH MONSTER.” You eat a slice of hovering fear pie out of sheer love. And panic.

☆ Some of the food makes you hallucinate. ENA doesn’t seem to notice. You’re babbling about a hallway that doesn’t end. She nods approvingly. “Side effects may include temporal migration. Also, who gave you the key to the confetti factory?” You didn’t. It’s in your hand now. You don’t remember chewing that key.

☆ She creates a tasting game. Each food is labeled with bizarre titles: “Trust Issues,” “Abandoned Projects,” “Spleen of the Month.” You laugh nervously. She watches you intently as you bite into “Spleen of the Month.” Her smile twitches. “Oh good. No immediate bleeding.”

☆ There’s a delicacy called Grubgrub. It screeches when touched. ENA hums. “Mmmm. This one screams just like my 3rd grade teacher. Nostalgic!” You try to leave. She grabs your wrist. Gently. Firmly. “You haven’t even tried the soup yet. It changes flavor based on your sins.”

☆ Eventually, you grow used to the horror. You learn which foods to fake-chew, which ones to bribe into not transforming mid-meal. And ENA? She’s thrilled. “You’re adapting! How marvelous. You’ll be a native in no time.” You smile weakly. She slurps up a steaming bowl of liquid grammar mistakes and kisses your forehead. “My brave little guppy. Thank you for joining me in the feast of our shared delusions.”

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hcneymooners · 4 months ago

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⋆ you pull my hair, you call me.

jinx x mermaid!f!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you are a mermaid living in a hidden grotto of the undercity. one day, jinx wanders into your territory. or more accurately, the ruins of her old haunt.

cw: mermaid!reader, canon divergence!au, discussions of trauma, discussion of child loss, mental health issues, non-sexual intimacy, sfw, however, there are suggestive themes, age gap, girl you are literally thousands of years old.

notes: in these coming days, i hold on tightly to fantasies. they become stronger, more intricate. i feel it is my only way to survive. this is dedicated to @s-4pphics, the only person who makes me feel like a real life mermaid.

The water remembers everything. It's why you were born into it. Your mind is a steel trap, a lattice of love and loss.

Water does not coddle the memory, but it soothes. When your mother crawled into the reservoir to birth you, it did not coddle her naked body as it twisted and expelled you. It did nothing to lessen the sore peaks of her nipples as her breasts swelled and hardened with milk. But it soothed.

Your birth was similar to the experience of having birds flutter out of one’s chest. You came into the world with the rush of wind and at the peak of death, eyes big and your silence even larger. You were a beautiful baby with a delicately scaled face, and from the beginning your mother knew you were different.

She holds you, tells you her name—a name that means one thousand flowers. It fits her; you understand this even one minute fresh into your life. Your mother was one thousand flowers both blooming and decaying at once.

You were born in the winter, snow touching the tender skin of your forehead. It is also winter when your mother, a woman of a thousand flowers, dies.

Her body seems to flutter and pulse until it shudders into foam. The water soothes you as you sink. You stay on the ocean floor for what is close to forever. The years pass, but water remembers.

It remembers the screaming, the fire, the way the undercity shattered like a dropped mirror. The shards spun out and out. You never braved the world, then. You would come close to the surface, float backward and bent as you watched the sky smear into green gas and heat. The water—and therefore you—remember the taste of ash and gunpowder, the iron-rich flavor of blood and revenge.

But mostly, you remember her—that odd girl with chaos pumping inside of her like a second, third heart who came stumbling through the wreckage of her old workshop, trailing ghosts and grief like a burial shroud.

You've been watching her for days. Your kind has always been drawn to broken things, to the places where pain bleeds into water until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. She fascinates you with her paleness, with her long body that is painted and bared by the shoddy work of her pants and the cut of her top. You hide behind large chunks of driftwood, eye the swivel of her hips as she paces and turns. Her eyes are strange, too pale ghosts colored silvery blue. She closes them, opens, closes.

She is like a small bird, this woman. She carries destruction in her hands but cradles it like a wounded animal at times, afraid to hold too tight, afraid to let go. The first time she breaks, it's like watching a star collapse.

She falls to her knees at the water's edge, her wail echoing off the mineral-crusted walls of what was once her sanctuary. Her hands tear and tug at her braids as if she could rip the memories right out of her skull, like plucking loose the weave of a tapestry. The water around you shivers with her anguish, and your body preens; it tells you that you cannot stay hidden any longer.

You rise from the depths like a dream, your hair carrying traces of phosphorescent algae that provide a lazy glow as it swirls around your face. Her eyes fix on you, fever-bright and wild, but she doesn't run. Maybe she thinks you're a hallucination. Maybe she's just too tired to be afraid.

You understand this.

The silence lasts for a while. The two of you exist across from one another, your face settling on your hands as you inch forward. She has yet to notice the flutter of your tail, but it's only a matter of time. You can see the light refracting off of it into a million sparks of light, dancing across the ceiling as you near her.Her mouth parts and you feel your own hinge open. You are trying to remember, trying to make yourself just like her if only to assuage her fear. Your tongue unfurls, neat and a deep blue. She blinks in surprise, which allows you to speak first.

"I am [Name]," you say, and your voice is a gentle purr like someone has stumbled over the strings of a harp. You are learning, thinking of how humans relate to one another. You don't tell her your real name, your name birthed by ocean and the melt of your mother's scale in the middle of your tongue. You are a woman of a thousand white waves, because every woman in your family has a thousand of something. "This, here, is my home."

You reach out now, because you have seen this before. Her people hug and grasp at one another in welcoming. The woman jerks, falls with a sick crunch on one of those pale hips in an effort to get away from you. You are hurt, and alarmed, and retreat further into the water. Your hand is still clawed as if to hold hers.

"Get back," she warns, voice raw and hoarse. Her eyes repeat their pattern. Close, open. Open and close. You close yours to see what she sees. Your eyelids are thin, translucent. The world can still be seen. She is right in front of you. "I'll hurt you. I'm a curse; I hurt everything.”

You open your eyes now, reach for her anyway. Your scaled hands catch hers, gentling them away from her hair. You smooth the strands, like your sister would do to you when the poachers came.

"My kind cannot be cursed," you tell her. This close she can feel the vibration, the way that your voice carries echoes of tidal pools and deep-sea trenches. "We are older than magic, older than pain. A different kind of creature."

She laughs, and it sounds like breaking glass. "Yeah? Well I bet you've never met anything like me before."

But you have. You've seen the way trauma can twist a soul, how it can make someone forget the shape of their own heart. You've watched your own kind waste away from grief and pollution, watched your bloodline dwindle to almost nothing. You recognize the look in her eyes—it's the same one you saw in your sister's before the toxic waste claimed her, before disease took your mother.

"Do not tell me what you think I know," you answer and she fidgets within your hold.

You are unsure of how to calm her, so you rummage deep inside of your long memory. You think of your mother. Now, you know. You pull her into the water with you, and she thrashes at first—all spinning limbs and desperate gasping. She is much like a fish at the end of a hook, you think. But you hold her, humming an ancient lullaby that vibrates through the water around you both.

Your singing voice, your Melody was always more unsightly than the others. So much higher and almost dissonant, like the cry of a whale during its migration. You mostly Sang alone, while others Sang together. But it winds around Jinx; maybe she is dissonant too. Slowly, so slowly, she stills.

"This is my body," you murmur, pressing close, your scales catching the ethereal light. "And this is yours." Your hands trace her tattoos like star maps, feeling the stories written in ink and scar tissue. You pause at her stomach, feeling an old grief there. You cast your Melody again, and it falls like a net over the skin underneath your fingers.

"You had a child," you say softly, and she goes rigid in your arms.

"Yes.” She admits this truth as if it hurts her. “She was not—not mine.”

“What was her name?”

“Isha,” she chokes out. “She was... I was supposed to protect her."

“Mmm,” you say. “She was yours. I can feel it. She was yours, and you lost her.”

You adjust your embrace, thumb at her bottom lip to reveal her blunt teeth. You have no understanding that this is not normal, that this touching and holding and avid tenderness is not of their culture. This woman, this bloodless weeping woman gazes at you.

“Your motherhood,” you murmur, “sits inside you like a stone. It is closed, like an oyster. You must name it to begin to release the pain.”

You press down on her lip.

“What is your name?”

“Jinx,” she whispers.

“Good,” you tell her. “So, you are Jinx. Jinx, mother of Isha.”

The words seem to break something loose in her, and suddenly she's crying—great, heaving sobs that shake her whole body. You hold her through it, letting her tears mix with the mineral-rich water of your grotto. Strange woman, you think. She is a strange, sweet thing.

Her stomach tenses and releases, over and over. You never once stop your Song.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

Days blur together after that. Time moves strangely here. The two of you are a jigsaw puzzle of connection, platonic or maybe familial. You do not ask, preferring to preserve what you have.

Jinx is shy in the first few moments, a trait you suspect is unfamiliar to her. She builds herself a nest above the waterline: a chaos of stolen furniture and salvaged tech that somehow fits the space perfectly. You watch her work, fascinated by how her hands can create as easily as they dismantle. Sometimes she catches you staring and explains things to you—human concepts that make little sense but delight you anyway.

You measure progress not in days but in small victories: the first time Jinx falls asleep with her head in your lap, fingers curled trustingly around your scales. The morning she lets you rebraid her hair, your webbed fingers gentle against her scalp as you weave strands of luminescent crystal through the blue. The day she shows you how to make paper boats and sets them afloat with tiny lights inside, until the cavern ceiling reflects a mirror image of the stars she remembers from her brief childhood.

You offer up knowledge in return. You speak the thick language of old, born of trench sand and sulfur cracks. She loves when you sing, when your mouth unhinges to show your blue tongue and slightly jagged teeth. She wades into the grotto, standing in the shallow water that barely reaches her ankles, and closes her eyes. She sways as your Melody flows over her, shivering as if touched by cold.

You usually finish the performance by swimming to her, carefully holding her ankles between your extended claws and calling directly to her. This is your favorite—a secret you keep close. You adore how she gazes down at you, how her eyes trace the curve of your slick breasts and torso as you rise to meet her.

You climb until your noses brush, and then you laugh, a sound like the gentle puff of a flute. When you laugh, your gills seize and flex, and Jinx places a hand against them, tracing them until you crook your neck and trill. (That's her favorite.)

"[Name], you can't just walk around topless all the time," she tells you one day, trying not to laugh as you examine a shirt with obvious confusion. The fabric flutters strangely in her hands. "Humans are weird about bodies."

"But they're just bodies," you say, running a webbed hand over your scales. Again, her eyes follow. She closes her eyes, thinking of how your breasts are round and soft like the moon in her hand. You reach out, drawing her closer until she's touching you. "See? This is just flesh. The body is only a house for our soul."

She grows quiet then, thoughtful in a way that makes her look younger. "Maybe that's why I'm so messed up. My house is... kind of a disaster zone."

You pull her close, letting your tail manifest and wrap around her legs. "Then we'll build you a new one. Piece by piece."

The trust comes in fragments, in stolen quiet moments. Some days she can't bear to be touched, and you give her space, watching from the depths as she paces and talks to ghosts you can't see. Other days she's almost peaceful, letting you massage her scalp or teaching you human games with cards that always seem to explode at exactly the wrong moment.

One night, the voices in her head were particularly loud. You hear it from beneath the water—you sleep closer to the surface since meeting her—and rise to find her jolting in her sleep. You don't think, only move, remembering to rid yourself of your tail only when it scrapes against a sheet of metal jutting from the sand.

You hum agitatedly, distressed by her furrowed brow and trembling body, then take her deeper into the grotto than she's ever been before. Here, crystal formations pulse with bioluminescence, casting rainbow shadows on walls that have never known sunlight. Schools of blind fish dart around you both, their scales glowing like fallen stars.

It takes her a while to wake, but you stay suspended and curled around her. You keep watch, eyeing the murky kelp forests that tease at your fins. There are other, older ways into this grotto that never bothered you before. But now, you're too aware of all the ways someone could reach the jinx resting in your arms.

You see bubbles snort from her nose as she begins to stir, and you move quickly to pluck a shell from the rainbow-dusted walls. The inside is sticky and suctions to her mouth, threading a tendril inside to loop around her lungs and better facilitate her breathing underwater. You don't understand why it works, but you've seen the surface swimmers use it before.

Jinx makes a horrible rasping noise before the shell's work settles in, and then breathing comes easier. The shell is now translucent and attenuated. She cups your side as she shifts in your hold, her unbraided hair thick around her face.

"This is beautiful," she whispers, and for once there's no edge to her voice, no great waiting catastrophe. You know she means you.

"Thank you," you respond, smiling with all your teeth. She smiles crookedly back.

"This was my mother's sanctuary," you tell her, leading her to a cave where ancient glyphs cover the walls. You see her back bend with the water's pressure, and you slow your pace. "There used to be many of me, my bloodline. But the surface world's poisons reached even here." You trace one of the symbols—a spiky, spherical rune that you think means 'confession'. This glyph is older than you, part of a complex language no surface dweller nor merfolk of this time has spoken in millennia. "Now there are only three of us left."

She's quiet for a long moment, her hand finding yours in the glowing water. "Does it ever get easier? Being the only one who survived?"

You think of your sister's last days, of your mother's fading voice. "No," you answer honestly. "But it becomes... different. The pain changes shape, becomes something you can carry without breaking."

She leans into you at that, and you feel the tremors that always precede one of her episodes. But this time, she doesn't fight it. She lets you hold her as the chaos revisits her, trusts you to keep her head above water—in a manner of speaking—as she shakes apart and slowly, slowly comes back together.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

It doesn’t simply disappear. Jinx is one of the spirits’ favorite souls to torture and possess.

Most nights, the past continues to crawl up through the cracked floors of the grotto like a cadaver, its saccharine breath seeping into Jinx's dreams until she wakes screaming. And on most of these nights, you find her in her nest of blankets and broken things, her skin fever-hot and her eyes seeing horrors you cannot share.

But after you take her down, beneath the surface, it is different. Now, most nights, she comes to you.

The pattern is the same: you hear her bare feet on the stone before you see her, padding toward the water's edge like a sleepwalker. Her hair is almost always loose, falling around her face in a cascade that reminds you of the sharp stretch of evening sky across the Arctic Ocean. Then she reaches the pool's edge, but she doesn’t stop.

The water accepts her like a lover, closing over her head in a gentle baptism. You rise to meet her, your form shifting in the dipping waves. You cup the nape of her neck and insert the shell. Your skin takes on its natural sheen, scattered with scales that catch the light like opals. Your hair moves as if still underwater even when you break the surface, glistening tendrils floating around your face. Your eyes are all pupil and hold the depths of the ocean, ancient and knowing, utterly without fear. You reach for her, and, like in the beginning, she still tries to pull away; you simply shake your head.

"Your curse cannot touch me," you remind her, your voice like water over stones. "I am not of your world." Your hands move to cup her face, thumbs brushing away tears that roll from the puffy cliff’s edge of her pale eyes. "I am of the deep places, the dark waters. We recognize our own, remember?"

Remember? You always ask her this. It’s all she ever does.

You rise fully from the water then, your form shifting like light through waves until you stand on human legs, naked and gleaming. You pull Jinx to her feet and begin to undress her with the innocent purpose of a child, unbound by human conventions of modesty or shame. She allows it, trembling—not from cold or fear, but from the overwhelming sensation of being touched without consequence, of being seen. She has yet to confess how much she needs this.

"This is my body," you murmur, pressing close, your scaled hands tracing the bridge of her spine. You are reminding her. "And this is yours. We are both such difficult creatures."

"I don't understand you," she whispers, but her hands come up to trace the patterns of your scales, mapping the places where your skin shifts from human to something else entirely.

You catch her hand and press it flat against your chest, letting her feel the strange rhythm of your heart—beating in time with the tides.

"Fear is for those who have something to lose. My kind has already lost almost everything. What's left is..." You pause, searching for words in a language not made for shadowy creatures like you. "What's left is precious because it survived. I am surviving. You are surviving with me.”

Something shifts in her expression then, understanding blooming like oil across the top of a gulf. Her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch.

"Show me again," she breathes, begging. Her breath smells sweet, like candy under the tongue and behind the teeth. "Please."

You take her deeper into the grotto than before, past the engraved walls and into the true heart of your domain. Here, the water is almost desperately alive, swirling with colors that have no names in any human tongue. Your tail manifests fully, lashing out. You seem to be made of living jewels. You are a terrible, beautiful monster; your body twists like a snake as you duck and dive. Jinx watches, transfixed, as you dance through the water, showing her your true way of living.

You do what your kind does when in love. You Sing. You Pull her.

"I've been trying to fix my machines," she says when your last note fades. You are shaking. You have never Sung that hard before. Your Melody has undone you, and you swim weakly back to her. She touches your face, dusts your cheeks with her pruned fingertips. "To make lights that look like this." She gestures at the bioluminescent display around you. "But I keep fucking it up. Everything I touch turns to..."

"A mess," you finish for her. These thoughts are not new. "But a mess is not always born of destruction." You guide her hand through the water, watching the way the disturbed bioluminescence creates new patterns, new constellations. "Sometimes it's just change. It is new, without guidance. You are trying again, relearning. This is only necessary disorder."

She laughs, but it's softer than usual. "Is that what I am? Disordered?"

You pull her closer, letting your tail wrap around her legs as you float together in the heart of the sea. "You are what you choose to be. Here, in these waters, you don't have to be anything but yourself." You pull back so that you can see your hands as you sign to her, curl your fingers into the symbols she’s seen on the walls.

You have changed me. You mouth the words so that she truly understands. You sign it again, across her naked chest so that she can feel the drag of your claws and the pump of her blood in response.

"I don’t feel changed, and I don’t want to ruin you. What if I am still broken?" Her voice cracks on the last word.

"Then be broken here with me," you tell her, pressing your lips to her temple. "The water remembers everything, but it also cleanses. It changes. It heals."

She turns in your arms, and for once, her eyes are clear. No fever, no muddle—just Jinx, looking at you like she’s seeing you for the first time. Her hands find your face, thumbs tracing the almost invisible scales at your temples. You raise your hands, fingers contorting as you sign once more.

We have changed each other. It is a symptom of love.

Jinx says nothing, then she moves. You forget how agile she can be at times. With a few spritely movements, she is holding your waist and treading water. One hand comes up, cradling your face. There is a pause, and you glance at her, eyes wide with confusion and anticipation. This is new. She studies you, and you belatedly realize she is waiting for something. Permission, you think.

“Yes?” you ask. She smiles; it’s the right answer.

She slips out the shell, and you startle. This is dangerous, but she doesn’t care. She stops you.

Her hand nestles thoroughly in your hair, tilting your head until your flesh is exposed to her lips. Again and again, she presses her mouth to your neck. She suckles, nips, until your tail flicks. She is kissing you. You’ve never been kissed before—not like this.

Her teeth dig in, needling at the meat of your throat until it’s mottled and bruised. Then her lips come up to yours. At first, you breathe into her mouth to give her oxygen. Jinx pulls back, grips your jaw, and shakes you slightly. Then her lips return to yours, applying pressure until you open your mouth and allow her tongue in. She licks at your teeth, tracing the points as she holds you to her.

You feel lightheaded, disoriented. You feel good; you want more of her. After a long while, she breaks the contact. Her thumb settles at the base of your throat, slipping to the side to play with your gills. You trill sharply, and she laughs. You don’t want to say it, but you know—you want it to stay this way forever.

Jinx takes her shell from where she had placed it on her stomach. She allows it back into her throat, breathing in deeply. Then she lifts her hands and signs to you—clumsy but earnest.

Yes. You have changed me. It is a symptom of love.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

"I used to think I had to be loud," she tells you one night, floating on her back in the shallow parts of the grotto. Her hair fans out around her head like spilled ink, and you can't help but run your fingers through it, watching the way it parts around your hands. "Had to be crazy, had to be Jinx, because if I wasn't, then I'd have to be... her. The girl I was before. And she was weak. She got left behind."

You hum softly, the crystals below resonating in harmony. "Perhaps she wasn't weak," you suggest, tracing the constellation of freckles on her shoulder. "Perhaps she was just unfinished, like a pearl before the ocean completes its formation."

She turns to look at you then, the emotion in her eyes making your heart beat in that strange double rhythm that only happens when she's near.

"Is that what you're doing?" she asks. "Finishing me?"

You shake your head, pulling her closer until she's cradled against your chest, her back to your front, both of you suspended in the gentle current. "No one can complete you but yourself. I'm just... holding the space for you to do it.”

She's quiet for so long you think she might have fallen asleep. Then: "I’m in love with you." Her voice is barely a whisper, as if the words might shatter the peace.

Instead of answering, you press your lips to her shoulder, right where a new tattoo is healing—a pattern of waves and crystals mirroring your own scales. You helped her design it, watching in fascination as she used her clever hands to create the automaton.

"For us," you tell her, "it is different. We don't fall in love the way humans do. There's less emphasis on choices. It’s more like... finding a current that matches your own, something that pulls you in the same direction for the rest of your life. I've been swimming in your current since the day you arrived. There’s a vibration you release, deep inside me. You set it off, again and again."

Your mouth works oddly around the word "belly." She smiles at your struggle, turning in your embrace to press her forehead to yours in the way she knows you love. Her hands find your face, and you press a kiss to her fingers, grazing your teeth over her thumb. She shivers, captures your mouth briefly, then tucks herself back against you. Drowsy, she begins to dream and you let her, drifting your body lazily along the stretch of water to rock her.

It is then that you hear them—footsteps on stone, careful and measured. You recognize them instantly: the heavy tread of the enforcer, the lighter step of her companion. They've been searching for months, following rumors of blue hair seen in the Undercity's depths.

Jinx doesn't hear them, not yet. She’s drifting in that peaceful place between wakefulness and sleep, her body trustingly pliant in your embrace. She’d had an episode before this—memories of fire leaving her shaking for hours. But now she's quiet, her breathing synced with the gentle lap of water against stone.

You sense her presence before you see her, a disturbance in the air that makes the algae pulse brighter. The Sister. Her presence feels much like Jinx’s but more weathered, carrying the weight of blood. It catches in your throat unpleasantly, making you want to cough. Her footsteps falter at the grotto's entrance. The other one—Caitlyn, you recall—steadies her with a touch, but neither makes a sound.

They stand frozen at the sight before them: Jinx floating in the ethereal water, her hair unbound and threaded with living light, her face peaceful in a way they've never seen. Your tail curls protectively around her legs beneath the surface, scales catching and reflecting the cavern's natural light until it seems like you're both in some unreachable heaven. You bare your teeth to shatter the fantasy.

The Sister’s sharp intake of breath echoes off the stone. Jinx stirs slightly, but you soothe her with a soft hum, reworking her lullaby until the water itself vibrates in harmony. Her fingers tighten briefly on your arms before relaxing again.

When you meet the Sister’s eyes over Jinx's shoulder, you see tears tracking silently down her face. There's recognition there, and grief, and something like hope. You see the moment she understands what you are—not just a creature of the deep but a guardian. Her sister’s keeper; her sister’s mate.

Caitlyn moves forward as if to speak, but Violet—yes, Violet—stops her with a gentle touch. They watch as you shift slightly, letting them see how Jinx's newest tattoos mirror your own patterns—not random splashes of pain and memory but flowing lines that speak of partnership, of flesh and form meant to slot into one another.

A soft noise escapes Violet’s throat, something between a sob and a laugh. Jinx stirs again, and this time you let your gaze drop deliberately to her face, your webbed hands smoothing over her shoulders in a gesture that couldn't be more clear: She is safe here. She is loved here.

You raise a hand, your eyes slipping into their true state to make your threat clear. You know the Piltover girl will understand; her home is the home of poachers. Safe, you sign. Then, Go.

The Sister nods once, tears still falling. Her hand finds Caitlyn's and squeezes hard. You watch understanding pass between them—the recognition that sometimes healing happens in strange places, that sometimes love wears unfamiliar, frightening faces.

They turn to leave, but at the last moment, Violet looks back. Her lips form words you can read even across the distance: Thank you. Only when their footsteps fade completely do you press a kiss to Jinx's temple, tasting the salt of tears that aren’t your own.

"Are they gone?" Jinx's voice is quiet, still heavy with sleep.

"Yes," you answer honestly, because you've never lied to her and won’t start now.

She turns in your embrace, pressing her face into your neck where your scales fade into skin. "I'm not ready," she whispers. "Not yet."

"You can stay here," you promise, letting your tail wrap more securely around her. "For as long as you need. But you will not lose me. I will not lose you.”

She lifts her head to look at you, and her eyes are like silver dollars. You mimic her blinking for what must be the millionth time. Open, close. Close and open. She smiles at this. You smile, hollowing your throat to coo, mimicking the call of a bird of paradise. She laughs now; you are pleased.

"Tell me again," she murmurs. "About your promise."

Your tail flicks as you nod.

“I will never leave; I will only follow,” you begin. The words are heavy, sacred mating rites belonging solely to your tribe. “The water flows across the earth; it is immovable. It is the human that will fade, not the earth, not myself. We will both replenish. Where you go, I will be there—past death and beyond.

Jinx rises, cupping your face firmly, her touch restricting your movement.

“Promise?” she asks, her voice dipping low, laced with danger.

“I promise.”

She presses her lips to your neck, her teeth sinking in as always. You let out a high, trembling sound, your control slipping. Suddenly, you’re human, treading water. Jinx hooks an arm beneath you, lifting you effortlessly as the water renders you weightless.

“I promise.”

You repeat it, over and over.

IpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseI promiseI promise—

Jinx drags you from the grotto, positioning herself over you. Your words are still spilling out like a mantra.

“I know,” she murmurs.

Her warm, sugary lips cover yours, silencing you. She swallows you down.

⚚ special taglist: @thatgrlnany @bubblestrbls @iluvwomensm @so-calledstr8 @the-record @blackdykegirlblogger @bugsinmypantsono @drgnflyteabox @montmorencys @rottngrl3 @vifilms @stupendousbananasharkcop @vminswrld @sevslefthand @fleshunger @soniiyi @sunhurtz @shootingc @diorblusher @nightlyconfusion @darkerstarsstuff @dollinin @16novvs @reign-azzz

#jinx x reader #jinx x fem!reader #jinx x y/n #jinx x you #jinx arcane #jinx league of legends #arcane headcanon #arcane fanfic #arcane x female reader #arcane x y/n #arcane x you #arcane x reader #female!reader #fem!reader #wlw #lesbian #sapphic #mine ; 🐎.

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leejenowrld · 1 month ago

Text

back to you — seven (finale)

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 49k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — an unlikely alliance throws everything off balance, and what starts as quiet retaliation spirals into an expose that shakes the campus to its core. reputations fracture, alliances crumble, and the pressure of the state championships forces every hidden crack into the light. you tell yourself it’s just the game, but jeno’s fall is faster than anyone saw coming, and as the final closes in, so does the weight of everything left unsaid. you built this together, but you can’t outrun the ruin you made. no matter how far you go, it all comes back to you.

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), explicit language, softest smut yet, they’re not rough this chapter lol, emotionally charged sex, riding like always, lots of crying, soft kisses, praises, desperate clinging, strong eye contact, soft dirty talk, this chapter i gets wild, expose shakes the campus, state championships scene, coach suh has his moments, y/n moves like a silent assassin the entirety of this chapter, this chapter gets very dramatic and intense, ambition vs personal sacrifice, cute friend group moments, exhibition scenes, can’t really say much here cos everything is a spoiler. i do want to say though is remember perspective is everything and not everything is as clean cut and final as you think 🖤. love you, enjoy <3

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

the instagram posts | two

Coach Suh’s apartment doesn’t greet you, it claims you, like a bruise that never faded, greeting you like an old scar aching under winter’s breath. The hum of the lights is soft but jagged, flickering in broken rhythm, like a heartbeat that never healed right. Each pulse throws the room into fractured light and deeper shadow, spreading glassy shards across the floor that catch the memory of your skin, your sweat, your past sins, scattering them like ghostly confetti. The leather couch slouches under the weight of old nights, your claw marks still faintly scratched into its surface, a quiet graveyard of choices. The air is stale and heavy, tasting of yesterday's whiskey and long-decayed lust, the walls soaked in cologne and sweat, time sealed in the fabric of this place like a cruel reminder.

His jacket hangs limply over the back of a chair, stubborn in its familiar drape, like he never learned to put it away, like he never let you go. You step further inside and it feels like slipping into an old skin, one stretched too tight in places, loose in others, but still memorizing your shape too well. Coach Suh watches every movement, sharp-eyed and wary, reading you like a playbook written in bruises and bitten-off moans, tracking every flex of your posture, every tilt of your gaze. He sees how you cradle the offer of your body between your teeth like a live grenade, feels the tremble of static in the air, but you don’t hand it over yet. You let the tension simmer, let it smoke in your lungs like the cigarettes he used to press to your lips, the neon wounds between you burning back to life.

“Why now?” His voice cracks the silence, roughened by history, by knowing you too well. He doesn’t ask what you want—he already knows. “We’ve already started,” he reminds you, his eyes narrowing, glinting in the broken light. “You and me both, we’re already fucking Eric and Sunwoo over, tearing down their game. What more could you need?”

You swallow hard, pulse flickering tight in your throat, chest aching beneath the weight of it as you force the words out. “It’s not enough,” you say, voice brittle, stretched thin like it’s been scraped raw inside you. “We’ve been moving too slow. We’re dragging, stalling and he’s running out of time.” The words come sharp, each one a cut against your breath, tension fraying at the edges until it feels ready to snap. “The plan isn’t final, not yet, and it needs to be—tonight.” His gaze flicks over you, sharp and knowing, lingering on the curve of your mouth, the tension coiled in your frame, the way your fingers twitch at your side like you’re holding yourself back from reaching for him. You see it ignite in his eyes, that old, dangerous flicker—he knows exactly what you’re offering, and you know exactly how much you want him to take it. The air thickens, dark and intimate, clinging to your skin like sweat, heavy with all the things you don’t say, but ache to give.

You drift closer like a shadow with intent, your movements slow but too fluid, too calculated, the kind of slow that isn't unconscious at all, it’s the kind that slices. Your mind is clouded, high off the lingering hit of Jeno but your body knows exactly what it’s doing, every motion slick with quiet provocation. The leather of your jacket sighs as you let it fall from your shoulders, the sound soft, sinful, inviting, like a lover’s breath in your ear, the slide of it deliberate enough to make him look. When you pass him your notebook, your fingers don’t just brush his knuckles, they trace him, dragging like you want to mark his skin with your touch alone, a silent dare, a threat wrapped in velvet.

His throat jerks in a swallow, that telltale flicker of want flashing in his eyes, dark and fast like a match catching fire, old hunger clawing back to the surface. For a beat it almost feels like he’ll give in, like he’s seconds away from dragging you under with him, but then he recoils, sharp and tight, his breath a knife between you. "What are you doing?" he mutters, rough, bitter, the words cut from a place that still bleeds when he thinks of you. "You don’t have to do that anymore." His voice lingers in the thick air between you, heavy with disdain, with history, but beneath it you taste the shadow of temptation, thin and sharp as a blade pressed against your ribs.

You tilt your head, lips curling into a smirk sharpened by history, and murmur, "Thought you liked when I begged."

His eyes narrow, the shadow of something fond and furious crossing his face, and his voice comes rough, low, weighted. "We don't do that anymore." For a moment, just a moment, you feel something old loosen its grip on your spine, a thread snapping loose in the knot of your chest. You sigh, slow and shallow, and nod, though you don't step away.

He exhales like he's been holding that breath since the last time he touched you, his chest lifting with the weight of it. "I don't need your body to help Jeno," he says, the words surprisingly gentle, cracking at the edges. "Jeno's a pain in the ass but I wouldn't trade sex over him." His mouth twists after the words slip out, and you both laugh, sharp and brittle, because it came out all wrong and you both know it. He rubs a hand over his jaw, a familiar tic when he's thinking hard, then his eyes settle on you with something deeper, more raw.

"You only beg for him now, don't you?" he says, quiet but cutting, and it lands like a punch to the ribs, knocking the breath clean out of you. There's no teasing in his voice, only observation, only truth. He sees it clear as day, maybe clearer than you ever have—that you're not here to survive anymore, you're here to save Jeno, because you love him, because you're too deep to climb back out. "You love him," Coach Suh says, not as a question, but as a fact laid bare between you, like an old wound split open anew.

His eyes linger on you longer than they should, not with hunger but something heavier, something thinking, reading you like a story he’s read too many times but never fully understood until now. His gaze drags from your mouth to the tremble in your breath, to the tight hold of your spine like you’re bracing yourself for impact that never comes. “You’re different,” he murmurs at first, almost like he’s speaking to himself, slow and careful, weighing each word before he releases it.

His voice carries that same familiar cadence, the one you’ve heard a hundred times across lecture halls just as much as courts, because on the side of coaching, he still teaches literature, always pacing slow in front of students, always turning every line of text inside out like it’s a puzzle only he can solve. He speaks now the way he reads poems, folding meanings open carefully, like you’re a passage he’s studied too long but never fully unlocked. It’s in the way he tastes his words before letting them go, like they deserve to be savoured, like they might bleed truth if he says them right. You can almost hear the echo of old classrooms in his tone, shelves stacked with battered books, annotated margins curling under his fingertips, stories of hunger and ruin too close to your own. He speaks like a man who has read too many books and still craves the real thing, real skin, real blood, real consequence.

“You used to fuck like you didn’t care if it killed you,” he continues, his tone roughening, dipping lower, heavier, like the memory is sinking into his chest and dragging him under, folding itself between his ribs as a permanent, throbbing ache. “Every time you came to me, it was reckless, it was violent, you’d fuck me like you were trying to rip something out of yourself, like you needed it brutal just to feel alive. Between your legs, in your mouth, in your eyes—starving, always starving, like you didn’t care what broke, what bled, what burned to the ground.”

Your silence hangs in the space between you like breath held too long underwater. He’s always been like this, you think, the kind of man who unwraps his words slowly, never rushing to the end of a sentence, always tasting each thought as if it’s a rare vintage. He has shelves of books taller than you, lines of poetry he’s memorized so well they echo in his voice even now. He was never cruel, not really, but he knew how to make language feel like a knife sliding beneath your ribs, gentle and fatal all at once.

You say nothing. You let the silence stretch, let him fill it the way he always does, with words carved sharp as blades but reverent as scripture. His eyes grow distant for a moment, narrowed like he’s remembering the way you used to tremble for him, like he can still feel your teeth on his neck, the wild, reckless way you used to take him. His mouth twists, soft and dark, almost fond. "But now it’s not like that," he goes on, quieter, closer, like he’s unwrapping you layer by layer, until all your intentions are bare in his hands. “Now you’re not chasing ruin anymore. Now you’re chasing him.”

His gaze pins you where you stand, no cruelty, no heat, only clarity, sharp enough to cut you clean through. "You only beg for him now, don’t you?” He says at last, not a question, not an accusation, but a quiet verdict, heavy and true, slipping between your ribs like a blade turned sideways. It hollows you out with its accuracy. He sees it so clearly it startles you, sees the way you’re here not for survival, not for yourself, but for Jeno—only Jeno.

Your throat tightens, breath sticking thick in your chest, but you stay quiet. You don’t have to answer—he sees it, feels it in the way your pulse flutters under your skin, your body betraying you without a sound. He lets out a breath, rough and low, lips curling with something that’s not quite a smirk, not quite a sneer, but something darker in between, something that tastes like memory and old ruin. “He’s lucky,” Coach Suh says, voice dropping rougher, slower, like the truth drags claws down his throat. “The way I used to have you...” His eyes drag over you, heavy and unflinching, and there’s no hesitation, no falter. The words come smooth, like the slow burn of aged whiskey, too familiar to regret, too dangerous to forget. “Was the best sex of my life. I still watch the videos we used to film.”

There’s no shame in his eyes, no apology lacing the confession, only the dark flicker of memory behind his gaze, sharp and alive, flickering across his expression like a spark that refuses to die out. His gaze dips, slow and deliberate, trails down your body like it still remembers the way you used to move for him, the way you chased ruin without fear, the way you invited it. His mouth twists, dark and knowing, his voice curling around the truth with no intention of softening it. “You used to fuck like you hated the world for making you want it so bad,” he says, low and blunt, words scraping over your skin, “like you wanted to ruin yourself on my cock and make me watch.”

For a moment, his eyes drift, caught between then and now, drawn into the pull of memory. His gaze clouds, hooded like he sees you bent over, breathless, wild for him, like he sees your knees bruised against the couch and your mouth slack from begging for more. But then, it sharpens, cuts clean, landing back on you with a precision that slices deeper than anything he’s said before. His voice steadies, heavy but sure, like he can no longer hold back what he knows. “But with him,” he continues, slow and certain, thick with something close to reverence, “it’s not like that. I see it. You want him to win. You want him to breathe.”

His voice roughens, tightens around the truth that lodges in the space between you both, too dense to escape, too undeniable to ignore. His eyes sweep over you once more, slower this time, dragging like they’re tracing the outline of the new woman you’ve become, like he’s seeing something raw and real blooming beneath your skin. “And you,” he says, his voice dipping to a near-growl, low enough you feel it more than hear it, “you want to be the one who gives him that air.”

You draw a breath sharp enough to slice your throat, your chest burning from how tight it coils. “I didn’t come here to write a thesis on Jeno,” you say, the words brittle at first, but then they catch fire on your tongue, turning sharp, decisive. “I came here to rewrite the ending.”

Coach Suh watches you for a beat, something flickering behind his eyes, almost like he expected this from you all along. His nod is slow, heavy, carrying the weight of a man who’s lived too many versions of this story and never seen it end well. “You know the way,” he murmurs, low and certain, and when he gestures towards the study, you move without hesitation, like crossing a threshold into war.

The study feels colder than the rest of the apartment, as if the walls remember things too well, and you drift toward the desk with an instinct that feels both familiar and foreign, like slipping into a role you were born for but never rehearsed. Your fingertips brush the edge of the polished wood, tracing the scattered papers and the metal glint of the chess set left mid-play, pieces frozen in time, black and white tangled like a lover’s quarrel. Your eyes sweep over the room, noting the small details with an almost surgical precision — the half-drunk glass of water sweating rings into a coaster, the neat stack of game reports aligned like classified files, the faint burn of an old cigar scent curling in the air like a warning. You move without thinking, circling the desk like you’re skimming the perimeter of an enemy base, checking for traps that were never there, your spine tight with anticipation. His eyes follow you, steady and unreadable, watching you take in every inch of the room like a strategist surveying a battlefield mapped in memories and mistakes. You feel the weight of his stare prick at your skin, and your breath catches in your throat before you mutter low, not even meaning to let it slip out, “What?”

His answer lands not like a question, but like a verdict passed. “I feel like I’m starting to regret sending Jeno to you all those months ago,” he says, his voice roughened by time, by too many losses and too few victories. There’s no bitterness in it, only the cool acceptance of a man who knows he played god and lost control of the storm he summoned. He tilts his head slightly, considering the weight of his next words, before they unfurl slow and deliberate from his mouth. “I should’ve known better than to send two rogue stars crashing into each other’s path,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to the chessboard like it holds the whole galaxy between its squares. “You don’t throw fire into fire and expect anything less than an inferno.”

His tone softens, the sharp edge of philosophy giving way to something achingly personal. “But you and Jeno…” he continues, almost tasting the words as they form, “you remind me of my Hyeri.” The name cuts through the quiet like a ghost stepping into the room, and he lets it linger in the air, staring past you into a distance only he can see. Everyone knows the story — Coach Suh’s wife, the love of his life, lost to pancreatic cancer years ago, a slow, brutal erosion of the woman he loved and the man he used to be. He hasn’t been the same since. Not in the way he carries himself, not in the way he loves the game, not in the way he speaks — like every word he chooses now is a stone placed carefully on a grave.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays solid, words tangled too tightly to break free. You can’t even let yourself think about the weight of what he just said, can’t afford to touch the grief of it — not now, not when there’s something else burning hotter beneath his words, something more urgent, more dangerous. What does he mean he regrets sending Jeno to you? The question hooks deep under your ribs, drags through you like barbed wire, but you’re too caught between the shock and the pull to even speak it aloud.

His gaze darkens, not in malice, but in depth, as though he’s reading straight from your skull, seeing every fractured thought scatter through your head like broken glass catching the light. He breathes slow, like the truth is old and heavy, already settled in his bones long before you were ready to hear it. “You think this started with you?” His words are calm, but there’s an undertow beneath them, pulling you deeper whether you want it or not. “You think it started with him finding you in that bar?” He lets the question hang there, lets it rot sweet and slow in the air between you, heavy enough to crack the floorboards beneath your feet. His eyes hold you there, pinned, as if he already knows you have no answer. You don’t. You’re split open under his gaze, bare as bone.

“What?” you breathe, too quiet, too late. But it doesn’t matter. He’s already dropping the blade.

“I sent him there,” Coach Suh confesses, plain as sky, heavy as stone. “Deliberately. Placed him like a piece on the board. Told him to get out of my practice, told him to take the night off, sent him the address of that bar and said don’t let anyone see you go. I didn’t think he’d actually listen.” His voice drops lower, rougher, but there’s no apology in it — only the raw satisfaction of a man watching his orchestration unfold, hearing the violent crescendo of the symphony he conducted with his own hands. “He’d been playing like shit ever since Mark joined the team. Wouldn’t follow plays, second-guessed every shot, burned himself out trying to be perfect while Mark outran him without even breaking a sweat. He lost his rhythm, his hunger — it was like watching a lion cage itself.” His lips curl bitter, almost fond. “I watched him spiral, game after game, his fire snuffed out under the pressure, until I couldn’t stomach it anymore. So I flung him.” His gaze darkens, sharp as a blade drawn clean across your throat. “I flung him as far as I could from the court, from the suffocation, from the expectations clawing down his back, and I thought — maybe, maybe if I could get him far enough, he’d remember what it felt like to breathe again.” His pause is tight, braced, before the final blow lands.

“I knew you’d be there,” he says, no hesitation, no flourish, like he’s always known. His gaze cuts to you, deliberate, exacting, as if your whole body is a map he’s memorised in ink and blood. “Of course I did. That bar, I sent him there to find you.” He doesn’t soften, doesn’t play coy, just exhales rough through his nose like the memory still burns under his skin. “That bar led me to you. When they told me my heart was failing, I walked into that place like I was already dead, drinking to drown out the countdown in my chest.” His eyes catch the light, sharp and dark, watching you like he’s watching the memory crawl back to life between your ribs. “And then I saw you.” The words scrape his throat like gravel, his voice rougher, thicker, dipped in something far less clean than nostalgia. “You weren’t just burning, you were performing combustion. You were on that stage like you wanted to drag the whole fucking world into your fire, legs spread, mouth open, voice soaked in sin.” His lips part, almost like he can taste you again, like the phantom of you still lingers on his tongue. “Watching you, owning you, fucking you, it made me feel alive again. It made me feel like I could beat death itself if it meant keeping you under me one more time.”

There’s no filth in his tone, no sleaze, only brutal honesty carved clean and sharp, like glass freshly broken off the pane. His mouth tightens, something pulled between reverence and ruin, like he’s looking at a relic he once defiled and worshipped in the same breath. “I wasn’t looking to be healed,” he says, voice low, rough at the edges. His eyes, dark and sure, drag over you as if you’re still up there on that bar stage, raw and untouchable, wild in a way no man could ever contain. “But you made me feel something I thought I’d buried for good. When I watched you,” his throat tightens, his pulse visible at his neck, “you didn’t save me, you shook me. Rattled the rot out of my bones. Stripped me of my fear without even trying.” His gaze flickers, heavy-lidded, the weight of history pressing behind it. “So when I saw him slipping, when I saw Jeno falling under the weight of it all, when the game started to crush him like it tried to crush me,” his voice hardens, like he’s making sense of it for himself as much as for you, “I thought of you. You. Not to heal him, not to fix him, but to wake him the fuck up.”

It is stunning, how silence can feel louder than any scream. You don’t say anything, can’t even breathe properly because it feels like you’re falling backward through time, not falling weightless but falling like you’re being dragged, spine bent, ribs cracking open as every thread of memory with Jeno yanks taut and snaps, only to rethread itself around your throat. It tears through you, brutal and unforgiving, like you’re plummeting through a storm of moments you thought were your own, only to realise they were written in someone else’s hand all along. Coach Suh. His hand, his design. He didn’t just let Jeno stumble into you, he hurled him, flung him across a chessboard like a pawn racing straight for his queen, every move calculated, deliberate, merciless. He was the composer of this twisted symphony, conducting the crescendo from the shadows, raising his baton to orchestrate the inevitable clash of bodies and fates. He was the hunter, planting seeds he thought harmless, watching them grow wild and untameable until they broke through the bones of his game.

“I pushed him into the fire and called it strategy,” Coach Suh says, voice cracked open, bleeding truth like molten iron. His gaze stays on you, sharp as a conductor’s baton slicing through the final note. “Didn’t know you’d be the crescendo that swallowed him whole.”

You swallow but it doesn’t go down. It shatters, jagged and merciless, splintering its way through your throat like glass ground to dust. The weight of it doesn’t just land, it collides, slamming into your chest with the force of a star imploding. You feel it drive itself beneath your ribs, burying so deep it anchors there, inescapable, immovable. There’s no outrunning this, no folding it into denial’s soft edges. This is truth, vicious and irreversible, a blade twisting the map of your life until you don’t even recognise the roads anymore. You see it now, see it with the clarity of a sky torn clean by lightning. You were never an accident. Never a stray thread in someone else’s tapestry. You were always the destination. Always. And it burns, God, it burns, so hot you think it might eat you alive from the inside out, fire licking up your spine, clawing at your lungs, scorching your throat raw, because if you were the destination from the very beginning, if every crooked step and every hidden hand led you to this ruthless collision, then maybe, maybe you’re not just the destination. Maybe you’re the endgame. Maybe you’re the one who writes the ending.

This is not information you can carry lightly. No, this is weight, pure and crushing, the kind that carves its mark behind your eyes and leaves you seeing the world split open, exposed and bleeding. You will carry this truth to your grave, buried so deep it will rot with your bones. It doesn’t feel like a man sharing regret, or even guilt. It feels like a man unspooling the truth of his god complex, peeling back the skin of fate and showing you the machinery beneath, every cog and lever, every move he orchestrated in the dark. He says it not as an apology, but as an admission of control, a craftsman admiring the ruin he both created and feared. He played god with your life, with Jeno’s life, because he could.

Because somewhere in the marrow of him, beneath the coach and the man and the strategist, there lived a raw, reckless hunger to watch you burn. To push you and Jeno closer, closer still, until your orbits twisted into one, until the gravity between you compressed so tight it could only end one way. He kept pressing, kept forcing the distance between you to collapse, like he could already see it—the moment Jeno’s mouth would crash to yours, desperate and bruising, the moment your body would arch into his, like they were carved from the same fever dream. Coach Suh didn’t just set the game in motion. He loaded the board, he primed the fuse, he pushed you both to the very brink until you could taste it—taste him—in every breath you took.

And when you collided—God, when you collided—it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was raw and brutal and hungry, the kind of contact that leaves teeth marks on your soul. You didn’t fall into each other. You crashed. You tore through everything in your way. You met him in that bar and it was like your bodies had already memorised the script, your pulse already wired to his, your hunger already written in the spaces between your ribs. He pressed into you like he’d been starving his whole life for this exact taste, and you let him, you opened for him, you let him drown in you, because you were drowning too.

You didn’t just collide. You detonated. You split the sky open, you scorched his name into your bones, you carved yourself into him so deep there would never be a way to separate again. Coach Suh watched it happen, watched the fire roar to life, and he knew that he had fed two wildfires into the same wind, and there was never a chance they wouldn’t burn the whole forest down.

But you, you don’t flinch beneath it. You let the fire consume the last of your doubt, let it burn through the marrow of your bones and cauterise the wound clean. You came here for a reason. To protect Jeno. To fight for him, tooth and claw, with every jagged edge of yourself. You will not leave until you’ve done that. If anything, Coach Suh’s revelation hasn’t rattled your conviction—it’s sharpened it, honed it to a lethal point. You are more certain now than you’ve ever been. Whatever storm you were destined to become, whatever wildfire he thought he had planted like a seed, you are more. You are the storm and the wildfire.

Your eyes drift down to the chessboard sprawled across the table, pieces frozen mid-battle, black and white tangled like the twisted aftermath of a lover’s quarrel. It feels less like a game now and more like a mirror of your life, every piece representing a choice already made, a consequence already written. Dawn hovers at the horizon, but in this room, it is still midnight, thick and suffocating, strung tight with tension that vibrates beneath your skin. Your fingers hover above the queen, not moving yet, not claiming victory, but poised with the promise of it, the weight of a final strike blooming beneath your fingertips like a slow explosion waiting to be released.

Coach Suh watches you from across the table, his gaze narrow, calculating, sharp as the blade you’ve become. He looks at you the way he looks at his playbooks, not as a player caught in his strategy, but as the strategist beside him now, his equal in the war they’re about to wage. His mouth twists into something grim and knowing. “You learned how to play dirty from the best,” he murmurs, his voice rough with a private kind of pride, folding between you like smoke rising from the wreckage.

Under the dim hum of old ceiling lights, the desk sprawls before you like a battlefield map, cold and ruthless in its clarity. Footage lines the screen in jagged fragments, games frozen mid-play like bodies caught in the crossfire of a long, bloody war. Each pause is deliberate, each frame dissected like a corpse beneath your scalpel. Your spine curls tighter, shoulders wound sharp as blades, eyes narrowed to slits as you scroll back and forth, over and over, knuckles bone-white over the mouse. You aren’t just watching; you’re hunting. Obsession has devoured your pulse whole.

Coach Suh doesn’t look away from you, not once. He watches you like a general witnessing his finest weapon unsheath itself, piece by lethal piece. Between you, there’s a rhythm, unsaid but vicious, a war-drum beat rising under your skin. Neither of you speaks at first. You just move, in sync, as though you’ve trained your entire lives for this siege. The room seals shut around you like a war bunker, curtains drawn, the world outside dead and irrelevant. Only the hum of the laptop fills the air, ominous like old machinery powering the final assault.

He has the footage because of course he does. He’s the coach. He’s kept records of every game, every play, every misstep that ever crossed his court. But tonight those records are more than just history, they’re blueprints of a crime scene and you see it instantly. What you’re looking at isn’t coincidence, it’s the anatomy of a long war that’s been unfolding right under his nose, right under yours, woven into the muscle memory of the game itself. Eric and Sunwoo were Ravens once. They know the playbooks inside out, they know the drills, the weaknesses in the formation, the pressure points of rookies too raw to see the snare tightening around their ankles until it’s already too late. They’ve been working this scheme for years, slipping into shadows, pulling strings from the sidelines, turning players like Jeno into pawns without ever having to step back onto the court.

You go deeper, sharper, your eyes carving through the footage like blades honed for the kill. You map out their old games first — when they were still on the team, still in uniform, making deliberate turnovers, playing lazy defence that opened up easy lanes for the opposing team, fouling at moments too crucial to be accident. Then you pull their games after they left the roster and it’s there too, the same pattern, still happening, still alive. Missed plays right when the betting margins are tightest, defensive collapses lining up with spikes in shady bets. Coach Suh digs through financial records at your side, rough fingers scrolling until he finds what you need: transactions tied to burner accounts, numbers that lead to underground rings. You string it all together, every timestamp, every slip of corruption, not just for a report but for an execution. This isn't a coincidence, this is the way they’ve been bleeding the game dry for years, and tonight, you’re turning that method into a weapon.

You already had the skeleton waiting, built in shadows long before you ever walked through Coach Suh’s door. Tonight is about tightening the bolts, sharpening every loose end into a blade. While the game footage flickers like a pulse on the screen, you drag open your burner files, the ones you’ve been gathering quietly, obsessively, while the rest of the world looked away.

Sunghoon, Jihoon — names that once meant rising stars, now reduced to whispers in the dark. Two former Ravens, both swallowed by the same pattern of collapse. Their careers didn’t end by chance. They were broken. Bent under the weight of quiet threats and invisible debts until they had no choice but to disappear. You sift through the evidence, unflinching. Screenshots of texts litter the folder, grim and final. Demands to throw games, warnings to stay silent, promises that debts would swallow their families whole if they didn’t obey. One voice note plays, low and trembling, the words punching into your ribs like knuckles made of bone. "They told me to miss those shots or they’d bury me in debt."

Your spine stiffens as you thread it into the report, make it bleed into the narrative with cruel precision. You place it where no one can ignore it, where it’ll scream louder than any headline. These aren’t isolated incidents, they’re casualties of a system designed to devour the desperate. Beside you, Coach Suh moves like a man loading a weapon, no hesitation, no mercy. His burner laptop hums as he drags open files older than this season, older than Jeno’s descent. Betting slip data flashes across the screen, pulled from a bookie who owed him a favour that just came due. The spikes are unmistakable. Patterns of bets placed at the exact moments games tilted off axis, the same names tangled in every shadowed corner. Eric and Sunwoo’s fingerprints are all over it, oily and undeniable.

You go deeper, sharper, cross-referencing every spike in bets with the footage of fouls, missed plays, deliberate turnovers. It unfolds like a map of rot, arteries blackened with greed. The timing is too perfect to be chance. This is not chaos. This is design. A system so calculated it makes your teeth ache. Coach Suh’s eyes harden as he sees it, fury smouldering in his gaze like a man watching termites hollow out the walls of his home. "They’ve been bleeding this team dry long before Jeno," he mutters, voice tight and bitter. You don’t flinch.

"Then we bleed them back," you answer, cold as steel.

Together, you thread every piece into a weapon sharp enough to gut them clean. Texts, voicenotes, betting slips, game footage, testimonies from Sunghoon and Jihoon — it all stitches into the report like veins pumping poison straight to the heart of the ethics board. What you’re building isn’t a case, it’s a kill shot, the blade already pressed to their throats, and by the time you’re done, you’re not looking at evidence anymore. You’re looking at their execution order, signed, sealed, inevitable.

You finalise it all. Every filthy scrap, every poisoned thread of their own making, gathered and laid out like an arsenal waiting for your signal. None of this fell into your lap. You built this with your own hands, scavenging from shadows, following trails they thought were buried. You got the chat logs through a proxy account you planted weeks ago, back when the first seeds of suspicion cracked open inside you. You baited Yeonjun — Busan’s star player, their golden boy — into arrogance, let him swagger until he slipped, until he left himself wide open. You tore through his cloud backups, every conversation combed clean, and there it was: rookies pressed into bad plays under the excuse of team strategy, his influence festering in the team like rot.

This isn’t just about Eric and Sunwoo. It’s about the entire rotten system they’ve poisoned from the inside out. The Busans were never innocent bystanders, they were accomplices dressed as rivals, disguising their decay beneath clean jerseys and staged sportsmanship. Tearing them down means dismantling the foundation Eric and Sunwoo stood on, crumbling the empire they built from rigged games and sold-out players. In exposing the mess festering within Busan, you don’t just ruin reputations — you carve out a way to free Jeno from the snare wrapped around his throat. No more silent threats dragging him under, no more dirt clinging to his name. When the Busans fall, when Eric and Sunwoo are pulled into the fire with them, Jeno walks out of the wreckage clean. No debts shadowing his every step, no whispers behind his back, no false plays chained to his record. You’re not just burning them to the ground. You’re clearing a path out of the smoke for him to breathe.

You dig deeper, past the surface layer of team corruption, and into personal depravity. Yeonjun's behaviour toward girls and cheerleaders alike is filth, plain and irredeemable. You find private messages, lecherous and predatory, targeting female students, and even the cheer squad meant to uplift the team's image. It's the kind of scandal that eats alive not just the man but the institution. You don't just save this evidence—you sharpen it, time it, set it to explode when it will be most fatal.

Hyunjin is next, and you tear through his alibis with ruthless precision. Party photos, blurry and damning, show him high off his face mere hours before crucial games. You cross-reference the timestamps, match locations, game schedules. It all lines up too perfectly. His reckless, intoxicated grin mirrors the losses that came hours later, losses that coincided with suspicious betting spikes. Negligence? No. It reads like complicity, and you make sure the evidence screams it. Then Felix, sweet-faced and quiet, but no less guilty. You uncover bank transfers buried beneath layers of fake accounts. Large sums, deposited days before defeats that made gamblers rich. The money trails trace back to shell corporations, thin veils for Eric and Sunwoo’s operations. You fold it all into the growing dossier, tying it with iron threads no one can unpick.

You compile it not just for the ethics board, but for obliteration. The report in your hands is a guillotine, sharpened and weighted, ready to drop. However you don’t send it to the board first. you send it to Donghyuck. This is the moment he’s been waiting for, the moment to carve his name into the world he’s dreamed of breaking into. Sports media, commentary, analysis — he’s fought for scraps of recognition his whole life, and you hand him this like a weapon too dangerous for anyone else to wield. You tell him he can do what he wants with it, let it blow sky-high in his name or bury it anonymously if that’s safer. It’s his choice. You only give him three rules: he can’t ask you how you got this, he can’t mention it to you in person and he can’t ever tell a soul that you were the source. You know he’ll agree. He’s too hungry not to. He’s too smart not to see the opportunity carved out like a throne in fire.

Dawn finally breaks, brushing pale light across your faces, exhaustion carved into your bones but satisfaction simmering beneath it like embers still burning. Coach Suh's voice cuts through the hush, quiet but rough, "I never thought I'd see you fight for someone else like this."

Your eyes meet his, unwavering. "I'd burn the whole league down if it meant saving him." There is no lust left between you, no longing for what once was. Only war, only vengeance, only a partnership forged in fire and fury. And as the city wakes outside, you know: together, you'll watch the machine fall apart piece by corrupt piece, until there's nothing left to bury but ash.

It’s late, dusk bleeding into the bruised violet of night, the campus quieting but not yet asleep. Practice has ended, the court lights dimmed, and yet Jeno is not with his team. You knew he wouldn’t be. You have learned the shape of his silences, memorised the places he disappears to when the world squeezes too tight around his ribs. Lately, he has been skipping extra drills, not out of laziness but because every second on the court feels like a noose tightening around his neck. You understand this about him in the way only you can, so you don’t search the usual places. Instead, your steps take you to the old locker room, the one farthest down the hall, the one that hasn’t heard the thunder of a full team in years. The air smells of old sweat and steel, the echo of seasons long finished, and you feel the tension prickling your skin even before you see him.

His gym bag is slumped against the bench like he dropped it without care, his jacket a crumpled heap on the floor. The flickering strip lights overhead cast a dim, uneven haze, and your chest tightens as your eyes adjust to the gloom. He is there, of course he is, sat on the bench in front of his locker, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed so low his shoulders seem to carry the full weight of the sky. His hands are at his temples, massaging rough, relentless circles, as if he can press the storm out of his mind by force alone. He doesn’t see you at first. He is too far gone, trapped beneath the crush of a future he no longer feels he owns.

You step closer, not loud but not silent either, just steady, like you belong here with him because you do. He doesn’t flinch. He knows your presence without needing to look. He breathes you in like air he forgot he needed, his shoulders loosening just a fraction, just enough. You take him in, every inch of him carved sharp with silent agony. His knuckles are raw, red from fists clenched too long, and his breath scrapes out in uneven bursts, clipped and jagged like he is pacing panic in his chest. His eyes do not lift from the floor, fixed on his shoes as if they anchor him to the earth, and his lips are pressed tight, a hard line fighting not to tremble.

The state championships loom days away, a storm cloud swollen with dread, and you can feel it radiating off him. He is staring down the inevitability of throwing the game, of betraying everything he has built for the sake of men like Eric and Sunwoo, for the debts they forced around his neck like chains. His future hangs by a thread, fragile and fraying, because what is he supposed to tell the scouts when they come to watch him play, when they come expecting brilliance and see him choke on purpose instead. How is he meant to explain to the NBA what they’ll witness with their own eyes, that the star they’ve been watching all season crumpled at the finish line, threw away his chance like it meant nothing at all. This is everything he’s worked for, everything he’s bled for, and it’s all slipping through his fingers faster than he can hold it.

You draw his hand away from his temple, slow and sure, your fingers weaving through his like you’re stitching him back together, piece by delicate piece. You press closer, your body warm against his side, letting him feel the quiet weight of you, steady and real. Your thumb glides over the ridges of his knuckles, soft, patient, coaxing the tension out of him with every slow, grounding pass. His breath stutters, shallow at first, but then you press your lips to his shoulder, a kiss so gentle it barely brushes the fabric, and you feel him begin to loosen, feel his grip on you tighten in quiet desperation.

You don’t speak, not yet, just let your presence fill the space between his ribs where fear has made its home. He clings to your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, his fingers flexing against yours with something raw, something unspoken. His head dips slightly, closer to you, as if he can’t help but lean toward the only calm in his storm. His breath falls into your rhythm, a little steadier, not healed, not whole, but held together by the closeness of your touch, by the unspoken promise in your quiet, unwavering presence.

"Come here," he murmurs finally, voice gravel-rough and worn thin from holding back too much for too long, the storm in his chest tearing at his ribs like it’s desperate to be let loose. But you’re already there, already half in his lap, like always, like you belong there, your thighs straddling his as he pulls you closer still, his arms wrapping tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even for a moment. His forehead finds the curve of your shoulder, nestling into your skin as though you’re the only place in the world he still recognises, the only thing that hasn’t betrayed him.

You press your lips to his temple, soft as a breath, lingering long enough to feel the pulse beneath his skin, then you kiss lower, tracing to the corner of his eye where his lashes flutter shut, heavy with exhaustion and defeat. “I’m here,” you whisper, and between the words your hips roll slowly against his lap, gentle grinding that soothes more than it tempts, a quiet comfort in the closeness. You kiss him again, mouth brushing his cheekbone, letting it linger, lips barely parting as you murmur softer, “right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

His hands tighten around your waist, urgent but never rough, desperate like he needs to feel you pressed close or else he might fracture entirely. His voice scrapes out against your collarbone, frayed at the edges, raw from every storm inside him. "I don’t know," he confesses, almost a breath, almost a break, "I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

You cradle his head to your chest, your fingers sliding deep into his hair, massaging slowly and tenderly at his scalp, grounding him in the way only you can. Your lips find his hairline as you speak, a kiss threaded through every syllable. "Just a little longer," you tell him, soft but with quiet steel beneath, your hips rocking again, small, slow movements that ease his tension as much as your words. “Hold on for me, baby, I promise you’ll get out of this.”

You know exactly what you’re saying. You know. You’re threading the truth between your teeth, threading it into his skin with every kiss, every gentle roll of your hips, but you’re wise with your words. Careful. You don’t say how you’ll get him out. You don’t say what you’ve done, what you’re building behind his back, how you’re burning down entire empires in his name. No—you stay soft, you stay his, you stay the girl in his arms and not the executioner waiting in the wings. You bury your war beneath intimacy, beneath the safety of this moment, so he never has to carry the weight of knowing. So he never has to ask what you mean.

But he feels it. He feels it in the way you breathe him in, in the way you kiss his hairline like you’re sealing a vow to his skin. He feels it in the way your hands move over him, not just to comfort but to anchor him, to tie him to the moment so he doesn’t drift too far into the dark. He doesn’t understand, not fully, but something in him stirs anyway—a flicker of something that feels almost like hope, like relief so sharp it borders on ache.

His breath stutters hard against your collarbone, caught between his ribs like he doesn’t know if he should believe you, doesn’t know if hope will hurt him worse but it’s the way you say it, the way you kiss it into his skin, that makes him believe anyway. His arms band tighter around your waist, pulling you down into him until you feel every inch of his body strung tight beneath yours, until his mouth grazes your neck and he breathes you in like you’re the only air left in the room.

“Don’t let go,” he whispers, rough and low, barely holding together. His lips ghost over your throat, warm and searching, like he’s looking for sanctuary in the shape of you. “Please… just for a little longer.”

Your heart aches, swelling beneath his cheek. You kiss him again, his temple this time, lingering there, your words gentle but soaked in promise. “Not going anywhere, baby.” And you mean it. With your whole chest, with your whole heart. You’ll hold him through this storm, through the fire you’ve lit beneath their feet, through the destruction you’ve set in motion. You’ll hold him so tight he never has to feel the ground collapse beneath him. You’ll hold him until the moment you have to let him go — like a breath clenched too long in your lungs, released only when the air turns to fire and there’s no choice left but to exhale.

You feel his heart thudding through his chest, feel it pound in time with yours, and your fingers curl around his, bringing his hand to your mouth as you press a slow, lingering kiss to the back of it. Your voice is quiet but steady as it brushes over his skin, your breath warm and soft. "Don’t let them win yet." It isn’t about the game. It’s about him. His spirit. His fire. His life. You won’t let him break before you can save him, before you can pull him out of this wreckage with your own hands. He doesn’t answer, but you feel it in him all the same — his head dipping the smallest fraction, but you see it, you feel it, as clear as the sunrise waiting on the horizon you’ve promised him.

When you finally rise to your feet, you don’t wait for him to release you, you take his hand and guide him with you, fingers curling tight around his as you tug him up from the bench. He doesn’t even ask where you’re leading him, doesn’t need to, he just follows, his body obeying the silent command of yours like instinct, like gravity, like need. There’s a pull between you, low and magnetic, humming beneath your skin as you draw him out of his hollowed-out refuge, his gaze heavy on you, dark with something close to surrender. His breath shudders when you glance back, when your fingers tighten, when you lead him deeper into your fire. You leave behind the dim locker room, the flicker of weak light against the walls, but you don’t leave him behind. No, you carry him in your grip, in your pulse, in every step you take, certain in your bones you will burn the whole world down before you ever let them take him from you.

Campus is hushed at this hour, drenched in blue shadow, lamplight spilling gold pools onto the empty pathways as you guide him through the quiet veins of the university. The world feels folded inwards, private and dim, the wind brushing soft across your skin as your steps carry you past shuttered lecture halls and darkened windows. You know exactly where you’re taking him. He doesn’t ask. He never does. His gaze stays fixed on your back, heavy and reverent, burning with something wordless and aching, something that sinks into your spine and spools tighter the deeper you pull him into the night.

The study room is hidden at the far end of the library wing, your favourite secret pocket of campus, cloaked in shadow where the lights flicker less harshly, where no one bothers to look after hours. It’s quiet here, suffocatingly so, the kind of quiet that wraps around you like silk, thick and heavy, pressing you close together. Fluorescents buzz low overhead, casting a pale sheen over the empty tables, and the only sound beneath it is the soft scuff of your shoes as you step inside, drawing him with you. The laptop you abandoned earlier still glows faint on the desk, casting a tired light across the forgotten project file. The document is finished, cursor blinking idle in a sea of white, open but meaningless now, nothing more than a veil for what you really came here to do. This isn’t about the work anymore. It never was.

Your skirt is bunched messily around your waist, the hem twisted and crumpled at your hips, and his shorts are shoved down to his ankles, caught helplessly at the edge of his sneakers. You’re straddling him right there in the hard-backed chair, your knees braced on either side of him, rocking in slow, steady motions that keep him deep inside you. His breath is ragged, lips parted beneath yours, catching against every lazy kiss you press to his mouth. His hands don’t force you, they only hold — fingers splayed across your bare thighs like he needs to feel every inch of you, needs the weight of your body grounding him in place. Your hips roll with lazy confidence, grinding down until he’s seated to the hilt, until you swallow him whole and feel his chest shudder beneath your palms. He has no idea. No clue of the war you’re waging outside these walls, no inkling of the fire you’re building to burn the men trying to ruin him. He thinks you’re here for him alone, for the heat curling between your bodies, for the excuse of ‘working late.’

You feel it first not as a thought but a pulse beneath your skin, a distinct ping woven beneath the low hum of the room, not the usual noise of background notifications that you’ve long since trained yourself to ignore, but something more deliberate, sharper, the tone you assigned for priority alerts, the ones you told yourself you’d never miss no matter what you were doing, even if you were busy like you are now, sunk deep into the curve of his lap with your skirt bunched high around your waist and his shorts pushed low at his ankles, both of you tangled in the heat of each other. You weren’t expecting anything tonight, that’s the thing, not when you’d silenced almost every other channel of your life just to be here with him, not when you’d made this study room your escape from the chaos outside these walls, not when his hands are warm on your hips, not guiding you, not forcing, but simply holding, like he needs to feel the weight of you just to stay breathing. That’s why your brow tightens, your eyes narrowing even as your body continues its slow, lazy grind against his, because you know this alert, you know what it means, and it could be anything, it could be everything.

Your hips lift slow and deliberate, his cock dragging thick and aching from your body, and the moment you pull off completely, he groans, broken and strained, head tipping back against the chair as his hands fly to your hips, catching you like he can tether you back down. “Fuck, baby, no—” His voice is hoarse, rough at the edges, his breath punching out of him as his fingers flex, desperate to guide you back to where he needs you. “I was so close,” he rasps, hips jolting up like he’s chasing the slick heat you just took away from him, blinking through the haze clouding his eyes. “Don’t stop, c’mon, just come back here,” he murmurs, low and urgent, trying to tug you back onto his lap, but your attention has already broken away, your fingers sliding fast over the laptop as you reach for it, his palm skimming helplessly along your thigh. “Baby,” he grits out, frustration and need tangled in his tone, “baby, please—where are you going?”

You barely hear him, your focus already stolen by the sharp edge of the notification blinking at you. You click it open with practised speed, your heart thrumming loud in your ears, and your eyes begin to scan the lines with the precision you’ve honed through months of sleepless nights, of chasing shadows, of learning how to read urgency buried beneath polite sentences. And there it is, waiting for you, waiting like it’s always belonged to you.

It slams into your chest so hard you gasp, loud and unguarded, your mouth parting on instinct. Jeno’s eyes blink open, his brows knitting tight as confusion clouds his expression. “What? What happened?” His voice is rough, still gravelled from earlier kisses, his gaze flitting between you and the laptop as if he can see the change in the air.

You shield the screen from him without thinking, not out of secrecy but necessity, needing a moment to let your mind catch up to the storm in your chest as your palm flattens protectively over the laptop. Your eyes race down the email, hungry and disbelieving all at once, drinking in every word like they’re oxygen, like they’re the first breath after being underwater for far too long. This is no ordinary publication. This is Apex Athletics, a name that’s been rising fast across international circuits, already carving its reputation as the future of sports analysis—where performance science meets audience obsession. Known for pioneering the deep-dive, behind-the-athlete features that humanise statistics, that turn cold data into narrative, they’ve been expanding their global footprint with precision, and now they’ve set their sights on Seoul. A brand-new office, a fresh branch still smelling of fresh paint and ambition, and they want you at the helm of it. Not buried in the ranks, not just another contributor lost in the shuffle of bylines—but as one of the first architects, shaping the very voice of their expansion.

They’ve seen your work. The way you slice through complexity and serve it sharp but compelling, making even the most clinical performance breakdowns feel alive, like stories worth telling. That balance between science and soul is exactly what they’re hungry for and they’re not just dangling freelance articles or scattered commissions. They’re handing you a roadmap: fast-track promotion routes, early leadership opportunities, a career that doesn’t just keep pace but outstrips expectation. Contracts come lined with mobility clauses, a built-in promise of overseas placement once the Seoul office is solidified under your guidance. You’re not just writing—you're building legacy.

They’ve already started laying the welcome mat. Orientation timetables, cross-departmental introductions, invites to networking dinners and team-building weekends with executives from their global offices. Gift baskets. Handwritten notes from the editor-in-chief herself. We believe in you. We’re ready when you are. It’s not a bid for you to fill a seat. It’s an invitation to carve your name into the steel of something permanent. All of it is real. All of it is yours. And all you have to do is say yes.

Your breath stumbles, too sharp in the quiet, chest lifting high as your pulse kicks wild, and you feel his eyes track the change instantly, narrowing, watching you like he can sense the shift even without understanding it. “What is it, baby? Tell me,” he rasps, voice low and rough at the edges, scraping against the heat still lingering between you.

With your heart thudding hard against your ribs, you draw in a breath and turn the screen towards him, placing it carefully in his hands like you’re giving him something fragile, precious, a secret you’ve carried too long alone. His brows pinch at first, a flicker of confusion tightening between them as his eyes lower to the screen, but it unravels in seconds. You watch it all unfold across his face, the dawning realisation, the way his eyes widen as if he’s watching a sunrise for the first time, the way his lips part soundlessly, like he’s too stunned to even find words.

"Fuck," he breathes, barely above a whisper, almost reverent, and his gaze lifts to you like it’s magnetic, like he can’t help but look at you as if you’re made of something more than bone and skin, as if you’re made of gold. "Baby..." His voice folds, low and rough with feeling, thick with everything he wants to say but can’t, not all at once. His eyes roam your face, as if memorising every line, every soft part of you, every sharp part too, like you’re his whole universe condensed into this moment. His fingers tighten around the edge of the laptop, his knuckles paling, like he’s holding not just the proof of your success but the proof of you — your brilliance, your fight, your fire. "You’re incredible," he says at last, but it’s not enough for him, not nearly enough, and he shakes his head, breath catching again, eyes glossed with something that isn’t just pride but wonder. "You’re so incredible I don’t even know how you’re mine."

The moment stretches tight between you, trembling like a string pulled to its limit, and you don’t hesitate, not for a second, not when you can feel how much he needs you, how much you need him, dragging your body back over his, sinking down onto him like you were made to fit there, to take him deep until you feel him press against the very edge of you. His cock fills you thick, stretching you open all over again, and you gasp, hips circling down hard to seat him deeper, grinding slow like you’re savouring every inch, like you need every inch. His breath punches out ragged, hips jolting up to meet you with a desperate snap as you take him back into your heat, and the noise that rips from his throat is wrecked, ruined, helpless. “Fuck—fuck, baby, please,” he groans, words torn from him like he can’t hold them back, like they’re spilling straight from his chest.

His hands clamp your waist, greedy and bruising, dragging you harder against him as he chases the high you stole from him just moments before. You feel him throb inside you, hot and urgent, and it makes you shudder, makes you clutch his shoulders, kiss him open-mouthed and breathless, swallowing the shaky sounds of need that tumble from him, feeding them back to him like oxygen. “You feel so good,” you whisper against his lips, so desperate it cracks your voice, your hips bouncing faster, slick and wet, obscene in the quiet of the room. “I need you to cum for me, need to feel you fill me up,” you tell him, and he groans into your mouth, guttural and broken, his hips thrusting up into your tight, greedy pace, chasing every drop of pleasure you drag from him. His eyes are glazed, wild with need, locked on you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive, and you are—you are, you’re his breath, his pulse, the only thing tethering him to this earth.

His voice splits open as he rasps, “Fuck, baby, you make me lose my mind,” and you kiss him again, hard and deep, hips never slowing, your slick walls gripping him tighter, milking him for everything he’s got, and you don’t let him look away, not even for a second, you make him watch you fall apart around him just as you feel him begin to break beneath you.

It’s only when his breathing starts to settle, his chest no longer heaving beneath yours but rising and falling in rough, uneven waves, that he finally lifts his gaze to you again. His eyes are heavy, lids low, glassed with pleasure but shining too, shining like you’ve hung the stars there yourself. You see it ripple through him — not just release, not just relief, but something bigger, something aching and raw that he can’t hold back anymore. His voice comes quiet at first, thick and hoarse, like it’s clawing its way out of him, “I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says, rough and real, no teasing lilt, no heatplay, just truth. It sits heavy between you, anchoring you deeper into his lap as his hands smooth up your sides, slower now, tender in their weight, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets you go. “You hear me? I’m so fucking proud.” His palms cup your ribs, not squeezing, just holding, holding you there like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

His gaze drinks you in, roaming your face with a tenderness that knots tight in your chest, and when he speaks again his voice drops lower, thick with something that sounds almost like fear. “So this means you’re staying, right?” he asks, soft but desperate, as if saying it any louder would make the answer hurt more. “You’re not leaving after all? Even with everything, even after saying you would… this means you’ll stay?”

You kiss him once more, slower this time, your lips lingering on his like you want to give him yes, like you wish you could. Your thumb traces the sharp line of his cheekbone, a tender stroke that doesn’t match the ache clawing in your throat. “This doesn’t mean I won’t still be going,” you answer softly, honest to the bone, “It’s just an option. I still haven’t turned down Deloitte. I just have a choice to make.”

His gaze darkens, a storm pulling in, his hold on you tightening as he searches your face for something steadier, something more than what you’re giving him. His next words land heavy, punched from his chest. “And you won’t factor me into that choice?”

Your fingers glide along the line of his jaw, tracing him like he’s something precious, something you want to memorise even though you already know him in your bones. Your smile is soft, small, close to your lips as you breathe him in, your chest rising against his, steadying him, steadying yourself. “Of course I want to,” you say, the words slipping out quiet but sure, like they were always meant for him. Your voice hums low as you lean in, kissing the corner of his mouth, your lips brushing over his skin with a tenderness that aches in your chest. “How could I not?”

You see the way his eyes search yours, hungry for certainty, and you give it to him — you give it, even if you don’t know what will happen tomorrow, even if your future is a storm too dark to name. Tonight, he deserves your light. Tonight, he deserves to believe. “You’re always part of my choices, baby,” you whisper, your mouth brushing his as you speak, your words warm and intimate, pulled from the softest part of your chest. “You always will be.”

His breath catches, his hold tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, and you tilt your head to kiss him again, deeper this time, your fingers threading through his hair to pull him closer. “I want you with me,” you tell him, truth laced in every syllable, “I want you in everything I do.” It’s not a promise of forever. It’s not a lie about the road ahead. But it’s real. It’s real, and it’s what he needs. His eyes soften, his chest easing beneath your palm, and you kiss him once more, like you’re trying to breathe life back into both of you, like you can carry him through this moment if you just stay close enough.

The morning unfolds not as dawn but as a reckoning, the sun splitting the sky like it, too, feels the weight of what's coming. The air is sharpened to a blade, and when you step onto campus, it feels like crossing into your own colosseum. You’re not here for drills, not for practice, not even for cheer — you are here for war. The first breath you draw tastes of roasted beans from the vendor carts, of frying oil curling from food trucks, but beneath it there’s something fouler, something metallic, like iron in water, like the scent of blood before it stains.

Today is the day. Not just any game day, not just any championship, this is the day everything has led to. Every file you compiled, every thread you pulled, every sleepless night you spent tracing the pattern of their corruption, all converging on this single, sharpened point. Traffic outside the stadium crawls under heavy security, team buses inching through the gates, headlights glaring like search beams through fog. Parent cars idle, windows fogged with breath, horns blaring in frustration. Music blasts from a cracked car stereo, clashing with the echoes of the campus’ marching band rehearsing nearby, each note fraying the edges of the morning.

Above it all, the sky presses low, cloud cover crouching like it knows the storm is about to break. Wind whips through flags hung too high, snapping at their edges, restless. There's a static charge to the air, an unseen storm coiled and waiting to rupture. Beneath the looming sky, the stadium roars to life, giant screens loop promos like cinematic trailers, student-made banners flap wild over the bleachers, dripping cheap paint and raw hope. The crowd arrives in floods, a collision of families, alumni in polished suits, and drunk undergrads already chanting themselves hoarse. Ushers strain to control the swell of bodies.

Your eyes skim the frenzy, cold and calculating. They don’t know. None of them know. Cameras sit idle on tripods, reporters stretch and sip their coffees, scrolling idle feeds, blissfully unaware they're about to be consumed by the story of the season. You catch the glint of the media tent and sharpen the image in your mind. They are about to feast, you think, your pulse steady as steel. And they don’t even know the meal has already been plated.

You and Coach Suh chose this moment deliberately. Morning was never just the start of the day, it was the hour of no return. Too late for them to pivot, too early for them to see it coming. You bled the clock dry, waited until the veins of the season swelled with attention, scouts disembarking from planes, their eyes already fixed on the court; networks wiring their feeds live, cameras trained and waiting for the tip-off; sports board officials perched at the edge of their seats, appetite sharpened, ready to pounce on headlines they believed would crown their champions. You timed it for the moment the heart beats hardest, the blood surges fastest, the body of this campus thrumming at full force. So when you slice — not if, but when — it floods. Fast, unstoppable, irreversible. They thought they were here for victory parades and confetti storms but what you’ve built is collapse, dressed in celebration’s colours.

You do not plan this as a strategist, you breathe it as an assassin, precise and patient, sharpening the blade beneath your ribs while the world sleeps on. You let the days stretch thin with normalcy, let them dress the campus in bright colours and hungry hope, watch them fill the stands and warm the broadcast lights without knowing they are preparing your stage. You keep your distance, keep your hands clean of the trigger, but every thread of this day loops back to you. Every shadow cast by the floodlights moves to the pulse of your making. You let the tension wind tighter with every headline, every player profile, every camera crew that rolls onto campus thinking they are here for a game. You let them lean closer to the spectacle, let them fatten their coverage with pregame hype, because you want them right here, right now, when the artery bursts. There is no warning shot. No clean announcement. Only the rupture. Only the freefall.

And you? You move through it all like you own it, because you do. Your cheer uniform hugs you like armour, pleats swinging with every step, crisp against the sculpt of your thighs. The ribbon in your hair is pulled tight, not decoration but declaration, the knot biting into itself the way you’ve sunk your teeth into this moment. Your nails gleam with a battle-ready lacquer, glossy and razor-sharp, painted not for vanity but victory. Beneath the clean cut of your skirt, your muscles flex with coiled purpose, a silent reminder that you are not here to dance for the crowd, you are here to dominate it.

The laptop in your bag is heavy with ammunition, files that could split the sky wide open. The burner phone at your hip buzzes like it feels the storm under your skin, the first notifications already flashing across the screen like sparks on dry tinder. Your regular phone is vibrating too, relentless, Karina blowing it up with call after call, messages stacking like smoke signals but you don’t even look down. You know exactly why she’s flooding your inbox, you missed the final practice. She’s pacing the sidelines somewhere, probably fuming, but you barely grant it a second thought. She plays games in rehearsal but you are the game.

Your steps are already cutting towards the media building, pace unhurried but lethal beneath the surface, the current of it running fast and hot under your skin. Across the courtyard, you spot him, Donghyuck, framed behind tall glass panels, his silhouette sharp against the clutter of studio equipment and hissing monitors, cameras crowding the room like vultures waiting for a kill. He is restless, pacing tight loops in front of his laptop, fingers drumming impatiently against the desk as he checks the clock, checks his phone, checks the empty doorway as if he can feel you coming. The media building hums like a live wire, an electrical storm swelling beneath its skin, static thick in the air from lights burning hot and the weight of anticipation pooling in the corners. Reporters with half-packed bags sip burnt coffee and rehearse their opening lines to dead air, still convinced today is about scores and banners, blind to the inferno you are about to set at their feet.

His eyes track you the moment you approach, sharp but curious, like he feels the voltage running hot in your veins. His shoulders straighten from where they were slouched against the cluttered desk, his breath caught somewhere between suspicion and intrigue, because he knows you would not come here, not like this, not with that look in your eye, unless it meant something. Unless it meant everything.

The space around you pulls tighter, thins to a needle-point focus, and you feel it humming beneath your skin as you reach into your bag, fingers closing around the burner file. It is heavier than it should be, but it carries the weight of history bound between its covers, the death knell of an empire sewn into every byte of data. When you draw it out and hold it between you, you don’t give it to him right away. You let it hang in the air for a breath longer, heavy with silent thunder, making sure he feels it. Making sure he understands this is not just a file. This is the kill-shot.

His brow furrows, a line cutting between his brows as he glances at it, then at you, his lips parting to ask but the words don’t come fast enough. You place it in his hands, cold and final, but keep your fingers curled around the edge a moment longer, anchoring him there with you. "What is this?" he asks, low, wary, eyes flicking to the side to make sure no one else is watching. He knows better than anyone to be careful, but even so, there’s a breath of disbelief in his voice. He was not expecting this today.

You lean in slightly, close enough that no one could ever overhear, not that they’d dare step close. Your voice is even, calm, brushed with quiet power. "Go over the files," you tell him, nothing more, nothing less. No explanation, no justification. He doesn’t need one. You already know what he will do once he sees it.

There’s no one else around. You made sure of that. You orchestrated this meeting like every step of the day, like every breath leading here, moving chess pieces into perfect alignment. You didn’t plan this as someone desperate to hide — you designed this as an architect of destruction. You built the story from the ground up, curated every strand of evidence, timed every drip of information so that when you placed the final weapon in his hands, all he had to do was pull the trigger. But you aimed it. You loaded it. You chose the target.

You need him for this, because you and Coach Suh both know you can’t be the ones to pull the trigger. Neither of you can afford to have your fingerprints on the blade. If you did, you would destroy the very foundation of the takedown you’ve built so ruthlessly, undeniability without traceability. For you, it is personal beyond anything else. Jeno can never know you were the architect of his salvation, because it would shatter the very protection you’ve been bleeding yourself dry to build around him. He would see you not as the shield but the blade. No matter how clean your intentions, in his eyes you’d become the villain.

And for Coach Suh, it’s survival in the truest sense of the word. As a faculty member, as a coach with reputation and history, he cannot risk being branded a saboteur of the league. If he’s caught orchestrating the collapse of a rival team, the sports board will hang him at dawn, mercy be damned, no matter how righteous the cause. The moment either of you steps into the spotlight, you lose everything: your moral high ground, your control over the narrative, your power. This plan only works because it was built in shadows. Because no one sees the knife until it’s already buried deep in the heart of the corruption. And from the shadows, you can keep your power, your freedom — and most of all, you can keep Jeno safe from the truth that would haunt him if he ever found out.

Donghyuck’s hands tighten around the file, his pulse visible at his neck, fast and high. His eyes flicker, sharp and calculating, skimming the surface of the knowledge you’ve placed at his fingertips. He doesn’t ask again. He doesn’t need to. You tilt your head, your gaze steady, as if to say: you know what this is. you know what to do. And he does. Of course he does. You chose him for this moment because you know him, know the fire in his bones, the ambition that crackles under his skin like a live wire desperate for a spark. You know Donghyuck won’t sit with this golden ticket idle in his lap. He will run with it, because this is his launch, his ascension, his door kicked wide open to the career he’s been clawing toward with bloodied hands. He wants headlines. He wants legacy. He wants power. And you have just given him all of it, gift-wrapped in scandal. Giving Donghyuck the files wasn’t about power or recognition — it was about precision. He could run the exposé faster, sharper, louder than anyone, cut through the noise with the exact kind of ruthless clarity this scandal demanded. You trusted him to handle the storm because he had nothing to lose, everything to prove,

Your lips curve, the barest flicker of a smile not of warmth, but of precision. Because this is not you stepping back. This is you embedding deeper into the shadows where your power lives, where your control reigns absolute. You have orchestrated this so perfectly that Donghyuck is not the driver, he is the weapon in your hand, the visible piece on the board while you remain the unseen player behind the curtain.

There is no fear in your chest. Only fire. You still own the timing. You still command the fallout. You still dictate the witnesses, the ethics board, the storm flooding the court. Donghyuck is your vehicle, your chosen instrument to deliver the blow while you stay clean in the shadows, your fingerprints nowhere near the scene but your design in every detail. He flicks his gaze up to you one last time, a silent question buried in the glint of his eyes, but you are already turning, already moving, smooth and unhurried as if the fire you’ve just lit is no more than a candle burning in your wake. You don’t wait for him to speak. You don’t need to. You’ve already moved on to your next target.

First it’s the air itself that tightens, clenching like a fist around the throat of campus, a heat swelling beneath the skin of the morning that doesn’t belong to summer, doesn’t belong to the season at all. It rises from the ground, seeps from the walls, a fever caught too late. Windows bead with condensation like sweat on trembling skin, and the breath of the place changes, turns shallow, rapid, too fast to catch. No alarms, no announcements, no sirens yet, but the pulse of it is felt in the way shadows lean sharper, in the way doorframes seem to tighten around their hinges, bracing for a collapse.

You move through it like you were made for this climate, like the fever blooming beneath the surface only feeds you, flames licking up your calves as you walk. Your spine is iron-forged, your pace unbroken, not rushed, not hesitant. You breathe in the thickening air like it sharpens you, like it’s filling your lungs with purpose. Beneath your ribs, you feel it, that churn, that promise of rupture, but you cradle it like a secret weapon. You don’t flinch when the wind shifts, don’t blink when the first ripple tears through the atmosphere. You carry it in your bones, and your bones do not break.

The cheer squad cuts through the morning like a blade, bright colours slashing against the gloom curling over campus. They are a vision, dangerous in their unity, breathtaking in their precision — not just pretty faces and glossed lips but athletes sculpted into weapons, each movement honed sharp enough to draw blood. The air crackles around them, the slap of sneakers against concrete, the hiss of pom-poms shifting like snakeskins shedding.

At the centre of it stands Karina, arms crossed, posture rigid, her gaze cutting across the courtyard like the point of a spear. When her eyes lock onto you, they don’t soften. They slice. Her chin tips up, sharp and unyielding, and the line of her mouth tightens with suspicion drawn taut as a bowstring. “Where the fuck have you been?” The words snap from her lips like a shot fired, not for show, not for performance, but a real, raw demand burning at the edges of her tongue. You collect yourself not with panic, but with precision, weaving your story in the space of a breath, stitching an alibi into muscle and sinew. Your expression doesn’t flicker. You meet her glare with a mirror-smooth mask, not too calm, not too urgent, just enough. Believable. Airtight. Not a crack to be found.

Your muscles obey out of habit, slipping into drills as though you’re just another body in formation. The rhythm of practice takes over, feet moving, breath syncing, arms lifting in time but just a few minutes in, your burner phone stirs against your hip, a low vibration that buzzes through your bones like an underground tremor. You know what it is before you even glance. You feel it in your chest first, the tightening, the quiet surge of adrenaline. You flick your gaze down with trained indifference.

donghyuck — it’s done.

No punctuation, no embellishment. Clean. Clinical. Faster than you thought he would be. You resist the curl of a smile at the corners of your mouth, swallowing it down like the taste of victory before it’s fully ripe. He’s good. He’s better than you expected. You don’t reply. You never planned to. You let the message sit there, a quiet detonation in your palm, and lift your chin, slow and deliberate, as your eyes find the stadium rising beyond the practice field.

It towers in the distance, a colossus of steel and glass, the bones of the stadium carved sharp against the greying sky, its flood lights blinking like watchful sentries, hungry for the chaos to come. Panels of glass catch the churn of storm clouds overhead, dark smudges blooming like ink in water, thick and swelling as if the sky itself is bracing for detonation. A quiet current threads through the air, prickling over your skin, running down the steel beams of the stadium, coiling in the flagpoles where the banners snap and twist like they can feel it too. It surges through the concrete beneath your shoes, sharp and restless, a pulse rising in the bones of the building itself, like the whole place is holding its breath for what’s about to come.

You pass beneath giant screens cycling game promos, slow motion clips of players captured mid-flight, chest pounding with phantom echoes of the game not yet played. The scoreboard glares “0–0,” twin hollow zeroes beaming cold across the expanse, like eyes wide open but blind to what is coming. But you see it. You see it all. Soon, those numbers will bleed red, will crackle with the heat of a scandal tearing through the league like wildfire. Soon, it won’t just be a stadium — it will be an execution ground.

Your footsteps cross the campus like fractures in glass, each stride a crack splitting wider, webbing beneath the surface, invisible to everyone else but inevitable. They just don’t see it yet. The sound of your soles against the pavement feels sharper than usual, almost too loud, like a countdown no one’s begun to count. Somewhere beneath it all, there’s a rising hum, soft at first but growing, a soundscape of tension threading through the world around you — as if the sky is wired with electricity, the clouds holding their breath, the earth beneath you aching for release. You feel it deep in your bones, deeper than nerves, deeper than muscle, as natural as your own pulse. The storm is coming, and you are the one who set it free.

Your gaze drags from the scoreboard to the veins of the campus. The clouds above Neo Tech fracture, not with thunder but with headlines, the grey sky bleeding thin into a simmering red glow that feels almost unnatural, like the light itself has caught fire from the news crackling through the airwaves. The morning air sharpens, metallic on the tongue, bitter as foil pressed to teeth, thick with a static you can’t taste but you feel curling in the back of your throat. Wind slices through campus like it’s carrying prophecy in its teeth, combing through hair and loose papers, skimming over practice mats and shaking the flagpoles until they clatter like bones. Across the stadium, the clouds coil heavier, darker, like they’ve swallowed too much smoke, and they wait, bloated with the storm you’ve unleashed. It isn’t footsteps that rush through the veins of the campus now, it’s information. A stampede, not of bodies but of breathless words, of names and scandals, of sins too big to stay buried. The storm moves invisibly first, like heat behind glass, but then it cracks wide open.

At first, the silence is so sharp it cuts the noise beneath it. Classrooms hum with fluorescent lights and the soft scrape of pens across paper until, as if on a hidden cue, the ripple begins. One student glances at their phone, brows knitting. Then another. A buzz of notification skips across the desks like a stone skimming water. Heads tilt toward glowing screens, shoulders hunch closer together. "Have you seen this?" Mouths part, breath stalling in throats. One pair of students becomes two, becomes ten, becomes entire rows of seats leaning into the eye of the storm. Professors falter mid-sentence, voices thinning as they catch the sharp glint of panic on their students’ faces. Glasses slip down noses as they squint at headlines stretched across cracked screens.

"What in the hell..." a janitor mutters from the corridor, his elbow perched on a mop handle, eyes scanning the words aloud like they’ll change if he speaks them fast enough. Security radios crackle alive, bursts of static chewing through the tension like a swarm of insects set loose in the wiring. There’s a subtle dissonance crawling into the pulse of the day, like the campus itself has caught the scent of ruin on the breeze and tenses, caught between the instinct to freeze or flee. Textbooks are pushed aside, pens forgotten mid-stroke, lectures crumble into nothing. Assignments don’t matter anymore. Practice drills dissolve into memory. The campus rotates on one axis now, spinning around the gravitational pull of this singular scandal, this detonation that no one saw coming except you.

Beyond the classrooms, the wind keeps moving. the pulse carries, snaps, across the quad. Principal Kun carves a path across the main quad, suit tight across his shoulders, advisors scrambling in his wake like panicked birds. His eyes are dark, jaw clenched, as he barks sharp orders to the team beside him, voices knotted in rapid-fire damage control. They spew out pre-planned statements, already scrambling to distance Neo Tech from the flames devouring Busan. Yet beneath their panic lies a glimmer of something alive, something almost ravenous: Neo Tech’s record, pristine and polished, is about to gleam even brighter in contrast. Behind them, alumni pace tight circles, phone screens glued to their palms, watching the empire they thought unshakeable burn through glassy eyes. One alum whispers into a call, "Get me Seoul on the line now," as if they can outrun the collapse by moving faster.

The wind stirs again, threading sharp and restless through the open ribs of the stadium, dragging the noise from the principal’s mouth and flinging it across the court, scattering it like broken glass toward the cheer practice stretching along the far sideline. You stand in line like nothing has happened, posture perfect, breath controlled, as though you aren’t the match that struck the blaze. Karina’s voice cuts through the rhythm of the drill like silk catching on a blade, not loud but decisive, a sharp seam unravelled mid-movement as the squad flows through their steps. Her phone slips from her hand at the same moment, falling with a thud against the mat, the screen still lit with the headline now burning bright enough to brand her vision. Her eyes widen fast, pupils tightening to pinpricks as the words etch themselves behind her gaze, the story pouring out in ruthless clarity. She’s reading the exposé, seeing the scandal unfurl in full, and her breath snags, not in fear nor in disbelief, but in a sharper, knowing intake, a breath that rises like she has stumbled upon a secret finally spoken aloud.

Her chest lifts beneath the stretch of her uniform, slow and deliberate, her head tilting up from the screen as though following the smoke trailing from a fire already spreading through the air. Then her eyes find you across the formation. And when they do, it is not with accusation, not with shock, but with a quiet recognition that burns brighter than any scream. She sees it. She sees you. The lines connect silently between her gaze and your stillness, as if the storm itself has drawn a map across the field and she alone knows how to read it. For a heartbeat, she does not look away. She holds you there, pinned beneath her attention, her eyes glossed with the gleam of revelation, her mind racing as it folds around the realisation like a blade snapping into place. You see it clearly now — she knows exactly what she is witnessing, and she knows exactly who set it free.

You meet her eyes, unreadable, lips poised but still. Areum lowers her phone too, slowly, her gaze slicing across you, narrowing with a weight you feel crawl beneath your skin. Nahyun’s voice cracks across the circle, sharp-edged gossip disguised as concern, but it’s Yeji who trembles, her words splintering in her throat as she confesses too fast, too shaky, "I... I had a bad experience with Yeonjun once... at a party, I didn’t know what to do..." Her eyes glisten, lower lip catching between her teeth, vulnerability etched raw across her face. The squad closes around her like a shield. Ryujin wipes Yeji’s tears away, her thumb swiping beneath damp lashes with a tenderness edged in steel. "It’s over now," she breathes, fierce and certain, a warrior’s vow. Karina steadies Yeji by the shoulders, her understanding redirected into protection, her spine a wall between the squad and the storm that howls just beyond the mats.

The whistle of wind through open corridors twists once more, tugging at the edges of the world, dragging seamlessly toward the stadium. The arena’s giant screens crackle to life mid-warmup, flashing the scandal headlines in brutal loops. In the VIP box, the sports board officials flood in, their voices rising like a tide, colliding and clashing, arguments splintering into sharp fragments of disbelief. Clips of the scandal flicker and burn across every arena screen, washing the court in chaos before the first warm-up lap even finishes. The suits are in full collapse mode now, snapping orders into phones, demanding answers from subordinates too slow to catch the avalanche. A live press statement is cobbled together in haste, ethics boards sealing the names on their blacklists like caskets nailed shut.

The current drags further still, sweeping to the scouts lining the rows nearest the action. You spot them immediately — you know them all by heart, Jeno pointed them out to you across so many games, faces etched into memory like a private gallery of futures. Now, they exchange whispers, mouths tight with grim uncertainty. Pens freeze above notebooks, phones glued to ears, their eyes scanning the flashing footage with expressions carved from stone and shadow.

The pulse of this ecosystem finds its final beat for now in Coach Suh. His burner phone vibrates once in his palm, and he answers without hesitation, eyes gleaming as the message lands. His mouth splits into a thin, wolfish grin. "Bullseye," he murmurs, low and razor-sharp, the sound of a man who has felt this kind of triumph before, who tastes victory in the ash of others’ ruin. His grin is not one of surprise but the grin of expectation met, the grin of a plan unfolding as designed. In that glimmer, you see it — not surprise, not panic, but the ruthless satisfaction of a man watching his plan land dead-centre, clean and final as a bullet to the heart. The glimmer sharpens into something merciless, not surprise, not panic, but the ruthless satisfaction of a man watching his plan land dead-centre, clean and final as a bullet to the heart. The satisfaction catches the light just long enough for you to see it glint across his expression, then it turns, spreading beyond him, spilling out into the bloodstream of the stadium like a second, deeper infection.

And the next wave begins.

Media doesn’t arrive like the players or the crowd, walking through gates with programs in hand. Media arrives like a weapon, already loaded, already aimed. It crouches in the shadows at first, breath slow and steady, crosshairs fixed over reputations fat and ripe for the taking. You don’t see it until it fires. You don’t feel it until it tears clean through your name, embedding in bone. It isn’t a swarm, not yet. It is a sniper rifle waiting for the perfect moment to strike, and as Busan collapses, the shot is fired.

Then it mutates. The virus leaves the barrel smoking and begins its slow contamination, bleeding through the veins of the arena until the pulse of the day grows fevered and unstable. It doesn’t stay trapped within the stadium walls. It leaks like poison into every pipeline, slipping beneath the skin of local news, infecting national broadcasts, seeping into the throats of anchors in Seoul, commentators in Beijing, scouts whispering in New York. Each retelling twists the infection further, mutating with every tongue that tastes it, warping truth into new and deadlier forms.

Parents in the stands lift their phones with trembling fingers, faces blanching white as their screens bloom with headlines. Whispers move faster than voices, faster than the commentators trying to keep pace, faster than the score ever could have changed. The press box swells like a laboratory of disease, reporters fevered with the discovery of fresh contagion, typing at speeds that set their keyboards ablaze. Headlines spawn like spores: ‘Nation's Top Prospect Crumbles Under Scandal.’. ‘Busan's Collapse: Fixed Games and Broken Futures.’

Outside, the discarded programs flatten beneath car tyres, smudged with rain and filth. Half-eaten stadium snacks sag on the seats, gone cold and soggy as if even hunger has been forgotten in the chaos. Confetti cannons, once primed for celebration, stand mute and gaping like open wounds. The stadium floodlights blaze mercilessly over the hollowing crowd, too bright, too stark, like searchlights raking across a battlefield still smouldering with the aftermath. Reporters' shoes are thick with mud from pacing the fields, hunting scraps of reactions from players too stunned to speak.

There is no silence in the aftermath, only feeding. The cameras sharpen. They close in. They circle the wreckage like vultures over carrion, waiting to pick clean the bones of a team left bleeding on the court. It lingers like a second stormcloud, hungry for the post-mortems, for a glimpse of a sobbing mother in the stands, for a flash of a player’s tear-streaked face through locker room slats. These cameras are not witnesses. They are predators. Every zoomed shot of Mark’s pale face is a bullet in disguise. Every frozen frame of Coach Suh stiffening under questioning is already a headline waiting to devour him. They don’t film to record history, they film to feast on it.

Microphones jam at the mouths of the dying. "What went wrong today?" they ask, as if they don’t already have the answer inked and ready. They thrust them at trembling athletes, shove them beneath cracking voices, press them to lips too dry with fear to speak.

The blow lands live, in the middle of the Ravens’ press conference. Coach Suh stands composed beneath the brutal lights, reporters firing questions as flashes explode against his retinas. Taeyong savours the attention, basking in what he believes to be Donghyuck’s big triumph, wearing his father’s ambition like a crown. He plays his part with polish, smooth and camera-trained, every glance choreographed to perfection. In his mind, Jeno’s path to the NBA clears like storm clouds parting under the sun. Doyoung stands between them, poised, dignified, guiding the narrative back to the team, keeping their image sharp and untarnished.

Then it breaks. Press staff rush the podium, voices like live wires, crackling with panic. Journalists twist towards the massive screens overhead, and there it is: Breaking: Busan Disqualified. Daegu to Face Ravens in State Final. Busan collapses not in fragments but in total detonation. The rule, buried in the league’s bylaws, rises like a dormant curse: two standby teams always wait in shadow, poised for forfeiture or elimination. A rule almost never invoked, yet carved deep into the statutes. Daegu has been waiting, hungry, pacing their cage. The moment the announcement comes, they storm the court with shoulders squared and eyes alight, feral with purpose. They don’t look like underdogs. They look like wolves set loose on wounded prey. They want this win with a hunger sharpened to a blade’s edge.

Busan is not destroyed by the players alone, but by the full web of corruption now exposed like bones picked clean by vultures. The report lists them with ruthless finality: a head coach falsifying medical records, assistant coaches orchestrating rigged plays, bench players accepting hush money, faked injuries to manipulate rotations, laundered funds through athletic accounts, falsified scouting reports that have collapsed under scrutiny.

Camera lenses swing to capture it all. Reporters shout until their voices shred. Flashes crack like gunfire. Security moves fast, herding Busan’s players off the court under the blistering gaze of the world. Yeonjun, arrogant even in disgrace, sneers at you as he passes, eyes dragging low, tongue flicking over his lips in a mockery of bravado. He snaps his fingers, winks like a man still believing in his own invincibility. He still doesn’t understand that you buried him long before this moment.

Coach Suh doesn’t bother watching the spectacle. He’s gathering the Ravens, ushering them together, snapping sharp commands as he herds them towards the locker rooms. His eyes cut to Daegu’s entrance, reading their body language, calculating every angle. He knows this new opponent is fiercer, hungrier, more dangerous than Busan ever was. He knows they won’t back down. Around him, the Ravens scatter in a chaos of reaction. Jeno stands beneath the press gauntlet, cameras locked on him like heat-seeking missiles. Jaemin wipes sweat from his brow, pacing the sidelines, jaw clenched. San drags his hands through his hair, muttering beneath his breath. Mark shadows Coach Suh, tracking his every movement with a soldier’s focus. Yangyang lingers near the benches, fists tight, eyes narrowed, as if daring the future to come at him.

The noise folds around them, but it doesn’t reach you. It never does. Your focus drags away from the scattering Ravens, away from the mess of urgency and planning and tightens like a wire around a single point of gravity — him. Jeno. You can feel the pull of him before you even realise you’ve abandoned everything else, before you notice how your eyes betray you, how they follow the line of his shoulders beneath the navy curve of his jersey, how they trace the number carved into his back like it’s stitched into your pulse. It’s always him.

It’s never the strategy, never the outcome, never even the fallout of the scandal devouring the stadium from the inside out. It’s him. The way he holds himself beneath the feverish flashes of the cameras, the way he carries the storm like it’s his crown, like he was born for the chaos you lit beneath his feet. Your breath tightens, lips parting without realising, heart caged in your ribs as if it wants to break free and cross the court to him. He’s the reason you did this. He's the reason you did this. He's the reason you woke up every morning with fire in your chest and slept every night with only an hour of rest, tossing in sweat-drenched sheets, thighs pressed tight because no fantasy could ever tame the ache he left behind. He makes the sleepless nights feel worth it. He makes everything worth it.

Your gaze drinks him in, the way his jaw cuts sharp beneath the flashing lights, the way his shoulders hold the weight of the world like they were built for it. Jeno doesn’t run from the cameras. He never has. He stands at the centre like he was born there, the sun in their orbit, and they spin for him, desperate for a sliver of his fire. He knows it, too. Plays it like a violin, posture clean and tall, answers carved sharp but wrapped in that easy charm. His eyes flick to the red lights of the recorders with precision, not by accident, but by hunger, feeding the lens exactly what it wants. When they crowd closer in the tunnel, flashes bursting like fireworks, he doesn't flinch. He angles his body just enough so the number 23 sears into the lenses, burns into their retinas, marks them like it marks you.

Even as chaos detonates in every corner of the arena, even as headlines throb with blood and betrayal, he stays collected. You watch him on the monitors and from the sidelines, watch him command the scene like he commands your body in the dark. This is a man who knows exactly how to sell the story the cameras crave: the captain who weathered the storm and emerged unbroken.

He finishes one interview, slipping away like a shadow between flashbulbs, and you catch the glint of his phone in his hand. He doesn't look at you. He scrolls with casual ease, lips quirked faintly, as if the world isn't caving in around him. But you know him too well. Beneath that practised calm, there's a flicker. A glimmer of fear, yes, but stronger still, hope — the wild, impossible thought that maybe, somehow, this storm that’s been conjured isn't aimed at him. Maybe he's safe.

Your phone buzzes.

jeno — you okay my love? jeno — you keep staring at me jeno — it’s crazy what happened but don’t be worried, i’m okay and i’ll always protect you, you know that right? nothings gonna happen to u you — i know baby you — gonna see you before the game :) you — i’ll be waiting

Your phone is still warm in your palm, your last message waiting beneath your fingertips, but he doesn’t reply. He’s already back to the cameras, back to the spotlight that clings to him like second skins. Your grin sharpens, curling at the edges like flame, because you know exactly what fills his mind even now, you know what’s imprinted behind those dark lashes and the sharp cut of his jaw beneath the stadium glare. He might play the composed captain, the media-trained golden boy, but this morning he was something else entirely. You remember it so vividly it floods your mouth now, thick and filthy, the way he gripped your hair tight at the roots, fist curled hard against your scalp, dragging you down over him until you were choking, spluttering, your throat stretched wide around the full length of him, eyes blurred with tears you couldn’t even blink away.

He fucked into your mouth like it was nothing, like he owned it, like it belonged to him as much as the number on his back, hips relentless as you gagged and gasped and took it deeper, deeper still, until you felt him bruise the back of your throat and hold you there, trembling, suffocating on the heat of him. His groans had fallen low and rough from his chest, filthy things rasped out between gritted teeth as he kept you pinned and helpless, using your mouth like it was built to worship him alone.Shameless. Always. He’s a whore for your attention, a whore for the cameras, a man who lives to be watched, devoured, consumed, and you fed the hunger in him just as much as he fed it in you.

Now, he's about to give another interview, already half-turning to the broadcaster from SPN, their crew greedy with cameras and questions, when Coach Suh strides over, sharp as a blade. "Enough," Suh snaps, his voice laced with urgency. The SPN reporter pleads for five more minutes, but Coach Suh glares daggers through him, jaw tight. "If you don't back off," he growls, "I'm putting you in the hospital myself." The reporter stumbles back, hands raised in surrender, as Jeno obeys Suh's call. He tosses one last look at his reflection in the dark glass of a monitor, adjusts his collar, and follows his coach, still every inch the star. Every inch yours.

Under the concrete ribs of the stadium, it's a frenzy. Reporters jostle, shouting questions that splinter the air, their voices sharp as broken glass. Players spill from the court, sweat-slick and breathless, caught between the high of the win and the looming spectre of scandal. The media swarms like sharks to blood, their microphones thrust like spears through the gaps in the crowd, cameras flashing like lightning strikes behind storm-tossed windows.

"Lee Jeno! Lee Jeno!" Reporters bark questions like hunting dogs in full cry. Mark snaps first, shoving a microphone out of his face with a growl. "Give us space." His jaw flexes, eyes dark, shoulders squared like he’s ready for a second war. But Jeno feeds on it still. He lets the swarm devour him, lets the flashbulbs burn his silhouette into every headline. He answers coolly, voice rough but magnetic, the perfect post-championship image.

Overhead, helicopters thrum in tight circles, and from the stadium speakers, news bulletins echo — urgent, breathless updates bleeding into the roar of the crowd. "—ethics board confirmed an investigation—" "—shockwaves through the league—" "Lee Jeno is about to beat record and become the best player this league has ever seen—"

The chaos bleeds into the locker room, the noise from outside filtering through walls like an infection. Newsfeeds light up, phones vibrate on benches, alerts flash across screens, heads swivelling toward every ping. The bomb has dropped. They're not immune to it. Not even close. Chenle is the loudest first. "Yo, is this real?" He holds his phone up, screen glaring, headlines sprawled like graffiti. "They're actually—?" He cuts himself off, disbelief pitching high in his voice. Jaemin’s jaw tightens beside him, his silence louder than Chenle's shock.

Yangyang paces, fingers raking through his hair, paranoia a raw, scraping pulse in his bones. "Bro, this is serious," he snaps, mostly to himself. "If they can take down the whole Busan team, who's next?" His eyes flick to his phone, his thoughts stuck, looping over the unrecovered files you and he still need to retrieve. You can almost hear him counting the hours.

Yangyang’s paranoia drowns him quietly, and only you can hear it, even while you're still on the court and he’s buried in the locker room storm. The files still haven’t been recovered. They’re kept at a data centre off-campus, corporate-run, secure but not impenetrable. Genesis Holdings vault storage. You and Yangyang spent the night before the championship on the phone until your voices rasped, mapping the break-in like architects of disaster. You promised him: right after the Ravens take the win, while the city is drunk on victory and the campus drowns in confetti and champagne, you’ll slip away and retrieve the files. It’s a skeleton crew at Genesis during the celebrations, barely anyone at the controls. Yangyang clings to that sliver of hope like a man holding a match in a blackout. But it haunts him still. You see it in the tightness of his mouth, the way his eyes dart to every shadow, every figure that lingers too long in his periphery. He doesn’t say it aloud, but you both know — if those files fall into the wrong hands, this win means nothing for him.

Mark is unusually quiet, eyes storm-dark. He’s absorbing it, all of it, the weight of legacy and scandal tightening across his chest. "Don’t lose your heads," he finally says, low but commanding. "Focus on the game. We still have to finish this."

Jeno, the captain, cool on the surface but wired tight beneath it, stands in his media-trained posture, but his hands are clenched, white-knuckled. "We play like champions," he says. "This isn’t our mess. We finish the job." His words are clipped, controlled, but there’s a glint in his eyes that betrays the burn under his skin.

Coach Suh enters, weight in his steps, eyes scanning every face, measuring the fear, the adrenaline, the chaos simmering beneath the surface. "Listen to me," his voice cuts clean through the noise, slicing it dead. "This is a distraction. A calculated, vicious distraction. You let it in your head, you lose before you hit the court. We play our game. We stay sharp. We stay clean." He paces in front of them like a general before battle. "Let them fall apart but we do not break ranks. Understood?"

The team moves as one, fists together. "Understood."

Jeno, fire in his breath, steel in his spine. "Yes, Coach. We finish this." The words don’t settle before the storm surges forward, spilling out of the locker room like floodwater breaking its dam, dragging the noise with it, dragging you with it. Down the corridors, past the steel bones of the stadium, the pulse of the game and the scandal and the spotlight folding into one unstoppable current — and at its helm, cut from the same storm-thread, is Donghyuck.

He moves through the chaos like it was built for him, like the storm bloomed just to crown him king. His body language is all liquid confidence, loose but sharp at the edges, swagger rolling off him in waves so strong they bend the atmosphere around him. His phone hasn’t stopped buzzing, alive with notifications, emails, calls from media outlets, sports editors, investigative magazines, even podcast hosts and talk show producers, all of them clawing for a piece of the man who detonated the story of the year. He doesn't flinch. He thrives in it. He walks with the kind of ease that turns the scramble of campus into his own private stage, every spotlight chasing him, every breath of the crowd bending toward his orbit.

Shotaro stays right by his side, loyal and wide-eyed, caught between awe and disbelief. "This feels like a fucking movie," he breathes under his breath, the corners of his mouth tugged up in a grin he can't quite contain. His gaze flicks between the sea of faces and Donghyuck, like he’s watching history crack open and swallow them whole. He shadows Donghyuck not because Donghyuck needs protection, but because the energy is a whirlwind, and even Shotaro, grounded and sure-footed, feels the pull of it. Still, he sticks close, just in case.

They weave through the crowds of students with the magnetism of a comet tearing across the sky. Heads snap toward Donghyuck, eyes blown wide with awe or narrowed in wary calculation. Whispers spiral in their wake, feverish and breathless. Some reporters lunge, thrusting microphones forward like spears, desperate for a comment, but Donghyuck waves them off with a flick of his fingers, a conductor controlling the tempo of his moment. He’s recording game footage, too, like it’s second nature, switching between camera angles for his analysis content while fielding questions from professors and peers as though he’s been reporting for a decade. He multitasks like he was born doing it, his rhythm flawless.

The air around him vibrates with something electric, as if the crowd understands they’re not just watching a student, but witnessing a legend's origin story unfold in real time. He knows exactly what he’s done. You know exactly what you’ve done. Because you built this moment for him, sculpted it with your bare hands. You lit the fuse, and Donghyuck is the firestorm burning through the sky.

His momentum drags the crowd with him, the wake of his energy sweeping through the court like a live current, sparking across the sidelines. It catches the cheerleaders not by aim but by force of gravity, the swell of attention tumbling their way like the aftershock of a quake. Cameras swivel, lenses twitching toward the bright arc of the squad, flashes snagging on the sharp angles of their formation. They are already braced against the storm, muscles coiled beneath glossed uniforms, Karina at the helm, fierce and unyielding, she wears her role like armour, the captain of the squad and the shield at their front. "Off the cameras," she barks at one of the younger girls, yanking her back by the elbow just before a boom mic could catch her shaky breath. Her glare cuts to the circling reporters, sharp enough to slit throats. "They're not your story," she snaps, planting herself between her squad and the hungry crowd. Every time a lens lifts, she’s there first, intercepting, blocking, her eyes flashing with fury and command. She glances your way, too, as if she knows full well who lit this fire but she protects you all the same.

Donghyuck heads toward the cheerleaders, drawn by the heat of the storm, grin splitting wide as he reaches their corner of the court. His eyes meet Karina’s first, amusement dancing there, but then he finds you, and something darker, deeper flickers between you. He lifts his phone, still recording, capturing fragments of this chaos as if it's already content waiting to be uploaded. Shotaro watches from a distance, half-dazzled, half-proud, a silent message in his expression: only you could pull this off. And he lets Donghyuck have his moment.

Donghyuck’s charm surges, magnetic and bright, his grin cutting across the squad like a spark through dry grass. The girls, tense and battle-ready moments before, can’t help but laugh when he mirrors their routine with exaggerated flair, yet somehow perfect rhythm. He picks up the moves in minutes, his ease infuriating and irresistible, drawing a ripple of laughter from the squad. "Maybe you should step in and replace Nahyun," Karina calls out, dry but impressed. "I like the way you move."

Your breath catches tight in your chest, a sharp twist that steals the air right out of you, as Donghyuck moves like he’s always belonged there, slipping into Karina’s space with the ease of someone who knows exactly the effect he has. His mouth dips close to her ear, and though his words don’t carry, you feel them ripple through her, see it in the way her breath visibly hitches, in the way her lashes flutter, her cheeks flaring high with colour like he’s set a match to her skin. He doesn’t stop there. His hand finds the side of her neck, his thumb grazing slow, deliberate, just once, before he tilts forward and seals it with a kiss to her forehead—soft, almost reverent, but you catch the flicker in his eyes, the weight behind it. When he pulls away, Karina is frozen, her mouth parted in shock, her usual sharp composure fractured clean through. No one leaves her speechless. No one. Not Jeno, not Jaemin, not anyone. But Donghyuck does, and he does it like it costs him nothing at all.

The heat of it still clings to your skin as you turn away, each step you take pulled by a gravity that leads you away from the noise, away from the swelling roar of the arena, into the maze of back corridors twisted with too many bodies and too much breathless energy. It feels like the walls themselves shift, like you're moving through veins carrying adrenaline instead of blood, each turn teeming with staff, players, media, equipment managers — a frenzy of limbs and voices thick enough to drown even you. But you don’t drown. You carve through it, drawn by a pull that is older, deeper, stronger than chaos: him.

You feel him before you see him, you know he’s there, like the air has already thickened with his presence, like the temperature shifts in warning of his heat. He’s waiting for you, just as you promised, and the knowledge tightens in your chest like a fist closing around your heart. The corridor opens to him like it was made for this moment. He stands just beyond the last bend, not caught in the scramble, not lost in the noise, but anchored in the hush of a side hallway where light spills through tall windows in molten sheets, casting him in gold that turns every edge of him lethal and divine. His eyes are already on you, like they’ve always been on you, as though he felt you moving through the veins of the stadium, drawn to him with inevitability carved into your bones. His mouth curls slow, almost boyish, the kind of smile that comes from knowing exactly what power he holds over you, patient but burning beneath the surface, like he’s been waiting all morning just to drink you in.

Your body doesn’t hesitate. It knows the way. Your feet break into a run not from panic, not from urgency, but from inevitability, from the law of nature that governs your bones. You close the distance like gravity calling you home, arms rising to circle over his shoulders, chest flush to his, your hands curling behind the nape of his neck as if you’ve known they belong there all along. He catches you in an instant, like he never planned to let you fall, his palms claiming your waist before they slip lower, fingers spanning your hips as he lifts you clean off the ground, holding you as though he needs you caged against him to breathe.

Your lips meet his with heat that isn’t frantic but full-bodied, fast at first, yes — a spark catching on dry timber — but then it deepens, slows, a golden pour of want and worship alike. He tastes like fire, like sweat and sunlight woven together, like the victory you’re already tasting on his behalf. His breath stumbles in his chest, caught in the tight, rough gasp between kisses, and you feel it in the way his hands tighten on your body as though you might disappear with the next heartbeat. Your mouths melt together like honey slipping through fingers, breaths stitching into one thread of heat, his hold like a man trying to trap the sun in his bare palms.

Your lips find his first, his hands spread firm over your waist, fingers pressing into your skin through the fabric, holding you steady against him, close enough that you feel the heat of him everywhere, rising sharp beneath his skin like he’s already burning for you. “Go win this,” you murmur, your lips brushing his, your breath folding into his mouth like you’re feeding him the words directly, like they’re not a wish but a certainty. He exhales rough, his jaw tight under your hand as you feel him breathe the promise deep into his chest.

His eyes flicker down to your mouth, dark and focused, and his voice comes low, hoarse at the edges, “I will.” There’s no hesitation, no stumble, just raw, hungry belief like he’s already tasting the victory you’ve placed between his teeth. “For you.”

Your fingers hook into the collar of his jersey, knuckles grazing his throat, and you pull him closer, claiming him fully as you press your mouth to his, deeper this time, tasting him slow and sweet like you’re pouring everything you have into him. His lips catch yours with a quiet growl, his hips drawing you flush against him, one hand dragging up your spine like he wants to feel every line of you, every breath. “Take everything,” you breathe against him when you pull back, not far, just enough for the words to slip from your lips into his waiting mouth.

His forehead rests against yours, his eyes burning into you, and his voice roughens to a whisper, “I will. No one’s stopping me.” he whispers. breath pouring hot over your lips, and when you tilt into him, closing the sliver of air between you, his lips pry yours open, tongue sliding in deep without hesitation, hot and slick and greedy as it tangles against yours with a full claim, the wet heat of it gliding rough and hungry, tasting you like he needs you to burn on his tongue, and you give it to him, parting wider, pressing harder, feeding the kiss with every ounce of breath you have, your tongues twisting, wet and filthy, catching on each other like friction turned to fire, saliva stringing between your mouths when you draw back a fraction just to gasp, but he chases you, lips catching yours again, tongue stroking deeper, filling your mouth until you’re swallowing down a whimper, your fingers curling tight in the collar of his jersey as his grip bites into your waist, holding you there like he’ll never let you go, your lips dragging against his when you murmur, breath ragged, “I’m so proud of you.”

His breath catches hard in his throat, his mouth still slick and parted against yours, voice rasping low like it’s clawed straight from his chest, rough and raw and soaked in heat as he growls, “gonna win for you.” His tongue swipes slow over his bottom lip to taste the kiss you left behind, eyes burning into yours like he’s fucking you with his gaze alone,

Your lips barely part from his, breath trembling as you whisper back, soft but burning with weight, “You already have.” The words catch in the heat between you, folding into the tension coiled tight in his body, your eyes locked to the slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue over his lip. You follow it without thinking, your mouth claiming his once more, deeper, hungrier, tasting the raw promise lingering there, pulling him closer by the nape until you feel the low growl pulse through his chest. “Do it for me again,” you murmur, voice thick, your lips brushing his as you speak, like you’re feeding the words straight into his bloodstream.

“I’ll win this fucking game if it kills me.” His mouth grazes yours again, teeth flashing in a promise, his grip branding you closer, “Watch me.” You feel it rise beneath your palms like a living thing, not something you placed there but something you’ve torn loose from where it was buried inside him, the heat rushing up his spine, coursing through his veins like molten ore waking beneath the crust of the earth. His pulse thrums loud and wild against your skin, not begging, not grateful, but surging, fierce, like it’s always been there waiting for a touch brutal enough to awaken it.

His grip tightens until it brands you, as though his body refuses to release the conduit of this ignition, as though letting you go would mean caging the fire you’ve unchained. His breath lands hot against your cheek, fevered with purpose and in that moment you know you haven’t simply fed him flame—you’ve struck the spark straight into his marrow, you’ve pulled the storm back into his chest where it belongs. His eyes burn into yours like they already see the victory waiting at the end of the tunnel, like you didn’t give him anything new but rather reminded him of what was his from the start. It was always there.

Your hand curves beneath his chin, holding him still like you own him, your thumb tracing slow across his bottom lip, feeling the heat there, the way he’s burning for you already. “Every point you drop, you get me once,” you say, steady, smooth, like you’re calling plays straight from his playbook. “Fast break? you get to take me fast after. Free throw? you get me with no hands, just mouth.” His breath kicks rough against your fingers, his eyes glued to you, dark and sparking wild. You lean in closer, lips just brushing his ear. “Three-pointer,” you whisper, soft and cutting, “i’ll let you do anything you want to me.” His chest rises hard, tight beneath his jersey, and you don’t stop. You press your mouth to his, kiss him like a taste of the win, then drag back just enough to finish it, softer but deadlier. “Win the whole game, and I won't tell you to stop.”

His eyes search yours, slow and deep, like he’s seeing straight through every layer you’ve ever built, and his voice drops rough but honest when he says, “You know you’re the only thing I think about out there.” His thumb skims your jaw, the barest touch, like he’s memorising you. “No plays, no scores, no noise, just you.” His breath brushes your lips, warm and reverent. “When I’m on that court, I see you in every move, every shot, every breath in my chest,” he murmurs, soft but wrecked, as if admitting it makes it even more real. “And when it’s over, I want you waiting for me,” he breathes, closer now, his words a thread pulling tight between you, “so I can show you exactly how much.”

Your lips catch on a breath of a smile, soft and real, your chest tight in a way that feels almost fragile, almost dangerous. You don’t try to fight it. Your eyes flick down to his mouth, then back to his eyes, and you say low, just for him, “You make it hard to think straight.” Your thumb drags slow beneath his bottom lip, feeling the way it’s still hot from your kiss, your voice softening more, slipping out like truth you can’t keep caged. “Hard to want anything but you right now.”

You feel him steady, not just his breath but all of him, like your touch coaxes the storm inside him to settle into rhythm, deep and certain, no longer thrashing wild but flowing sure beneath the surface. He had drifted too close to the edge, the pull of collapse dragging at his heels, the threat of Eric and Sunwoo wrapping round his chest like a noose waiting for the final tug, shadows of them lurking in every breath, every glance over his shoulder, their weight heavy in his blood, but under your hands you feel him shed it, you feel the shift, the quiet revolt of his pulse against defeat, the way his body answers to you alone, moving with a new certainty as though you’ve guided the current back to its rightful path.

Beneath your palm his heart kicks steady, not fast, not fading, but full and sure, thudding strong enough to tell you it’s alive, alive because of you. His chest swells deeper, breath tasting clearer, the tight coil of dread unwinding from his ribs until there is space again, space for strength to take root. It isn’t a blaze that devours too quick, it’s weight and force collecting quietly beneath the surface, something inevitable rising slow through his veins, building power in silence. You see it in the way his shoulders square beneath your touch, in the way his gaze sharpens as if he can already see the court in front of him, the game laid bare, and when he steps onto that floor, you know, you feel, he won’t just play for survival. He will take the game in his hands and crush it until nothing remains of them but ruin.

Beneath it all, without him knowing, without anyone knowing, you built him this tide. You made sure of it with hands steady as a surgeon, with choices sharp as blades. His name never touched the exposé. Not a shadow of it crept onto the page. The report thundered through campus, a rupture, a reckoning, but you carved it with precision. You named the predators, you cut out the rot, but you kept him in the quiet. Safe. Unnamed. Unscathed. It was never a question. His story belongs to him. If he chooses to share it, it will be by his voice, not torn from him and printed in ink that dries too fast for truth. You would never let them scorch him with pity. No headlines baited with his name, no career reduced to a cautionary tale. You know him too well. He would never want the world to see his wounds like that, never want their sympathy, their softened eyes. You spared him because you understood. You spared him because you loved him too deeply not to.

Your aim was clean and exact, and it landed like a lightning strike straight to the heart of the empire. You felt it when he read the words "multiple players," the subtle bracing in his shoulders, the way he swallowed against the expectation of pain. But it never came. His teammates look at their screens, at each other, but not at him. No eyes linger. No fingers point. There is no stain on him. Only that strange, quiet disbelief, the kind that breathes relief into his lungs like oxygen. He expected to fall with the wreckage but he still stands. He still stands because you kept him upright.

Jeno stands like a monument to survival, like the storm swirled around him but left him untouched. His posture holds firm, grounded as bedrock, his breath measured and sure. You did this. You built the shield around him with your own two hands, and he doesn’t even know. If he knew, truly knew, he would be furious. Not at your brilliance, but at the cost you paid. He would hate the thought of you stepping into the fire to shield him from the flames, would rage at the vulnerability you allowed yourself for his sake. Because you knew he needed to step onto that court free. Free to play not as a victim of this war but as its victor. And when he plays, when he moves across that floor with power in his veins and steel in his spine, you will see it in every drive, every sprint, every shot. You will see him carry your choices in his pulse. You will see him carry you.

Your breath barely has time to settle before his mouth finds yours again, like he was never done, like he was always meant to come back to you. Jeno catches you in full, his hands curling tighter beneath the hem of your skirt, heat burning through your skin where his palms press firm to your thighs, holding you closer, closer, like even the smallest breath of space between you is too much to bear. His lips move with yours in a deep, unhurried pull, tasting you slow, devouring like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth. The heat of him bleeds straight into your bones, seeping deep, setting your heart pounding wild and uneven against your ribs. Under your hands, his chest heaves, rising fast and hard beneath your palms, like the breath you steal from him is the only air he knows how to take.

Then a cough scrapes through the quiet like a jagged tear, and you freeze, your lips still parted against his, breath catching sharp in your throat. For a split second, your stomach knots, dread knotting tight beneath your ribs. You think it sounds like Taeyong, think you feel the shadow of him breathing down your neck, your blood chilling in an instant. But you turn, slowly, and it’s Mark—his gaze not on you, not on Jeno, but fixed deliberately away, a line of tension carved into his jaw. He doesn’t meet your eyes, doesn’t look at the way Jeno’s hands still grip your ass under your skirt, but his voice cuts through the heavy air, low and dry. "You guys do know that Taeyong is like two hallways away."

Your eyes widen instinctively, a flicker of nervous heat you can’t quite smother burning across your face. You shoot Mark a sharp glance, a silent warning masked beneath a veil of faux calm. Why would he say that in front of Jeno? The thought spikes through your chest like a live wire, but you smooth it over, force your expression to stay even, though your gaze lingers hard on Mark, willing him to shut up, to leave it buried.

"What’s this supposed to mean?" Jeno’s voice edges in, rougher, sharper, his eyes narrowing slightly, never missing a shift in your body, never blind to the pulse beneath your skin. He knows you too well—too well not to notice the way your breath stalled, the way your muscles tensed at Mark’s words. His gaze pins you, dark and cutting, but you don’t let him press further. “So what if he is?”

Your lips find his again, urgent, silencing, a desperate tether to pull him back into you before he can dig too deep. You kiss him slow at first, like you’re convincing him to forget, to focus only on the heat blooming between your mouths, but you feel the tension in his jaw, the way his thoughts still spin even as he kisses you back. You steal kisses from him like you’re trying to hoard them all before the clock runs out, quick and soft, one after another, your mouth brushing his like a secret you can’t stop whispering.

Jeno smiles against your lips, rough and quiet, eyes shadowed but soft, like he’s tasting something he never wants to lose. His breath catches when you lean in again, and you feel him, the way his grip tightens on your waist, greedy but gentle, the way he chases your mouth with his own. He lets you take from him, lets you press closer, steal more, like every kiss is something carved out of time itself, but even as you drown in him, something shifts in the air. Subtle first. A ripple through the current, a tight coil winding invisible beneath the surface.

Your senses flicker, hairs prickling at the nape of your neck, and then it’s there—the sound not of footsteps, not of voices, but of pressure folding in on itself, like the building exhales all at once and forgets how to breathe back in. A tension grips the corridors, sharp and palpable, like the bones of the arena are bracing for impact. Somewhere to your left, down the spine of the hallway, you catch it: the flash of movement, a police officer pausing mid-step, fingers to his earpiece, posture stiff as stone. Another follows suit, bodies coiled tight as live wire, the muscles in their jaws set.

Then the loudspeaker cracks to life, splitting through the corridor like a blade tearing through fabric. “All attendees, remain in your positions. This is an emergency lockdown. Repeat, emergency lockdown in effect.”

The message loops, sterile and inhuman, echoing off the steel bones of the stadium until it feels like it’s seeping into your bloodstream. Your breath catches, lips parting from Jeno’s, the taste of him still warm and lingering on your tongue. His arms are already tightening around you, no hesitation, pulling you flush against the hard plane of his chest like he’s locking you into place, like nothing and no one is getting to you while you’re in his hold. His fingers flex at your waist, gripping you with a force that dares anyone to try. His eyes darken, narrowing sharp, every line of his body coiled, alert, dangerous. His gaze flicks once down the corridor, fast and cutting, then comes right back to you, like you’re the only thing he needs to anchor him through the rising storm. His chest rises deep under your palms, steady but fierce, his breath tight as he cages you closer still, instinct ruling him now, his whole body a wall between you and whatever is coming.

Mark’s glance cuts fast across the space, tactical, scanning exits and choke points, but you barely see it, barely register the calculation in his eyes, because all you can feel is Jeno, the way his hold brands you to him, the heat of his skin, the shield of him wrapping around your pulse like armour. Your chest tightens, not from fear, but from cold, bone-deep awareness: they’re here.

The lockdown slams into place like a predator snapping its jaws shut. Metal doors grind closed, heavy and final, their mechanical thud vibrating through the floor beneath your sneakers. Locks seal hard across corridors, storage rooms, tunnel entrances. This isn’t a drill, isn’t precaution, it’s a hunt. You feel it in your chest, the weight of inevitability. Eric and Sunwoo had slipped past the outer perimeter, tried to bury themselves in the crowd, to taste the pulse of the championship one last time before everything fell. But the tip-off had landed hours earlier. The authorities knew they were circling, waiting, desperate for a final strike or a desperate escape. The evidence Donghyuck detonated had been too damning to run from, too precise to deny. Now, the jaws have closed around them.

This lockdown isn’t for precaution. It’s for capture. For clean, surgical containment. You can see it in the sharp movements of the officers locking down the exits, their urgency not of panic but of precision. They’re sealing every artery of the campus to suffocate the threat in place. To make sure Eric and Sunwoo have nowhere left to run, no crevice left to crawl into. The announcement repeating overhead is confirmation that the final play is in motion. This is the moment the storm stops brewing and breaks clean open.

The storm travels, rippling across campus in real time. In the team prep room, Coach Suh barks into his radio, voice sharp as steel, snapping orders at the flood of static. His shoulders are squared, pacing tight circles like a commander preparing for siege. “Status report, now!” Out by the practice mats, Karina’s head whips up from the squad, her sharp eyes scanning the flood of noise as she yanks the cheerleaders tight into formation, protective, fierce, teeth seething as she’s noticing one team member is missing — you. “Stay together!” she orders, her voice cutting through the tension, her spine straight as steel. You can almost feel the way her heart punches beneath her uniform, but she keeps the squad shielded beneath her wings.

Near the bench corridor, Donghyuck and Shotaro freeze mid-conversation, eyes darting to the emergency lights that begin to pulse red over their heads. Donghyuck’s jaw tightens, Shotaro’s brows draw tight in confusion. They trade a glance, adrenaline kicking hard in their veins, waiting for orders. Up in the VIP box, Principal Kun is already locked in fast conversation with law enforcement, his eyes sharp, voice pitched low and urgent. The board members cluster around him, faces pale, hands gripping their phones as if to steady the world spinning out beneath them. The crowd stirs next, the panic swelling like a tide. Parents clutch their children close, students jolt in their seats, phones lift in unison to capture the chaos, the news already spilling across livestreams and message threads. Voices rise, questions spit sharp into the air, tension snapping in every breath. You feel it all, every heartbeat of this building locking into place, a system sealing its prey inside its ribs. Your eyes flick to Jeno, his gaze already steady on yours, as if he knows, you know. The final hunt has begun.

Mark’s brows pull together, confusion flashing across his face. "The game’s about to start," he mutters, almost to himself, but the loudspeaker crackles again, as if answering him directly.

“The State Championship has been temporarily postponed. Remain in your current positions until further notice.” The announcement settles like a weight over your shoulders, heavy and inescapable. Mark’s reaction is instant, his gaze slicing to the corners of the corridor, already tracking exits like he’s mapping the fastest route out of a burning house. His mind is already five steps ahead, running the plays like muscle memory, eyes dark with strategy. Jeno’s body tightens around you, the line of his spine hardening, muscles corded beneath your hands. His hold is fierce, instinctive, like if he keeps you close enough, nothing can touch you. His eyes stay locked ahead, sharp and unblinking, not at the exits, not at the threat but at you. Like you’re the only thing he needs to shield and to protect.

The intercom crackles to life moments later, clear and brutal: “Suspects Son Eric and Kim Sunwoo are in custody.”

They tried to run for the media building first. It made sense, desperate men clawing for the last weapon they could find, one last broadcast to twist the story in their favour before the system swallowed them whole. Cameras. Mics. Streams to the nation. They thought they could hijack the narrative, snatch control from the jaws of collapse and turn it live but they miscalculated. The academic wing’s media centre had already been flagged, swarmed with quiet security measures the second your exposé dropped. You’d counted on it, predicted their hunger for a final stage. Every feed was monitored. Every exit covered. They were cornered before they even crossed the threshold.

Your mind floods with the images: Eric and Sunwoo forced to their knees, swarmed by law enforcement, wrists twisted behind their backs as metal cuffs bite into their skin. You picture their faces, contorted with fury and fear, every ounce of their bravado drained dry, reduced to prey caught in the jaws of justice. Somewhere, you know phones are capturing it, broadcasting it live, the final page of their story written in cold steel and sirens. Minutes later you read that Eric had tried to run, one last feral burst, but it was over before it started. His legs were swept from under him, chest hitting the ground with a bone-deep thud, his breath punched out of his lungs as cold steel closed over him.

A beat of silence and then — another announcement, fast, decisive, the voice cutting cleaner now, no static in its authority: “Lockdown is lifted. All entrances secured. The State Championship final will commence immediately.” It feels like the air punches back into your lungs at once. The lights above shift, no longer the oppressive glare of emergency reds, but pure, clean white, bright as daylight breaking open across the storm.

“They really thought they could pull that off,” Mark says, voice flat but edged in quiet derision. He’s not looking at you anymore. His eyes stay pinned somewhere just past Jeno’s shoulder, but the weight of his words lands square between them.

Jeno’s jaw tightens, a shadow cutting clean through the line of it. “Guess they thought wrong,” he fires back, cool but clipped, like his patience is thinner than breath.

Your pulse skips, quick and shallow, as Mark tips his head just slightly, not smirking, not provoking — but knowing. “Some people gamble stupid when they know they’ve already lost.” It hits you first before it hits Jeno, the sharp edge tucked beneath the casual delivery, and your eyes flick fast to Mark, a silent warning flaring hot behind your gaze. But it’s too late. Jeno’s already caught the scent of it, his attention locking in with dangerous precision.

Jeno’s hand tightens around yours, slow and deliberate, like he means to make a point of it, as if the curl of his fingers against your skin is a message carved between the three of you. He doesn’t look away from Mark, doesn’t flinch, his jaw flexing once under the weight of words unspoken. “Talking about them, right?” His voice cuts low, clipped at the edges, smooth as pulled wire but strung tight beneath the surface. His eyes stay fixed, sharp and unwavering, no blink, no break, holding Mark’s gaze like he’s holding the air still between you, like the whole room revolves around this beat, this tension, this quiet claim.

Mark doesn’t budge. His mouth curves, not into a smile, not into a sneer — just a shadow of something that cuts deeper for how mild it seems. His gaze drags lazily over where Jeno’s hand tightens around yours, and then he lifts his eyes back, steady and knowing. “Of course,” he says, smooth as glass, but there’s a flick under the surface, something pointed left unsheathed. “But you’d know all about desperation.”

Jeno steps forward, the space between them vanishing like it was always meant to close. His fingers flex against yours, still wrapped tight in your grip, but you feel the coil of muscle beneath his skin like a wire pulled taut to snapping. His jaw grinds shut before he spits it out, low and loaded, every syllable bitten off sharp as a blade. “Don’t test me, bitch.”

Mark’s eyes flash, catching not on Jeno’s face but on your linked hands, the way Jeno’s palm cages yours like it belongs there. He scoffs, a sound without humour, shaking his head slow as he shifts his weight forward too, refusing to give ground. His stare is cold, flat, like stone skimming water with no intention of sinking. “Figures,” he mutters under his breath, but loud enough to slice through the tight space between them, sharp as flint. “Got her hand in yours and you think you’re untouchable.”

The tension climbs hard up your spine. Before either of them can push it further, you move, quick and clean, stepping into the small breath of space that still exists between them. Your hand lifts, firm against Mark’s chest, a push just enough to stall his forward motion. He stiffens beneath your touch, like it cuts deeper than it should. “Drop it,” you snap, your voice tight, clipped, no softness left in it. “Both of you.”

For a heartbeat, neither moves. Air buzzes sharp between the three of you, stretched too thin, too brittle to hold. But they listen. They have to. You know exactly why he snapped. Mark, for all his control, for all his quiet fury masked in calm, is fraying beneath the surface. He wants to protect, because it’s the only power left in his hands when so much else has been stripped away — the game he loves, Areum, the girl he tries not to love too loudly, the family ties that slip further from his grasp every day. He lashes out not because he wants to take something from Jeno, but because he’s afraid of losing what little he has left. And Jeno — Jeno can feel it, the way Mark tries to wedge himself into places he doesn’t belong, tries to hold ground that Jeno has claimed for himself. He hates it, hates that it threatens his own grip on you, on this moment, on his life. It’s a stalemate. Neither of them is right, neither of them is wrong. But right now, they’re both burning.

You’re cut from your thoughts when the door swings open with a hard sweep of air, and Doyoung strides in like the world is on fire behind him. His eyes cut across the room fast, sharp as flares, landing first on Mark, then Jeno, taking them in with a soldier’s urgency. His breath is tight, words clipped and clean. “You two, let’s go. The game is about to start.” His gaze snags on you and Jeno for a beat longer, just long enough for something unsaid to flicker behind his eyes. He doesn’t speak to it, doesn’t let it surface, but you catch the quick pull at his mouth, the fraction of breath he catches when he sees the way Jeno’s hand is locked with yours, how you refuse to let go. He looks away first.

Your fingers tighten around Jeno’s instinctively, a squeeze not just of affection but of something deeper, something anchoring him to this moment, to you, to what comes next. He doesn’t look at you yet, but you feel it pulse through him, rising hot beneath his skin, steady in his breath. That quiet, savage fire you saw flickering in him earlier now roars awake, not wild, not reckless, but controlled — caged power about to be unleashed. You see it in the way his chest rises, the way his shoulders square, the way his jaw sets like steel. He’s walking into the fight of his life, and you know, you know, he’ll play it like a man who understands the weight of his future rests in his own hands. This game will change everything. It will carve a new path under his feet, one you helped blaze, one he’ll tear through like it was always meant for him.

The arena burns electric, voltage crackling through the air like it can’t decide whether to spark into glory or disaster. It isn’t noise, it’s thunder, a living storm folding over itself in the ribs of the stadium. The Seoul Hill Ravens stand as the favourites, all eyes devouring them, but this is no blind worship. The crowd wants blood. After the exposé detonated and the lockdown tightened around the day like a noose, there’s a raw hunger in the stands, a car-crash obsession with watching either a crowning victory or a catastrophic fall. Jeno stands beneath it all, caught dead centre in the floodlights, and you can feel the weight of it bleeding through his skin. Sweat beads cold along his temple before the first whistle even screams, crawling like it has nowhere else to go. His jaw locks tight, muscles ticking beneath the strain of holding it all in place, teeth grinding behind a mouth set into a hard line. His eyes move like they can’t help themselves, scouring the crowd not for fans, not for cheers, but for ghosts. Like he still sees Eric and Sunwoo lurking in every shadow, hiding behind every face, even though they’re long gone.

His hands keep wiping down his shorts, over and over, a small unconscious tic that betrays the storm screaming beneath his surface. Donghyuck’s voice cracks over the commentary speakers, the bravado forced sharp and bright, but you hear the fracture underneath. “Lee Jeno,” he calls, his tone trying to climb into its usual swagger, “all-state forward, the name that’s lit up headlines all season, the player every scout worldwide has been watching. This is the moment they wrote about, buddy. Let's see if the ice holds. “Ravens looking to recover after a… let’s call it an eventful morning,” he tacks on, the words twisted like they’ve been wrung dry.

When the tip-off comes, it doesn’t hit like thunder, it hits like a punch to the gut. From the start, Jeno’s rhythm is wrong. His movements lag half a second behind his instinct, his pump-fakes stutter too long, leaving him sealed into dead ends by Daegu defenders who close him out like vultures on carrion. He drives to the rim, but his hesitation cracks through the play, and he pulls up short, botching the layup. His hands fumble a clean inbound from Mark, the ball skittering loose across the hardwood. Mark’s eyes flash frustration sharp as a blade, but no words slip through, only the tight twitch of his jaw before he resets.

It’s not Daegu that’s beating Jeno. It’s Jeno himself. It’s the echoes in his head, the shadows he can’t outrun. Eric’s sneer slices like shrapnel through his focus, Sunwoo’s empty glare sears through his peripheral like a phantom. Every time he hears footsteps behind him, his body stiffens, primed for something more lethal than defence. The damage lingers, a bruise spreading under his skin, invisible but bleeding him dry. On the sidelines, the Ravens bleed frustration into their movements. Palms flip up in disbelief after missed connections, thighs slapped in quiet fury, towels whipped sharp through the air. Coach Suh paces tight circles, his posture grinding tension into the air, assistants murmuring frantic corrections.

Daegu smells the blood. They feast on it. They close in like wolves circling prey, relentless in their pursuit. They double-team Jeno, force him into the corners of the court, choking off his sightlines, crowding him until his options suffocate. Their full-court press squeezes the Ravens like a vice, weaponising fatigue. The refs swallow whistles, let the physicality slip unchecked, and Daegu plays it dirty, plays it cold. Their execution runs ruthless and precise, plays snapping clean into place like blades locking in sequence. Every point they score detonates loud eruptions from their bench, jeers thrown like daggers across the court.

The crowd starts to turn. It’s slow at first, an undercurrent of unease rippling through the stands, but it spreads like fire in dry grass. Missed free throws spark bruising waves of boos, murmurs swell restless, eyes flick away from the court like it hurts to watch. Cameras pan to the Raven board members, their mouths drawn tight, their faces locked stiff in disappointment, tension coiling like wire in their jaws. Karina holds the cheerleaders together by sheer force of will. Her commands snap sharp in the air, yanking the squad into blistering routines, fighting against the deadening pulse of the arena. But even with you right beside her, she feels the weight dragging at their feet, like something is missing from their core, like the heart of the team is slipping through their fingers. You feel it too — in the stumble of the rhythm beneath your soles, in the way the ravens across the court mirror it, their steps heavy, their fire dimming. It coils tight in your chest, sharp and cold, because no matter how loud you chant, no matter how fierce the moves, you can’t fight the way the game is bleeding out from the inside.

The weight of expectation is suffocating. Jeno was meant to be the storm, the prodigy sharpened for this stage, the all-state forward with the path to the NBA carved straight beneath his feet. But under the lights, he moves like the court is folding beneath him, like the future he chased with bloody hands is slipping grain by grain through his fingers. He was never afraid of the fight, he trained his whole life to devour it but what festers now is the fear of coming this far only to fail, of the scouts watching with pens poised to strike his name clean off their lists. His breath carves shallow through his chest, tight and fast, his jaw flexing hard enough to crack his teeth, his hands adjusting his jersey like he can still control something, like grip alone could hold back the spiral.

The court itself cages him. Every missed shot tightens the bars, every turnover welds them shut. The game doesn’t feel like a stage anymore, it feels like a noose. Cameras slice to the scouts courtside, their expressions unreadable, their eyes tracking him like predators scenting wounded prey. Pressure coils in his muscles, acid-hot, as if his body knows the stakes even when his mind tries to block them out. He moves as if haunted, not just by ghosts of the past but by the cold, creeping terror that the future he’s sacrificed everything for is slipping beyond reach. NBA dreams, draft potential, contracts, glory — all of it suspended over his head by a thread fraying thinner with every second on the clock.

Donghyuck’s voice slashes through the noise, edged and raw, the usual cocky swagger stripped to bone. “Lee Jeno,” he tuts, and you hear the grim disbelief, the heartbreak caught in his throat, “usually all muscle and momentum but tonight he’s looking like the weight of the world’s strapped to his shoulders.” It is. You see it in every line of him, every muscle drawn tight, every step heavier than the last. The crowd can’t feel it the way you do. They don’t know what you know. They didn’t watch him bleed through this season, didn’t carry the storm with him through every night, didn’t gamble their soul on his survival. But you did. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every silent war you fought in the dark for him bleeds useless beneath the surface now, slipping through your fingers faster than you can catch, as if the flood was always destined to rise.

The buzzer slices through the arena like a guillotine, sharp and merciless, but the Ravens don’t flinch—they can’t. They’ve been flinching all quarter, and now there’s no room left for recoil. The scoreboard flashes brutal in the overhead glare: Daegu Falcons 47, Seoul Ravens 25. twenty two points down. Jeno stands at the edge of the court, chest heaving under the weight of it, his palms braced on his hips, head bowed as though the numbers are carved into his spine. Sweat shines at his temple, streaks down the line of his throat, but his eyes—his eyes are the worst of it. Haunted, splintered, like he’s not just seeing the scoreboard but the ruins of everything he’s chased his whole life. His legacy, his future, the NBA dream, the fight for survival, the fire you struck in him flickering low as though the storm outside has drowned it. Around him, the Ravens funnel into the tunnel, heads low, shoulders tight, tension choking them silent. Mark’s chest is heaving like he’s swallowed razor blades, Chenle rips his mouthguard free with a snarl, and the bench players sag under the weight of it, disjointed and fractured. The Daegu side roars, their players slap hands, confident, riding momentum straight into halftime like they own the air.

Your eyes stay on Jeno. Fixed. Locked like he’s the only thing left alive in this dying game. The noise of the arena folds into static around you, sharp and hollow, like you’re hearing it all from underwater, but your heartbeat doesn’t fade. It kicks harder, faster, thudding up your throat until it feels like it’s pushing you forward on instinct alone. Beside you, Karina’s voice cuts in, tight with strain. “Where are you going?” she snaps, sharp to mask the tremor beneath it, her hand catching at your elbow. She’s desperate to hold the formation, to keep the cheerleaders standing tall as the stadium buckles around them.

Your words don’t come clean. They splinter in your throat, rough and tangled. “Jeno,” you manage, and it’s not an answer, not really. It’s a breath, a compulsion, a truth too raw to shape into explanation. You’re not thinking beyond him. You can’t. You just know you have to move, to reach him before he folds further under the weight clawing at his chest. Karina’s grip loosens. She knows you too well to pull you back. Her gaze flicks to where Jeno lingers at the tunnel entrance, shoulders bowed under a storm no one else can see, and her eyes harden. “Go,” she says, low and firm, like an order but like permission too. Like she understands that whatever happens next, it begins with you.

As you move past the cheerleaders, your gaze cuts through the noise, sharp and singular, but Taeyong catches you mid-stride, his voice low and taut, dripping with a sharp mix of desperation and edge. “Go after him,” he snaps, the words rough and biting, “Fix whatever the fuck you need to fix. He’s bleeding out in ther, fix it before I put on a jersey myself and take his place.”

Your head doesn’t even turn, but your voice cracks back like a whip, “fuck you.” You spit it, raw and fast, but you twist it tighter with a snap of venom at the end, “you’d snap your spine trying. Your heart condition won’t be the only thing that lands you in hospital.” The words leave your mouth sharp, hot as blood, but you don’t spare him a second glance. Your focus has already torn ahead, locked onto the shadow of the Ravens vanishing through the tunnel, disappearing one after the other into the dark maw of the locker room. Your pulse kicks hard beneath your ribs, heavy enough to feel it in your throat, beating in time with the thud of their footsteps as they vanish from sight.

You barely register the slap of your sneakers against the floor as you push off into a run, breath burning fast through your chest, lungs clawing tight, like your body is chasing something it refuses to let slip through its grasp. The noise of the arena dulls behind you, folding into a muffled roar in your ears, like the whole world is narrowing down to this single, breathless pursuit. Ahead, you catch them—navy jerseys streaked with sweat, heads hung low, towels slung over shoulders, the Ravens file into the locker room like soldiers retreating from a war they’re too battered to keep fighting. You brace yourself, jaw locking tight as you cross the threshold, the heavy door swinging wide under your palm.

Inside, chaos hums low and bitter. Coach Suh is already calling the players into a huddle, his voice sharp but fraying at the edges. Some of the guys have their jerseys stripped off, sweat streaking down their torsos, muscles twitching with frustration. A few have towels slung low over their hips, others not bothering at all, cocks out in plain sight, but you don’t look—won’t give them the satisfaction. Your gaze is locked on Jeno alone, so singular it burns. You ignore the low whistles, the half-bitten comments, the way eyes track the slope of your spine and ass as you move through the locker room like you belong to the war, not the aftermath. Taeyong stands frozen by the far wall, eyes glued to the grainy replay flickering across the overhead screen, trapped between the wreckage of the first half and the storm he knows is still coming. Good. Let him stay shackled to his fear. He deserves to drown in it.

Your hand tightens on Jeno's, unforgiving, decisive, and you pull him away from the cluster of players. No words. No permission. None needed. Your body moves with intent so fierce it cuts through the stagnant air, slicing clean toward the corner of the locker room where the shadows deepen and a door waits, half cracked, dark beyond. It’s a small alcove, dimmed out deliberately, privacy afforded to no one but the desperate. You shove the door open, usher him inside, and when it clicks shut behind you, you twist the lock until it bites into place, sealing the world out.

Jeno’s back hits the door with a quiet thud, breath gusting from his lungs as though you’ve knocked the last tether of air from him. You plant your hands on either side of his head, framing him in, your eyes drinking him in, every fractured piece of him. He looks at you like you’re the last light in a collapsing tunnel, like he wants to say something but can’t trust his voice to hold. His eyes—those breaking eyes—they tremble, glossy and dark, but they hold on to you as if you’re his gravity. As if you’re the only thing keeping him from disintegrating completely. You stare into him, no softness, no surrender. Only fire.

“What the fuck are you doing?” The words land hard, loud against the locker room walls, sharper than any whistle, cutting through the dead static in the air. They claw straight from your throat, raw and unfiltered, tight with something caught between fury and fear. Your voice cuts low, steady but sharp enough to carve through the fog in his mind. “You’re playing scared,” you tell him, your breath a burn against his skin. The words don’t flinch between you; they land solid and brutal.

He barely reacts, but you see it. The twitch in his jaw, the flicker of his eyes narrowing, like the truth of it bites deep beneath his skin. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing tight, and your grip only tightens, your knuckles whitening in the fabric of his uniform as you refuse to let him drift. “You think you can afford that?” you demand, your tone flaring hot with the weight of the moment. Your eyes rake over him, down the taut line of his throat, across the veins bulging tight in his forearms where his hands curl into fists. “You think you can let the weight of all this choke you now? When has that ever stopped you before? Even with the point shaving you still came out as the winner.” Your words don’t need an answer. It carves through him like a blade, and you feel him tense against your hold, feel the muscles of his body coil under your fingertips like a man on the verge of remembering what it is to fight.

You press closer, your breath mingling with his, your chest brushing his so he feels every beat of your heart, every surge of your fire. “You love the pressure,” you say, low and fierce, your voice softening into something darker, more intimate, something that slides beneath his skin and finds the place he’s hidden from the rest of the world. “You feed on it. You crave it. You’re starving for it, Jeno.” His breath catches on yours, shallow and unsteady, and his eyes darken as they hold you captive in his stare. “Don’t pretend you don’t know how to play when the world is watching,” you whisper, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth, heat bleeding between you. Your words burn into him, breath to breath, searing hot and unflinching. “You were made for this. Every second of your life, every shot you’ve taken, every bruise you’ve worn — it all led you here.” His gaze shudders against yours, and you see it break open inside him, the war between fear and fury tilting toward the fire.

And then you kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Like you’re punching oxygen back into his chest with your mouth alone. His lips catch on yours in a bruising crush, his breath rough and ragged as you feed him something fierce, something molten, something alive. Your hands curl tighter in his jersey, dragging him closer, anchoring him to this moment, to you, to the fire burning between your bodies. He breathes you in like salvation, like you’re the last thing tethering him to this earth.

Your lips part just enough to breathe against him, your voice a slow, dangerous whisper against his mouth. “Play like you’re already the champion.” The words melt into his lips, soak into his pulse, and when his eyes lift to yours again, they burn brighter, harder, sharper than they have all game. Jeno swallows and finally responds. “You think I don't want to? You think i don’t fucking feel it? all of it? The whole damn world is waiting to watch me burn.” His eyes blaze hotter, shadows flickering behind them. “I want to give it to them. I want to give you everything.”

His hands come rough to your hips, bunching your skirt fast around your waist, desperate fists in the fabric, breath breaking ragged across your cheek, and as you feel him shove down his shorts with the same fevered urgency, your eyes narrow sharp, tutting under your breath, your voice cutting through the steam of it. “Really? You have the state championships to win in five minutes.”

You watch the flush streak across his cheekbones, but he doesn’t falter, doesn’t freeze—he groans straight into your ear, mouth pressed hot to your skin, words unspooling like he’s already lost control of them. “I can do a lot in five minutes,” he rasps, his voice cracked open with need, like he’s chasing breath that won’t fill him unless it’s you, and his next words catch hard in his throat before he spills them, wrecked and raw, “Need to feel you, need to fuck you before I win this thing, need to feel why I’m winning.”

Your heart kicks fast, skipping against your ribs, but your pulse doesn’t waver. You meet him head-on, bracing him with a flash of teeth, grinding down hard to taste the way he throbs for you already, and your mouth curls wicked against his. “Only five minutes,” you grit through your teeth, warning him and yourself all at once. You give him what he’s begging for, press closer until your bodies melt tight, until there’s no space left between you, until your breath is his breath, until he’s trembling under your touch, and you tell him like you’re sealing the damn fate of this game with your own mouth. “Take it, Jeno,” you breathe, the words molten against his lips. “Take it. It belongs to you.”

He does—he fucking does, and it’s brutal, fevered, a thrust so deep and reckless you feel your breath punch out of your lungs, crushed between the wild slam of his hips and the cold bite of the metal wall at your back. The force drives you up the wall, his cock plunging into you thick and heavy, stretching you wide in one savage push that leaves your cunt clutching around him like it’s begging to hold him there forever. Your mouth finds his fast, greedy, your lips crashing into his not for sweetness but survival, not for affection but for silence, because you know the locker room is alive just feet away, players shifting, voices rising, the risk sharp as a blade against your skin. You moan straight into his mouth, desperate and high, while he grunts into yours, raw and guttural, both of you swallowing every sound you make like your lives depend on it. His tongue claims you, rough and insistent, tasting your cries from the source, catching them before they can fall loose and betray you both to the world outside this door. The heat spilling between your mouths is frantic, dripping with need, thick with the tension of having to stay quiet while your bodies burn recklessly out of control.

His breath is ragged against your cheek, his forehead pressed hard to yours, sweat slicking your skin, his hands locked beneath your thighs like iron as he grinds in deeper, rougher, like he’s trying to bury the weight of the world in your cunt, leave it there, purge it from his blood so he can step back onto the court reborn. He snarls against your lips, the sound vibrating through your teeth, your chest, your spine, “You feel this? You fucking feel this?” His voice is shredded, brutal, desperation bleeding raw through every word as he drives into you again, again, each thrust harder, each stroke rougher, claiming you in a way that feels like he’s soldering himself back together with every savage push. “This is it, fuck—this is what puts me back in the game.”

You feel it in the way his hips snap, relentless, the way he forces every ounce of fear and pressure into the drag of his cock, using your body like a crucible to burn it all away. His control frays with every thrust, his movements growing faster, more brutal, hips punching into yours like he’s trying to fuck the entire weight of the championship out of his system. He’s close—you know it, you feel it in the twitch of his muscles, the tremor in his thighs, the way his cock pulses deep inside you, thick and desperate, every grind stealing breath from your lungs. “Fuck, for you,” he groans, teeth grazing your cheek, voice rough and breathless, “always for you.” His words melt into your mouth as you crush your lips to his again, swallowing him down, drinking his broken sounds like they’re the only air you need. He moans straight into you, his voice hoarse, messy, wild, and you give it right back to him, your own cries flooding his tongue, because you need him to feel it, to taste it, to know this is where he comes alive. You feel it, every brutal inch of it, as he chases the spark of himself inside you, as he feeds off you like you’re the oxygen he’s been starved of all game, as he claws back his purpose, his fire, his future, until there’s no room left in him for fear, only this—only hunger, only rage, only you. This is the fire that will carry him through the second half, through every play, every shot, every second under the blistering lights, through the weight of the scouts’ eyes and the roar of the crowd, through the ruthless pull of destiny dragging him forward. He fucks it all into you, pours it into you, burns it into you, until you’re both searing from the inside out.

The stadium hums like it’s been left on a live wire, buzzing too sharp beneath the skin of the moment, but still, there’s a deadness clinging to the Ravens’ section, heavy and suffocating. Even as the teams retake the court, as the scoreboard glares its brutal deficit into the eyes of every supporter, there’s a lull, a void where belief used to sit. It hangs thick in the air, unspoken but felt in every held breath, every knotted fist in the crowd. Then, like a flint spark catching dry wood, Shotaro moves. He’s out of his seat before anyone else can register the absence of noise, hands coming together in sharp, clean claps that echo against the cavernous silence. It’s awkward at first, lonely even, the sound small compared to the enormity of the arena, but Shotaro doesn’t falter. His chest lifts, shoulders back, and with every clap, he builds his own rhythm until his voice punches through the stillness, clear and certain. “Ravens! Ravens! Ravens!” he chants, the words raw and stubborn, like he’s willing life back into the bones of the team by sheer force of will alone.

It almost feels foolish—until it doesn’t. Because a second later, Doyoung catches the pulse of it, his sharp eye flicking from the players to the crowd, reading the moment like a tactician spotting an opening in enemy lines. He joins without hesitation, voice cutting through louder, stronger. “Ravens! Ravens!” it rolls, it climbs, it builds like a storm front crawling over the stands. Donghyuck, perched at his commentator’s mic with tension creasing his forehead, seizes the moment and drives it home with a spark of his usual bravado, sharp and fast: “Looks like the Ravens found their heartbeat again, and it’s thundering through number twenty-three.” His voice ricochets through the speakers, a fuse catching fire, and Karina doesn’t miss a beat. She spins on her heel, commands the cheer squad into formation with a snap of her fingers so sharp it could slice through steel. The cheerleaders pick up the chant, their voices woven tight, fierce and defiant, until the entire Ravens section erupts, shaking the arena with the force of their resurrection.

Jeno stands at the free-throw line, shoulders stiff beneath the crush of noise, but the crowd barely grazes him. What pulses through his veins is rawer than applause, deeper than chants. It’s you. It’s your breath still clawing at his throat, the way you broke him open in that locked room, your body pressed tight like you were feeding him life itself. His chest swells, breath dragging slow and full, and a flicker ghosts across his mouth—that flicker, the one that feels carved from your hands, from the way you gripped him and demanded he remember exactly who the fuck he is. He rolls his shoulders back, deeper, hungrier, and the charge beneath his skin sharpens like a live current, like he’s still tasting the heat of your mouth. His fingers curl firm around the ball, knuckles streaked with the echo of your hips, and when his eyes lift, they burn clear, singular, carrying you in his bloodstream straight to the net.

Donghyuck’s voice spikes sharp through the roar, no longer commentary but the crack of lightning finding a live wire. “Lee Jeno’s back on the court, and it looks like somebody lit a fire under him!” The sound tears through the dead weight of the arena, slicing clean through the fog of disbelief, and everything that follows feels like history cracking open at the seams. Jeno moves—he devours. His first step cuts brutal into the hardwood, no caution left in his bones, only raw appetite, only hunger sharpened to a blade’s edge. He reads the Daegu pass a breath before it leaves the player’s hands, intercepts it with a predator’s precision, and launches down the court like a storm uncoiled from the sky itself. His body moves faster than thought, muscle memory and instinct fused to something higher, something carnal, and when he leaves his feet for the dunk, it’s destruction. His hands slam the ball through the hoop with savage finality, the rim trembling, the backboard quivering like it’s afraid of him, and the crowd detonates. The sound rips through the rafters, surges through the veins of the arena, and you feel it so deep in your chest it feels like your own pulse syncing to the beat of him, like he’s grabbed life by the throat and dared it to stop him.

The scouts in the stands jolt upright, pens falling from fingers, eyes wide and burning as they lean forward, transfixed. They’ve seen talent before, they’ve seen brilliance, but they’ve never seen a man resurrect himself in real time, never seen a player create destiny out of ash and ruin. One of them, the one who scoffed at halftime, who folded his arms like the game was already written—he sits forward now, mouth parted, unable to look away. Beside him, another mutters something under his breath, scribbling notes so fast his pen threatens to split the paper. Lee Jeno, they write, and their hands can’t move fast enough to capture what their eyes are devouring.

Daegu tries to tighten their defence, tries to claw back the momentum spiralling out of their grasp, but Jeno moves as if their pressure is smoke beneath his sneakers. He cuts through double coverage like it’s made of threadbare fabric, sinks a three-pointer from deep, and the net sings as the ball slices through it, pure and violent. Donghyuck is rapid-fire on the call, voice cracking with adrenaline. “He’s torching them alive! Lee Jeno is unstoppable right now!” And it’s true—you see it in the way Jeno bends the game to his will, the way he orchestrates the court like a symphony of destruction. When Daegu collapses on him at the arc, he doesn’t force it—he spins out, fluid as water, and feeds a perfect assist to Chenle, waiting sharp at the paint’s edge. Chenle catches, releases, scores clean, and the roar doubles, triples, until the arena vibrates with sound, until it feels like the whole world is chanting his name. Lee Jeno. Lee Jeno. Lee Jeno.

Coach Suh, pacing tight coils at the bench moments ago, is frozen in place now, watching like he’s witnessing a miracle unfold from the ashes. His lips part, breath dragging shallow, and you catch him wiping a hand down his face, eyes shining under the weight of what’s unspooling in front of him. His player—his player—is rising from ruin, burning so hot it feels like he could light the state championship trophy aflame with a single touch. And you, you are right there, the heartbeat beneath every second of it. He feels you in his bloodstream, in the marrow of his bones. Before a clutch free throw, his fingers lift, ghosting over his lips, your lips, sealing the fire you lit inside him, like a silent promise made visible. His eyes flick to you in the cheer line, sharp and glinting with everything you carved back into him, and you give him that nod—firm, unwavering, the weight of everything you are pressing into him from across the court. He doesn’t blink. He swallows you whole. And when you blow him a kiss, loud, unapologetic, screaming his name until your throat aches, he absorbs it like oxygen, like lifeblood, like you’re the spark that turned him immortal. Jeno takes every ounce of it. He drinks it down, devours it, sets the court ablaze until the game isn’t a game anymore—it’s a battlefield, and he is the storm swallowing it whole.

Coach Suh takes the risk. He has to. With the clock bleeding down and the air carved sharp with urgency, he signals for Mark to check back in, the decision bold, dangerous, and absolutely necessary. Mark peels off his warm-up, sweat already clinging to his skin from the brutal minutes he played earlier, but there’s no hesitation in his steps, no fear clouding his gaze. His eyes lock onto Jeno’s across the court, something unspoken but thunderous pulsing between them. When he steps onto the hardwood, it’s like watching a fuse spark alive. As the play unfolds, Mark becomes the axis the entire team spins around. He takes the inbound under pressure, defenders hungry to smother him, but he doesn’t falter. He doesn’t force the shot. He sees Jeno tearing down the lane, sees the future crashing toward him at full speed, and with a flick of his wrist, he delivers a no-look pass so clean, so lethal, it slices straight through the heart of Daegu’s defence. The ball lands perfect in Jeno’s hands, like it was always meant to be there, and he doesn’t waste a breath — rises, explodes, and hammers the dunk home with a ferocity that shakes the entire rim. Mark’s hand flies to his chest, but it isn’t pain that draws it there, it’s pride. It’s legacy. It’s him saying, without words, finish this for both of us.

The crowd detonates. Roars peel through the rafters, tidal waves of noise crashing against the court. And Karina, sharp as ever, catches the rhythm instantly, dragging the cheer squad into a new tempo that doesn’t just echo the energy — it drives it. She calls sharp commands, her voice cutting through the noise, arms snapping with precision as she leads the squad into a stomp-clap so fierce it feels like it shakes the earth beneath the players’ feet. The whole stadium begins to sync to their beat, a pulse surging through the floorboards, under the soles of the Ravens, feeding them momentum with every vibration. When the crowd hesitates, she doesn’t flinch — she amplifies, louder, harder, her eyes on you for a beat, sharing that silent charge that crackles through the air like lightning about to strike.

Across the court, Jaemin plays like a blade honed to kill. His defence is merciless, stalking Daegu’s star player like prey, cutting off angles before they even form. There’s no mercy in his eyes, no celebration in his victories — just cold calculation, a predator circling its target. But it’s the way his gaze slides, between plays, from Jeno to you that cuts sharper than any steal. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes, dark and knowing. He sees you, understands what you are to Jeno in this moment, the fire blazing in his chest because of you, and there’s something in Jaemin’s expression that tightens, something between envy and dangerous curiosity, as if he’s watching the very weapon that could dismantle or crown them all.

Then Yangyang unleashes chaos like it’s his native language. He intercepts a reckless pass from Daegu, his hands flashing fast, and before anyone can blink, he’s hurtling down the court with the ball blazing in his grip. His eyes glint wild when he throws it up high, an audacious alley-oop that arcs like a comet through the air, and Jeno catches it mid-flight, slamming it home so violently the basket shudders on its hinges. Yangyang’s grin cuts toward you instantly, wide and sharp, a silent dare flashing in his teeth: keep him burning. keep feeding the fire. He knows what you’re doing, how you’ve poured gasoline into Jeno’s bloodstream, and he’s reckless enough to want more of it.

Chenle fans the flames higher, playing the crowd like it’s his personal instrument. After every timeout, he waves his arms, cupping his hands to his ears to pull louder cheers from the Raven side, then turns, bold as sin, to point and taunt the Daegu section, provoking their fury, feeding off their hate. He thrives in the role of villain, a grin splitting his face as the noise swells to deafening heights. With every gesture, every spark of showmanship, he drags the atmosphere deeper into madness, into mania, until the whole stadium feels like it might combust.

And from the sidelines, Doyoung commands like a general, his eyes cutting across the chaos with ruthless precision. He barks orders sharp enough to slice through bone, catching defensive holes before they widen, directing traffic with an intensity that feels almost preternatural. When Daegu tries to sneak a baseline cut, thinking they’ve found a crack in the armour, Doyoung’s voice explodes, calling the play, snapping the Ravens into position like he’s reading the future off a script only he can see. His leadership anchors the frenzy, keeps it from tipping into chaos, and tightens the noose around Daegu’s neck with every passing second. The game is bleeding toward climax, and all of it — every flicker of momentum, every breath, every heartbeat — is crashing toward Jeno, burning straight through him like he’s the conductor of this entire storm.

Jeno stands at the top of the key, the ball heavy in his palm, sweat streaming down the arch of his throat, his chest thundering tight under his ribs, but his eyes are cut from something elemental, something forged in fire and trial, sharpened by every second that’s led to this breathless, unbearable moment. The clock bleeds down in brutal strokes, the numbers draining like life itself, but he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t flinch. Everything around him, the roar of the crowd, the suffocating press of defenders, the hammer of his heartbeat, collapses into one narrow corridor of clarity, and it’s you at the end of it. Always you. You in the cheer line, your voice still ringing in his skull, your fire still searing his skin, your name tattooed beneath every rib. He plants his feet, weight sinking low, knees coiled, and as he rises into the shot, the entire arena seems to lift with him, breath suspended in a collective prayer.

His wrist snaps clean, the release smooth as silk, and the ball cuts the air like a blade, a perfect arc drawn against the stadium lights. The defenders lunge too late, their hands slashing empty space, and for a heartbeat, for the smallest, infinite heartbeat, time suspends. The ball spins, perfect backspin, kissed by the fingertips of fate, and when it falls through the net, it doesn’t rattle, it doesn’t clatter, it devours. The swish explodes through the silence, sharp and consuming, like thunder cracking a stormless sky, like the sound of history being written in real time. The Ravens bench erupts, the crowd detonates, a thousand voices screaming his name into the rafters as the scoreboard blazes: Ravens 75, Daegu 73. They take the lead.

But it isn’t over. It can’t be over yet. Daegu scrambles for the inbound, desperation in their limbs, but Mark is there, Mark, whose chest is burning with defiance, with the last ounce of strength he owns, closing down the ball-handler with the fury of a man who refuses to let this slip away. He reads the pass before it’s even made, cuts it off clean, and without hesitation, he feeds it straight into Jeno’s waiting hands. Jeno clears the ball, drives it back down the court with the precision of a weapon primed to kill, and as the final seconds melt off the clock, he spins past one defender, weaves through another, and lets the buzzer blare as he punches the ball into the hardwood with a victorious, snarling force that shakes through his whole body.

The horn screams, and the game ends. Ravens win.

Jeno rips at his jersey, fists the fabric at his chest, and roars, a sound torn from the depths of his soul, from the grave where he buried his fear, from the fire you resurrected inside him. His teammates swarm him, Mark’s palm slapping the centre of his chest. The crowd combusts, voices rising into a single, unstoppable wave, the thunder of feet pounding the bleachers like a second heartbeat for the team that refused to die. Cameras flash in a seizure of light, so blinding it looks like the whole arena’s caught fire, and Donghyuck’s voice fractures with sheer delirium as he yells into the mic, “Jeno Lee, number twenty-three, you beautiful son of a bitch! You’ve just made history!” But it isn’t just the chaos of fans — in the stands, the scouts who once scribbled tight-lipped notes now stare wide-eyed, frozen in place, pens hovering useless over paper as if they’ve just witnessed a star burn into existence before their eyes. You catch it too, the slight ripple in the coaches’ row, the disbelief cracking across their expressions like they’ve just watched the future of the league explode from the palms of their hands. Even the Daegu section is silent, stunned into a breathless hush, heads tilted back like they can’t fathom the storm that just levelled them. And you, standing on the edge of it all, chest rising fast beneath your uniform, you watch him drenched in sweat and triumph, jersey half torn from his body, carved from survival and clutch fire, and you know that this is the moment that will haunt history, the second Lee Jeno rewrote his fate with his own bare hands.

Jeno finds you first. He moves through the chaos without rush, without stumble, each step carved from something deeper than adrenaline, something older than the game itself. He crosses the court like a man coming out of war, not running toward you but walking with the weight of every battle he’s just survived, like you are not the finish line but the beginning of everything that matters. His eyes find you and hold, and the rest of the arena disintegrates into a blur of bodies and sound, because you are all he can see, all he wants to see, all he has fought for. His chest heaves, breath dragging rough through his lungs, but his hands are steady as they rise to cup your face, palms warm and certain against your cheeks. His grip is unyielding, like if he lets go you might vanish into the smoke and echoes around you, and then his mouth claims yours, fierce and hungry, kissing you like the game never ended, like the victory was never the point, like you were always the prize.

Crowd noise splinters and fades. It’s there, roaring at the edges of your awareness, but it doesn’t reach you. It’s drowned beneath the thud of your heartbeat, the heat curling tight in your chest as his lips press harder against yours, as his breath mixes with yours in frantic, hungry pulls. For you. Always for you. His voice is rough silk against your mouth, the promise dragged raw from the depths of his chest, and it sears into your spine, into the hollow behind your ribs, claiming every pulse of your blood. You barely even notice the eyes that never leave you, but you feel them, burrowing cold beneath your skin. There’s something watching, something heavy and dark, threading chill through the heat of Jeno’s kiss, something that coils like barbed wire at the back of your mind. It isn’t the crowd. It isn’t the noise. It is something else entirely. Something that knows you, that sees too much, that tastes the split second you fall too deep into Jeno to notice the storm circling your ribs.

High in the stands, Taeyong’s eyes remain fixed, unwavering, carved sharp and ruthless as he watches Jeno like a hawk watches prey slowed by fatigue. His jaw is locked tight, unreadable, chest hardly moving with breath, as though holding it will sharpen his focus. He doesn’t flinch at the celebration. He doesn’t flinch at the roar of the crowd. His gaze traces every line of Jeno’s body, every crack beneath the glory, seeing the rise but never missing the fault lines beneath it. His stare is a storm waiting to split the sky in half.

Jeno’s mouth is still burning against yours when he pulls back just enough to breathe, just enough to see you clearly, and his eyes catch fire all over again. He is glowing from the inside out, victory dripping from him like sweat, like he could set you ablaze just by touching you. "Let’s get out of here," he rasps, his voice rough and wanting, thick with need that no crowd could ever satisfy. "There’s a party, but I don’t give a fuck. I want you. I want to take you home and celebrate properly." His hands tighten on your waist, dragging you closer, his meaning unspoken but thrumming through every line of his body.

Your breath catches sharp, your eyes flicking over his shoulder where you catch it, catch him — Yangyang. He is still and watchful in the crowd, standing there with an unreadable expression, not joy, not relief, but something sharper, something carved out of knowing. His gaze shifts once to Jeno’s possessive hands, then slices back to yours with the quiet finality of a blade kissing the back of your neck. In his eyes, it’s written plain as prophecy: this is the moment, the narrow window to retrieve the misplaced files before they disappear into the shadows for good, the chance you carved from chaos itself, and it waits on the blade-edge of now.

Your pulse shudders. Jeno looks at you like you are the sun itself, like you are the reason he burned through every shadow, and it kills you, it carves you open, because you know what you’re about to say will cut him deeper than any opponent ever could. You swallow hard, force your palm to his jaw, keep your touch soft even as your chest cracks wide. You press one last kiss to his mouth, gentler now, slower, like goodbye. When you pull back, your breath trembles between you. "I’m sorry," you whisper, and it feels like a splinter under your tongue.

Jeno’s brows pull tight, his fire flickering into confusion and frustration in an instant. His mouth parts, then sets hard, jaw clenching as he searches your eyes for an answer you don’t give him. "What are you talking about?" His voice is sharp, his breath chopping short like it pains him to say it. He tracks your gaze, catches the flicker to Yangyang standing at your back, and you see it hit him like a punch to the chest. His lips curl in something closer to a snarl than a frown. "Really?" His tone spikes, sharp and dangerous, brittle with the heat of betrayal. "What’s this about?"

You exhale shakily, your gaze pleading without words, your chest aching with the weight of it. "I need to do something. I can’t tell you what though." you manage, voice tight, rough, every word scraping against your throat like glass. Your hand slides from his jaw, and he seizes it, holds on like he can stop you through sheer force of will. His fingers curl around yours, desperate and furious all at once, and for a moment, you feel him begging you not to go, though no words leave his mouth.

But you know you have to. You have no choice. Your hand slips free of his grip, and his hangs in the air between you, fingers still outstretched like he can’t bear to pull them back. Slowly, you turn toward Yangyang, and you feel Jeno��s eyes burning into your back, scorching paths down your spine as Yangyang steps forward and places his hand at the small of your back. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push you — he only guides, subtle and sure, as if he’s the one in control of this moment. You let him. You let him because you know appearances matter here, you know the game is bigger than the crowd, bigger than Jeno’s fury burning in your wake.

Jeno watches you go, his chest heaving, his fists clenching at his sides. He watches as Yangyang’s hand settles possessively at your waist, as you walk away from him and toward something he doesn’t understand, something he can’t follow. And in his eyes, you see it clear — the heartbreak, the anger, the storm rising, the betrayal that will chase him long after the final whistle blew. He watches until you’re gone, until the weight of your absence carves hollow into his chest and as the tunnel swallows you from sight, you slip from his world and into another, one far colder, one that demands you move fast before the door slams shut.

The air outside the arena hits sharp against your skin, cold with the bite of early evening, but you barely feel it through the churn of adrenaline still rushing in your veins. The roar of the crowd is swallowed by distance as you and Yangyang slip away from the noise, your steps quick, tight, filled with a silent urgency. Neither of you speak. There’s no need. The moment thrums between you, unspoken but heavy, a pocket of time carved out of the chaos, precious and fleeting. Everyone’s locked inside the arena, all eyes glued to the aftermath of the championship — and you only have this sliver of freedom to act, this slim window before the storm swallows you whole again.

Your footsteps echo across the empty campus, sneakers scuffing concrete, heartbeat drumming in your ears louder than the victory chants still howling from the stadium behind you. Every step away from Jeno feels like peeling skin from bone, like you’re splitting yourself in two, and it simmers hot beneath your ribs, burning into frustration so fierce it makes your breath shake.

The door to the old storage wing creaks under your shove, metal rasping against metal, and you step inside first, your eyes already locked on the concealed compartment tucked beneath the floor panel. You don’t wait for Yangyang. You kneel, yank the panel free with a rough twist, and snatch the drive from its hiding place, clutching it tight in your palm. Without wasting a second, you cross to the old terminal, your fingers moving with furious precision, slotting the drive into the port as the screen flickers awake. Your access credentials slip in clean, a bypass few would dare attempt, and you begin pulling every buried file, every corrupted folder, every fragment Yangyang had lost to chaos. The loading bar claws across the screen, agonisingly slow, until at last it spills green, complete. Swiftly, you transfer the full recovery onto a fresh port, identical to the one he lost, identical enough to fool any inspection. The new drive clicks into place in your hand like a loaded weapon, and your gaze slices back to him, sharp as glass. “You better pray this is worth it,” you bite out, your voice low and venom-laced, trembling at the edges because all you can think about is Jeno, still inside that arena, still waiting for you, still burning in your chest.

Yangyang tries to play it cool, like always. His mouth tilts into that crooked smile, the one that used to loosen your guard, used to tease tension from your spine, but now it just feels tired, pathetic. “Come on,” he says, soft and smug, like he can still get under your skin. “It always is with us.” But it’s not. Not anymore. You slam the drive into the port, watch the screen flash to life, and stare down the progress bar as it fills steady, ruthless, green and merciless in its finality. Success. The message burns across the display, confirmation clean and clear. Yangyang’s in the clear. His mess, for now, is wiped clean. The silence stretches, but it’s not empty — it’s loaded, heavy with everything that never needed saying. You feel him shift closer before he moves, his gaze dipping to your mouth like a reflex, like a man chasing the last hit of a high he knows is about to run cold. His hand brushes your arm, lingers a beat too long, his breath grazing your cheek as he leans in.

Your palm hits his chest, firm and unforgiving, your glare spearing through him like it never once belonged to anyone but Jeno. “Don’t look at me like that,” you say, your voice carved out of ice and heat together, sharp enough to bleed him clean. “There’s only one man who’ll ever touch me.” Your breath twists close enough to sear him, “And it’s not you.” Your eyes don’t waver, drilling the truth straight into his bones. “It never was.”

Yangyang’s breath catches, his chest lifting shallow, and for a second — just a flicker — his cocky mask fractures. A bitter laugh slips from his throat, tight and hollow, like he always knew this was how it would end but needed to feel the blade cut anyway. His eyes flick over you once, slow, deliberate, memorising the parts of you he’ll never touch again, then he steps back, out of reach, out of your life. “Guess I should’ve known,” he says, the words rough but quiet, fading into the cold echo of the empty room.

You don’t spare him the grace of an answer. Your grip cinches hard around the drive, your knuckles paling with the force of it, and then you slam it into his chest, shoving it into his hands like a weapon, like a punishment, like the final nail sealing the coffin between you. You turn on your heel, your steps quick and certain, already burning to get back to Jeno, already gone in your mind, your heart, your pulse. Yangyang watches you go, but you never look back.

The door clicks shut behind you, a sound too soft for how hard your chest is beating, your breath still uneven from what just unfolded, but your mind is already spiralling elsewhere, already chasing him, as if the entire length of the campus isn’t enough to contain how fast you need to get to him, how much you need to say. You are done hesitating. You’re done questioning what you feel, what you want, what you have wanted all along, and it’s him. It has always been him. You are ready to run to him, prepared to throw every sharp-edged fear aside and confess in full that you are here, you want him, you want him as deeply, as desperately, as he has always wanted you, and even though you know you need to apologise first, know there’s every chance he won’t even listen, won’t even let you explain, you push through it anyway because the weight of staying silent would crush you alive. The heat still stains your skin from Yangyang’s gaze but you don’t let it anchor you. Your feet are already turning, already setting you toward him, when your phone buzzes in your hand.

Not a message. A notification. The screen lights up, and your eyes fall to the name of the provider before they ever read the headline. It punches the air from your lungs. Your blood chills so fast it feels like your breath catches in shards inside your chest. You know this provider. Not just surface-level familiarity, not casual trust—no, this is the same channel you turned to, time and again, during your exposé. They are ruthless but they are clean. They have ninety-nine percent validity, industry-trusted, boardroom-fed, data-backed. When they publish something, it is not guesswork. It is the kind of truth that moves markets, that seals fates.

Your thumb trembles against the screen as you open it, and the words sprawl in front of you, heavy and brutal, pressing their full weight down on your chest until your ribs ache from holding it in. "Jeno Lee, Questionable NBA Future After Inconsistent Season, Pre-Draft Reports Suggest." The article cuts cleaner than a blade. They dissect him line by line, metric by metric. First-half state championship performance: shaky. Season-wide reliability: patchy. Post-exposé recovery: promising but fragile. A select few scouts are rooting for him, they admit, but others are already dismissing him, leaning conservative in their recommendations. They say it in clinical, corporate language, but you can hear the undercurrent clear as day: the league doesn’t want risk. They don’t want temperamental. They want safe bets. And to them, Jeno is looking less like a sure thing and more like a cautionary tale.

The phone rattles in your grip from how tight you hold it. This will break him. It will destroy him. Your throat burns because you see the same nightmare from two angles at once—the exposé you fought for with every cell in your body, the one that was supposed to shield him, is not enough. Worse, it threatens to fold in on itself, to swallow him whole instead of saving him. You can already imagine how he will read this, how he will internalise it, how it will convince him that no matter what he does, he was never destined to win.

Your pulse spikes so hard it leaves your ears ringing. You don't think. You move. Your feet carry you across the quad before your brain has caught up, as if your body knows there is only one place you can go, only one way to fight this. You cut through the campus, not seeing anyone around you, not feeling the wind knifing against your cheeks. You push open the door to your favourite study room with your shoulder, heart battering your ribs, throat tight with desperation as you slam your things down onto the desk. It is instinctual, a soldier returning to the war room, back to the battlefield you know best.

This is where you began to build the exposé. This is where you dismantled an empire. This is where you tear fate from their hands. This is where you flip the ending they wrote for him. Your laptop blinks awake, the familiar glow of the screen reflecting off your wide, glassy eyes. Files scatter across your desktop, all those months of work, research, and precision. The skeleton is already there. The project is done, finalised, submitted—but you can build from it, you can make it into something more. Something targeted, something lethal.

Your hands fly over the keyboard, pulling folder after folder into your workspace. You don’t need to start from scratch. The data lives here already, sharpened and waiting like a knife beneath your pillow. You build the file like a dossier, sleek and sharp, no excess, no emotion, just truth. You title it simply: Subject: #23 Performance Validity & Draft Eligibility: Verified Report Submission.

Your first section is the player performance data. You drag in Jeno’s clutch-time statistics, your fingers moving faster than thought as you collate everything: his shot success rate in pressure moments, time-stamped footage from the state championship final—the second half, especially, where he clawed the team back into life, where his shots fell clean and his passes carved open defences like glass. You include effective field goal percentage, player efficiency rating, defensive win shares. You don’t embellish. You don’t need to. The numbers speak louder than any plea could. You build the consistency map next. You know they will attack him for being "up and down," so you preempt it, constructing a season-long arc that shows the trajectory of his improvement. You acknowledge the dips, you chart them openly, but you anchor them against his recovery curve, you let the facts show how he rose out of every slump stronger, faster, sharper.

You compile comparison charts between Jeno and other draft prospects in his position, cold hard numbers that prove he is not just viable, he is exceptional. Vertical leap. Sprint times. Reaction speed. Stamina. You pull in biometric data from internal college athlete testing, heart rate data under pressure, oxygen intake during high-intensity plays. His physiological markers are gold standard. You move to the next section: body and heart data. This is where you elevate it. You include oxygen utilisation efficiency during the fourth quarter. Heart recovery rates between plays, demonstrating his conditioning, his resilience. Stress response markers that reflect not panic, but control, under game-deciding circumstances. You back it all with internal team reports, scans, data you fought to access during the exposé.

Your third section: career-long accolades. You list every credential. High school state records. Regional MVPs. Fastest player in college history to hit key thresholds. All-time assist leader. You anonymise and quote coaching staff who once vouched for his relentless work ethic, his dedication, his refusal to miss a single training session even during injury recovery. You add a section for intangibles, but you make it empirical. Clips of him helping opponents to their feet, moments he diffused on-court tensions, commendations from referees, commentators' praise on his game intelligence. Team captaincy votes. Huddle footage where he rallied the squad from despair. His decision-making speed, assist-to-turnover ratio, his on-court IQ crystallised in measurable, digestible data.

Lastly, you contextualise. You lay out the timeline cleanly, dispassionately. The exposé tore through the league, destabilising the ecosystem around him—but he did not falter. He fought. You show pre-exposé performance, the meteoric rise, then post-exposé resilience, his upward trajectory even while the institution collapsed under its own corruption. He is not a victim of scandal. He is proof of survival. You seal it with disclaimers: all data verified, all sources internal and national databases, no personal commentary, no bias. You append the evidence, every clip, every data sheet, every scan, cross-referenced and timestamped. You attach a final letter:

To whom it may concern,

This submission consolidates verified, internal, and public data to highlight the athletic merit and exceptional potential of player #23. The aim of this document is to ensure accurate evaluation of the athlete's capacity for professional advancement, independent of circumstantial disruptions throughout the current season. The evidence provided confirms resilience, physical fitness, leadership, and high-performance delivery under pressure. It is recommended this submission be reviewed in parallel with scouting assessments to ensure a holistic understanding of the athlete's profile.

Respectfully submitted, anonymous.

You sit back, breath jagged, chest tight. Your cursor hovers over the "send" button, your heartbeats thundering between your ribs. There is no signature. No name. No trace. You send it to every scout, every analyst, every journalist with a whisper of influence. You send it to the league’s player association, to highlight reel creators, to anyone who can tilt the scales in his favour. Your heart does not stop hammering in your chest, but for the first time, it feels like it is beating for something other than fear. It feels like hope.

You sit back, barely breathing, the weight of what you’ve just done still heavy in your chest. Your heart is thundering, your blood feels like it’s running too fast, and you’re too wound tight to even let the relief in, too strung between fear and hope to process anything else. Your hand drops to your phone almost without thinking, the silence still ringing in your ears from how long you’ve shut the world out, the screen dark, quiet, until you brush your thumb over the side and flick off the silent mode. The sound comes down on you like a crash. Notifications pour in, relentless and suffocating, your phone vibrating so hard it slips against your palm. They stack like dominos, message previews flashing and disappearing too fast to read, missed calls layering over one another in thick, suffocating waves: your friends, your family, your professors, even numbers you don’t immediately recognise but know must be connected. It’s chaos. It’s so overwhelming it feels like you’ve been hit square in the chest by it, your eyes catching fragments of words—“exhibition,” “previewed early,” “your work is already up,” *“congratulations”—*but you’re scrolling too fast, your breath catching sharp and painful in your throat. The first notification you click is the group chat, every message stamped with ‘read’ by everyone but you, the only silence left in the noise.

You swipe out of the group chat, and it’s only then you see everything else piling onto your phone like it’s spiralling out of control. Your email pings next, loud in the storm, and you open it instinctively, eyes scanning the lines until they snag on the header: “Surprise Live Premiere – Seoul Masterworks Exhibition | Early Reveal Notification” and your heart just about drops out of your chest. You freeze, blinking hard at the screen like the words might rearrange themselves, but they don’t—the email explains how, due to overwhelming anticipation and critical acclaim, the exhibition curators decided to debut your project early as a centrepiece, calling it a visionary contribution, a standout of the showcase. And it’s already happening. Right now. Live. Your lungs squeeze tight, a quiet, breathless gasp slipping out as you nearly lose your balance, stumbling back from the desk with a hand flying out to brace yourself against the chair, your pulse ricocheting so fast it’s a wonder you’re still upright. You swipe through the incoming calls, your throat closing as you see their names—mum, dad, your older sister, Professor Suh, Karina, Donghyuck, Jaemin, Jeno… you don’t even have time to read them all before another wave floods in, and the horror hits you like a flood: they’re all there. They’re all at the exhibition. The place Jeno first took you to, your first date, your first breath of belief in yourself, and you’re not there—you didn’t even know, you’re not there.

Panic coils sharp and cold in your chest, and you’re already moving before you can think twice, rushing from the desk with your breath ragged in your throat, but you catch sight of your reflection in the glass cabinet by the door, and it stops you dead. You’re still in your cheer uniform. You can’t show up to the most prestigious exhibition in the city, to your exhibition, dressed like this. Not when your name is on the wall. Not when they’re all standing there under your work. Not when he’s there. Your fingers fumble at your bag, snatching up your keys, and you break into a sprint, practically tearing through campus until you’re spilling breathless into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind you as you claw through your wardrobe.

Your hands find it fast—a long, backless black satin gown that pours like ink over your skin, clinging in all the right places, clean lines and quiet elegance, something that feels like it was made for a moment you didn’t know you were walking towards. It catches the light as you pull it on, the smooth fabric brushing your thighs, pooling at your ankles like liquid midnight. Minimal jewellery, a simple pair of earrings, your rings, your wrists are bare, save for the delicate weight of two bracelets — the charm bracelet you’ve worn until the metal softened against your skin, and the finer, thinner band Jeno once fastened there himself, his fingertips grazing your pulse as he clasped it closed like he wanted to stay there forever. You do your makeup quickly—sharp liner, a swipe of gloss, a flush of colour just to catch the light. Clean. Understated. Enough to look like you belong in the room they’ve built around your name.

You barely have time to check yourself once in the mirror before you’re grabbing your phone again, hailing an Uber with hands that won’t stop trembling, nerves crawling electric under your skin as you tear down the stairs and into the car, breath caught in your throat as you give the driver the address, your heart thundering so loud it drowns out everything else. You need to get there. Now. Before it’s too late.

The moment you step inside, it almost knocks the breath clean out of your lungs. Light blooms across every surface, soft and commanding, the entire space alive with quiet electricity, holding its pulse just beneath the skin. Vast glass cases stretch from floor to ceiling, towering monoliths that catch the overhead beams and scatter them into rivers of gold that spill across the marble under your feet. Your name is everywhere, not in loud proclamations but in elegant, breath-catching details: etched into crystal plaques, embossed in brushed ivory banners that drape from the high arching ceilings, stitched subtly into the velvet ropes guiding the crowd. It feels less like an exhibition and more like a cathedral raised in your honour, consecrated by sweat, sleepless nights, and every decision that carved this moment into existence.

The scale of it is staggering. Spotlights warm your skin as you move deeper, while the cool breath of the marble floors chills your ankles, a shiver running through you not from fear but from awe. Every detail is precise, the atmosphere curated down to the very air in your lungs. Ivory and gold interplay with sharp crystal clarity, casting reflections that make the whole space feel infinite, like you could walk these halls forever and still discover new echoes of yourself hiding in the corners, and as your gaze roams, you realise — this isn’t just the project you built with Jeno, it’s every triumph you’ve carved your name into, every accolade that bears your fingerprints.

It’s everything that ever carried your name, every impact you etched into the world before anyone was watching and every way you forced it to listen once they were — your urban regeneration essay at sixteen that restructured green spaces across five districts, the community radio series preserving migrant voices, your data project on period poverty that reshaped NGO funding, the translated materials you authored for refugee children, your co-founded climate youth forum that grew into a national task force; the energy reform policy paper you co-authored at nineteen, accelerating renewable energy grants across Seoul’s infrastructure, the global women’s health initiative you led, amplifying underrepresented voices and shifting reproductive healthcare policy, your published series on minority rights in elite sports institutions, cited across legal reviews and academic panels, your flood mitigation fieldwork securing emergency housing for hundreds of displaced families, your keynote at the International Sustainability Summit, your voice unwavering as you laid out corporate accountability strategies. Every corner of the room holds proof not just of ambition but of impact, of change made tangible, your work folded into the world’s bloodstream, reshaping it piece by relentless piece — a living archive of rebellion, resolve, and the belief that the world was always yours to rebuild.

It feels as though you have stepped not into a room, but into the future that once seemed so impossibly far away, now unfolding beneath your feet like the floor itself is carved from tomorrow. The architecture curves high above your head, seamless glass and light pouring down like a second dawn, casting you not in shadow but in brilliance, as if you are the energy source powering the entire world. No dread claws at your throat, no past failures dragging against your ankles. Instead, there is a weightlessness, a sublime defiance of gravity, as though you have unshackled yourself from history and are hovering in this moment suspended between what was and what will be. It is cathedral and spaceship at once, sanctified and electrified, and at its core is you, the architect of a future they will study long after you are gone. You are no longer the observer at the edge of the frame. You are the centrepiece, the nucleus around which every orbit turns, and beneath the gilded lights, you feel it like a living pulse in your bones: this future belongs to you, and you will not let it slip through your hands.

Your group drifts through the exhibition. Mark is closest, his hand briefly brushing your back as he takes it all in, eyes bright with something that feels older than the years you’ve shared. Jeno lingers a few steps behind, watching in silence, gaze steady and unreadable, yet you feel it, tethering you, weighty and inevitable. Donghyuck and Jaemin lean into each other’s shoulders, grins flickering across their faces as they point out moments frozen in time, while Chenle and Shotaro trace the displays with boyish wonder, their laughter hushed but warm. Karina stands regal by the cheer archive, eyes sharp with satisfaction, while Areum surveys the space with her arms folded tight across her chest, gaze flicking from display to display, like she can’t decide whether to admire you or resent you. And Nahyun—her smile is too tight, her glances too fleeting, a shadow of envy coiling in her posture, held in place by the fragile thread of composure.

Beyond them, the distance crowds fill the space like an empire of onlookers: Coach Suh with pride softening the stern lines of his face, Taeyong locked in low conversation with Nahyun’s father, the man’s presence a quiet storm of influence, his tailored suit speaking louder than any words. Doyoung and Irene move through the room with ease, pausing to offer you sincere congratulations, while Irene catches your hand for a fleeting second, her touch warm, her eyes glistening with something maternal and fierce. This time, the adults are not obstacles in your path but witnesses to your rise, folded into the narrative you’ve written for yourself. And farther still, professionals from every corner of your career circle the exhibits: analysts from APEX, representatives from Deloitte, observers from the institutions that once doubted you, and tucked within them, unmistakable, the scouts from the NBA, their eyes darting between your displays and Jeno’s name glowing under glass. It feels like the last time the crowd gathered for you, that terrible night at the bar but this time, there is no ruin waiting at the end of the story. This time, your pulse races not from fear but from pride, because every single eye in the room is here for you.

You step deeper into the exhibitions. Every surface catches your reflection, not in whole but in scattered fragments—a thousand slivers of yourself glinting back, a constellation stitched from every motion you’ve ever made, every choice that dragged you here. You drift past the first case and then the next, breath folding into the reverent hush that thickens the air, a quiet murmur of awe living between the spotlights and the shadows they cast. The cases flank you like sentinels, proud and towering, each one holding a frozen fragment of history, pulsing still with the life you lived alongside them—your friends, your rivals, the people who coloured your days and cut into your nights. You see the echoes of their triumphs, the bruises of their failures, the quiet perseverance hidden in places no one else thought to look. You see the story you built together, piece by aching piece, suspended here in glass and light, as though time itself bowed to let you walk through the architecture of your own legacy.

Jeno’s display is the first to pull you still. His mended jersey hangs not pristine but lived in, scars and stitches visible beneath the gentle spotlight, the bloodstains faint yet unhidden, a raw testament to the seasons that nearly broke him. Beneath the fabric, your handwriting curves in tight, familiar loops: "worn thin but never breaking." A short looped video flickers beside it, his body dragging back to defence, exhaustion clawing at his limbs but his will refusing to buckle. And layered under it all, your voice, soft and steady, reading from your project notes: "Resilience isn’t innate. It is earned, inch by inch." His breath hitches as he stops dead, eyes scanning every corner of the case, lingering longest on your words, like they’re a lifeline pulled from the wreckage. His jaw tightens, his chest lifts with something silent but full. He sees it. He sees you in this, in him.

Mark's river court ball rests beneath the glass like a relic of the earth itself, sun-bleached and worn, the faded scrawl of signatures from neighbourhood kids looping across its surface. There's a ribbon too, a scrap from a childhood tournament, the kind that meant more than medals. His thumb traces the lines of the ball through the glass, eyes softening, mouth tugging at the corners with a memory too heavy to hold entirely. His caption reads: "from nowhere to everywhere." And he feels it, fully, a quiet gratitude blooming in his chest as he stands there longer than he needs to.

Karina's cheer stick gleams, encrusted with crystals, engraved with the names of captains before her, her own a fresh carving gleaming under the lights. She brushes invisible dust from its surface, lips pressed tight in pride and restraint, her gaze hard and shining. A photo rests alongside, her mother holding the same stick decades ago, their poses mirrored across time. The caption beneath sings: "leading the galaxy to dance." Areum’s black-and-white photo of Mark captures him post-fight, eyes defiant, lip split but chin lifted high. Her camera rests beside it, lens capped but ready, a hint of her next journey waiting beyond these walls. She stands frozen, gaze pinned to the image like she’s still framing the shot, fingers tightening around her camera strap, a war between nostalgia and unfinished desire flashing across her expression.

Donghyuck’s game commentary is printed and pinned in bold type, his wry notes scribbled in the margins: "Hail Mary? More like Hail Hyuck!" His headset perches beside it, wires frayed but proud. He laughs under his breath, half disbelieving, a crooked grin breaking across his face. "They really kept this?" he mutters, but pride glints in his eyes, warm and undeniable. Chenle’s playbook is open to the play that turned the semi-final on its head, his chaotic, brilliant scrawl dancing between the lines. "this won us the semi-final, you know," he nudges Jaemin, half-bragging, half-joking, but fully proud.

Jaemin’s display is soft but devastating: a delicate collage like a hospital inspiration board. Snapshots of him with the team, bandaging wrists, ice pack in hand, crouched beside a child fan with a signed ball. Highlighted textbook pages on paediatrics, sticky notes in bright colours: "always be gentle," "kids hide pain well — look closer." A crumpled note from a child patient, barely legible: "thank you Dr Nana!!" His gaze lingers, throat tight, fingertips brushing the glass over the child’s note. His lips part, but no words come. Instead, a breath leaves him, slow and weighted, as he whispers to himself, "keep going," like a promise made to the future version of him, the man still growing into this path. A man who, one day, will cradle his daughter in these same hands, holding her through every fever and fear, bringing the same tenderness to his home that he brought to this team. A man who will carry her on his hip through hospital corridors, who will fight for other children with the same ferocity that fills his chest now. The thought tugs at something deep inside him, an ache and a quiet pride, a life he hasn’t lived yet but already feels written beneath his skin.

Yangyang’s case is chaos contained but deliberate, a storm bottled beneath glass: torn strategies scrawled with half-serious plays ("backflip pass?") and a snapped headset tangled with a bright friendship bracelet, all pulsing with the same wild energy he carried into every game. In the centre, a weathered disposable camera, still loaded with unseen moments, captures the thrill of what was never meant to be perfect. The display hums with the unpredictable force he brought to the team, the irreplaceable spark of chaos that kept their fire alive, a reminder that not every legacy fits neat lines or polished frames—some burn brighter because they refuse to be tamed. In the centre, a weathered disposable camera, still loaded, never developed. A small empty trophy base sits waiting, unnamed. He tilts his head, a grin curling as he taps the glass over the camera. "Man, that's so me," he laughs, eyes bright with mischief. His gaze catches the empty trophy base, a flicker of thought crossing his expression, but it never settles into regret. Only wild, untamed satisfaction.

Shotaro’s practice shoes, worn thin to almost nothing, sit humbly in their case. He presses his palm to the glass, eyes soft, and whispers, "worth it," with a quiet, unshakable certainty. Nahyun's cheer ribbon lies small and subdued, barely marked, easy to overlook. She spares it a glance, bitterness tightening her jaw before she turns away, gaze flitting anywhere else.

Your steps carry you deeper, past the brilliance of your friends' legacies, until the current of it all pulls you to the centre, as if you were always meant to arrive here. And there’s your case, tucked at the heart of it all. Blueprints and drafts sprawling like constellations, margins frantic with ink, proof of your relentless mind in motion. But beneath them, quieter still, are the unfinished pages of your music. Scattered compositions, smudged notations, a battered mp3 recorder labelled: "Jeno — idea sketch." If played, it hums a raw, incomplete guitar riff, your breath counting time before cutting off mid-bar. The caption reads: "Some songs end before the chorus." It sits in quiet contrast to your triumph, a soft echo of the dream you buried beneath your brilliance, the muse you lost along the way.

"You always did outdo yourself," a voice says from behind, light and polished, and you already know the words before they leave Joy’s lips. She steps beside you, the ambassador’s smile gleaming as bright as the display lights, her gaze sweeping the exhibition like she is already claiming it for the next set of Apex portfolios. "This is extraordinary," she breathes, turning her full attention on you. "Having you on our team would be revolutionary, life changing, you’d be doing us a favour—"

You barely hear her, the noise of your own blood rushing faster. You catch flickers at the edges of the room: Deloitte executives. International program directors. Apex scouts, corporate magnates. NBA representatives, their attention split between you and the sports legacy built around you. Eyes everywhere. They are here for you. They are here because of you. But you only feel the weight of one pair of eyes, the ghost who never left. Jeno is here. Not near you, not close, but present like a shadow that knows your name. He hasn’t come to you yet, and it carves at you beneath the surface, a hollow ache you pretend not to feel.

Joy leans in like she means to continue, another pitch poised on her tongue, but before she can speak again, the speaker system crackles to life. "Y/N," Coach Suh’s voice booms across the hall, warm and insistent, "come up here. Say a few words."

Your body stiffens. Your mind blanks, just for a breath. Joy tilts her head, a small, knowing smile curling her lips. "You have got this," she says, like it is obvious, and she smooths the air with her hand as though brushing the weight off your shoulders. "We can continue this conversation after."

Relief floods your chest in a strange twist—you would rather stand before every soul who ever mattered in your life, bare and breaking beneath the stage lights, than hear another word of Apex’s hungry courtship. Before you can move, you feel a nudge at your side. Irene, her eyes shining with something deeper than pride, gestures you forward. On your other side, Mark catches your hesitation and gently takes your wrist, pulling you aside from the crowd, away from the suffocating hum of voices.

His hands are steady, warm against your skin, and when you look up, you find the same boy you grew up beside, but more. Stronger. Wiser. Full of unshakable belief in you. He draws you in, presses his lips to your forehead with a reverence that tightens your throat, then pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. His hands fold around yours, grounding you when you feel like you are floating out of yourself. "You worked harder than anyone," he says, his voice low and sure, threaded with quiet awe. "If anyone deserves to stand here, it’s you."

Your chest pulls tight. "And you are not just brilliant," Mark goes on, his grip on your hands a tether. "You have the purest heart, you’re all of this," he gestures to the vast, gleaming exhibition, to the lives you’ve changed, "you built it because you care deeper than anyone else I have ever known. You feel so much, and instead of letting it swallow you, you turn it into something that changes the world." His eyes soften, full of the kind of pride that cannot be faked, cannot be bought.

Then his breath tightens, and something shifts in the way he looks at you, more urgent now, more brother than friend, more believer than bystander. “You have to fight him,” Mark says, low but certain, like the thought has lived in him longer than the words, like he’s just been waiting for the moment to set it free. “Don’t let Taeyong win. Fight back. I’ll fight with you. I always have.” His hands squeeze yours once, hard, a silent vow pressed into your skin, and you feel it spark in your chest, because you already know — you know this is what today has been building toward, every step, every breath, every fight not just for yourself but for something bigger, for someone you could never stop choosing even when it hurt. You close your eyes for the briefest second, and when they open, the answer is already there, written into the marrow of your bones. You nod, sharp and full, because what today has taught you is simple, clean as breath: you do not go down without a fight, and Jeno is worth every single ounce of breath you have left to give.

Mark watches you, something knowing flickering in his gaze, and then his lips pull into the faintest, wry curve, almost like he can see straight through you, like he’s always been able to. “I know it was all you,” he says, voice low but unwavering, a truth slid between you like a blade too sharp to deny. You tilt your head, play dumb with a hum in your throat, but your eyes do not leave his, you do not give him an inch of retreat. He does not let you. “Don’t deny it,” Mark continues, his brow lifting as he narrows his gaze on you, a challenge and a grin woven into one. “The exposé. Donghyuck isn’t as smart as you, it has your signature all over it. I know you.”

Your breath catches in your chest, but you do not falter, you do not look away, and in that single heartbeat, you feel it settle between you, unspoken but understood, the kind of secret that no one will ever prise free from your hands. You meet his eyes, lock the truth between them like a key turned quiet in its lock, and Mark’s smile pulls just a little wider, softer at the edges, because he knows — this is another secret you will share, and protect, and carry between you like a quiet oath.

The crowd is still waiting, the weight of expectation crackling in the air like static against your skin, but Mark tips his chin toward the stage, his voice steady, full of the kind of faith that could move mountains. “Go,” he whispers, nodding you forward. “Go show them.” Your breath steadies beneath his words. Slowly, you pull your hands from his, and he lets you go with a final squeeze of your fingers—but you feel his faith in you lingering, fierce and unyielding, as you step away. You move towards the stage, the light swelling around you, the world folding open at your feet.

The microphone is warm in your hand, you lift it slowly. Your fingers are tight around it, breath caught high in your chest, heart thudding loud enough you wonder if it echoes through the speakers before you even say a word. You look out, and it does not hit you all at once. It unfolds in layers, like a photograph developing in slow motion. Faces you know, faces you love, faces you have fought for until your knuckles split and your lungs burned. "My name is Y/N," you begin, your voice not rehearsed, not perfect, but real. You let it come from the tight place in your chest, raw and full. "I stand here tonight not because the path was clear, but because I kept walking through every shadow it threw at me."

The words pulse in your throat. You take another breath, slow and shallow, eyes flicking to the reflections in the glass around you. Your name, etched across the walls. Your history, scattered in fragments like stars in constellations only you know how to read.

"We are not built by victories alone," you say, softer now, the truth of it thickening your voice. "We are built by the days we wanted to give up, but didn’t." A pause, your eyes slipping closed for half a heartbeat. "By the nights we questioned everything, but still woke up to fight again. By the moments that no one else saw, but we felt burning in our bones."

"For every spotlight that shines," you continue, your voice threading into the quiet like a confession, "there is a shadow behind it. A cost. And I have paid it. Gladly." You feel it then—your chest tightening, your throat roughening around the next words, but you let them out anyway. "Because sometimes, you fight for someone else’s future like it is your own." Your eyes catch on Jeno again, just for a second. His display case stands nearby, your handwriting folded into it, a testament to all you have carried for him without him ever knowing the full weight of it.

"And sometimes," your voice lowers, softer, like you are speaking only to him, "when you do, you find the pieces of yourself you thought you had lost forever." You draw a breath, shaky but full, and let your gaze sweep across the faces gathered here—not as a crowd, but as fragments of the story you built together. “This is not my story alone," you say, steady now. "It never was. We wrote this together. Every bruise, every breath, every loss—it is written here. It belongs to us all."

Your fingers tighten just once around the microphone, grounding yourself in the pulse of this moment. "This room," you tell them, voice gentle but fierce, "is not a shrine. It is a mirror. If you see anything in these walls, let it be the shape of your own fire. Let it be proof that survival does not belong to the chosen few. It belongs to anyone brave enough to keep going."

You let the silence breathe. You let the moment stretch like dawn over the horizon of your chest. “Everything we build leaves a mark," you say, gaze caught on your own reflections scattered in the glass. "Everything we survive becomes the ground we stand on. These displays are not just history. They are footprints, pressed deep into the future, not yet dried."

“So if you take anything from this,” you finish, your voice catching just enough to pull the whole room into your chest, “let it be this: it’s not about never falling. It’s about the thousand times you rise. And we’re not finished. This isn’t the final chapter. It’s the breath held tight before the next step, the spark still burning under the ashes.”

You lower the microphone, but you don’t step back. You stay exactly where you are, grounded beneath the light you dragged out of the dark, and you let them see you — really see you. No longer the girl clawing through shadows, but the woman who split the sky open with her bare hands and carved a sunrise from the ruins. The ember they once thought would die out, now blazing so bright it scorches every corner of the room, searing your story into the bones of this place. And you let it burn, because you earned this fire.

The applause hits you like a heartbeat outside your chest, pounding and rising until it fills every part of you, until you have to press your hand flat over your ribs like you can hold it all in, like you can stop yourself from overflowing. Your smile comes easy, softer than you expect, curling at the edges with something that belongs to the girl you used to be, the one who stayed up too late wondering if anyone would ever see her at all, if anyone would ever care enough to look. And now they are looking, all of them, the whole room caught in the glow of what you built from nothing, breathing in the same air as your dreams made real. It swells thick, warm, alive around you, claps still stretching long after you stop hearing them properly, like the sound has moved inside your chest, like it is part of your pulse.

But even in the flood of it, even in the way your body soaks in every beat of praise, you feel it. That hollow space beneath the noise, the shadow threading through all the gold. You see her first, Nahyun, lingering at the crowd’s edge, arms tight across her chest, her mouth pinched into a smile that feels too sharp to be real. Her eyes catch yours for half a second before they flick away, quick and tight like she cannot bear to hold the gaze. It aches in a way you cannot shake, the way she stands like this room belongs to you and not her, like she’s been pushed to the sidelines of something she used to think was hers. Envy coils beneath her skin, but there is loneliness too, a quiet kind, bitter in the corners of her expression, like she is watching the world leave her behind.

Jeno stands on the other side of the room, further back than the rest, tucked away in the place you cannot reach. He doesn’t clap or move. He just watches, his eyes pinned to you like you are something behind glass, like he’s not breathing the same air you are, like this whole exhibition, this whole life, is something built from your shared history but carved clean of him. Your pulse catches sharp at the sight, trapped between pride and hurt, swelling thick behind your ribs, because his absence is louder than every hand clapping for you, louder than the thunder of the crowd, louder than everything.

The adults come next, voices circling you like a current, drawing you into the storm. Irene’s tears shine bright, clinging to her lashes, her hand tight in yours like a mother proud of her own blood. Seulgi’s smile spreads wide and warm, Doyoung’s nod cutting sharp as if he has waited years to give it to you. They say things, all of them, things you only half-hear as your mind strains elsewhere. Taeyong’s voice slides past you, low and polished, tangled in quiet conversation with Nahyun’s father, power curling through their words, slick with deals yet to be made, promises inked in shadows beneath the shine of your success. Their intentions slither beneath the celebration, threading like smoke, barely visible but thick enough you taste it on your tongue.

But even as glasses lift and eyes turn to you, even as they raise their invisible toast to your victory, you feel it. God, you feel it. The weight of the only person you want to see you, really see you, standing at the edge, untouched by it all, his silence heavy in the hollow of your chest. Nothing drowns it out. Not this crowd, not the claps, not the celebration you fought your whole life for. It stays tight and painful, a missing heartbeat between your ribs.

Then a hand. Firm, steady at your back, anchoring you like you might drift away if no one holds you still. You turn, breath catching. His eyes, warmer than you have ever seen them, crinkle at the corners with quiet pride. He doesn’t speak at first, just tips his chin, a small nod that tells you what you already know. Come here. Follow me. He leads you out of the storm of voices, down a quieter hallway, the noise falling away behind closed doors until all you can hear is your own breath, still sharp in your chest. The room he brings you to feels different from the others, private, heavier, like it was built for conversations that matter. And when you step inside, he exhales slow, something softening in his posture, something that feels like relief, like hope folded under the weight of everything you have just done.

“You’ve done well,” Coach Suh says, his voice low but steady, warmth threading through the usual gruffness like he cannot quite hide it anymore. “Better than well. The exposé, the exhibition — everything’s been a success so far.” He pauses, breath folding thick between his words, and his eyes lock on yours, sharp but bright, full of something real. “The articles are already rolling in. And I’ve been hearing from insiders too,” he adds, lowering his voice like he’s letting you in on something no one else knows. “There’s been this anonymous source. Someone compiled files, reports, breakdowns, all of it — to show exactly why Jeno belongs in the NBA. It’s working. It’s really working. The panel’s paying attention in ways I’ve never seen. They see it now, they see him and I’ll tell you something, Y/N — I see it too. He’s got a place waiting for him.”

“I need to tell you something.”

His eyes sharpen, not in suspicion, but attention. “Go on.”

You pull a breath deep into your chest, deeper than you have all night, because you know what this moment is, you know exactly what you are about to do. “I was the one who sent the files to the NBA executives,” you say, your words clean and sure. No hesitation. No falter. “The ones you’re talking about. That anonymous submission.” Your gaze does not break from his. “It was me.”

Coach Suh’s brow lifted, his mouth a firm line. “You impressive girl.”

“It was always going to be me,” you answer, and your throat squeezes tight, but you don’t let it show. You breathe through it, steady, controlled. “From the moment I saw him play, from the moment I studied every inch of him on and off that court. I knew. You can’t tell him it was me, he can never know. He needs to believe he got here on his own,” you say, and it tastes raw, honest in your mouth. “Because if he thinks I paved the way for him, he’ll carry that weight like a burden instead of a victory. You know how stubborn Jeno is — even though all I did was highlight the brilliance that was already there, he’ll convince himself I acted out of pity rather than love. He’ll think I doubted him. That I thought he couldn’t do it without me. And Jeno deserves better than pity. He deserves to stand on the highest stage with no shadows pulling at his heels, no whispers of rescue hanging off his name.”

You step closer, voice thick but clear, meaning every word as you let them fall from your lips. “He’s been doubted enough in his life. By everyone. His father. His coaches. Himself. If he thinks this happened because of me, he’ll never see himself as the man who earned it. He’ll see himself as someone who needed to be saved. I do not want him to carry that. Not when he’s carried everything else. He deserves to walk into that future feeling like he built it with his own hands. Not like I handed it to him behind the scenes. Not like I doubted his brilliance for even a second.”

Your throat aches, the words rough in your mouth, but you do not stop. “I’m not thinking about me. I’m thinking about him. About what will lift him higher, about what will make him believe, truly believe, that he was always meant to be there. If this helps him see himself the way I see him, if this clears the path so he runs without looking back, then I will do it a thousand times over.”

Coach Suh’s expression softens, the hard lines of his face giving way to something deeper, something almost reverent. He watches you, long and quiet, like he is seeing something that stirs respect even in a man like him. You continue, your voice lower now, a near-whisper. “And because…” your throat works around the ache rising fast in your chest, “because I love him too much to ever make him feel small. I would rather he never knows. I would rather this stays between us, forever, because what matters is that he goes. What matters is that he flies.”

Coach Suh holds your gaze a beat longer, then nods, once, firm and final. “Very well,” he says. His voice is low but full of quiet conviction. “I am not one to doubt any decision you make.”

But you do not let it end there. Your voice softens further, almost tender, but edged with steel. “And if he ever wonders,” you say carefully, “if he ever digs, ever finds the files I sent, you’ll tell him it was you. You had access to everything I did. You supervised the project. It will make sense.”

Coach Suh exhales, slowly, weighing the lie in his hands. He looks at you, then nods once, begrudging but loyal. “So be it.” Your chest expands with the smallest breath of relief, but you don’t loosen your hold on this moment. You seal it between you like a pact carved in stone, a secret folded into the marrow of your story.

Your steps are quick, almost feverish, heels skimming the marble as you slip from the echo of your conversation with Coach Suh. Before the crowd swallows you again, Joy catches you, bright as always, her voice animated, words tumbling out in that signature effervescent cadence of hers. She is congratulating you, but even as she does, others are vying for your attention. You catch flashes of eager faces — reps from prestigious firms, a sleek woman from Deloitte with a polished smile, a director from the APEX global division, their voices layering over one another like the rising hum of a tide. They circle you like you are the sun at the centre of their orbit, every conversation pulling you tighter into the gravitational swell of your success.

But none of them matter, not the cameras flashing nor the executives calling your name, because across the room, you see him. Jeno. Leaning against the frame of the arcade installation, his jaw tight, eyes dark and fixed on you with a heat that steals the breath from your lungs. His lips curve, a slow, deliberate smirk, and he mouths it, “Come here.” The way he says it, even without sound, feels like it strikes right beneath your skin, a command laced with want, sharp and simple, and it unravels you instantly. There’s nothing else in the world, no noise, no crowd, no future or past — only him, and the way your pulse jumps to obey.

You don’t hesitate. Your body obeys instinct before your mind can catch up, your breath stalling in your chest as you move faster than your own shadow, faster than the pulse drumming wild at your throat. Every step sheds the weight of the conversations clawing for your time. Every heartbeat drums one truth: him, him, him. You break free of the crowd like you were never truly part of it, slipping into the private space he disappears into, and it steals the air from your lungs the moment you cross the threshold.

Jeno doesn’t wait a second. The moment you reach him, his hand finds yours, strong and warm, his fingers lacing through like he has been waiting his whole life to hold you right now, here, in this perfect stolen space. His other hand reaches behind him, eyes never leaving yours as he pushes the door shut with a quiet click, locking the world out. Then, soft as breath, his lips press to your forehead, lingering like he wants to pour every unspoken thing he feels into your skin. The kiss is tender, reverent, his mouth brushing your hairline like he is sealing something sacred between you. “Finally,” he murmurs, low and rough at the edges, as if pulling you into this moment steadies the fire burning wild beneath his chest. The space around you hums, intimate and waiting, and you let your gaze drift past him, past his beauty, past the shadows of your shared history, to take it in. It’s beautiful here, almost too beautiful. A quiet remake of the arcade hoop from your first date, washed in the soft retro blush of neon lights. The hoops glimmer like haloed promises, old scores flickering on cracked screens, memories suspended in time. The smell of old vinyl and dust clings sweetly in the air, nostalgia and electricity coiled together, waiting to spark. But more than all of that, it is him — Jeno, in front of you, holding you like you belong here more than anything else in the world.

Jeno catches your mouth in a kiss so rough it steals every last breath from your lungs, so desperate and deep it feels like he’s been starving for you, like nothing else in this whole night, such as the beautiful display of your victories, tastes as good as you do. His hand comes up fast, sliding behind your neck to anchor you to him, his palm hot and heavy, his fingers threading into your hair like he needs to feel every part of you, like he can’t stand a single inch of space between your bodies. His lips crash against yours, open-mouthed and hungry, kissing you with everything he has, kissing you like this is the only way to speak, like language fails him and only this will do. He kisses you until your knees weaken, until your breath stumbles between your teeth, until you are clutching his shirt tight to keep yourself upright, and even then he doesn’t pull back, not until he has kissed you dizzy, not until you are trembling in his hands. When he finally breaks, it’s only just barely, his breath warm and ragged against your lips as he smirks, wicked and boyish all at once, a grin so infuriatingly beautiful you could scream. “You wanna play again?” Jeno teases, his voice low and curling between you like smoke, like heat. “Remember last time, you acted so confident, told me you could beat me because you, and I quote, ‘have seen Mark play a hundred times —’”

Your hands cradling his jaw as your mouth claims his once again. "Just wanna kiss you," you whisper against his lips, your breath a trembling hush. "Stop talking so much." So he does. He kisses you like he has waited a lifetime for this very breath, like he is drinking every second that has ever led to this moment. His mouth is warm, hungry, the kind of kiss that steals your thoughts right from your head, leaves you breathless and craving more. He kisses you until you have to pull away, barely, just enough to catch air, but he chases you, lips brushing yours again, greedy and tender all at once.

“I thought you were gonna be mad at me,” you breathe against his mouth, though you are already leaning in again, already kissing him soft and slow because you can’t help yourself.

His grin flashes, bright and reckless, so beautiful it knocks the air from your chest and makes you laugh under your breath. “I’m too happy to be angry,” he says, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm between your lips. His eyes shine with joy so raw it feels like it cracks your heart wide open, like you’re seeing him lit from the inside out. “I was pissed when you went with him,” he adds, honest but light, like he’s already let it go, “but I know you had your reasons, and your reasons are always good.” His smile tilts, softer now, full of quiet trust. “Plus, you promised me nothing would ever gonna happen between you and Yangyang, so I believe you.”

You nod, smiling so wide it hurts, like your heart’s swelling too fast for your chest to hold, like it’s gonna split you open from the inside out, and still, you don’t care — you want it to if it means you can still be with Jeno. “I’m happy we trust each other,” you whisper, and the words feel like they carry weight heavier than steel chains, like you’re stepping barefoot across a tightrope strung over a storm, knowing you could fall but choosing not to look down. It feels like crossing a bridge that never wanted to let you pass, one built from the wreckage of every past doubt and set on fire behind you, so there’s no way back, only forward, only into him.

You open your mouth to speak again, but before the words can even form, he’s already silencing you, his fingertip brushing against your lips with a tenderness so deliberate it sends a shiver spiralling down your spine. His eyes soften as he watches you, his chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s wrestling to hold something inside that’s begging to be let free, and then his grin flickers through, not cocky but almost boyish in how fragile it is, trembling at the edges as though he knows the moment he opens his mouth, everything will change forever. He leans in, barely brushing his lips over the pout he just smoothed away with his finger, a kiss too soft to satisfy anything in you but so full of meaning it almost breaks you in half. “I need to tell you something, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick and hoarse, carrying the weight of a thousand nights he never thought he would survive, trembling as though he’s scared that if he breathes wrong the moment will vanish like smoke between his fingers.

You already feel it unfurling inside your chest, blooming before he even says the words, like dawn swelling against the horizon, golden and too bright to look at directly — you know. You know because memorised the shape of his triumph before it ever arrived. His eyes flicker over you, almost like he senses your knowing, but he still breathes it out, ragged and beautiful, like it is the first and only truth in the world. “I got in,” he says, and his voice fractures mid-syllable, cracking under the weight of disbelief that wraps tight around his ribs. “I got into the NBA.” He looks at you like he can’t believe his own words, like he needs you to catch them and hold them safe in your chest so they do not slip away.

Time caves in around you. It folds and splinters, compresses and expands, until there is nothing left of the world except the air vibrating between your bodies and the frantic beat of your hearts syncing like two wild creatures in the dark. His eyes shine, glassy with wonder and something almost too raw to name, and he exhales a sound that lives somewhere between a laugh and a cry, somewhere between relief and disbelief, like he has waited his entire life for this and still can’t trust that it’s eal. “A few minutes ago,” he rushes, the words tumbling from his lips, messy and breathless, like they’ve been locked inside him too long. “I found out just a few minutes ago. You’re the first person I told. I had to tell you first. I couldn’t wait, I couldn’t—” He cuts himself off, chest rising sharp like he’s struggling to fill his lungs, like the dream has stolen his breath clean away. “I feel like I can’t breathe, like I’m dreaming and awake at the same time, like the whole world’s been set on fire and I’m burning alive in the best way.”

You don’t realise you are crying until the salt streaks your lips, until your vision smears with the heat of your own tears, until you feel your chest aching so wide open it almost hurts. “I’m so proud of you,” you manage to say, but the words scrape up your throat like they’re too big to fit, like they carry the weight of everything you’ve wanted for him, everything you’ve seen in him when the rest of the world refused to look. “I’m so, so proud of you.” It feels like setting your own soul alight just to speak it aloud, like breathing fire straight from your ribs, but it’s the truth and you will never stop saying it.

Before you can even draw another breath, he sweeps you up into his arms, pulling you so tightly against him it feels like you might never be separate again. Your legs wrap around his waist without a second thought, instinctive, like your bodies were made for this moment, like they’ve always known how to fit together in triumph as well as in pain. His mouth finds yours, hot and wild, a kiss that is all hunger and devotion and unspooled joy, and you pour everything into him — every ounce of pride, every fragment of love, every heartbeat you have ever held back until now. He kisses you like the future is already here, like the sky has broken open just for the two of you, like the impossible has unfolded between your lips and he is desperate to taste every second of it.

His mouth doesn’t leave yours for long but when it does, it hovers, his breath warm and frantic against your lips like he can’t bear the distance between you for even a second. His eyes stay fixed on yours, dark and wild, but gleaming with something too big to name, something that fills the entire space between his ribs until it bursts out in a rasped confession. “I love you,” he says, not like it’s the first time but like it’s the only time, like he has to say it now or he might shatter from the weight of it.

The words crash against you, heavy and consuming, and your chest twists so tight it aches as you breathe in the sound of him. “Jeno—” you try to answer, but your voice breaks on his name, raw and cracked and trembling. His forehead leans to yours, grounding you in the storm he has set loose, and he chases your breath, catching your lips again, desperate to taste you between every word he pours out.

“I love you so fucking much,” he swears, his voice frayed and burning at the edges, the fire of it curling through your veins until you feel like you’re oing to combust. “You’re my dream. You’re in every one of them. I’ve never felt so happy, so at peace, like everything is finally right. Like everything is finally ours.”

You feel your heart seize and splinter under the force of his confession, like it has been gripped tight in his hands and filled so full it can no longer hold itself together. He kisses you again, deeper, rougher this time, and it steals the air from your lungs as you cling to him, your fingers tangled in his shirt like you are afraid he might disappear if you let go. His lips are relentless, hungry, like they are trying to imprint his soul against yours, and when he pulls back, it is only just enough to search your face with a gaze that makes your knees weak beneath you. “And I am so fucking proud of you,” he breathes, reverent, like you are a miracle he never thought he would be allowed to witness up close. “For this. For all of this. For every inch of this exhibition you built with your bare hands, for every breath you fought to take when the world tried to crush you. You don’t know how incredible you are, how much fire you poured into this, how you make everything you touch glow so bright it could burn the whole sky clean open.” His voice wavers, thick and choked, but he doesn’t stop, he won’t ever stop.

Your pulse races so hard you swear he can feel it beneath your palms where they cradle his face, your thumbs brush over the damp trail of tears you didn't even notice were falling from his eyes. He isn’t finished, not even close, and his hands tighten around your waist like he is afraid you might drift away before he can empty his whole heart into the space between you. “Your heart’s the softest thing I’ve ever known, like you’ve got enough love in you to heal the whole world and still have more to give and you use it for good, for change, for all of us. You carry the weight of the world and you never complain, you never fold. You’re the strongest person I know. I will treasure you forever, Y/N. I’m so fucking lucky that you’re mine.” His eyes burn as he says it, shining with pride and awe like he can’t believe his own fortune. “You’ll always be mine.”

Your breath stutters as your lips part in a shaky smile, tears spilling faster now, too thick to hold back. “Mark told me that too, that I have a good heart.” You whisper, and it feels like a ribbon tying you to the earth, a reminder of every piece of love you have been surrounded by, every corner of light that led you here.

He laughs softly at that, not in mockery but in pure affection, the sound cradling you as his forehead rests against yours again, a perfect match. “It is because of you I have a brother,” he says, rough and true, like the words have been waiting inside him for a lifetime. “Because of you, I found him.”

You shake your head, humble and breathless, your fingers curling tighter in his hair as you search his face with eyes full of love so vast it threatens to swallow you whole. “No,” you say, your voice thick but certain, “it’s not because of me. You both put in the effort. You both set aside pride.”

His hold on you tightens, arms locking you closer like he wants to fuse your bodies together, and he whispers, low and fierce, “I did it for you at first. Do you not remember the deal?” His words stroke over your skin like velvet and fire all at once, a secret reborn between you, alive and burning.

Your smile splits wider, unstoppable, your tears and laughter tangled together as you pull him closer, cupping his cheeks in your trembling hands, your heart thundering like a wild thing beneath your ribs. “Yeah,” you breathe, the memory blooming between you like a wildflower pushing through cracked concrete, “I do.” And then you kiss him, you kiss him like you are sealing a vow written in your blood, like you are promising him the whole world all over again, like there is nothing left but the two of you and the fire you carry between your lips. You kiss him like the whole world is burning down, and you are alive, alive, alive in the ashes of it all.

Your breath is still shaking when you roll your hips down on him, slow at first, just to feel the way he stretches you open, the way he fills every aching inch. Jeno's hands are already on your waist, large and warm, thumbs stroking over your skin like he's memorising every detail, like he's trying to etch the shape of you into his palms so he can carry it with him, no matter how far he has to go. His eyes never leave yours. They’re dark, glossy with love and awe, and something heavier lingering beneath, something that makes your chest pull tight.

You can't help the giggle that slips past your lips, breathless and high from the way he looks at you, like you're the only thing in his universe. "You're staring," you whisper, even though you don't want him to stop. You want him to keep looking at you like this forever. He smiles, slow and soft, and leans up to kiss the sound right off your lips. His mouth is tender, open, tasting you like you are the sweetest thing he has ever known.

"Of course I'm staring," he breathes against your lips, his voice rough around the edges but soaked in warmth. "You're my whole fucking world." You rock your hips a little faster, just to chase the heat curling deep inside you, but his grip tightens, holding you still. "Not too fast, baby," he murmurs, kissing down your throat, over your collarbones, his lips brushing every inch of your skin like he's blessing it. "We have a whole lifetime for this. I want to feel every second."

You nod, heart catching in your throat, and slow your movements, grinding down on him with aching, deliberate rolls. He groans, low and guttural, as his head falls back for a moment, eyes fluttering shut like he's overwhelmed by the feeling of you wrapped around him. Then he's looking at you again, like he can't bear to miss a single second, and you swear his gaze alone could pull you apart and put you back together. His hands trace up your sides, over your ribs, until he's cradling your face with such care it makes tears prick the corners of your eyes. He kisses you again, softer than before, slower, his lips moving with a reverence that speaks of forever. And when he pulls back, he looks at you like he's already memorising this moment for the days when he won't be able to hold you like this.

"I need to tell you something," you breathe, your voice barely holding steady. He hums, his nose brushing yours, urging you to go on. "I'm taking the APEX role," you say, and his eyes darken with something complicated, something that twists deep in your chest.

"You'll stay in Seoul after all," he murmurs, almost to himself, as if he's tasting the words, trying to believe them. "You'll be here."

You nod, but the weight of what you’re not saying hangs heavy between you. He shifts, turning you gently until your back meets the soft sheets, and he settles over you, pressing kisses along your throat, your chest, your ribs, every place he can reach. "Good," he whispers, like a vow. "That's good.”

But you feel it, the shift in the air, the tension pulling tight beneath the sweetness. You feel it when his lips pause against your skin, when his breath catches just slightly. You feel it when he lifts his head, eyes meeting yours, and says, "They told me... being in the NBA means I'll be abroad most of the year. Training camps, games, tours. I'll only be home maybe twenty percent of the time, possibly less in the first few years."

Your breath stumbles, your heart faltering mid-beat. "Oh," you say, so small it barely escapes your lips.

He catches the flicker of fear in your eyes, the way your body stiffens beneath him, and his gaze hardens with something fierce, something desperate. He moves deeper inside you, grounding you to him, keeping you where he needs you most. "Don't slip away from me," he rasps, his hips rocking into yours slow but firm, his hands holding your face like you're the only truth in his world. "Stay right here with me. Don't give up on us before we even begin. We can make this work, baby. We have to." His words knot in your chest, pull tears to your lashes even as you nod, even as you cling to him tighter. He kisses you like a man starved, like he's trying to anchor you to this moment, to this love that feels too big for your ribs to contain. His lips brush away your tears, his hands smooth over your skin as if to memorise every inch, as if he can brand the shape of you into his bones.

"You're crying," he whispers, his voice breaking with concern. "Is it too much? Should I stop?"

You shake your head, a sob caught in your throat. "No," you manage, your voice raw, trembling. "Don't stop. Never stop." But your tears keep falling, streaking down your cheeks as he moves inside you, as he makes love to you with a tenderness so deep it cuts you open. He thinks it's from the overwhelming pleasure, from the intensity of the moment, but you know the truth. You know it's because this is the last time, the last time for a long, long while. And you want to burn this moment into your memory, want to feel him in your body and your heart and your soul for every lonely night that is to come.

You arch beneath him, your body trembling as his mouth trails over every inch of you, like he’s memorising you in the dark, kissing his way through every chapter of your story — your lips, your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the curve of your jaw, his breath catching as he kisses under your chin, along your throat, between your breasts with such aching tenderness it leaves you gasping. His lips linger there, warm and open, whispering soft broken things into your skin, like you’re something holy, something he can worship only with the gentlest of prayers. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, brushing kisses down your sternum, across your ribs, his hands cradling your waist as if you’re something precious, fragile, a keepsake he’s afraid of losing. He kisses the swell of your stomach, his lips brushing your skin like silk, slow and reverent, then lower still, down the inside of your thighs, his mouth open against your skin, tasting you, breathing you in like he can’t get enough of you, like he wants to drink you into his bloodstream. He keeps whispering between kisses, sweet and rough at the same time, “I love you, I love you,” over and over until the words feel carved into your skin, until your whole body aches with how much you love him back. His eyes never leave yours as he moves, dark and full of something deeper than desire, something infinite, something that tells you this moment is going to have to last for all the nights you won’t have him next to you.

And you give it to him. You give him every single piece of yourself, your hands tangled in his hair as you pull him back to you, your mouth claiming his in a kiss that tastes like tears and salt and forever. You hold him like you never want to let him go, like you already feel him slipping away into time, and you pour yourself into him, pour every heartbeat, every breath, every ounce of love you have stored up for him, because you know, somewhere buried deep in your chest, that this will have to last you through the months, the years, the miles of absence that are coming for you both. When your body breaks apart beneath him, when your release crashes through you sharp and devastating, your cries caught between his lips and your fingers clutching him closer, it’s not only the pleasure that rips through you, it’s the heartbreak too — it’s the unbearable knowing that you won’t have this again for far too long, that this goodbye is written into your bones even as you hold him tighter, even as he whispers, “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.” You will never let him see the sorrow curled under your pleasure, but he feels it in the way you cling to him like the tide pulling away from the shore, and he loves you even more for it, even if he doesn’t yet understand why.

Somewhere in the hollow between your ribs, as your breath shudders and your bodies remain tangled like you can bind your fates by touch alone, he finds your eyes, chest rising ragged, voice raw with ruin and hope all at once. “I’ll stay,” you breathe, like a promise carved from ash, already crumbling at the edges. He catches it in the space between your mouths, swallows it like it’s something he can hold on to, something he can keep safe, and he answers, quieter but heavier, like he’s forcing the words through smoke and bone. “And I’ll go.” His hands tremble where they hold you, tight, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets you go, like he’s already feeling the shape of absence take root in his chest. And you feel it too, this moment folding in on itself, the crack beneath your feet widening, but still you hold his gaze, still you keep your voice steady as you let the last line fall, soft and shattering. “And we’ll be okay.” But it isn’t a promise. It’s a farewell in disguise, a requiem dressed as hope, a final prayer to the ruins blooming beneath your skin — and even as you say it, even as you taste the lie on your tongue, you both know the truth: you won’t be.

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

The distance is not what kills you. It never was. It never could be. It isn’t the miles stretching between Seoul and New York, not the brutal way dawn pries open your curtains just as night swallows his hotel rooms whole on the other side of the world. It isn’t the time zones, the flights, the oceans. No — it's the silence. The cold, cavernous silence where his voice used to live, where once there was laughter soft and warm as dusk, now there is nothing but stillness. It’s the way your body wakes before your mind can catch up, your hand reaching blind for your phone like muscle memory, like prayer, like hope, only to meet a blank screen, black and dead and empty. It’s the way his name slips lower and lower in your notifications, from burning bright at the top of your world to buried beneath piles of deadlines and detritus, like you are scrolling back in time just to hear the echo of him. The bracelet on your wrist has dulled to something lifeless, tarnished with the weeks — months — that have hardened between you, but you wear it still, like it's soldered to your skin, like it’s a shackle you chained yourself to willingly. You stopped tracing it in meetings. You stopped looking at it when your heart caught fire between breaths. Now, it hangs from you like a ghost, like the soft shadow of a promise that has long since decayed into dust.

Jeno exists only in headlines now. He flashes across your feed in fractured glimpses: courtside interviews under blinding lights, charity galas with his polished smile stretched tight across his face, a thousand cameras eating him alive. But every image feels like a spear driven straight through your ribs, every rumour of him tangled with a model or an artist or some glittering New York it-girl tears another strip from your heart and leaves it bleeding. You bury yourself in your work, not out of ambition, no — ambition died a long time ago. You bury yourself because it’s the only thing left that doesn’t feel like him. Your apartment has turned into a tomb, a shrine of unanswered calls and half-written texts, your heart a casualty you never planned for. His messages, when they come, are brittle and hollow. Lifeless bones of a boy you used to know. "Busy today. Will call later." But later never comes. And when it does, it's too late, it's always too late, it arrives in the dead of night when your exhaustion has already smothered the hope from your lungs. And slowly, almost mercifully, you stop replying too. Until eventually, there is nothing left at all. Until eventually, you both stop. Altogether.

But, no — no. You know the truth. You have to admit it, even if it rips you apart. It wasn’t just him. You could lie, could blame the distance, the time difference, the hurricane of his rising fame, but you know better. Beneath the bravado, beneath the armour you built from excuses, you know. You let go too. You let the rot creep in. You didn’t fight as hard as you swore you would. You didn’t pick up the phone when it mattered most. You let the unanswered texts pile up like dead leaves until they no longer felt like failures but inevitabilities. You chose the numbing comfort of overworking yourself, drowning in deadlines and late nights and loneliness, because it was easier than facing the empty ache of missing him. You buried your feelings under piles of obligations, convincing yourself that if you stayed busy enough, you wouldn’t have to notice how hollow you’d become. You let the silence bloom between you like ivy climbing the walls of a dying house, suffocating everything you once believed in. He didn’t try, and neither did you. And that is the ugliest truth of all — that love does not always die by betrayal or tragedy, but by quiet, by indifference, by two people too scared to bleed for each other. You were both architects of this ruin. You both locked the door from the inside and swallowed the key. And now you carry that weight like an anchor bolted to your chest, knowing, knowing, you helped sink this ship to the bottom of the ocean.

The day he comes back, it rains like the sky itself is breaking open at the seams. Of course it does. It pours like the world is grieving with you, the clouds split raw, bleeding water over Seoul until the streets are rivers and the horizon is washed away. He stands in your doorway, drenched, breathless, but you don’t move. You don’t run into his arms. He doesn’t reach for you. You both just stand there, suspended in a terrible stillness, as if you’ve become two strangers who used to know how to love each other but have forgotten the shape of it. His eyes, those eyes you used to map like constellations, rake over you like they’re hunting for a home already lost.

"You stopped calling," he says first, voice hoarse, cracked around the edges, like he has been carrying this accusation in his throat for weeks.

Your breath catches, sharp as a blade. "So did you.”

His shoulders stiffen, raindrops carving paths down his face like tears he refuses to let fall. "I thought you were too busy," he snaps, a flash of frustration darkening his gaze. "Every time I called, you were in meetings. Or asleep. Or flying across continents chasing your next win. Every achievement clearly means more to you than I do.”

"And you," you choke out, voice slicing through the air like broken glass, "every time I called, you were on some court or in someone else’s lens. You think I didn’t see it? The photos, Jeno. The whispers. The way they looked at you like you were already theirs. You never once gave me a reason to believe otherwise."

He shakes his head, rainwater falling like tears from his lashes. "There was nothing to explain. It was all noise. Noise, baby, that’s all it was. I thought we were stronger than that."

"But we aren’t," you snap, your voice thick with the ache of unshed tears. "We let it all get between us. We let the noise become our silence."

"You think I didn’t want to try?" he bursts, stepping closer, his hands clenching at his sides. "You think I didn’t lie awake every single night wanting to hear your voice? You think I didn’t miss you until it felt like I was bleeding from the inside out? I did. I did. But I didn’t know how to keep you when I was barely keeping myself."

Your breath shudders from your chest, the weight of his confession settling heavy in your bones. "I missed you too," you admit, raw and broken. "So much it hurt but I didn’t know if you cared anymore. I didn’t know if you even saw me anymore."

"I always saw you," he says, voice cracking, thick with something perilously close to regret. "Even when I was drowning in everything else, I saw you. You’re the only thing I ever wanted to see."

Tears slip free, streaking hot down your cheeks as you step closer, as your trembling fingers reach for his face. "Then why didn’t you fight for me? Why didn’t we fight for each other? We let it go. We let ourselves go."

"Because," he whispers, catching your hand and pressing it to his lips, his eyes closing like the feel of you is too much to bear, "because I thought we had more time. I thought we had forever."

The silence between you is a living thing, breathing heavy and slow as your heart shatters quietly in your chest. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, your tears mingling with the rain on his skin. "We never had forever," you breathe, the words tasting like grief. "We barely have now."

You kiss him, then, because it’s all you have left, because it feels like if you don’t, you might never breathe again. You kiss him like he’s the air you’ve been starving for, like you’re gasping him into your lungs to survive the emptiness that’s waiting to swallow you whole. You kiss him like you’re tracing every line of his lips, every shape of his sorrow, trying to memorise him so well that not even time can strip him from you. His lips crash to yours, desperate, broken, tasting of regret and rain and everything you were both too afraid to say when it mattered most. He kisses you like he’s drowning, like you’re the only rope left between him and the abyss, like if he holds on tight enough, maybe you’ll pull him back from the edge. But it’s too late. It’s already too late.

When he pulls you closer, his hands frantic as they clutch your waist, his mouth trying to deepen the kiss, to weld you together with sheer force, like he can force you not to leave him, not to slip away, you feel the heartbreak rip through you so sharp you almost choke on it. He kisses you like he can glue together the wreckage of who you used to be, but your sobs breaks free, raw and ragged, splitting you open from the inside out. Your voice punches against the walls of your grief, heavy and hollow and shaking with despair. "Promise me," you beg, your hands cradling his face like you are trying to hold on to the last piece of him that hasn’t already drifted beyond your reach, your thumbs desperate as they swipe at the rain, the tears, the ruin streaming down his cheeks, as if you can erase this ending if you wipe fast enough, "promise me you’ll stay in contact with me. Promise me I’ll still hear from you. Please. Please." Your voice cracks, splinters, like you’re begging the universe itself to spare you from what you already know is inevitable.

"I promise," he swears, his voice hollow and wrecked, the words falling from his lips like they are already dust.

But you both know it’s a lie. Eternity passes, and he never keeps it.

The days bleed out like open wounds, and the nights are worse — you wait in the quiet, wait until your chest caves in, wait until your eyes burn from staring at a phone that never lights up. Wait, until waiting becomes a way of life, until it becomes your religion, until it becomes the thing that kills you softly, cell by cell. His promise decays in the silence, dissolves like sugar in water, until there’s nothing left but the bitter aftertaste of what he never said, what he never sent. His voice doesn’t come back to you, not once, not even in echoes. Only the headlines do. Only the grainy photographs of him, thousands of miles away, drenched in success and distance, so far from the boy who once kissed your trembling mouth and swore forever. So far from you. You watch the seasons change, helpless, as they drag him further into a future where you no longer exist. The world spins forward, merciless and unstoppable, and he lets it pull him under. Lets it carry him away from you, until you can no longer see the shape of him on any horizon. Until you forget the sound of his voice in the dark. Until you forget how it felt when he said your name like a vow.

Lee Jeno was a lie you let yourself believe.

𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

The arena is packed to the rafters, a cathedral of roaring thunder and blistering lights, floodlamps so merciless they erase every shadow, burn every ghost clean out of the corners. You stand just off-court at Madison Square Garden, the boards beneath your heels still trembling from the aftershocks of history, the crowd’s roar curling to a distant hush like waves dragged back from the shore. It’s a night carved for legends — headlines waiting to be printed, records waiting to be shattered. The youngest player in NBA history to reach ten thousand points. His name will live in lights long after tonight ends, but you’re not here for the glory. You’re here for the final cut, the severing of the last vein that still connects you. Normally, you’d build the bridge before a broadcast like this. You’d lay it stone by stone, soften your tone, coax ease into the athlete’s posture, let him feel seen, let him feel safe. But not tonight. Tonight, you let the silence curl beneath your sternum like a blade in its sheath, sharp, cold, aching to be drawn. You don’t meet his eyes before the cameras turn. You don’t let his name breathe life between your lips. You save it all for the kill shot.

The cue flashes from the floor manager, two fingers raised in the air. The camera blinks red. You step into frame, poise perfected, your black dress cutting a clean line against the brightness of the court. There is no tremble in your voice when you begin. Your eyes, clear and unflinching, take him in as though he’s any other player in the league. But he isn't, you both know it. His face has matured, harder angles now carved into his jaw, cheekbones sharper beneath the flush of exertion. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temples, glinting like silver under the stadium lights. His lips, once so familiar, press into a line that is almost too tight, like they hold back things neither of you will say here.

As you raise the microphone, the lights catch on your wrist. It’s brief, but his eyes fall to it anyway—to the charm bracelet that still clings to your skin, weathered but unbroken, a relic from another lifetime. His gaze darkens almost imperceptibly, and then, just as quickly, he drags his eyes away, up to your face. “Lee Jeno,” you say, your voice smooth as glass, the picture of professionalism. “Congratulations on your record-breaking season. Fastest player to reach 10,000 career points.”

He nods, his expression carved from stone, but there’s a flicker in his throat, the pulse jumping beneath his skin. “Thank you,” he answers, tight and clipped, the vowels sanded down to nothing.

Your breath catches at the edge of your throat, tight as wire, suspended in the space between what you see and what you let yourself feel. For a heartbeat too long, you hold it there, chest burning, like the silence itself is a noose you’ve been waiting to slip into. Then slowly, deliberately, you let the air escape, soft but sharp, your lungs aching as your gaze sinks to his hand. The gold band gleams under the harsh white of the arena lights, a quiet gleam that feels deafening, like a spotlight trained on your ribs, like it could burn right through the hollow of your chest. The bitter taste floods your mouth before you can swallow it down, metallic and rising like smoke from the ruin smouldering inside you. But you let the words spill free anyway, steady and precise, like pulling the trigger on a shot you’ve been aiming for years. “And congratulations on your engagement.”

His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering at the edge. He doesn’t meet your gaze. He doesn’t look at you at all. “Thank you,” he replies, again, just as sharp, just as hollow. His voice is a cage of iron around his ribs, and you wonder, just for a heartbeat, if it aches as much as yours does.

The camera pans away, slow and deliberate, pulling the moment out of frame like it never mattered. But before the silence can settle, you hear it — your name, raw and breaking on his tongue, thrown across the breathless space between you like a last attempt at tethering you to him. “Shut the fuck up,” you say, too sharp, too fast, your voice cutting clean through the tension as you keep your eyes fixed ahead, refusing to give him the mercy of your gaze. The quiet that follows is not relief, not closure, but a sharp absence, a vacuum between two people who once held galaxies in their hands and let them slip like water. He doesn’t call again. He stands there, frozen, watching you as if the distance closing between your back and the tunnel is the slowest death he’s ever known. But you don’t turn, you don’t break. You let the moment calcify, hard and cold, until it’s no longer a wound but a monument — something unspoken, something eternal. And though you leave without looking, you feel it hang in the air between you like breath suspended in winter, like a loop that never ends. As if every road he will ever walk is already written with your name, as if no matter how far he runs, how many years pass, how many cities swallow him whole, every path still circles back to you, as if destiny itself drags him back to you.

𝐅𝐈𝐍

(… read the authors note below lol cus i’m a liar we’re not finished yet)

authors note — …please don’t kill me. back to you is not ending here. i know i said this was the final chapter, but i lied. i had to make you believe it until you got to this note. there are at least three more chapters coming, time jump version. you’ll meet jaemin’s baby girl (yes ik that’s what will excite a lot of you) the real story is about to start now. love you all, and prepare yourselves properly because it’s going to get even worse. 🖤. i had to kinda lie (sorry) and say this was the final chapter as i realised that if you guys knew there’d be a time jump that would kinda spoil that jeno and y/n don’t end up together. i made the mistake of saying there’d be a time jump once, so yeah, i tried to conceal it :))

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

authors note —

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

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another-fantasy-world · 6 days ago

Text

Divine Possession

→ gods!AgathaRio x mortal!fem!reader

word count ~ 5.8k

summary: In a world where gods still walk unseen among mortals, you, a devout follower of the Goddess of Death suddenly found yourself pulled into another God’s embrace. Sparked by their past memories and spiteful rivalry, the Goddess of Lost and Forbidden Magic retaliates in the most haunting ways. Their presence always surrounded you, subtle and obsessive, blurring the line between worship and possession. As memories resurface and divine tension ignites, you must choose whether to break free, or surrender to the dark, intoxicating love of the goddesses who have always claimed you as theirs.

authors note: writing this was a fever dream. i thought about this idea while breaking down and it has haunted me ever since. i think i thought too much ideas and just smooshed it down into the fic, i sincerely apologize for the shitty transitions and rough flow.

content warning(s): blasphemous writing, unhealthy dynamics, implied dubcon, implied mind control, implied death, loss of control, shitty writing, non-canon compliance, shitty characterization. i mean it. i feel like this is really shitty-

tags: @saphiccarma

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All your life, you were taught that gods were dangerous.

Don’t insult them.

Don’t anger them.

Don’t draw their attention.

You listened. Everyone did. Like many in your village, you chose one god to worship.

Just one. Always just one.

Because to love more than one was an invitation to disaster. For Gods are obsessive creatures and catastrophes may happen when Gods fight over mortals. The old stories warned of it; of jealous gods, obsessive gods, divine tempers igniting mortal wars.

That’s what the legends said, anyway.

And gods never fight over someone like you.

Or so you believed.

How naive you were.

Well, it wasn’t as if the Goddess of Death would ever fight for someone like you.

You didn’t worship her for protection. You didn’t beg her to save you.

You worshipped her for the after.

While others feared death, or chased it with fanatical devotion, you offered something simpler. Gentler.

You never sacrificed bodies.

You offered silence.

You tended her temple’s edges like a gardener in mourning: clearing blood from the altar, straightening the candles, watering the wildflowers that grew, trimming the overgrown vines where no priest dared look.

You believed, deep down, that even Death longed for peace.

That she didn’t want to be worshipped with more death.

That she, too, remembered, perhaps even yearned for life.

That's what you believe in.

You were humble. Careful.

As much as you longed to meet your goddess, you had no desire to meet her early.

So you wandered. Never staying in one place too long.

But no matter how far you strayed, you always seemed to find her again, another temple, another altar, another quiet place to kneel and light a candle no one else would touch.

Your feet wandered, but your heart never did.

But on one such journey, something changed.

You found her shrine, old, forgotten, weather-worn and crumbling beneath ivy and time. It stood in the clearing of a forest no one remembered the name of. The villagers had whispered of strange things happening in those woods, of voices that didn’t echo, of shadows that lingered too long.

It wasn’t marked. No sigils, no name. Just a stone figure inside the crumbling walls, half-swallowed by moss and time, arms outstretched like she was still waiting.

You should’ve turned away. You shouldn’t have stopped. But something about the silence pulled you in. It was too still. Too patient. It wasn’t hollow, it was… watching.

She was watching.

Whoever she was, she'd been waiting a long, long time.

You told yourself it was just pity. That’s why you cleaned the dust from the old altar, picked up the shards of shattered offerings. Why you brushed the dust from her face, cleared the leaves, righted a toppled candle holder, lit a flame that burned violet for a second too long, flickered too slowly to be natural. You didn’t know her name. Only that something once lived here.

And apparently, something still did.

Things started to feel… wrong.

Not dangerous. Not yet. But wrong.

People started looking at you too quickly, then looking away faster, like they’d seen something they weren’t supposed to.

When you prayed at Lady Rio’s temple, the air around you felt charged, like the calm before a monsoon. A weight behind your spine, the prickle of static in the air, like the storm had grown curious.

There was always a weight behind you. A hush. The kind of silence that hums.

And when you were alone, you felt it.

Something stepping into your shadow.

A breath that wasn’t yours.

When you turned, there was nothing.

But then the glimpses started.

A woman with a face like twilight and eyes like secrets. Sometimes in the corner of your vision. Sometimes in your dreams. Always watching. She never speaks. Not at first. But you see her. She makes her presence known; bold and unapologetic.

Unseen, high above in the rafters of Rio’s temple, something ancient flickered into being; robes of storm clouds and nightfall, hair unbound and free, eyes like the space between stars.

“She’s mine, you know,” came a voice like laughter wrapped in silk, low and decadent

Rio lay sprawled across her obsidian throne, like a feline lying in wait, cheek resting in her palm as she smiled.

“She was never yours, darling. She just pitied you.”

Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “And yet I’m the one she lit a candle for.”

“Because you looked pathetic,” Rio purred.

“Dusty little thing rotting in a graveyard shrine. Honestly, I should thank her for dragging you back into existence.” Rio continued, laying back with a wide smirk, further provoking the other Goddess.

The walls trembled softly.

“Careful, Death. You might bore her to death before I can properly haunt her.”

“She already sees me.”

“She feels me.”

“She worshiped me first, you're clinging to her like a leech.”

Their standoff rippled like storm clouds colliding, but down below, you only shivered and pulled your cloak tighter. You looked up to the sky to see if it's going to rain, but instead you felt a shiver down your spine.

The sky felt wrong, you swear you saw flashes of violet and green yet when you blinked it was gone. You sighed tiredly, perhaps the journey was tiring you out.

No. Something was definitely so wrong.

At first, it was only sensations.

The smell of something burning when there is no fire was lit around you. The sound of a lullaby you didn’t know the words to curling at the edges of your dreams. You’d wake with ash on your fingertips, petals in your hair. One morning, you found a bloom tucked behind your ear; black as ink, soft as moth wings. You knew you hadn’t put it there.

Then came the whispers.

Not words. Just sound, like breath over your shoulder, like thunder murmuring too far away to fear. Sometimes it felt like laughter. Sometimes like someone was calling your name… but something swallowed it before it finished.

You tried to ignore it.

You tried to focus on your rites, tried to pray as you always had. But Rio’s temple grew colder. Her altars no longer bloomed for you like they used to. In fact, some gardens had mysterious flowers growing. Lavender, Clematis, Verbena and Aster. All violet flowers started peeking through. The candles flickered toward violet before settling into white. The shadows around her statues deepened. You knelt before her, heart bowed in devotion, and still felt like you were being watched by someone else entirely. You felt like something was pulling at your soul.

You didn’t know that far above, curled lazily on her throne of bone and obsidian, Rio watched with narrowed eyes.

“She’s pulling your prayers away from me,” she said aloud, though no one else could hear her.

Agatha materialized out of shadow, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeves. “You should’ve cleaned up better. You left her room to wonder.”

“She chose me.”

Agatha smirked, circling the throne like a storm ready to strike. “Oh, my love. Mortals are fickle beings. She’s curious. And I’m so very good at being interesting.”

“And when she burns under your touch? When you unravel her like you do everything you love?”

“She won’t fear me.”

“She should.”

Back in the waking world, you felt like you were living between two dreams. Between lightning and silence. You no longer knew who the offerings belonged to, flowers would wither at Rio's altar only for you to dream about flowers blooming in the forgotten altar you once cleaned. You’d close your eyes in a prayer to Rio and see violet flame behind your eyelids.

You felt as if someone was stealing your reverence and claiming it as theirs.

You started talking aloud. Not because you expected a reply, but because it made you feel less watched.

Sometimes, the shadows did respond.

One night, as you sat by your campfire, you whispered thanks to whatever unseen force had guided you through the storm earlier that day.

The wind shifted. The flames danced violet for just a moment.

“You’re welcome,” something whispered, something too close.

You didn’t sleep that night. In fact, you barely did.

And when you did sleep, you woke up in strange positions.

Once with your arms outstretched in prayer, though you didn’t remember kneeling. Another time with your back arched in a way that left you sore for days, like something had tried to puppeteer your body mid-dream.

You no longer dreamed of silence. Now, you dreamt of fire and cold, of stone temples cracking under violet lightning, of footsteps echoing in twin rhythms behind you. You spoke in your sleep. You murmured names you didn’t know.

You started hearing them when you were awake.

Not clearly. Not completely. But when you entered Rio’s temple , the air bent with sound. Voices like thunder underwater. Rio’s presence came with a teasing chill, curling around your shoulders like a lover’s shawl. The other god’s came like pressure behind your ribs, heat crawling down your spine.

One day, while lighting Rio’s candles, you felt something trace your jaw.

You dropped the match and whipped your head around, yet you saw nothing but shadows.

You looked down and noticed something that made you swallow with nervousness.

The flame didn’t go out.

Another time, as you walked past a mirror in an inn, your reflection paused a second longer than you did. The face behind yours, just for a flicker, wasn’t your own.

You stumbled back. Blinked. It was gone.

But the feeling remained: you were not alone. You were being watched, touched, wanted.

You then forced yourself to believe this. This feeling isn't normal. You don't chalk it up to coincidences anymore. You don't gaslight yourself anymore.

You needed answers, so you sought answers in the way mortals do when gods refuse to speak plainly: books.

You found yourself in the back halls of a hidden library, one that shouldn’t have been open that late, nestled deep in a town whose name already slipped your mind. Dust clung to your sleeves, cobwebs stretched like veins between the shelves. The candlelight you held flickered with every breath you took.

And then… a sound.

A thud behind you.

You turned. A book.

It had not been there a moment before.

There was no title. No author. No markings on its worn leather cover. Just a pulsing warmth, like something inside it still breathed.

Your fingers hesitated above the binding, but you opened it anyway.

The script inside was… wrong. Angular and fluid at once. Symbols that shifted when you weren’t looking directly at them. But as your eyes moved over the text, comprehension unfurled in your mind like a forgotten melody.

And the name burned itself into your thoughts.

Agatha.

It echoed like a bell through your ribs. A name that didn’t belong to Lady Rio. A name you had never heard, and yet it sank into your bones like it had always been waiting for you to speak it.

You snapped the book shut.

It disappeared the moment your hands left it, vanished into thin air like it had never existed.

But the knowledge remained.

Behind the veil of divinity, tensions rise just as they have been these past months.

“You're circling her like a starving dog,” Rio hissed, perched atop her throne of black marble and bone, one leg crossed with lazy elegance.

“She pities you. That’s all this is.”

Agatha’s smirk was slow, curling like smoke.

“And yet she whispered my name in her sleep.”

“She only learned your name because you haunt her dreams.”

Agatha took a step closer. The shadows around Rio’s throne twitched.

“She dreams of me because I left an impression. When was the last time she even offered you more than silence?”

“I don’t need her voice to know I own her heart…” Rio said, rising now, her presence flooding the space like velvet death. “...She belongs to me.”

“And yet she's slipping through your fingers,” Agatha growled, “And now she’s looking at me.”

“You just want to be worshiped. You want her to fill that hole where your relevance used to be.”

Agatha’s laugh was breathy and sharp, bitter with memory.

“At least I don’t keep her at arm’s length like a fragile doll on a shelf.”

“I keep her safe from monsters like you.” Rio spat back, sitting up on her throne, her posture akin to that of an agitated cat.

“You keep her lonely. You’re afraid she’ll love me more.”

“I know she will, if you twist her mind the way you twist everything else.”

Agatha was in her space now, toe to toe, violet magic humming at her fingertips.

Their magic crackled in the air, violet storms clashing with shadows laced in bone-white flame. Their lips were inches apart, their hatred wound so tightly it trembled with the promise of something else.

“Say it,” Agatha whispered.

“Say what?”

“That you can’t stand the way she looks at me.”

“I can’t stand that you make her tremble.”

“Then do something about it.”

And Rio did.

She shoved Agatha back against the wall of the realm with godly force, lips crashing against hers like a curse. Agatha clawed at her in return, sparks flying from her fingertips, bodies colliding in divine fury. Their mouths moved like war, like desperation, like worship and hatred had melted together.

Hands gripped hips. Teeth scraped skin. Magic flared, twisted, fused. They dragged each other to the ground, pulling and biting and gasping like two storms mating mid-air, thunder screaming in their blood.

It wasn’t love. Not yet.

It was too much history for love. Too much anger. Too many nights of yearning alone in different corners of the void.

But it was honest.

And when it ended, when they finally collapsed together on the floor of the realm, tangled in each other, breathless and shining with the aftermath, they didn’t speak. They just lay there.

Agatha’s fingers traced idle circles on Rio’s thigh. Rio’s cheek rested against Agatha’s bare shoulder, pretending not to enjoy the warmth.

It was… peaceful.

Until the veil trembled.

Their eyes snapped open.

They sat up together, slowly, as if hearing the same song carried on the wind.

A prayer.

Your voice.

Soft, trembling, but clear.

You spoke Agatha’s name aloud for the first time.

And then, Rio’s.

You offered them both a flame. You called both of them.

Agatha went still. Rio’s mouth parted slightly in disbelief.

“She knows me,” Agatha whispered.

“She chose me,” Rio murmured.

“No,” Agatha said, eyes wide with something terrified and divine, “she chose us.”

For a breathless moment, neither of them moved.

You, on the other hand, were breathless. Upon learning of the other God who haunted your dreams, You ran.

The sky above swirled in hues not yet born, clouds cracking with color that should not exist. You pushed forward anyway, until Rio’s temple towered before you, its spires piercing the night, its gates open with quiet welcome.

You stepped inside, breathless. The air inside was heavy, reverent.

You knelt at the altar like you always did.

You lit the candles like you always did.

But then, with a heart thundering like a traitor in your chest, you reached for a second candle.

Your hand hovered.

To speak the name of another god within a consecrated temple was blasphemy. You knew that. Every bone in your body screamed caution.

And yet… you whispered.

“Agatha.”

The flame sprang to life before you even touched the wick.

It burned deep violet.

You waited for the walls to tremble. For Rio’s wrath to crash down around you. But nothing came. Only silence.

Then… warmth.

From behind the veil, a rush of divine presence. Two forces, colliding in joy and disbelief. You felt it like sunlight breaking through a storm.

“Lady Agatha… Lady Rio…”

Your voice trembled, but you continued. You mumbled apologies, you mumbled thanks, you even cried yourself dry.

The moment you spoke, the air in the temple shifted. Every candle flared. The stones beneath your knees pulsed with energy. You felt their eyes, one heavy like storm clouds, the other cold and endless as the grave.

And for the moment, both were satisfied.

Time passed and the heat you felt around you as well as the shiver that settled in your bones disappeared, it was then replaced by a gentle warmth that seeped into your soul. As if comforting your very existence.

The stares you get when you enter the towns disappear. You fail to find more of Agatha's shrine. You fail to find more information, aside from her name. So you carry a small altar for her in your bag. You carved a small statue for her and Rio and brought them everywhere, setting them on the table in every inn or tavern to rest in, and when you needed to camp out, you set them up on a tree stump, or on the ground beside your makeshift bed.

You still felt their eyes on you, yet it made you feel safe. Animals began interacting with you, particularly bunnies. You began to wonder if Agatha is the Goddess of Bunnies, or animals.

When you thought of that, the trees waved with the sudden air, sending through it a sound like a boisterous laugh. Your eyes snapped to the makeshift altar for them both, witnessing first hand how Rio's candle danced as if she was laughing and how Agatha's candle flickered wildly, as if offended.

You quickly offer an apology before moving on.

The days had grown softer.

Not quieter, no, the presence of two goddesses at your back made silence a rare luxury, but softer. Warmer. You had become a thread sewn tightly between them. Every time you prayed, one answered. Sometimes both. And though you could not see them with your eyes, you felt them.

Rio in the shadows that cooled your skin as you walked beneath the sun.

Agatha in the sparks that danced at your fingertips when you lit candles that should’ve stayed cold.

You had been claimed.

You didn’t know what that truly meant yet, only that you woke up feeling watched but not alone. You felt cherished.

And today, the temple was quiet.

You wandered its halls with a broom in one hand and your thoughts in the other. The inner sanctum, where only the high priests were allowed, had recently been opened to you, though no one could say why, or even argue against it. They only stared when you passed, bowed a little too low, whispered your name like it was something sacred.

In that sanctum, you sighed in slight annoyance. You preferred it when you were a shadow. A cleaning shadow perhaps, but still. Just as you were wiping the walls, you noticed something behind a cracked panel of the wall.

It was at that moment wherein you found it.

A scroll, tucked between stones as if hidden in shame or desperation. Wrapped in velvet long faded, sealed with wax marked by an unfamiliar sigil; a triangle spiraled inwards, swallowing itself, absorbing, stealing.

Your fingers trembled as you unrolled it.

It was written in that same strange, shifting script you saw in the book that had revealed Agatha’s name to you. But this time, you understood it more clearly, like her power had taken root in your bones and begun translating the world for you.

"Agatha. Goddess of Forbidden Flame, of Magic Lost to Time.”

“She bore the stars in her blood and defied the divine order.”

“She who loved Death and was exiled for it."

You stopped breathing.

Your eyes flicked to the next line, burned, smudged, but still legible:

"When Death loved her back, the world trembled."

Behind you, the air cooled.

“Nosy little thing,” came a voice behind you; low, silken, lazy.

You turned slowly.

Agatha leaned against the stone doorframe, arms crossed, amusement dancing in her starlight eyes.

“Should’ve hidden it better,” you murmured, voice shaking just a little.

“She didn’t hide it,” Rio replied, stepping in from the other side like a shadow stitched to your thoughts. “I did.”

There was no anger in her voice. Only memory.

You looked between them. You should've fallen to your knees, yet you found yourself unable to

“You two were…” You hesitated.

“You were lovers.”

Agatha’s eyes flicked to Rio’s. Rio held her gaze, unreadable.

“We were more,” Agatha said finally, voice raw with something old.

“We were the beginning of the end. The natural order of things and the divine order of all things.”

“The gods didn’t like that,” Rio added, moving close to you, her hand brushing your arm, grounding you.

“They feared what might happen if Death and Ancient Magic stopped obeying the rules” Agatha said.

“So they pried us apart, took advantage of my weakness. they buried me. Erased me. And left her alone.”

You turned to her slowly. “But I found you.”

Agatha smiled, something fragile flickering behind her usual sharpness.

“You lit my shrine, you woke me up, breathed me a new life” she whispered.

“And you searched for me, remembered me.”

You stepped forward, between them, and for a moment,just a moment,they both looked at you like you were the bridge between what was and what could be.

You reached for their hands.

Agatha’s was warm, tingling with power like static in the air.

Rio’s was cold, steady, anchoring.

They twined their fingers around yours like they’d been waiting.

And in that quiet room filled with ancient secrets and the crackle of something forbidden, you felt the weight of their bond settle around you like a crown.

The three of you remained quiet, words cease to have importance in this moment where their hands clutch your own like their lifeline.

You stayed like that for a few moments until they felt faint, their existence fading into the night. No more words were said, only quiet understanding that you were theirs. And you wanted nothing more than that.

There wasn't a grand spectacle about it. Rio didn't send a prophecy to her high priests about treating you better, nor did she do anything to put you in the spotlight. You went on with your life, as normal as it can be with two goddesses watching your every move.

After that meeting you had with them, something shifted once again.

They began seeing you more. They began descending into the mortal plane just for you.

Something whispered in you that this isn't normal, but that thought vanished before you could fully acknowledge it.

One time, You had fallen ill somewhere between towns, curled up beneath a tree with a fever, too weak to light a fire. You remembered shivering, calling out softly, half in prayer, half in delirium. You didn’t even say a name. You just whispered, “Please.”

The next thing you knew, warmth enveloped you. Not heat from a fire, but something more subtle, like a hand pressed to your cheek, like someone tucking a blanket around your soul. You heard a voice humming low, too far away to make out, but the melody stayed with you when you woke.

There were two things beside you: a bowl of warm broth, still steaming and a single violet flower tucked beneath your head like a pillow.

The next day, you felt better. You travelled until you reached a village. It was a feast day in the village, and they left a plate at your door, set delicately, reverently. You hadn’t told them where you’d be, you haven't even settled down yet, but they’d found you anyway.

The food was familiar. Your favorites. Berries you hadn’t tasted since childhood, roasted roots the way your mother used to make, still steaming.

Tucked beneath the napkin: a note, written in two hands.

One sharp and slanted: “Eat. You forget to care for yourself.”

The other, more fluid: “We remember what you love, even when you do not.”

That night, two figures stood beneath the tree outside your window. They never should've come in. But you left the window open.

You were exhausted after the long walk, and you just collapsed on the bed, still a little sick. You didn’t think they’d follow, but they did. Who were they to resist the temptation you gave them after all?

“I’ll take the floor,” you said upon noticing their arrival, since the inn only had one bed, you refused to let your goddesses be uncomfortable with you.

Agatha’s scoff was soft.

“No, you won’t.”

Rio simply lifted the blankets.

“Lie in the middle, dove.”

You did.

One of them was fire, the other ice. But together, they wrapped around you like divinity, one arm draped over your waist, the other fingers brushing your collarbone, as though grounding themselves in your warmth.

You fell asleep like that.

And though neither slept, they remained there, watching, breathing, anchoring themselves to you like twin moons around a single sun.

The next morning, the plate was gone, and in its place, a single white lily bound in a ribbon scorched at the edge.

Moments like that kept happening. You would be cleaning Rio's temple and Agatha would appear beside you, dressed in what Rio's priests would wear, she kept you company until you had to leave. You would be in a random forest and Rio would pop out of nowhere dressing in a forest green robe, holding a bunch of flowers tied crudely with twine. You swore you saw a flicker of skeleton beneath her robe which made her smirk.

They would pop out of the shadows in the most unexpected moments, their eyes would never leave your form, and their hands never cease to lay claim on you.

Years pass with this dynamic of yours. Unusual, and divine. Yet you have gotten used to it. You even started cooking three meals in case they descend to eat with you. You started paying more for inns, getting a bigger bed for when they join you while you sleep.

What you have with the two Gods isn't conventional. Hell, if the priests knew, you'd be burned for blasphemy. Yet you're content. Just being with them. They're enough, and when there's just the three of you, you feel complete.

Until the peace was once again shattered unceremoniously.

It began with a whisper.

Not a sound, no, deeper than that. A tremor in your bones. A pulse that wasn’t your own.

You were in the garden of Rio’s temple, tending to violets that bloomed under moonlight, when the air changed. It wasn’t Rio. It wasn’t Agatha.

It was too smooth.

Too perfect.

Too new.

Your fingers stilled in the soil. Your breath hitched.

Then came the pressure, like someone brushing too close behind you. A voice, not in your ears, but in your blood:

"You don’t belong to them, little one."

You flinched.

"They will consume you. Break you. I can give you more."

"Worship me."

The seduction in the voice was oily, sweet. Like honey turned bitter.

You stepped back, heart racing.

And then the world shifted

Beyond the veil, across the divine plane, the gods felt it.

The Witch was awake.

Death was in love.

And a mortal bound them both.

They feared what it meant.

Two of the oldest, most feared goddesses tethered by a single mortal, who now knew their names.

One god tried to intervene. Curious. Arrogant. She sent down an echo of himself: golden, warm, coaxing. She offered power, immortality, and freedom.

But Agatha felt it first.

And Rio followed.

There were no grand declarations. No heavenly trumpets.

Only silence, and then ruin.

Agatha appeared like an unraveling spell, barefoot in the heart of the divine court. Her eyes burned with violet fire, ancient sigils swirling in her cloak. She smiled with teeth that remembered betrayal.

Rio came quietly, a shadow trailing beside the end of time. Her footsteps turned divine marble to obsidian. She spoke no words. She didn’t need to.

The court stilled. Even the winds dared not howl.

The god who dared lure you stood tall at first. Cloaked in celestial gold. But as Agatha raised her hand, the stars around her flickered, dimmed, and died.

She spoke only once:

“Mine.”

And then she struck.

Not with fire or thunder, but with the quiet, devastating finality of forgotten magic.

The god crumbled, first her pride, then her form, stripped of light and voice, unmade and scattered across the ether.

Rio laid a single hand over the place her throne had once stood.

Everything under it rotted.

Not destroyed. Not ended. Preserved, a warning.

The pantheon did not interfere.

They watched.

And they trembled.

Because they understood:

Agatha and Rio were not Gods.

Not rulers.

Not ascended.

They were a threat. They can never be bound by rules.

A sleeping storm that stirred only when challenged. A balance no god dared tip again.

On Earth, you felt it like thunder rolling under your skin.

The wind howled once. The bells of Rio’s temple rang on their own. The air turned thick and reverent.

And then… they came.

Agatha, swirling in dark silk and dusklight. Her eyes no longer hidden behind dreams, she looked at you like you were the spell that summoned her back into being.

Rio, calm and quiet, but the space around her bent like the world had to make room for her presence.

They didn’t kneel.

They didn’t demand.

They simply… looked at you.

You didn’t know what you were supposed to do. So you did what your soul whispered:

You lit a candle.

You whispered both their names.

And in the space between heartbeats, you felt them press into your world, not as gods to be worshipped,

but as powers too old to name, too dangerous to lose.

Agatha stepped forward, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

“They tried to take you.”

Rio’s voice was soft. “They won’t try again.”

You nodded, not knowing what you’d become, but sensing it all the same.

And the gods, far above, in their broken thrones,

watched the mortal girl between Death and Arcane,

and said nothing.

Because the next time they speak her name,

it might be their last.

Yet the Gods offered one last act of rebellion. They made you remember.

Something snapped in you, like rope that wound too tight. Silence then wrapped around the temple as your eyes glazed over.

The silence was heavy like a storm long held at bay. The kind of quiet that made your thoughts feel too loud.

You stood in front of the altar, the moonlight casting silver on the black marble. The scent of lavender still clung to your skin, a gift from Rio. The warmth in your bones still hummed from Agatha’s protective spell, cast after she caught you shivering hours ago.

So much care. So much gentleness.

And yet,

It wasn’t normal.

“I remember now.”

You gripped the edge of the table, the satin sheets crumple beneath your grip

“You’ve been… playing with my mind.”

Your voice didn’t tremble. Not this time.

Behind you, a soft exhale. Fabric shifting.

“You weren’t supposed to remember yet,” Rio said.

Agatha appeared in the reflection behind you. Her expression unreadable. Beautiful. Dangerous.

“We didn’t take your will,” she murmured. “Only softened the edges. Gave you time to love us properly.”

“I trusted you.”

“You still can.”

You turned.

“How can I?”

Agatha stood with her arms loose at her sides, like a flame resisting the urge to spread. Rio stepped forward but kept her distance, reverent in her restraint.

“I was afraid,” you said. “I thought I was going mad. Waking up in places I didn’t remember walking to. Hearing your voices in my dreams. Always feeling safe, but never knowing why. Like a glorified plaything. A toy for your amusement.”

Rio’s gaze flickered. Agatha looked almost… mournful.

“You were unraveling,” Rio said. “We had to protect what was ours.”

“And am I yours?” you asked, voice low. “Because I don’t remember ever agreeing to something.”

Agatha stepped closer. Slowly. Like approaching a wild animal. “No,” she whispered. “But we prayed you would.”

“And if I hadn’t?”

Rio didn’t blink. “We would’ve waited another lifetime. I'm sure I can pull some…strings.”

The silence broke something in you. Not because you were afraid anymore, but because you finally understood.

The kindness. The attention.

The way no one else dared touch you in the temples. The way your pain was always soothed before you could cry out.

They had shaped your life like sculptors in the dark.

And yet…

You weren’t broken.

You stepped into the space between them.

You looked Agatha in the eyes, then Rio.

Gods. Monsters. Lovers.

“You should’ve let me remember sooner,” you whispered.

Agatha reached out, almost afraid to touch you. “Will you leave us?”

You shook your head. “No. I think… I think I wanted to love you from the start.”

Rio closed the last inch of space, her hand brushing yours.

“Then let us stop beating around the bush.” She laughed softly at her own joke, but her voice had gone low, velveted with want.

Agatha leaned in, her breath warm against your ear. “And let us worship you properly.”

Your nod was quiet. Absolute.

This time, it wasn’t because they willed it.

It was because you did.

Their mouths were on you in the next breath, Agatha’s lips hungry against your throat, Rio’s hands ghosting over your hips like a stormcloud choosing where to break. You gasped, caught between them, your body already humming like a divining rod between gods.

Agatha’s fingers threaded through your hair as she tilted your head, baring your neck. She kissed you like a spell; deep, consuming, slow. The burning of the mark she placed on you was quickly forgotten as you moaned into her, and Rio answered by slipping behind you, her palm trailing up your abdomen, undoing the bindings of your robes with a reverence that bordered on cruelty.

“Look at you,” Rio whispered, her voice hoarse, fingers gliding over your bare skin. “Still so soft. Still ours.”

Agatha broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, “I’ve waited centuries to taste you like this.”

And you let them. Let them mark you with lips and tongues, hands and heat. Let them press you down to the temple floor as your breath turned ragged and their names fell from your lips like prayer.

You didn’t know whose mouth was on your chest, whose fingers curled inside you, only that it burned, divine and primal all at once, like something sinister being carved into something holy.

You arched, trembling, as pleasure wracked through you in waves. Agatha’s voice coaxed you through it, dark and full of longing. “That’s it, dove. Let go. Let us have you.”

Rio bit into your shoulder, not enough to hurt, but enough to stake her claim, her own mark settled into your skin. Her voice was wind and hunger. “You were always meant to belong to us.”

And you did.

Body and breath.

Blood and bone.

When they finally pulled you into their arms, tangled and bare and shaking, the stars outside the temple shifted,

as if even the sky had been waiting for this.

#flor writes #agatha harkness x reader #agathario x reader #agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader #rio vidal x reader

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ssweeterthanfiction · 16 days ago

Text

Glimpse Of Us

summary: routine became something finnick cherished. but course, the capitol must ruin everything, including his love. but he will still find a way to get her back.

finnick odair x fem!reader

content warnings for the whole story: descriptions of death, torture, starvation, and everything described in The Hunger Games, mentions of suicidal thoughts, implications of S/A

mood board + playlist

previous part | masterlist | next part

Chapter VI

District 13 is a machine.

Everything is efficient. Predictable. Cold.

Finnick had never known silence like this.

It’s nothing like the warmth of your voice in the morning, or the way your laughter used to cut through even the worst moments in the arena like sunlight. And now…it’s all gone.

Finnick sits on the edge of the cot in his assigned room — if you could even call it that. The walls are sterile, gray. The cot is too stiff. There’s no window. No sound but the soft humming of the ventilation above. No air, either. Not the kind you can really breathe.

He hasn’t spoken to anyone since they arrived. Hasn’t eaten. Not really. Just pushed food around his plate during meal calls until someone stopped watching him.

He’s not sure how long he’s been here. A day? Two? More?

Time feels irrelevant when you're stuck in a loop of silence and wondering if the person you love is still alive.

He stares down at his hands, fingers clasped together like he's praying, but there’s nothing left to pray to. Nothing that could help. His knuckles are red from clenching too tightly, nails bitten to the quick. His wrists still ache from the impact of the explosion, though he hasn’t let anyone look at them. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

Not without you.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees it, the arena exploding in a blinding storm of light, the wire snapping loose, the sound of the world cracking open beneath him. And worse, the memory of not seeing you. Not knowing where you were when everything fell apart.

His heart beats too loud in the silence.

He hasn’t cried since the hovercraft. It’s like the grief got trapped in his throat and never left, lodged there like a shard of glass. He can’t sleep. Can’t stop picturing your face, your eyes, wide and terrified; your voice calling his name, except he’s not sure if that part really happened or if his brain is just trying to torture him.

He barely notices the knock on the door.

It opens anyway. Haymitch steps in, looking worn down and ragged in a way Finnick has never seen before. He pauses when he sees Finnick hunched forward, elbows on his knees, unmoving.

“You should eat,” Haymitch says softly.

Finnick doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed on the floor.

“We’re going to start working on a plan to get them back,” Haymitch adds, voice gentler this time.

Still nothing.

Haymitch sighs. “You can’t fall apart now, kid. She’d want you-”

“Don’t,” Finnick says sharply. His voice is hoarse from disuse, a knife’s edge buried in the word. “Don’t say what she would want. You don’t know.”

Haymitch falls quiet, his face tightening with something like understanding. But he doesn't push it. He leaves the tray on the desk and quietly backs out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

As soon as he’s gone, Finnick exhales, trembling.

His eyes flicker to the tray. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t care.

He leans back against the wall, lets his head fall back and closes his eyes. It’s safer there, in the dark, where he can imagine that maybe you’re okay. That maybe they’re keeping you alive because they know how valuable you are. Your beauty. Your voice. Maybe that’s buying you time.

But he knows how the Capitol works.

They’ll break you.

They’ll take the things you’re most afraid of and twist them until they become your reality. And you...soft-hearted, strong-willed, terrified of abandonment and pain, you’ll be alone in that cold place, thinking he left you. Thinking he couldn’t save you.

The thought makes his stomach turn. He grips the sheets beneath him, trying to breathe through the panic that rises.

You’re going to think I gave up on you.

You’re going to think I left you to die.

His eyes sting with the tears he can’t let fall. Not again.

If he lets them come now, he’s afraid he won’t be able to stop.

Instead, he leans forward again, burying his face in his hands.

It’s silent.

You’re gone.

And he’s still here. Breathing without you. Living without you. In a place that doesn’t feel real, where the walls are closing in and everything hurts in ways he doesn’t know how to put into words.

He stays like that until the lights in the room dim for curfew, and even then, he doesn't move.

He just sits there.

Waiting.

For a sign.

A plan.

A voice.

A miracle.

For you.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

He loses track of how long he’s sitting there.

At some point, the lights go out completely. Total blackness washing over the room like a tide, leaving nothing but the shallow sound of his breathing and the pounding in his ears. Normally he’d be comforted by the quiet. But not tonight.

Because you hate the dark.

The memory flashes through his mind like a bolt of lightning. You, curled into his side in your shared bed back in Four, whispering how the lights going out makes your chest feel tight. That it reminded you of nights back arena, trapped in silence and waiting for something bad to happen. He used to tease you gently, offer a hand to hold until you smiled. It always worked.

Now there’s no one to hold your hand.

No one to tell you it’ll pass.

Only the Capitol.

A soft whimper escapes him before he can stop it.

***

The storm is crashing outside you home in Victors Village.

The lights had gone out in the middle of the storm. He’d lit a few candles. You were curled in his bed, tucked under one of his sweaters with your knees pulled to your chest.

You hated storms.

He’d climbed in beside you and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Your voice was soft, muffled by the fabric of his shirt. “I know it’s stupid. But when the lights go out and the thunder starts... it feels like I’m back there again.”

“It’s not stupid,” he’d whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I don’t like it either.”

“Really?”

“Really. When I was a kid, I used to think the ocean was going to swallow the whole house. Every time a wave hit the rocks, I’d flinch.”

You laughed gently at that, the sound barely audible over the rain. “You’re not scared of anything.”

He pulled the blanket tighter around both of you. “I’m scared of this,” he admitted. “Of losing this.”

You turned in his arms to look at him, your eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. “Then don’t.”

“I’m trying,” he whispered.

That was the last thing you said before you fell asleep in his arms, the thunder still rolling, the storm still raging, but his hand laced with yours under the covers like a lifeline.

***

His fingers tremble as he presses them to his lips. You must be terrified. You must think you’re alone. He imagines you sitting in a dark room just like this, stripped of everything that made you feel safe, your friends, your dignity, your light.

He forces himself to lie down, not because he’s tired, but because it hurts to sit upright anymore. The cot feels colder than before. He turns on his side, curling toward the wall like he used to curl around you at night, desperate for the illusion that you’re still here, that maybe if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

You’re not.

Sleep doesn’t come. His thoughts race too fast. He imagines what the Capitol might be doing to you, forcing you into interviews, showing you footage of him, telling you lies. Torturing you in ways that leave no bruises, just broken pieces of who you used to be.

He blinks up at the ceiling, eyes burning. His chest aches in that same place where he used to feel your heartbeat against his. The storm back then had scared you, but now, it’s him who’s terrified. Because he doesn’t know where you are.

Doesn’t know if you’re warm. Or safe. Or alive.

And there’s no candlelight to chase away the fear.

Just the dark.

Just the memory of you, trembling and soft in his arms, whispering that you hated being alone in the dark, and now that’s exactly where the Capitol has left you.

Alone. Terrified. Without him.

Finnick turns on his side, pressing his face into the pillow, his body curling like it had that night. But now his arms are empty. His body is shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the silence.

“I should’ve protected you.”

🌊 .·:¨🌊🐚🌊¨:·. 🌊

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps.

Minutes. Hours. Maybe not at all. The dreams, if they come, are short and cruel. Flickers of your smile through smoke. Your laughter morphing into screams. Blood in your hair. Chains on your wrists. The sound of your voice calling for him just as he wakes up.

Every time he jolts up gasping, there’s no one there. Just the same four walls. Just the same air he can’t seem to breathe.

He showers because someone makes him. He eats a piece of bread because Katniss sits beside him at breakfast and doesn’t say a word until he does. He walks the halls because Coin ordered daily movement to keep everyone "functioning." But Finnick doesn’t feel human. He’s just...drifting.

Existing in the shape of a man who used to have something worth fighting for.

Now all he has is guilt.

When he returns to his room one afternoon, there’s a piece of paper slipped under his door. His heart races. For a moment, he thinks, maybe it’s you, maybe they found something, maybe you're alive and someone knows.

But it’s just a memo from Plutarch.

Updates on a possible rescue timeline. No names. No promises. Just vague hope dressed up in military language.

Finnick crumples it in his fist.

He stares at the door. At the desk. At the cot. At the dent in the wall from where he punched it the night he realized you were gone.

He can’t do this.

He stands up suddenly, heart pounding, muscles tight with something he can’t name. Rage. Grief. Panic. It’s all bleeding together now. He storms out of his room barefoot, ignoring the cold floor beneath his feet, and walks.

Fast. No direction. Just away.

He ends up in the supply hallway.

That long, echoing corridor no one ever seems to use. He collapses against the wall and slides down to the floor. His head tips back. His breathing is shallow.

He thinks of your hands.

How small they looked in his. How you used to thread your fingers through his when you were nervous. How you clung to him in the arena that last night before everything exploded.

He presses his palms together like you’re still holding them.

He talks to the air like maybe it’ll carry the words to you.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers.

“I don’t know how to breathe without you. I don’t know how to sleep in that bed. I don’t know how to eat food that you’ll never taste again. I don’t know how to be without you, and I know that makes me weak, but I-I don’t care. I’d rather be weak with you than strong in this goddamn place where everyone thinks I’m fine just because I’m still standing.”

His voice cracks.

He curls in on himself, arms wrapped around his knees like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I need you.”

The words are so quiet, they disappear the second they leave his lips.

That night, he skips dinner. Again.

He curls up on the cot in his undershirt and tries not to think. It doesn’t work.

His thoughts are full of you. You brushing your teeth in one of his oversized shirts. You humming while you washed your face. You stealing the covers. You pressing your cold feet to his calves to make him yelp. You dancing in the kitchen when you thought no one was watching.

You.

Alive.

Free.

Happy.

Now you're in a cage.

Now you're alone.

Now you're hurting, and he’s here, helpless.

He lets out a sob and bites down on the pillow to muffle it. It feels like dying slowly, this kind of missing you. Like his ribs are closing in. Like his heart is starving.

He doesn’t sleep just yet.

He just waits.

Waits for a name. A sign. A voice on the intercom saying: We have them.

But it never comes.

🌊 .·:¨🌊🐚🌊¨:·. 🌊

At some point, the tiredness of feeling pain takes him.

It pulls him under like the tide. Slow, steady, inevitable.

He doesn’t fight it this time.

And for once, his dreams don’t start with fire.

They start with the sea.

He’s standing on the shore. The sand is warm beneath his feet. The sun is low, turning the sky gold and violet. Waves kiss the shoreline in gentle laps, and in the distance, gulls cry out across the wind.

He breathes. Really breathes.

The salt air tastes like home.

And then he hears it.

Your laugh.

He turns before he even realizes what he’s doing, heart leaping in his chest.

You’re there.

Barefoot in the surf, smiling at him like you never left. Like the Capitol never touched you. Like the world hasn’t ended.

You tilt your head, playful. “You coming in, or what?”

He chokes on your name.

It falls from his mouth like prayer. Like forgiveness.

You reach out your hand.

And gods, he runs.

The water soaks through his clothes, but he doesn’t care. He crashes into you like he’s been drowning and you’re the only air left. His arms wrap around you, and you laugh again, breathless, spinning in the water with him.

It’s warm. It’s real.

He presses his forehead to yours. His voice shakes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t save you.”

You shake your head softly, cupping his jaw with wet fingers. “You’re still fighting. That’s how you save me.”

His throat burns.

You reach up, brushing your lips over his cheek, like you’re memorizing him.

“I knew you’d find me,” you whisper.

He swallows hard. “I’m going to.”

“I know,” you say. “But you have to wake up now.”

“What?”

You smile. Soft. Sad.

“They’re coming to tell you something.”

He grips your hands tighter. “Please don’t go-”

“I’m always with you, Finnick.” you tap two fingers to his chest. “Right here.”

The wind shifts.

The sun dims.

"I won't ever forget you, Finnick."

And suddenly, you’re gone.

He’s standing alone in the water, waves lapping at his knees, empty arms aching where you used to be.

He jerks awake with a gasp.

For a second, he doesn’t know where he is.

Then the gray walls come into focus. The cot. The silence. District 13.

His hand is still pressed to his chest where you touched him.

A soft knock at the door breaks the quiet.

Finnick sits up slowly. His heart is racing.

The door creaks open.

Haymitch.

He looks serious. Pale.

But behind the tension in his jaw, there’s something else too.

Hope.

“They’ve made contact,” Haymitch says. “We think we know where she is.”

Finnick’s breath catches.

And for the first time in days, something sparks in his chest.

Not just pain.

Fire.

A/N: okay goodnight

Taglist: @jacaeryslover @sundawn1990 @redama @noodleisodd @amara-mars @lovemyself-m-k @goosy-goose @potao-o @womenkisser05 @arsonistlizard @iguanagwen @lover-rep-fanfic @tatumrileyslover @kimarii-00 @shuri-my-love @saleyeniu @succulent-ruler6 @aphxdea @humongousrunawaytiger @herbal-tea-and-manga @1i1winter @echoingrainydays @technicallyspookymoon @smthabsolutelyunhinged @yeah-idk-either @moon-zoons @shutendoji22 @thatoneamericanblonde @syd649 *if you'd like to be included in this taglist lmk in the replies!

#finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #hunger games finnick #finnick #thg finnick #finnick x reader #finnick fanfic #thg finnick odair #finnick odair imagine #thg series #thg fanfiction #the hunger games #mockingjay #sam claflin x reader #sam claflin #isa’s thoughts

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littlelovelunette · 3 months ago

Note

vi x reader, where reader breaks a glass or smth, and vi walks in as she’s scrambling to pick up the pieces and panicking, because in her past her parents would hit her for that, maybe her hands are shaking and she keeps cutting herself picking it up and apologizing and asking vi not to punish her? some angst and some comfort and vi being really sweet

Pieces Of You

I've been through this first-hand so I know what it's gonna be like with that sort of trauma. Hope it's upto your standardsss

Contains parental abuse mentions, trauma, little blood mentions, r!anxious

Every moment of your life has been tainted with the memories of being abused by your parents, that's how their mistreatment towards you shaped the way you viewed the world and viewed others.

It was no different when you entered the relationship with Vi, especially given her hot-headed personality and short temper at pretty much everything and everyone. Although, she reassured you that you were the one person she would never physically hurt intentionally, you found that hard to believe because growing up, after every beating you took from your parents they told you “Hurting you hurts me, but it's for your own good.”

Was having scars and bruises all over your body for your own good?

Of course, it comes with a whine batch of insecurities alongside trauma. But now you have to deal with your oversensitivity in absolutely everything, even the normal things in the Undercity.

When Vi persuaded you to move in with her due to the lack of safety at your own house even as an adult, you hesitated at first wondering if you'd be a burden to her. It's not like you didn't have a job, you did, just too traumatized by the people you've lived with for 21 years now.

You were making coffee for Vi, leaned against the counter as you stirred silently. It was early in the morning, the chirping of birds filled your senses, the only sound of the quiet apartment.

Vi was in the bedroom barely awake as she forced herself to dress up since she always slept nude.

As you finished making the coffee, you took the spoon out, leaving it by the sink and picked the mug up, gasping as the knuckle of your forefinger touched the hot surface of the mug.

The pain was severe and you couldn't keep your balance, it all happened within seconds. You dropped the mug and jumped away as the coffee spilled and the glass mug shattered all over the floor.

“Baby, you okay?” Vi's voice was a distant, dull sound to your ears.

You were glad the coffee hadn't touched your skin and burnt you but then, it was as if your parents were right there, you could hear their yells and screams at you for messing everything up.

With a soft sigh, you pulled your hair back and out of your face before kneeling down and starting to pick the shards of glass up, your hands shaking from the effort you were putting to try to contain your tears.

Soft footsteps grew closer and Vi was immediately at the doorway, her previous drowsy state replaced with alarm and worry, “Baby,” she took in the view, “What happened?”

“S-s-slipped,” you stuttered and tried to pick a few more shards of glass up from the ground but the sharp edges of the glass caused scratches and cuts on your fingers and palm, even though they were small they still stung.

A particularly harsh bit of the glass made a deep enough cut to make a few droplets of blood trickle down and onto the floor, staining it red.

“Baby, i-” Vi raised her hands so she could pull her sleeves back and help you pick the glasses up safely.

Seeing her raising those muscular arms immediately made all those images flash through your mind when you got hit and smacked because of accidentally breaking things around the house.

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” You managed to croak out through your now building sobs and sniffles, “It was an accident! Please, don't hurt me…” the last bit was more of just you mouthing the words out because your throat felt so constructed due to the heaviness of your emotions. You couldn't even speak.

This was when she was supposed to hit you because you were crying and sobbing on the ground instead of picking up the pieces of glass scattered on the floor and cleaning up, and in the end she was supposed to hit you. Or at least you thought that's what would've happened.

Your eyes closed tightly but then you only felt yourself being pulled into Vi’s chest as she caressed your hair in the mdot gentle manner ever like no one's ever done before. “I'm not them.” She said, soothingly, she knew. She always knew.

“You won't get mad at me? I made a mess…” you mumbled in her chest and she laughed a soft laugh before pulling you in for a tighter hug, “Oh, you idiot. Of course not. Accidents happen.”

For a moment Vi didn't say anything and just held you close while her fingers laced through the silky locks of your hair. “I'm not them, okay? I won't get mad at you for such trivial matters.” Vi pulled back just to plant a kiss on your forehead before she tsked at the sight of your punctured finger. “That's gonna need a band-aid.”

You smiled through your tears. “I love you…”

“I love you too, angel.”

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spurbleu · 3 months ago

Text

where the aster grows

neighbor!price x fem florist!reader

ch.1 bookmarks s. you take up the bouquet

The sky wears blue to your grandmother’s funeral

Memories of yesterday’s rain remain as dew on the grass shards of the cemetery, but the sky gives nothing away. Robin egg belly, sun peaks from behind thinning clouds, and the crisp air denies downpour.

There’s plenty of irony, here. Every fiction iteration of death leads you to believe that nature cries with you, feeding the oceans and the dirt she returns to. And by all accounts of your Ma, who at the ripe age of 87 still jumped in puddles, rain had restorative properties. What about your grief had convinced nature not to join?

Perhaps you had enough for the both of you.

Your father graciously accepts the condolences as people file out into the parking lot. Even from where you stand, you can see the mulberry beneath his eyes, paling ears. At a certain age you forgot his fragility. Found it again as you drove him home after the last visit, offering the tissues in the front compartment. It was the first time you’d seen him cry. You’re nearly 35.

He joins you by the fresh grave once everyone had left. Her coffin is closed, and you think that’s for the best. The morbid curiosity died a long time ago. He doesn’t look at you, and you struggle with your words. You eventually settled with,

“Wanna get dinner? On me.”

His response starts with a sigh. When he faces you, you wish you were five again, when you didn’t recognize misery when it meets your eyes.

“Yeah.”

The hostess gave you a look. It falls somewhere between questioning the formal (albeit bleak) clothes you woreto their hole in the wall diner, or figuring out the relationship between you and man across from you.

The reality is it was a seven-minute walk from the cemetery, and was the cheapest place in the area.

As for your father, he looks young for having a middle-aged daughter. You were a college baby. Your mom didn’t want the responsibility, but your father lacked the iron fist to change his mind on raising you alone. You’ve seen how guilt stamps itself to the print of his loafers for the trivial mistakes. Your absence would eat him alive.

You chew your noodles in a practiced silence. It comes as a surprise to you when your father is the one to break it.

“Your grandma was still working when she died.”

You pause mid-bite. “The…she still kept the old thing?”

Your Ma, after her retirement and just before your grandfather’s too-early departure to the grave, bought a floral shop. You’d visit them for weeks, sharing their flat in Liverpool and helping around the shop while your father worked. Once Pops passed, Ma offered you a paid position as an assistant. You took the job without the salary.

However, when you went to college, you had to quit. She understood- but said she couldn’t hire someone outside of the family. “Wouldn’t feel right”. You had assumed the shop dwindled with her age, and that it had been lost to time and some expensive construction project. But…

Your father laughs. “You’d be surprised. That ‘old thing’ kept a handful of cliental. Still running now.”

You stutter. The image of your grandmother, arthritis bows and yellowing teeth, giving flowers to a sweaty teen in February makes your eyes water. You take another bite to swallow the feeling.

“She never lost her charm, did she.”

He shook his head. He took out a folded piece of apple slice paper, and under the dim lights of the restaurant you see her cursive in browning ink.

You look at him over your water glass. He confirms your hunch when he purposely avoids your eyes.

“Dad I can’t-“

He slides the letter to you. “I know. It’s up to you. but you wouldn’t inherit any debt. She owned the property. It comes with her old house, above it. And…”

He doesn’t say you’re jobless, but you hear it anyway. With your recent ‘let go’, you needed something to pay the bills if you wanted a roof over your head. The English major has really only brought you to libraries and we appreciate your application but emails. Your sigh makes your chest cave.

“I’ll think about it.”

The misery in his eyes is replaced by hope. You wish you hadn’t put it there.

“Great.”

The letter wilts on your desk for three days. You procrastinate opening it- not because you haven’t come to an answer, but because it’s the last remaining piece of Ma you have. It would be like unwrapping a limited-edition action figure or leaving an antique on the edge of the table.

You risk losing what made it so special to begin with. The choice to give an object mortality or permanence.

Your hands shake when you peel the stamp.

Missy,

When you read this, I will have finally kicked the bucket. Pops had always been the patient one, between the two of us, but I think he’s waited long enough.

I know you’ve got a lot on your hands. But the shop and house are yours when I’m gone, if you choose to have it. It’d kill your father, if I gave it to him. Don’t think he knows how to feed the flowers, and I can’t have them all dying on me. I’ve got a reputation to uphold. Think it’d just make him miss me, too. I gave birth to such a sap.

Keep him steady for me, will you? You’ll be just fine, I know it. I swear you were born with two green thumbs- if anyone knows how to keep my petunias, it’s you. And if you don’t take the shop, I want you to sell it. Your father has a notoriously bad sense of character.

Love you heaps and heaps and a pebble more,

You better miss me,

Ma.

You’re weeping when you text your dad for the key and address.

Although it is cliché, walking into the store feels like you never left.

citrus oil. tepid rain. chipping paint.

The store architecture is a family secret.

The room was vacant of the crowded charm that drips from green grape wallpaper before it met your grandfather. leather glove labor remains in the medullary rays of the oak that dresses the shop in various shelves, tables and chairs. The centerpiece, an island with base cabinets, is engraved with small familial symbols- some that you recognize- others older than you are.

But it’s not just your grandfather that breathes in the construction of the store.

Your grandmother was a talented ceramist. Being a florist, pots were her specialty. You find many of them in corners and nests on the floor, warm as they were out the kiln, analeptic in gauzes painted off-white and copper. They hold her other children, fiddle leaf figs and dracaenas, next to smaller pots of her florals, dwarfed by their greener counterparts.

But none of these things are known by someone who isn’t you, which is perhaps why it was so important you inherit it. The secret dies the minute its sold.

The only anomaly is the cat.

Calico sleeps where you’d draw as a child. Nuzzles the lace curtains that haven’t been opened since Ma passed. Looks at you with eyes that convince you animals can miss someone.

You kneel with an outstretched hand, after setting your stuff down. She sits and watches you from afar.

“She’s not here.” You scold yourself for talking to a cat, but when she dips her head to the side you feel strangely understood.

“I miss her too.”

She rolls over, exposing her belly in what you can only assume to be an offering of vulnerability. You run your hand through the burs of her stomach, and when she starts purring the fondness your grandmother must’ve had for her balms your palm and the pit of your stomach.

Everything aches as you sit with applesauce legs on the cool tiles of the main room. It feels weird to call it yours- so you decide to share it with the cat.

“Do you want to run the shop with me?” She rolls over and nuzzles your knee. The corners of your mouth twitch.

Everything lulls. Ataraxia unravels from the spines of the walls. The sun sets over the sills, and the world seems to fold into you, the cat, and the space you’re still learning how to breathe in.

And then the door begins to rattle.

You think it’s a figment- until it rattles again, this time more aggressively.

You’re on your feet in two seconds flat, and the cat scampers to a corner. You see the flickering outline of a wide, tall figure from behind the lace shudders of the door. Your heart leaps to your throat.

In the ten seconds you have before the shadow enters the shop, your franticness focuses on a blue watering can on the shelf. The toolbox with the more intimidating and likely effective weapons sits across the room on a desk, which you do not have time to reach. At least this might keep the perpetrator distracted until you grab them.

The door rattles again, this time it whines at the hinges.

You brace your arm for the throw of your life.

The next few seconds register as a blur. You launch the watering can the minute the door opens, you hear a startled grunt, and you scamper to the toolbox across the room. You pull out a small shovel, aim at the door, until you notice that his eyes seem to be just as startled as yours.

He raises his hands forward in surrender, and your arm falters.

“Who the hell are you.”

#captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #john price x reader #john price x you #price x reader #price x you #cod #price cod #price call of duty #call of duty

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mononijikayu · 6 months ago

Text

no. 1 party anthem — geto suguru.

“....What about my laugh?” He asks you, his cheeks flustered like cherry wine. “Is…is the sound good?” You matched his flustered cheeks. “It’s…It’s like a song.” “A song?” “My favorite song.” You admitted to him, slowly smiling as you shyly looked up to his flustered gaze. “Your voice is my favorite lullaby. But your laugh? It’s my favorite song.”

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence;

WARNING/S: post hidden inventory, pre-jjk 0, heavy angst, romance, falling in love, conflicted feelings, hurt/comfort, break up, slice of life, timeskip, depression, hurt, mourning, loneliness, trauma, pain, humor, guilt, pining, conflicted relationship, emotional distress, grief, profanity, depiction of break up, depiction of grief, depiction of complicated relationship, depiction of loneliness, mention of grief, mention of loneliness, mention of events post hidden inventory, mention of events in jjk 0, cursed user! suguru, jujutsu sorcerer! reader;

WORD COUNT: 7.7k words

NOTE: i've been getting into arctic monkeys again (as you can tell) and i have to say, no. 1 party anthem has done things to me these past few weeks. AM is such a good album. i really don't think that one can get any rawer in story telling about the sorrows of parting the way AM had depicted it. so i hope you listen to it one of these days, if you haven't already. anyway, i hope you all enjoy this. i love you all so much!!! see you on the next one <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

══════════════════

IT WAS A SURPRISE, TO SEE HIM TONIGHT. It had been nearly five years since you last saw Geto Suguru, but the weight of his absence still lingered in the quiet moments of your life. And it had taken your breath away, you knew that much. Because you had already resigned yourself to never seeing him again since that night.

But you can’t help but wonder about all the suffering and grief that had carved its way through those five years, shaping the person who stands here now.

The you of the present feels like a stranger sometimes, a mosaic pieced together from shattered moments, each shard reflecting a memory too painful to hold but too significant to discard.

There were nights when you lay awake, your mind replaying fragments of what once were half-formed smiles, laughter that now seemed like it belonged to someone else, and the weight of a bond that had been torn apart, leaving jagged, unclean edges that never truly healed.

You’d press your fingers against the raw places, testing their tenderness, reminding yourself that the pain was real. That he was real. But he wasn’t here anymore. He had chosen his life. He had made his bed with his reality. And so must you.

It all felt like another lifetime, one so distant it seemed almost like a dream. The person you were then, the one who loved him, trusted him, believed in him. That person feels impossibly far away now. You’d convinced yourself you’d buried that version of you alongside the memory of him. And with time, you believed it.

You never expected to see him again.

And yet, there he was.

The sight of him felt like a blow, like the ground had shifted beneath you and left you unsteady. His presence unraveled the delicate stitches you’d used to bind your wounds, pulling them loose thread by thread. He looked both the same and different, an unsettling contradiction that left you breathless.

Time has not been kind to either of you. You knew that much. Geto Suguru was a handsome man, he always was and he always will be. But you could see things that people wouldn’t. You see everything, you know everything about him. Maybe more than himself.

If time had not been kind to him, you could only judge from afar about things that had happened to him. You could see it in the lines etched into his face, the heaviness in his gaze. But what struck you most was the familiar ache you thought you’d buried. it resurfaced all at once, sharp and unforgiving.

You told yourself you’d moved on. You told yourself he was a ghost, a memory that had no power over you anymore. But standing here now, your heart betrays you.

And for a moment, all the pain, all the nights spent grieving, all the years spent rebuilding—none of it seems to matter. For a moment, you forget the hurt and only remember how it felt to love him.

It happened on a random Friday night at a bar you frequented with your other sorcerer friends. It was a hub for sorcerers to gather after missions. With how Satoru and Shoko were also getting too busy to hang out with you, and Nanami not frequenting such a place, you had no other choice but to find yourself some new people to mingle around too when they weren’t free. Life doesn’t stop when you lose someone.

So, you ended up finding this bar. And over the years, you have become a regular. Even more so, you found new people to meddle life with. You all of course still can’t meet everyday. But it was more regular than most of your other relationships. That gets you through the day most of the time.

The bar in itself wasn’t special. It was a cozy, dimly lit spot with just enough charm to make it feel like a second home. But it was yours, a place where you could laugh, unwind, and forget the world outside. It was ironic that he of all people would show up here. Perhaps the universe had a cruel sense of humor, or maybe fate had finally decided to intervene.

Geto Suguru hadn’t been looking for you that night. Or maybe he had, in some subconscious, desperate way. His sources, mutual acquaintances, whispers from insiders had led him here, for business.

It’s why he had a special grade glamour on. But even he didn’t fully understand why he had stayed for a while. He didn’t need to. Someone else could have done this for him.

But when he stepped into the inner corners of the bar, his purple eyes scanned the room almost out of habit. Nothing much intrigued him in this place. It was too common, too crowded. It wasn’t his fashion. It wasn’t his scene.

But then, he looked further away and stopped.

In that moment, he knew that he saw you.

The moment froze. You didn’t notice him at first, too caught up in the warmth of your friends’ laughter. But he noticed everything. The way your smile lit up the room, the easy way you leaned into your conversation, the carefree aura you carried.

It was a stark contrast to the image he had of you locked in his mind: the you who had walked away from him, or maybe the you he had walked away from. He couldn’t decide anymore. He never made up his mind about that. Perhaps doing so would have hurt more.

When your eyes finally met, it hit you like a tidal wave. Recognition. Shock. Something unnameable. No one else would see the cursed energy glamour the way you would. You would notice.

You would see him. All of him. Only you could do that in a way people will never know how to. No one else could tear apart Geto Suguru the way you have, the way you will for all his life.

For a heartbeat, it felt like no time had passed, like you were back in that shared moment before everything fell apart. But then reality set in, and you turned away. Too quickly, too deliberately. You excused yourself from the table, and when you returned, he was gone.

Geto Suguru had fled back to the club he’d come from, his chest tight with a cocktail of emotions he couldn’t untangle. He should’ve known better. You were no longer a part of his life. He’d lost the right to be. And yet, he couldn’t let it go.

After downing two more drinks, the gnawing need to see you again overpowered him. He left the club and returned to the bar, heart pounding, searching. Asking the bartender if they’d seen you, scanning every corner of the room for a glimpse of your face. But you were gone.

Suguru wasn’t sure what hurt more: the hope that had flared in his chest when he saw you or the emptiness left in its place when you disappeared.

He hadn’t planned on this—on seeing you, on unraveling in public like this. Life after you had been a blur of responsibility and regret. You’d moved to Fukuoka to teach to get as far away from Tokyo as possible and he focused on his new family, his new vision.

Geto Suguru poured himself into work, convincing himself that distance was the answer. Just as much as you had thought the same thing. Out of sight, out of mind. But you were never truly gone from his thoughts, and the years only deepened the hollow ache. And perhaps, neither was he.

Now, both of you are back in Tokyo, perhaps even just for tonight. He was sitting alone at the bar, he stared into his glass, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the edges. He was alone, so far away from you and your warmth, and your smiles and you who was everything.

The laughter of strangers around him was a cruel echo of the joy you’d shared with your friends just hours ago. He drank to dull the pain, but it only sharpened the edges of his misery. Each sip dragged him further into the pit he’d been clawing his way out of for years.

Suguru hated himself for the way he felt, for the way his chest still tightened at the thought of you, for the way he still longed for something he’d already destroyed. He had made his choices, he stood by them firmly.

And yet as the night wore on, his mind spiraled further into the what-ifs and could-have-beens, until he was too far gone to remember why he started drinking in the first place, he could only think how miserable he truly was.

By the time Suguru stumbled out of the bar, the night had deepened into an eerie quiet. The streets were nearly empty, save for the faint hum of passing cars and the distant laughter of people heading home.

The cold air stung his skin, but it didn’t sober him. Nothing could cut through the fog in his mind, the haze of alcohol and regret that weighed him down.

He wandered aimlessly, his thoughts circling back to you like a cruel refrain. How could you look so happy? How had you moved on so effortlessly when he was still stuck in the wreckage of what you once shared? Part of him wanted to be angry, but the anger never came. All that remained was the bitter taste of self-loathing.

When Suguru finally stopped walking, he found himself at a familiar park; a place you’d both loved. The benches were worn, the trees towering silhouettes against the starless sky. He sank onto a bench and buried his face in his hands, the chill of the night pressing against his flushed skin.

Memories rushed in unbidden, as vivid as the night you first kissed under those very trees. He could almost hear your laughter, feel the warmth of your hand in his.

It was unbearable, the way the past clung to him like a second skin. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the sheer weight of his emotions, but his chest heaved, and he let out a strangled sob, his breath fogging in the cold air.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had convinced himself that leaving had been the right thing to do, that the distance would save you both from the inevitable pain of being together.

But in his effort to protect you, he had only condemned himself. And now, seeing you happy, surrounded by friends, made him realize just how deeply he had failed.

Meanwhile, you ended up back at your friend’s apartment, all the laughter and enjoyment had come fading as the events of the night replayed in your mind. Seeing Geto Suguru again had been a shock you weren’t prepared for. None else noticed but you. If anything, it was as if he had wanted you to know that it was him.

You couldn’t help but feel sick at the thought. He’d come back. But for what? Why have he come back? You’d been doing fine for the past ten years. And now in an instant, you find yourself unable to do anything about these tears that just pours out.

You’d spent years trying to bury the memories, to build a life that didn’t revolve around the void Suguru had left behind. And for the most part, you’d succeeded. But tonight had cracked something so deep within you, like a breaking dam. It was that wound you thought had healed. A wound so deep that maybe you never noticed it never healed.

Your friends noticed your distraction and tried to coax you back into the lighthearted energy of the evening, but it was no use. When it comes to Suguru, you knew you would never be able to pull yourself back from the brink. You left early, along with your friend and retreated to the quiet of your own space in her house.

Sitting in the dim glow of your living room, you stared at your phone, your thumb hovering over his name in your contacts. It had been years since you’d last spoken, and the silence between you was deafening. But tonight, it felt heavier, like it was begging to be broken.

Suguru, in his drunken haze, finally pulled out his phone. His fingers trembled as he stared at the empty message thread between you from all those years ago. He never changed phones. He just couldn’t.

Not when this held so much of you, more than you could ever know. And he’d hate to part with it. He hates parting with you. The cursor blinked at him mockingly, daring him to say something, anything. But what could he say? What words could possibly bridge the chasm he had created?

You both sat in separate silences, even far away from each other. Even then, you both carry the weight of your shared history hanging in the air, stifling you both whole. Somewhere between the spaces of what was and what could never be, a thread still connected the two of you in the frayed, fragile, but unbroken echoes of life.

And for the first time in years, you both wondered what it would have been like to say hello.

══════════════════

IT WAS A LONG TIME AGO, FLASHING IN YOUR MIND SO CLEARLY. Your relationship with Geto Suguru began like a slow sunrise—gentle, almost imperceptible at first. Everyone could see something beautiful about it. You could too.

But it wasn’t something either of you could pinpoint, the exact moment it started, but before long, the light of it had crept in, filling the cracks and chasing away the cold.

At first, you were just kids, thrown together in the chaotic, unforgiving world of jujutsu sorcery. Life and death weren’t just abstract concepts; they were constant, hovering over every breath you took, lurking in the shadows of every mission. But with him, there was something different. Something softer.

It started with stolen glances in the classroom, shared smirks over jokes that only you two seemed to find funny. Then came the late-night conversations that stretched far too long, but neither of you cared. You’d sit on the temple steps, the world silent except for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

“You ever think about what we’d be doing if we weren’t... this?” he asked one night, his voice low, almost hesitant. He looked at you then, his dark eyes searching yours like he might find some hidden answer there.

“Sometimes, when I have some time. I think about it. With you, me, Satoru and Shoko.” you admitted. “But then I think... would we have ever met? If we were just ordinary people?”

He smiled, that small, almost private smile he saved just for you. “I don’t think the universe would’ve let us miss each other.”

“Even just the two of us?” You wondered at him.

“Especially the two of us.” He grinned even wider, patting your head.

Those words lingered with you long after that night, as did the quiet weight of his presence. Suguru wasn’t just your teammate or your classmate; he became your confidant, your safe place. The one person who could make you feel human, even when the world tried to strip that away.

There was lightness in your connection, a reprieve from the heaviness that came with your lives. The warmth of his laugh, the way his shoulders relaxed when you were around. It was as if the two of you carried pieces of each other’s burdens without ever having to say it out loud.

Everytime you were with him, you felt like everything was whole.

The world made sense when you were with him.

And you were proven right each and every single time.

He was the only one for you in this world.

It had been a long day, and exhaustion lingered in the edges of your mind, but he sat across from you, legs crossed lazily, and the smallest smile teased at his lips. You remember telling a joke.

You don’t remember it in its entirety but you knew it was something about the absurdity of the higher-ups’ newest “ingenious” strategy and for a moment, his guarded composure shattered.

He laughed.

It wasn’t just a chuckle or a polite hum. No, it was a real laugh. It was as though life had existed the first time he laughed. It was so bright, unrestrained, and utterly disarming.

The sound was pure, and for a moment, you could almost forget the weight he carried, the things he wouldn’t talk about late at night when the shadows seemed to pull closer.

“God, that laugh.” you murmured, half to yourself, but he caught it.

“What about it?” His voice held a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with curiosity.

“It’s… nice. Unexpected.” you said, and you could feel your cheeks warming under his steady gaze.

“....What about my laugh?” He asks you, his cheeks flustered like cherry wine. “Is…is the sound good?”

You matched his flustered cheeks. “It’s…It’s like a song.”

“A song?”

“My favorite song.” You admitted to him, slowly smiling as you shyly looked up to his flustered gaze. “Your voice is my favorite lullaby. But your laugh? It’s my favorite song.”

That was the beginning. That laugh became your favorite sound, a lifeline in the chaos. It became the thing you sought, the thing you tried to coax out of him in fleeting moments between missions or during those rare stretches of quiet.

You had stolen moments, the two of you. Too many to count, too many to want to forget. It was when life wasn’t pressing its cruelty upon you. Late nights stretched into early mornings, both of you lying in the grass, the stars above almost as bright as his gaze.

“You see that one?” you whispered once, pointing to a cluster of stars. “It reminds me of you.”

“Oh? How’s that?” he asked, smirking slightly, his head tilted in mock challenge.

“It burns so brightly you can’t help but stare,” you said without thinking, and the smirk faded into something softer, something almost shy.

“Careful, I might start believing you, you know?” he murmured, looking away, but not before you caught the blush dusting his cheeks.

“But aren’t I correct with what I said?”

“Ah, you’re just as cheeky as Satoru.”

You grinned at him. “But I’m better than him, aren’t I? Because I’m your favorite!”

Suguru laughed, his cheeks warm like a scarlet sunrise. “Yeah, yeah. You are my favorite.”

And then there was the kiss. It happened on an evening like any other. It was only a normal day. A day like any other. Nothing special at all.

You had been talking, your words flowing so easily it felt as if you were spinning threads of a tapestry you had both been weaving for years. Somehow, you just belonged together.

When he leaned in, his hand brushing the side of your face, it wasn’t a surprise. It felt inevitable, like the tides meeting the shore. Like destiny itself had been guiding you here. You felt like you were home as you found yourself overtaken by him.

When his lips met yours, it was as if the world stopped turning. It wasn’t fireworks or an explosion. It was just warmth that was familiar. The breeze of evening moonlight. it was a sigh, a soft release of tension you didn’t realize you had been carrying. Everything else fell away. It was just him and you.

And in that moment, you knew.

He was the one for you.

He was the love of your life.

“This feels... right, don’t you think?” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. His voice was so soft you almost didn’t hear it.

“It does. Perfect.” you whispered back. “Like it was always supposed to happen.”

You didn’t just love him. No, you recognized him. Across time, across lives, across every distance imaginable. You had found him, and you would find him again.

Every time. Every lifetime. And you would love him, fiercely, until it burned you alive. Because he wasn’t just a part of your world—he was your world.

For a while, it was perfect. Together, you built a fragile sanctuary amidst the chaos. Even as the missions grew harder and the burden of protecting the world loomed heavier, you found solace in each other.

Geto Suguru would hold you close on nights when the horrors of your work were too much to bear, whispering reassurances that tomorrow would be better.

But tomorrow wasn’t better.

The world began to crack around him. He had blamed himself for Amanai Riko. For Satoru’s brush with death. For failure of a mission that relied so much on him. And that had buried him under, even before he had come and gone to the grim reaper’s arms.

Everything you had loved about him slowly faded, like memories of yesterday. You saw it in the way his smiles became rarer, in the way his laughter came less easily. He grew quieter, more distant, and when he came back from missions, he wouldn’t talk about them anymore.

Instead, he’d sit in silence, staring at nothing, as if the weight of what he’d seen was too much to put into words. As if nothing in this world mattered at all. As if nothing was worth living for.

At first, you tried to pull him out of it. You were the only person that could do something like that, if Satoru couldn’t. You have tried hard. You really did.

You did as much as you could to remind him of the ideals that had driven you both to fight in the first place. Of the future that you could have together, where you could be happy.

But Suguru wasn’t just tired of everything—he was angry.

And he didn’t want to hear anything more about those ideas.

They had failed him, as much as the adults had already done.

He wasn’t in the mind to talk anymore, he was tired of talking.

“They don’t deserve it.” he said harshly, that one night, his voice low and simmering. “The people we save—they don’t even know what we sacrifice for them. They go about their lives while we bleed for them. It’s not fair.”

“It’s not about fairness, Suguru.” you said, reaching for his hand. “It’s about doing what’s right. They are weaker than us. They don’t know the world of such suffering. But we do. Suguru—”

But he pulled away, shaking his head at you. “Maybe what’s right is letting them fend for themselves. Maybe what’s right is taking back control.”

“Suguru, you can’t—”

“I have had enough of it. I can’t….I can’t have any more of this bullshit. Please.”

You didn’t recognize the man sitting before you. His words were sharp, edged with bitterness that scared you. You tried to argue, to bring him back to the man you had fallen in love with, but Geto Suguru was slipping through your fingers, and no matter how tightly you held on, you couldn’t stop it. The more you tried, the more he pulled away.

The breaking point came on a mission, one you didn’t share with him. You weren’t there to see the moment he made his choice—the moment he decided that humanity was no longer worth saving.

You only heard the aftermath: Suguru Geto, once a protector, had killed. He had killed too many people. Even his own parents. He had turned his back on everything he once stood for. And all to be free. All to stop those voices in his head. All to stop being miserable.

When you confronted him that day, you were trembling. A part from anger, part from heartbreak. You looked at him, eyes so brimming with tears as he stood there with those dark purple orbs narrowing at you.

Almost as though he couldn’t care less about it all. It was as if he didn’t carry the world on his shoulders anymore. In that moment, it was better that their suffering freed him. That’s what it looked like to you. And that broke you. More than you could even say. More than you could even understand.

“Tell me it’s not true, Suguru.” you said, your voice cracking. “Tell me you didn’t do it.”

But Geto Suguru didn’t lie. He’s never been good at lying. If anything, you didn’t need him to say anything. You already knew the truth. You’ve seen the bodies. You’ve seen the reports. But somehow, hearing him say it.

Perhaps that’s the only way to make it real. That’s the only way to know the truth. He looked at you with calm, unflinching purple eyes, the same eyes that used to hold so much warmth. How could such warm eyes feel so cold, so lifeless, so devoid of the will to live?

“They deserved it.” he said simply, his hands resting on his pockets. “The world needs to change. And I’m going to change it.”

You stepped back, shaking your head, tears streaming down your face. “This isn’t you, Suguru. This isn’t who you are.I know…I know who you are. Please, just…Just…”

“It’s who I’ve always been.” he said, and the certainty in his voice shattered you.

Tears fell from your eyes, to the point that you couldn’t see anymore. You let out a guttering cry, your hand covering your lips as though you know you can’t let it out anymore. You can’t stand like this in front of him. But you couldn’t move. You couldn’t stop staring at him. Where did your Suguru go? Where was he?

“I don’t know you anymore.” you whispered, your voice barely audible. You sobbed, looking at the ground. “Who are you? Where’s my Suguru? Where is he?”

For a moment, just a moment, his mask slipped. You saw the guilt in his eyes, the pain he was trying so hard to bury. Not because he’s hurt others, no. But because he’s hurt you. That burns him more.

That kills him more. But then it was gone, replaced by the resolute facade he had built to shield himself. He knew he couldn't come back. He’s gone too far for him to walk away from it.

“I hope you know that….I’m sorry.” he said to you, watching you close your eyes. As though wanting to pretend that this was just a bad dream. “But this is the only way.”

You wanted to scream, to grab him and shake him until he saw reason. But you knew it wouldn’t make a difference. You always knew better than that. He was resolute. He always has been. And so, he would not turn back. Not even for you.

The Geto Suguru you loved was gone. He was killed. He was consumed by the darkness he couldn’t escape. And you will never get him back. The last time you saw him, he was walking away, his silhouette fading into the distance. You stood there, rooted to the spot, the weight of his absence crushing you.

In the days and weeks that followed, you replayed every moment, every conversation, every sign you had missed. You blamed yourself, even though you knew, deep down, that this wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have saved him.

But that knowledge didn’t make the loss any easier. You were sure that he was the love of your life. Geto Suguru has been your love, your partner, your everything.

And now he was gone, leaving behind nothing but memories and the ghost of what could have been. And now you had to pick up what’s left from the desolation that swallowed everything whole. If not you, who will?

In the weeks that followed, life moved on around you, but you felt like you were frozen in place. The routines of being a jujutsu sorcerer continued. Day in day out, it was missions, training, meetings. But somehow, it all felt hollow.

Every face you saved, every curse you exorcised, felt like a mockery of what you had lost. How could you keep protecting a world that had taken Geto Suguru from you? How could you keep meeting with faces that didn’t know how to protect a child? How could you keep finding yourself living like this over and over?

But you still did it anyway.

You knew it was the right thing to do.

Suffering or not, you had to live.

You had to continue on.

Your nights were the hardest. Sleep became a distant memory, replaced by endless hours of replaying the past. You found yourself going back to the places you had shared with him.

The quiet park where you used to sit and watch the stars, the ramen shop where he’d always order extra broth, the training grounds where you’d spar until you were both breathless with laughter.

But those places were empty now, stripped of their meaning. Without him, they were just shadows of something you could never get back. Things that were just gone, forever lost in the abyss of his own making. An abyss you had sealed just as much, by continuing to live the way you have.

The news of Geto Suguru’s defection spread quickly. Whispers followed you wherever you went, people looking at you with pity, like you were some tragic figure in a story they couldn’t stop retelling.

Some were kind, offering empty condolences that only made you feel worse. Others were cruel, blaming you for not seeing the signs, for not stopping him before it was too late.

But the worst were the people who said nothing, who looked at you like you were a ticking time bomb, as if Suguru’s choices had tainted you by association. You could feel their looks, you could always hear the double entendre in their words. But you could hardly care at that point.

You tried to drown it all out, focusing on your missions, on anything that would keep your mind occupied. But no matter how hard you worked, no matter how many curses you destroyed, the weight of Suguru’s absence clung to you like a second skin.

And then, one day, you saw him again.

It was purely by accident, something you couldn’t expect.

It had only been a mere few months after he had left.

It was on a mission in a remote village, where rumors of a powerful curse had been reported. You had gone in prepared for anything—or so you thought. What you weren’t prepared for was the sight of Geto Suguru standing in the center of the chaos, his presence commanding, his expression unreadable.

Your breath caught in your throat. For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning. He looked the same, and yet so different. There was an edge to him now, a coldness that hadn’t been there before. A brutish layer that protected him from the world.

“Suguru.” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He turned to you, and for a split second, something flickered in his purple eyes—recognition, maybe even regret. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the calm detachment you had come to fear.

“You shouldn’t be here.” he said, his tone almost gentle.

“You don’t get to tell me where I should be. you shot back, your voice trembling. “Not after what you’ve done.” After what you’ve done to me.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t come here to fight you. Leave, and I’ll let you go.”

“Let me go?” you echoed, anger bubbling up inside you. “You don’t get to ‘let me go’ for shit, Suguru. You left. You broke everything, and now you’re standing here like none of it matters. I should kill you right now where you stand like the kill order says.”

“It does matter. Everything I do, it matters. To me, to the world I’m building.” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “More than you’ll ever understand. That’s why I’m doing this.”

“No, Suguru. You aren’t.” you said, stepping closer to him. “You’re doing this because you gave up. Because you let the worst parts of this world consume you. And now you’re trying to justify it by pretending. And I just….I have had enough of that excuse. Even when we fought, you used that excuse.”

He flinched at your words, the only crack in his otherwise unshakable composure. For a moment, you thought you had reached him. But then his expression hardened, and he took a step back from you.

“This isn’t about us, you know that.” he said. “It’s bigger than that. Bigger than you or me.”

“It was never just about us, you idiot.” you said, your voice breaking. “But we could have fought for something better—together. Instead, you threw it all away. You threw me away.”

He didn’t respond. He knew you were right. You could see it in your eyes. He tried to open his mouth, to say something. But instead, he turned and began to walk away, his figure fading into the distance once more.

You wanted to call out to him, to beg him to stay, to fight for the man you once knew. But you didn’t. Because deep down, you knew that man was gone. You would just be lying to yourself if you tried to pretend that it would work.

And as you stood there, watching him disappear, you realized something: this was the last time you would let him break you. Geto Suguru had chosen his path, and now it was time for you to choose yours. You had to.

Even if it meant living with the weight of his absence for the rest of your life, you would carry it. Because that was what it meant to keep going. He wasn’t willing to live with you, for you. He wasn’t willing to do that. And so, you had to. You had to do it for you. To survive.

══════════════════

HE FELT LIKE HE WAS GOING TO THROW UP. Geto Suguru stumbled into another bar, his head swimming with alcohol and frustration. The neon lights buzzed overhead, casting garish colors onto the crowd of strangers.

It was a different place, but it might as well have been the same. Everywhere he went, it felt the same: loud, crowded, meaningless. He was chasing something he couldn’t name, knowing full well it wouldn’t fix the hollow ache inside him.

He spotted a girl at the bar, standing alone for just a moment, and something in him shifted. It wasn't an attraction—not really. It was desperation. I may suggest there’s somewhere I might know her, he thought, smirking to himself, just to get the ball to roll.

He approached her with a feigned air of confidence, the kind that only comes from being far beyond tipsy. His words slurred slightly as he said something about a shared connection, a vague memory he knew didn’t exist. She tilted her head, intrigued despite herself.

Suguru leaned in closer, his voice low and coaxing. “Come on, before the moment’s gone.”

It wasn’t like he was falling in love. That wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want her heart or her promises. He just wanted her to do him no good, to help him forget for a while. The girl gave him a look—soft, inviting, a subtle tilt of her lips that sent a rush of blood through his veins.

It turned him on more than it should have. He didn’t care about her name, her life, or her story. It was the thrill of the chase, the electric jolt of fleeting desire. But before he could take another step, a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“She’s with me.”

Suguru turned to see a man standing there, tall and stern, his presence like a wall between them. The girl stepped back toward her boyfriend, her gaze dropping in awkward apology. Suguru laughed bitterly, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

“Didn’t mean to intrude.” he said, though the sting of rejection burned.

He retreated to the edge of the dance floor, his drink in hand, watching the pulsing crowd around him. The music was deafening, the lights dizzying. The club was a house of fun—or at least that’s what it was supposed to be. People were laughing, dancing, losing themselves in the moment. But for Suguru, it was a prison. A trap.

The room spun, not from the alcohol but from the crushing realization that it wasn’t enough. This place wasn’t enough. These people weren’t enough. She’s not you. No, she isn’t. She never will be. No one else can ever be like you.

No matter how many drinks he had, no matter how many strangers he flirted with, the truth was inescapable. You and he weren’t together anymore. You had been the only thing that made sense in the chaos of his life, and now, without you, everything felt hollow.

The club blurred into a mess of sound and light, but all Suguru could feel was the emptiness gnawing at him. He was trapped in this cycle of meaningless nights, trying to fill the void you left behind. And deep down, he knew it would never work. Because no matter how hard he tried, no one could be you.

Nothing here was worth staying for.

So he comes outside, the cold greeting him.

But he could barely feel it stab through him.

The alcohol in his veins dulled everything except the gnawing ache in his chest. He stumbled down the street, the neon lights of the club fading behind him, replaced by the harsh glow of streetlights. His breath came out in uneven puffs, his mind swimming with thoughts he didn’t want to face.

His phone was a familiar weight in his pocket. He pulled it out, his fingers fumbling over the screen until he found your name. He was too drunk to be a coward now. He wasn’t going to let the cursor mock him this time. Not again.

Somehow, it was muscle memory—he didn’t even have to think about it. You were still in his contacts, still in his life in the smallest, cruelest way. If anything, he memorized your phone number. He knew it too well, he’d never forget it. He stared at your name for a long moment, the cursor blinking on the call button.

The voice in his head screamed at him to stop, to put the phone away and walk home.He didn’t need to do this. Not right now. Not ever. But the alcohol silenced that voice, replacing it with raw, unfiltered need. And seeing you tonight….what more did he need to be an excuse? He had to call you. Even if it was wrong, he had to.

Before he could stop himself, he hit the button. The phone rang. Once, twice. With every passing second, his heart raced, his breathing shallow and unsteady. He almost hung up, almost let the moment slip away, but then you answered.

“Hello?” Your voice was soft, confused. You had changed phones. But you still used the same number. He knew that. But you probably, over time, had forgotten his phone number. He had expected it. He was after all, worth forgetting. “Who is this?”

It was late, and you hadn’t expected to hear from him—hadn’t heard from him in years. If anything, you never should expect anything from him. But the sound of you made his chest tighten, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. He leaned against a lamppost, the phone pressed to his ear like it was his last lifeline.

“S’me again, babe.” he slurred finally, his voice thick with alcohol and emotion. “Suguru.”

There was a pause on your end, heavy and loaded. He could almost feel the weight of your hesitation, the way your breath hitched as you processed his call. It had been a long time. Ten long years. And now, just now, he called.

“What do you want?” you asked, your tone cautious, guarded. It wasn’t the warmth he remembered, but it wasn’t cold either. It was somewhere in between, and that hurt more than anything.

“I don’t know, honestly.” he admitted, his voice breaking. He laughed bitterly, dragging a hand through his hair. “No, that’s a lie. I know. I just… And I just….I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop… missing you.”

“Suguru…” Your voice softened, but there was something else there too—sadness, maybe even pity.

He hated it. He didn’t want your pity. You had known that even when you were younger. But he knew you couldn't help it. Still, just maybe, even just tonight, you’d drop it. You’d pretend, just as he was. He wanted you to tell him that you missed him too, that you still thought about him late at night, that he wasn’t the only one trapped in this endless spiral.

“I saw you tonight.” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “At that bar. Can’t remember the name, honestly. But you just….You looked so happy. Like you don’t even think about me anymore. Like I’m nothing.”

You sighed on the other end of the line, and it cut through him like a knife. “Suguru, it’s been ten years. What did you expect? I….I didn’t expect my life to be frozen, waiting for an impossibility that will never come.”

“I don’t know. I just…” he said again, his voice rising with frustration. “I thought maybe—maybe you’d feel the same. Like… like this thing between us isn’t over. Like it’s still there.”

“It’s not. And you…you know this.” you said quietly, and the finality in your tone made his knees buckle. He sank onto the curb, his head in his hands.

“It is for you, maybe…. he whispered, his voice cracking. “But not for me. It’s not over for me, and I don’t know how to let it be. Babe, I loved you. I still do. Maybe for the rest of my fucking life. But I…I don’t know what to do.”

The silence on your end was deafening, and he filled it with a broken laugh. You had the right to your silence, you always will. After what he had done, even just last night? Why shouldn’t you just be quiet? Why shouldn’t you just hang up right now?

But on the other side of the line, you were bitterly weeping in the quiet. Just taking in his words. Everything about your lives had been a tragedy, a tragedy that you could never forget. Both of you were living those past lives that can never come back. And you shouldn’t. You can’t. Not now, not ever.

“I’m drunk, you know?” he said, as if that excused everything, as if it would make you forget the raw, painful truth he’d just laid bare. “I shouldn’t have called. I just… I needed to hear your voice.”

“You need to go home, Suguru.” you said gently. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it was what he expected.”You have daughters to go home too, remember?”

You’d always been kind, even when you were hurting. Even to people that hurt you. He’d always known that. But somehow, he wondered if that kindness was why you’d stayed in his contacts all these years—because part of you knew he might need it someday.

Because he knows you’d be merciful to him, no matter what he’d done. No matter what he’d caused you. You’d pick up that phone and answer him. You’d let him hear your voice, like you used to do for hours and hours when you were younger.

“Yeah, you’re right.” he said, dragging himself to his feet. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll go home.”

But as he stumbled down the street, the phone still pressed to his ear, he couldn’t help but say one last thing. “You were the best thing I ever had, you know that? The only thing that ever made sense. In all of my life. And I love you. I’ll love you forever for it.”

He heard you inhale sharply, but you didn’t respond. Not for a while. You took a moment to let out a small sob, as though trying to hold yourself together. And Suguru could imagine it. How it shatters him. Ah, he had made you cry again like this.

“You were the best of my life, Suguru.” You finally say, almost the saddest he’s ever heard you talk. You were still mourning him, he supposed. “The love of my life. You always will be, Suguru.”

The line went quiet, and then, mercifully, you hung up.

Suguru stood there for a moment, staring at the screen, the word “Disconnected” flashing at him in a cruel, mocking rhythm. His hand tightened around the phone, his knuckles turning white as the fury bubbled beneath the surface. He nodded to himself.

He wanted to scream, to hurl the phone into the street and watch it shatter into irreparable pieces, as if that would somehow undo the splintering inside him. But instead, his anger collapsed inward, folding into a hollow resignation.

He shoved the phone into his pocket with a rough, jerking motion, his breaths shallow and uneven. He reached for a cigarette with the same hand, fingers trembling as they pulled it free. His lighter almost instantly lit the edge into a fiery smoke.

The first drag burned, the bitter smoke searing his throat and filling his lungs. It didn’t matter. He needed the distraction, needed something to keep him grounded when it felt like the world had slipped from beneath his feet. He lit the next one before the first was even finished, the acrid haze curling around him like a suffocating ghost.

He kept walking. The city stretched out before him, a labyrinth of muted lights and shadows that felt more hostile than familiar. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional distant wail of a siren or the shuffle of a stray figure in the dark. Cold wind bit at his skin, cutting through the thin jacket he hadn’t bothered to zip up.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

This was the last time you’ll see each other.

He was going to do his plan soon enough.

And you won’t see him again, not ever again.

285 notes · View notes

novaursa · 5 months ago

Text

Legacy (cold winds)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: The canon timeline is altered to fit the narrative of the story.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: winter is coming

- Next part: the march

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The cold stretched endlessly in all directions, an oppressive blanket of darkness broken only by faint whispers of light. Snow swirled in the air, glittering like shards of glass, and the ground beneath you was hard, frozen, unyielding. The world was quiet—too quiet. You took a step forward, your breath misting before you in the bitter chill.

The horizon loomed with a storm, black as night, and from it came a sound that chilled your blood: the shriek of wights, the groaning of the dead, and the steady thrum of them. The Others.

You shivered, though not from the cold. As you looked around, shadowy figures began to appear—half-formed memories or specters of the past. Faces you knew, faces you loved, flickering like distant stars. And then, standing amidst the snow, his silver hair flowing like a banner in the wind, you saw him.

"Rhaegar," you whispered.

Your elder brother turned toward you, his face calm and untroubled, as though the storm did not rage around him. His indigo eyes softened as they met yours, and he held out a hand. “You are afraid,” he said quietly, his voice soothing, like a harp string vibrating through the cold air.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “Is it true? The Long Night? Is this what’s coming?”

Rhaegar nodded once, solemn and knowing. “It is coming, sister. The darkness. The fire and ice that will clash.” His voice carried the weight of prophecy, of something inevitable. “But you will not face it alone.”

Your brow furrowed as you looked at him, your breath ragged. “How? How can I stop it?”

Rhaegar said nothing for a long moment. Then his gaze flicked past you, toward something in the distance. You turned your head slowly and saw a figure emerging through the swirling snow—a man grown, tall and broad-shouldered, with silver-gold hair and deep violet eyes flecked with green. He stood proudly in armor that gleamed faintly with red and gold, his expression unreadable as he looked back at you.

“Damon,” you breathed, recognizing your son, though his features were blurred, shadowed by the mist. He was older, perhaps a man of ten-and-seven, but there was something regal, something powerful about him.

The storm roared louder, a cry of wights and shadow descending. Damon turned toward it, his hand reaching for something at his side. A sword—a blade of black glass and shimmering steel—appeared in his grip, and as he lifted it, light radiated from the weapon, breaking through the gloom.

“Protect him,” Rhaegar’s voice came, soft but firm. “He is the flame in the dark. He is your legacy.”

Tears stung your eyes as you looked back at your brother. “I don’t know how,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“You will,” Rhaegar said gently, stepping toward you and placing his hand on your cheek. His touch was warm, a stark contrast to the freezing world around you. “You are stronger than you know, Y/N.”

The storm surged closer, the shadows rising like a tidal wave, and you felt a surge of panic. “Rhaegar—”

“Wake up.”

The storm cracked like thunder, and suddenly, everything went black.

You gasped awake, your chest heaving as you sat bolt upright. Your entire body was trembling, your skin slick with sweat despite the cold air around you. For a moment, you could still see the storm, hear the cry of wights, feel Rhaegar’s hand on your cheek. But it was gone—fading like a dream.

“Y/N!” Arya’s voice broke through your haze. The girl was crouched at your side, her face pale and wide-eyed, her hands gripping your arm. “You’re awake—you’re awake!” she said quickly, as though to reassure herself.

You blinked, trying to steady your breathing. “Arya?” Your voice was hoarse, raw. “What happened?”

Arya let out a shaky breath. “You were… shouting. Thrashing around. You woke me up, and I thought—” She cut herself off, her expression a mix of fear and relief. “Are you alright?”

You took a deep breath, rubbing your hands over your face. “It was a dream. Just a dream.”

Arya sat back on her heels, studying you warily. “You don’t look like it was just a dream.”

You looked at her, considering whether to explain, but the vision was still too raw, too real. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Arya scowled at you, the sharpness of her gaze reminiscent of her father’s. “Don’t lie to me. You’re sweating like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Your lips twitched faintly at her stubbornness, though your heart still raced. “I saw my brother. Rhaegar.”

Arya’s frown deepened. “The one they said started the war?”

“Yes,” you replied softly, your mind still lingering on his face, so calm amidst the chaos. “He spoke to me. And I saw my son… older. A man.”

Arya’s expression softened slightly. “Damon?”

You nodded, glancing toward the sleeping bundle in the corner of the room. “He was strong, Arya. Stronger than I’ve ever seen. But…” You swallowed, the words catching in your throat. “The world around him was dark—so dark.”

Arya glanced over at Damon, her face conflicted. “What does it mean?”

You shook your head, forcing yourself to calm. “I don’t know yet.” You exhaled, letting the tension in your shoulders ease. “But I will find out.”

Arya shifted closer to you, her voice quieter now. “Do you think it has something to do with the dragon? With Viserion?”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “Viserion brought me here for a reason. Everything that’s happened—everything I’ve seen—it’s leading somewhere.”

Arya was silent for a moment, then nodded firmly. “We’ll figure it out. You’ll figure it out.”

You managed a faint smile, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “You sound like Jon.”

Arya looked away at that, her expression tightening. “I miss him,” she admitted quietly. “If he’s alive, we’ll find him.”

“We will,” you promised, though the weight of the dream still lingered in your heart like a shadow.

You lay back down as Arya settled beside you, her watchful gaze never leaving you. The vision of the Long Night, the storm of ice and darkness, and the sight of Damon with his sword burned in your mind like a brand. You didn’t yet know what it meant, but you would not ignore it. Rhaegar’s voice still echoed in your ears: “He is the flame in the dark.”

And you would protect that flame—no matter what it cost.

The sun was low on the horizon when the gates of Casterly Rock swung open. The distant sound of hooves clattering on stone echoed through the courtyard as Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, rode into his ancestral home. He sat tall in the saddle, his golden hair catching the waning light like a banner. At his side, his polished sword gleamed, though his right arm hung noticeably light and empty where his hand once was.

Soldiers paused to glance at him as he passed, whispers rippling through the ranks. Jaime paid them little mind, his sharp gaze fixed on the looming doors ahead as he dismounted. He handed the reins to a stable boy, who stumbled over himself as he took the stallion.

“Where is my lord father?” Jaime asked curtly.

One of the guards stepped forward. “In the great hall, Ser Jaime.”

Without another word, Jaime strode forward, his boots clicking purposefully against the stone floors of the Rock. The weight of the fortress, the history of his family, felt heavier here than it had ever been. His return was no triumphant homecoming; instead, it was shadowed by the unease of rumors that had reached King’s Landing. Whispers of dragons and magic beneath the Rock.

He found Tywin Lannister seated at the long table in the great hall, a candlelit map stretched before him. Papers and ledgers were scattered alongside goblets of wine. Tywin looked up as Jaime entered, his pale green eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His expression, as always, was unreadable.

“Jaime,” Tywin said with little warmth. “I expected you sooner.”

“Then you’ve been waiting for me,” Jaime replied, his tone carrying its usual flippancy. “Rumors tend to travel faster than I do these days, father.” He stopped at the edge of the table, his left hand resting on his belt. “I came to see for myself.”

Tywin’s brow furrowed faintly. “See what?”

“The dragon,” Jaime said bluntly. “Or whatever it is the smallfolk are whispering about.”

The hall fell into a brief silence, the crackle of the fire filling the void. Tywin didn’t flinch, nor did he look away. “And what do you make of it?” he asked, his voice cold, testing.

Jaime tilted his head, giving his father a hard look. “I didn’t believe it at first. Thought it was nothing more than bard’s nonsense. But the stories... they’re too many to ignore. A cream-and-gold beast seen circling above the Riverlands, and now people whisper it lives beneath the Rock. Tell me, is it true?”

Tywin sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded his son. “What difference would it make if it were true?”

“It makes a great deal of difference,” Jaime shot back. “You’ve built your entire life on power, on order. Now the world is whispering that a dragon—a Targaryen’s dragon—is under your feet. That your wife is missing and has vanished on its back. And you’re sitting here pretending all is as it should be.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed at the edge in Jaime’s tone, though his composure didn’t break. “Control your tongue.”

Jaime huffed a humorless laugh. “I’m not one of your bannermen, Father. I came here to know the truth. Is there a dragon, yes or no?”

For a long moment, Tywin said nothing. The firelight danced across his sharp features, shadows deepening the lines on his face. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured.

“Yes.”

Jaime froze, his flippant demeanor faltering just slightly as the word hung heavy in the air. He blinked, as though trying to reconcile what he’d just heard. “There really is a dragon.”

“There is,” Tywin confirmed, his tone matter-of-fact. “And my wife, your stepmother, rides it.”

Jaime paced a few steps away, running his hand through his golden hair, clearly unsettled. “Gods, what’s happened to us? First you marry a Targaryen, now we’re harboring dragons?”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened. “Mind your words. This is not a cause for jest.”

Jaime turned back to him, his expression serious. “You’re harboring something the realm will fear. The North is lost in snow, and now you’ve got a beast the size of a warship lurking beneath your feet. Do you even know where she’s gone? Your precious Targaryen wife?”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “She will return.”

Jaime raised a brow, mockery lingering in his tone. “Will she? You don’t sound convinced.”

“I am,” Tywin snapped, his voice low but filled with steel. “Do not mistake my silence for uncertainty.”

The two men stared at each other, the tension in the air palpable. Finally, Jaime broke the silence, shaking his head with a tired sigh. “I hope you’re right. For your sake. For the boy’s sake.”

At the mention of Damon, Tywin’s expression softened a fraction, though his demeanor remained composed. “This is about more than whispers and rumors, Jaime. This is about legacy.”

Jaime’s expression darkened. “Legacy. Always legacy.” He met his father’s gaze with a flicker of bitterness. “Tell me something, Father. Do you trust her? Your silver-haired bride?”

Tywin stared at him for a long moment. “I trust her to understand the weight of what’s at stake.”

Jaime said nothing, his silence speaking volumes as he turned and strode toward the door. Before leaving, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “I hope your faith isn’t misplaced, Father. Because if you’re wrong... you’re bringing fire and blood back to this world.”

And with that, he disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, leaving Tywin alone with his thoughts. The faint crackle of the fire was the only sound that remained as Tywin stared at the maps on the table. Jaime’s words lingered in the air like smoke.

Fire and blood.

The old words of House Targaryen echoed in his mind, and for the first time in years, Tywin felt the weight of uncertainty press against his chest. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his face carved in stone.

Wherever Y/N was, she carried with her something that could change the world. And now, Tywin had no choice but to continue to wait.

The evening air around the Brotherhood’s camp crackled with an uneasy calm. Smoke curled lazily from the firepit, curling into the canopy of the gnarled oaks above. You sat beside Arya, the rough edge of the log biting into your legs as you watched Gendry hammering a new contraption together—a crude saddle meant for Viserion. The boy worked diligently, his face glistening with sweat despite the chill in the air. The other men of the Brotherhood murmured around him, either offering advice or casting wary glances toward the clearing where Viserion rested.

The dragon’s golden-cream scales glimmered faintly in the low light, her hulking form a shadow in the growing dusk. Though she had settled for now, every flick of her tail sent ripples of unease through the men. A Targaryen’s dragon, beneath the stars of the Riverlands. It was a sight that had no place in this world—yet here it was.

“Almost done,” Gendry grunted, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. “This will hold better than your cloak ever could.”

Arya glanced up from where she sat beside you, still running a cloth over Needle in a near-ritualistic motion. “About time,” she said, though her tone was more impatient than critical. She turned to you with her sharp grey eyes. “When are you going to leave, Y/N? You have a dragon. You can just fly to the Wall. Burn the Others before they come.”

You sighed, staring into the fire as the flames flickered and danced. “It’s not that simple, Arya.”

“It is!” she snapped, stubborn as always. “You could end it before it starts. That’s what dragons do, isn’t it? Burn things?”

“Not everything can be burned,” a deep voice said. Beric Dondarrion emerged from the shadows, his scarred face catching the firelight. “Dragons may have conquered men, but they are not the answer to all battles.”

Arya scowled. “Why not? She has the power. She should use it.”

Beric sat on the log across from you, his one good eye pinning you with a knowing look. “The Wall is not merely ice and stone, girl. There is magic there—old magic. Queen Alysanne once tried to fly her Silverwing beyond it, and the beast turned back every time. It refused.”

Arya looked incredulous. “A dragon refused?”

You nodded faintly, your voice soft but firm. “Dragons know things we don’t, Arya. They feel the pull of the world. The Wall… it holds something back. A force greater than fire alone.”

Beric tilted his head, still watching you. “And yet, you’ve seen beyond it, haven’t you?”

You stiffened slightly, the memory of the Long Night flashing in your mind—the cold, the screams, the endless dark. “I’ve seen glimpses. Shadows and fire. But if I tell anyone…” You shook your head, bitter laughter escaping your lips. “No one would listen. They would call me mad, just as they called my father.”

Arya bristled at that. “You’re not mad, Y/N. You’re not like him.”

“Not yet,” you muttered darkly. The fire cast shadows across your face, making the thought seem heavier. “But to the world, the name ‘Targaryen’ is enough to sow doubt.”

Arya turned to Beric and Thoros, frustration clear in her voice. “Then she has to make Tywin listen. Everyone listens to him.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that—sharp and humorless. “Tywin Lannister believes what he sees and nothing more. I would sooner teach a fish to march across Westeros than convince him of my dreams.”

Thoros chuckled from where he sat, swirling his cup of wine. “If you give up before you start, you’ll never know what can be done, my lady.”

Beric leaned forward, his tone more serious. “You underestimate yourself, Y/N. You are the blood of dragons, and fire runs through your veins. That is no accident.”

You stared at him, feeling the weight of his words press against your chest. “And what does that matter if no one will believe me? The North will freeze, the dead will rise, and the realm will fight itself to the end.”

“Then you must make them see,” Beric said simply. “You are stronger than doubt. Stronger than them.”

Arya tugged on your sleeve suddenly, her voice quieter. “You’re going back, aren’t you? To him.”

You glanced down at her, her grey eyes so much like Jon’s it made your heart ache. “I have to, Arya,” you murmured. “I can’t stay here forever. My son is waiting for me.”

Arya turned her face away, the flickering firelight catching the glint of tears she stubbornly refused to let fall. “It’s not fair. You just got here.”

You reached over and brushed her hair back from her face, forcing a faint smile. “I’ll come back. I promise.”

“You’d better,” Arya muttered, her voice wavering just slightly. “You always keep your promises.”

For a long while, the camp fell silent except for the crackling of the fire and the occasional deep rumble of Viserion in the clearing. The men were settling down for the night, but you remained seated on the log, watching the embers glow. Beric’s words echoed in your head: You are stronger than doubt. Stronger than them.

You looked toward Viserion’s looming silhouette, her massive wings tucked neatly at her sides. A creature of power and fire, waiting—like you—for what was to come.

The attack came with no warning. The Brotherhood camp, peaceful under the canopy of ancient oaks, was suddenly filled with the thunder of hooves, the screams of men, and the clash of steel. Shadows moved in the darkness—soldiers, brigands, or perhaps both—ambushing the camp with ruthless precision. Brotherhood men scrambled for their weapons, hastily drawing blades and bows as enemies flooded in, cutting down tents and scattering supplies.

Arya stood frozen for half a heartbeat as chaos erupted around her. “Gendry!” she yelled, spotting him near the fire. He swung his hammer with all the strength of a blacksmith, but he was outnumbered.

“Get back!” Gendry shouted at her, teeth gritted as he swung his weapon into an attacker’s chest. “Run, Arya! Now!”

Arya grabbed Needle, its familiar weight grounding her as her instincts kicked in. She darted through the melee, slipping between bodies and swinging her blade at anyone who came too close. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the acrid smell of smoke. Men shouted, some calling orders, others screaming their last breaths.

From a distance, Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr fought side by side, flames licking from Beric’s sword as it cut through the darkness like a beacon. “Hold the line!” Beric roared, his voice carrying above the din. “They’re breaking—stand your ground!”

But Arya knew the Brotherhood was outnumbered. This wasn’t a simple skirmish; it was a slaughter.

And then, just as the night seemed ready to consume them, the air itself split open with a sound unlike any other—a thunderous, bone-deep shriek that rattled the earth. The attackers faltered, their eyes snapping upward, faces going pale with terror.

“Dragon!” someone screamed, pointing toward the sky.

Arya turned just in time to see Viserion.

The dragon descended like a storm from the heavens. You were seated firmly on her back, your cloak streaming behind you, and the firelight reflected in your violet eyes. You were a vision of fury—a dragonrider born from fire and blood.

“Y/N!” Arya shouted, her voice lost in the growing roar of wings.

Viserion swooped low, and the air erupted in a wall of fire. It burst from her jaws, a torrent of golden flame that consumed everything in its path. The ambushers screamed in terror as the dragonfire crashed into the earth, engulfing men, horses, and trees alike. The flames roared hungrily, crackling with an otherworldly heat as they turned the night into day.

Thoros had stopped in his tracks, standing amidst the swirling smoke and cinders. His face was illuminated by the firelight, eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at the divine force unleashed before him. “It’s the fire of the gods,” he murmured, voice trembling. “By R’hllor…”

Beric grabbed Thoros by the arm, shaking him from his stupor. “Move! We need to regroup!”

But Thoros stood frozen, watching as the golden flames licked the earth clean of their enemies. He looked like a man glimpsing prophecy in its rawest form.

Above the battlefield, you guided Viserion higher into the sky, your heart pounding in your chest as the dragon’s mighty wings beat against the air. The fire below died out in scattered embers, leaving blackened earth and smoldering ash in its wake. You dared to look back one last time.

On the ground, you saw Arya. She stood apart from the others, her face tilted upward as she watched you rise into the night sky. Even from this distance, you could see the grief etched into her young face—grief and awe. She raised a hand as if to wave, though she knew you couldn’t see her clearly.

For a brief moment, guilt clawed at your chest. You had promised to stay. Promised to come back for her. But you couldn’t wait any longer. Damon needed you. Tywin needed to know what was coming.

“Goodbye, Arya,” you whispered into the wind.

Viserion shrieked again, the sound splitting the sky like a blade. Arya flinched but didn’t look away, her grey eyes locked onto you until you disappeared into the horizon, swallowed by the black night.

On the ground, the Brotherhood began to gather what remained of their camp. Thoros still stood amidst the ash, staring into the dying embers with awe. Beric came up beside him, his face shadowed with worry.

“She’s gone,” Beric muttered, glancing toward the sky. “Back to her world.”

Thoros did not look away from the flame. “She rides with fire. It is her path.”

Arya said nothing as she turned from the smoldering field, Needle still clutched in her hand. She felt cold despite the heat of the fires that had raged moments ago. She hadn’t called out to you as you flew away; there was no point.

She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as her fists clenched at her sides. “She’ll come back,” Arya said, more to herself than anyone else. “She promised.”

But as the cold night air settled over the ruined camp, Arya wondered if promises could survive dragons, war, and the dark future that loomed over them all.

Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the war table, his expression as carved and unreadable as ever. Lords, captains, and advisors filled the chamber, gathered for yet another council—reports of the Riverlands unrest, whispers of winter pressing further south, and rumors still murmured from the North. Jaime Lannister stood to the side, arms crossed as he leaned against a column with his usual air of irritation.

“Riverlords refuse to cooperate, my lord,” Kevan reported. “Our garrisons hold for now, but morale is strained. The men—”

The words were cut short by an earth-shaking roar.

Every head in the room turned sharply, stunned into silence. It was not the sound of a man or a beast of this world, but something ancient and terrible—a sound that rattled stone and made hearts clench with primal fear.

“What in Seven Hells was that?” Jaime’s voice broke the silence, though he pushed himself away from the column as though ready to fight.

Another roar followed, louder this time, echoing off the walls of the great castle, sending a cascade of dust from the ceiling beams. Tywin’s eyes narrowed as he rose from his seat. “Out. Everyone. Now.”

Lords and soldiers scrambled in confusion, shoving back chairs and bolting for the door as the roar sounded again. The ground quaked faintly beneath their feet.

Kevan stepped to Tywin’s side, his face pale. “Could it be…?”

“It is,” Tywin said sharply, his voice betraying no fear, only simmering frustration. “Jaime, with me.”

Jaime drew himself up, his face contorted with disbelief, though there was a flicker of awe buried beneath it. “A dragon?”

Tywin shot him a hard look. “Move.”

Together they strode out of the chamber, flanked by guards and advisors who whispered nervously among themselves. The halls of Casterly Rock were alive with commotion—maids screamed and darted for shelter, while soldiers rushed to man the walls, their swords and spears rattling in their hands.

The massive double doors leading to the courtyard were already open, and Tywin stepped out into the light. The moment he did, he came to a halt, and every man around him froze.

Viserion loomed above the castle.

The she-dragon descended from the heavens like a herald of the gods, her scales blazing against the sun. Her wings beat the air with force that sent banners whipping and sent men staggering back. Horses reared in terror, their panicked shrieks mingling with the booming sound of the dragon’s wings.

“Hold your ground!” Tywin barked, his voice sharp and commanding. Soldiers faltered but steadied themselves, their weapons shaking as they watched the beast circle once more.

The dragon shrieked—a sound that struck deep into the hearts of every man present—before she tucked her wings and swooped low. Jaime swore under his breath as the dragon descended, massive claws kicking up dust and stone as she landed in the center of the courtyard with a reverberating thud.

Everything fell silent.

The dust began to settle, and Tywin’s gaze remained fixed on the dragon, whose molten gold eyes surveyed the gathered men like they were little more than ants. Then, from the creature’s back, you appeared—your violet eyes sharp, your silver hair wild from the wind, your cloak stained from weeks of travel. You held your back straight, regal, even as your hands pressed carefully against Viserion’s scales.

The courtyard gaped.

“Seven bloody Hells,” Jaime muttered, taking a step back. “It’s true.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver as you swung yourself down, landing firmly on the ground. You winced briefly as your boots hit the stone, the wounds from your earlier ride still tender, but you said nothing. Viserion shifted behind you, her massive head hovering just above your shoulder as she let out a low, guttural growl.

The men around you shuffled nervously, swords halfway drawn but held steady under Tywin’s iron glare.

“Stay where you are,” Tywin commanded, his voice cutting through the tension. He moved forward slowly, his steps deliberate as his piercing green eyes fixed on you. “Y/N.”

You stood your ground, chin lifted, though the exhaustion in your limbs weighed heavy. “Lord Husband,” you said smoothly, though your voice carried the faint edge of someone who had not rested in days. “I trust I haven’t caused too much of a commotion.”

Tywin stopped a few paces from you, his sharp gaze flickering between you and the dragon behind you. “Where have you been?” His voice was low, deadly calm.

You hesitated, feeling the dozens of eyes on you—guards, knights, lords, servants—all waiting, hanging on your words. “Where I was meant to go,” you said cryptically. “The High Heart.”

Tywin’s expression tightened. “You vanished without word, left your son behind, and now return astride a dragon. What exactly am I to make of this?”

Jaime stepped closer to Tywin’s side, his one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, though he made no move to draw it. “You’ve caused quite the stir, Lady Y/N. What in the world possessed you to—?”

“I did what needed to be done,” you interrupted sharply, your eyes snapping to Jaime before turning back to Tywin. “And I have returned to fulfill what must come next.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment, his gaze as cold and calculating as ever. “The men are frightened. The people will talk.”

“Let them talk,” you said evenly, stepping forward. “They will talk of dragons. And they will listen when we speak.”

There was silence for a beat as Tywin considered you, his expression unreadable. Behind you, Viserion let out another low rumble, her tail curling protectively along the ground.

Finally, Tywin straightened, his face carved into stone. “You will explain everything. Inside.”

You inclined your head. “As you wish.”

Tywin turned sharply, barking orders to his guards. “Clear the courtyard! Stabilize the horses—send word that all is well.”

Jaime lingered for a moment longer, his face a mixture of awe and disbelief as he looked at you. “I always thought the stories were exaggerated. I see now they weren’t.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “The world is far stranger than any story, Ser Jaime.”

With that, you turned and began to follow Tywin back into Casterly Rock. Behind you, Viserion watched silently, her golden eyes fixed on the retreating men as if daring them to make a move. The courtyard began to empty, the air still thick with the smell of smoke and the lingering echoes of chaos.

As you walked past Tywin’s side, his voice dropped low enough for only you to hear. “You have much to answer for.”

“And much to show you,” you replied quietly.

For the first time in years, Tywin Lannister felt the weight of something greater than power itself pressing against his mind—something he could not control. A dragon had returned to Casterly Rock, and the world, he knew, would never be the same.

The great halls of Casterly Rock echoed faintly as Tywin Lannister led you through the winding stone corridors. The heavy doors to the courtyard had slammed shut behind the both of you, sealing away the chaos and whispers. Tywin’s steps were brisk, his presence imposing even in silence. You kept pace, though the weight of exhaustion pulled at your limbs with every step.

Guards and servants lingered against the walls, their eyes flicking nervously toward you before darting away. No doubt the sight of you astride Viserion was now spreading like wildfire through the castle. A Targaryen wife, returned on dragonback—it was the sort of story that men would turn into legend.

Tywin said nothing until you reached the door to the nursery. He pushed it open with a firm hand, the soft glow of candlelight spilling into the corridor. “In here,” he commanded, his voice low but resolute.

You stepped inside the nursery, the air immediately warmer and more comforting than the cavernous halls. The faint sound of a baby’s soft coos greeted your ears, pulling a gentle smile to your lips. Damon, now around seven moons old, sat upright in his crib, propped by cushions to keep him steady. His silver-gold hair caught the candlelight like spun silk as his chubby fingers clumsily gripped a small wooden lion. He turned his head as you entered, his wide violet eyes blinking with innocent curiosity.

Tywin’s demeanor softened, ever so slightly, as he moved to stand beside the crib. He regarded his son—his heir—with quiet pride, though his face remained as composed as ever.

“You should not have been gone so long,” Tywin said finally, breaking the silence. “He missed you.”

You moved to the crib, running your fingers gently over Damon’s soft cheek. He cooed, his small hand reaching for yours, and you smiled faintly. “And I missed him,” you said softly, the ache of separation lingering in your voice. “Every day.”

Tywin regarded you closely, his sharp eyes studying your face as you continued to watch your son. “Where did you go, Y/N? What madness compelled you to leave?”

You didn’t look at him, your voice steady as you replied. “To the High Heart, as I told you. Something… someone called me there.”

“Who?” Tywin’s question cut through the air like a blade.

You finally turned to meet his gaze, your violet eyes unwavering. “A voice from my dreams. From my bloodline, perhaps. I do not yet fully understand it myself.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his skepticism plain to see. “Dreams. Whispers. That is what you risked everything for?”

“I risked everything to protect this,” you said sharply, gesturing toward Damon. “To protect him. To protect you. You may not believe me, Tywin, but you will listen.”

Tywin’s expression darkened, but there was no retort. He simply watched you, as though weighing the truth of your words.

Damon let out another soft sound, his small hand wrapping around your finger as he grinned toothlessly, oblivious to the tension in the room. For a moment, the heaviness between you and Tywin eased, replaced by the quiet hum of the nursery and the warmth of your son’s presence.

“He looks stronger,” you murmured, brushing Damon’s silver-gold hair back gently. “You’ve cared for him well.”

Tywin’s gaze softened, though his voice remained steady. “He is my son. My heir. I would not allow harm to come to him.”

You looked up at Tywin, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his sharp features. “Then trust me when I say that harm is coming. You don’t have to believe my words, but the signs are already here. The winds from the North grow colder. The Wall grows restless. The world will burn or freeze, Tywin. I have seen it.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his frustration barely concealed. “I cannot build armies on whispers and shadows, Y/N.”

“Then what will you do when shadows turn into an army of the dead?” you challenged, your voice quiet but firm. “What will you do when the Wall is not enough? When this castle—your precious Rock—is nothing more than rubble beneath snow and ice?”

Tywin stared at you, his jaw set, his silence betraying the faintest crack in his certainty. He was not a man given to imagination, to prophecies or legends—but you could see the flicker of doubt in his gaze.

Before he could answer, his eyes darted lower, a flicker of something sharper—concern or curiosity—crossing his face. “What is this?”

You frowned, following his gaze as he reached toward your side, where the hem of your gown hung uneven. Tywin gently caught your wrist and turned your arm to examine the faint red lines beneath the fabric, some scabbed, others only just beginning to heal.

“They’re nothing,” you said quickly, trying to pull your arm free, but his grip tightened, careful but unyielding.

“Nothing?” Tywin’s tone turned cold, his pale green eyes snapping to yours. “These are not ‘nothing.’ How did this happen?”

You hesitated, knowing Tywin would not relent until you answered. “The scales,” you admitted quietly, looking away. “Viserion’s scales cut me when I rode her. It’s my fault for not being prepared.”

Tywin exhaled through his nose, the faintest trace of irritation in his expression. “And you didn’t think to tend to this?”

“It is nothing,” you repeated stubbornly, pulling your arm back as you met his gaze once more. “I’ve had worse.”

“Worse or not, it is reckless,” Tywin said curtly, his eyes narrowing. “You do not risk yourself like this—not when your son needs you.”

“I did what I had to,” you replied softly, but firmly. “And I will do it again if it means keeping him safe.”

Tywin said nothing, but his gaze lingered on you for a long moment. It was not anger you saw in his eyes, nor disappointment, but something else—something harder to name. It was as though he were seeing you anew, taking the measure of the woman before him, one who rode dragons and spoke of nightmares made real.

Finally, he straightened, his composure settling back into place. “The maester will see to those wounds.”

You almost laughed. “I’ll manage.”

“You will see him,” Tywin repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned back to the crib, brushing his fingertips over Damon’s small blanket with unexpected gentleness. “For his sake.”

You sighed, relenting. “Very well.”

There was silence for a moment, the flicker of the candlelight throwing your shadows across the nursery walls. Tywin’s presence, as always, filled the room—but this time it was less oppressive, softer, as though something unspoken lingered between you both.

“Rest,” he said finally, his voice quieter. “There will be much to discuss tomorrow.”

And with that, Tywin Lannister turned and left the room, his steps fading down the corridor. You sat down carefully beside Damon’s crib, exhaling deeply as the weight of your journey and the future yet to come pressed against your shoulders.

You ran your fingers gently over Damon’s tiny hand as he sat, his wide eyes now starting to flutter closed, exhaustion overtaking him. “For you, my son. Always for you,” you whispered softly.

You stood by the window, watching the ocean waves crash against the cliffs far below Casterly Rock. The air was crisp and salty, carrying a faint chill that clung to your skin. Damon cooed softly in his crib behind you, watched carefully by the ever-diligent nursemaid, who hummed a lullaby under her breath.

You were half lost in thought when a knock came at the door.

“Enter,” you called, turning away from the window.

The door opened, and Jaime Lannister stepped inside, his gilded armor glinting faintly in the light. His single hand, as always, rested against the pommel of his sword, but his posture was far from threatening. There was something unusual in his expression—hesitation, perhaps, or curiosity—as he regarded you with his piercing green eyes.

“Ser Jaime,” you greeted, arching a brow. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jaime tilted his head slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Pleasure? I doubt my presence here is that pleasant.”

“True,” you replied smoothly, turning fully to face him. “We’ve never truly spoken, despite… circumstances.”

Jaime glanced at the nursemaid and nodded toward the door. “Leave us.”

The woman looked to you for confirmation. You nodded, and she gathered her things, retreating with a bow. When the door clicked shut behind her, Jaime’s smile faltered. He looked uncertain now, his gaze flickering briefly to Damon in his crib before settling back on you.

“I suppose that’s true,” Jaime said finally, crossing his arms. “It’s strange, isn’t it? You’ve been in this family for long now, and yet we’re little more than strangers.”

“Perhaps we preferred it that way,” you remarked, folding your hands before you. “What is it you wanted to say, Ser Jaime?”

Jaime seemed to weigh his words carefully, a rare sight for him. He paced a few steps, looking down at the ornate rug beneath his feet before stopping abruptly. “I came to speak of… the past.”

You felt the tension in your shoulders stiffen. “Be specific.”

“The day I killed your father.”

The words hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread. Your breath stilled, but your face remained composed, years of royal upbringing keeping your emotions hidden. “I do not wish to speak of that day.”

“You think I do?” Jaime retorted, his voice edged with bitterness. “That day—what happened—will follow me to my grave. Kingslayer, Oathbreaker—call me what you will. But I need you to understand something.”

“I understand everything already. You want forgiveness of a daughter, an absolution for your soul,” you replied, your voice steady but quiet. “I can't give you that and I don’t want to remember the man you killed. I want to remember the man who once cared for me as a little girl.”

Jaime blinked, caught off guard. “Your father?”

“Yes,” you said softly, your gaze distant. “Before the madness. Before the fire. I want to remember the man who lifted me onto his knee and promised I would always be safe. The man who placed a crown of flowers on my head and called me his little princess. That is the memory I choose to keep.”

Jaime’s expression shifted, his usual wit and sarcasm subdued. “You were lucky to know him that way,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. “By the end, there was no man left in him.”

You looked away, your jaw tightening. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

There was silence for a long moment. Jaime let out a slow breath, and when you finally turned back to face him, you saw something resembling regret in his eyes. Perhaps not for what he did, but for the weight it left on you.

“You’re here because of Cersei,” you said, breaking the quiet. “That’s why you came. She sent you to see if the rumors were true.”

Jaime’s lips twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace. “She’s worried about a dragon, yes. But she’s even more worried about you.”

“And what will you tell her?” you asked, your voice carrying an edge of challenge.

Jaime shrugged one shoulder, though the movement was deliberate. “The truth. You’ve returned. You brought a dragon with you. I’m sure she’ll make of it what she will.”

“Do not underestimate her,” you said sharply. “She sees enemies everywhere, even in those closest to her. I’ve no doubt she will see me as no different.”

Jaime’s smirk faded completely. ��Cersei isn’t always wrong about enemies.”

You tilted your head slightly, your violet eyes narrowing. “And what am I, Ser Jaime? A threat? A sister? A rival? Or perhaps something else entirely?”

Jaime hesitated, then let out a dry chuckle. “You’re Tywin’s wife. And now, the mother of his heir. That is more dangerous to Cersei than anything else in this world.”

You didn’t reply, but your gaze didn’t waver either. There was truth in Jaime’s words—a truth you already knew. Cersei’s resentment toward you ran deeper than mere rivalry; it was a matter of power, of legacy, of bloodlines that neither of you could control.

Jaime turned slightly toward Damon’s crib, watching the infant as he grasped at his small blanket. “He’s… a handsome boy. Strong.”

“He will need to be,” you replied softly. “The world he will inherit will be cruel.”

Jaime turned back to you, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Cersei believes this child threatens her. You threaten her.”

“And do you?” you asked, searching his face. “Do you see me as a threat too?”

Jaime was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I see you as someone who survived.”

You met his gaze, understanding more in that moment than you had in all the months of knowing him. Jaime Lannister was a man shaped by the world he fought in, much like you—a survivor of choices, fate, and fire.

“Tell your sister whatever you wish,” you said finally, turning back to Damon’s crib. “But remember this, Jaime: no matter what Cersei fears, I will protect my son.”

Jaime nodded faintly, as though he expected no less. “I’ll leave you to it then. I imagine we’ll see each other again soon.”

He turned on his heel and strode toward the door, pausing only for a moment. “For what it’s worth,” he added quietly, “the world would have been better if your father had stayed the man you remembered.”

You didn’t respond, but as the door closed behind him, you sat beside Damon’s crib, brushing a gentle hand over his silver-gold hair. You whispered softly, “The world would have been better still if none of this had come to pass.”

Tywin Lannister sat in his private solar at Casterly Rock, his gaze fixed on the crackling hearth before him as he waited. The quiet within the chamber was unusual, tense. He’d dismissed the usual guards and servants, wanting no distractions as he considered the days that had unfolded since your return. There was too much chaos, too many uncertainties—dragons, rumors, and now your wounds.

The sound of the door creaking open broke his thoughts, and Maester Aldren, an older man with a gaunt face and pale blue eyes, entered the room. He carried a leather-bound satchel and walked with a slightly uneven gait, his chain of office clinking softly against his robes.

“You summoned me, my lord?” Aldren said with a slight bow, his tone hushed with a nervous undercurrent.

Tywin turned his sharp gaze to him and gestured to the seat across from his desk. “Sit. Tell me what you have found regarding my wife.”

Maester Aldren settled himself with care, his satchel resting across his lap. “I examined Lady Y/N as you requested, my lord. The wounds she bears are… peculiar.”

Tywin’s brows narrowed. “How so?”

“They are not the wounds of war,” Aldren replied carefully. “Shallow cuts, some scabbed and others still raw, caused by the dragon’s scales, I suspect. What is concerning, however, is that they are not healing as quickly as one might expect. The dragon’s hide is sharper than any blade, it seems, and its presence may carry an unnatural effect.”

“Unnatural,” Tywin repeated sharply, the word tasting foul on his tongue. “Is it poison?”

“No,” Aldren said quickly, shaking his head. “The flesh is clean of any venom or festering. But I believe prolonged exposure to the creature—riding it as she has done—takes its toll. The cuts are many, and she requires rest. Your lady wife is resilient, my lord, but even she has limits.”

Tywin leaned back in his chair, his hands folding before him on the desk as he considered this. The words lingered in the air, and a long silence followed as Aldren waited for Tywin’s response.

Finally, Tywin spoke. “She will not stop. She has made it clear. If she continues to ride, she will need a saddle designed to protect her.”

Aldren blinked, visibly startled. “A saddle… for a dragon?”

“Yes,” Tywin said curtly, his voice brooking no argument. “And not some crude contraption patched together by peasants. A proper saddle. A Targaryen woman who rides a dragon will not be seen injured and bleeding like some common fool.”

Aldren hesitated, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “My lord, the knowledge you seek is scarce. What little we know of dragons—of their saddles, their riders—comes from the days of House Targaryen. The lore, the records… they were lost. Burned.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened, his voice dropping dangerously low. “What do you mean, burned?”

“After Robert’s Rebellion,” Aldren explained cautiously, “King Robert ordered all written works concerning dragons destroyed in King’s Landing. The Citadel still holds fragments of knowledge, my lord, but much has been lost to time.”

Tywin exhaled sharply, his displeasure evident in the slight tightening of his jaw. “Foolish. Destroying knowledge does not destroy the truth. Send word to the Citadel. Whatever remains, I want it sent here immediately.”

“I will write to the Archmaesters at once, my lord,” Aldren said, bowing his head. “Though I must warn you, the Citadel has little love for dragons or the Targaryens. They may be reluctant to part with such knowledge.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “The Citadel serves the realm, and I serve the realm. If they require convincing, I will see to it personally.”

“Yes, my lord,” Aldren replied quickly, bowing his head again to avoid Tywin’s piercing gaze. “And Lady Y/N?”

“She is to rest,” Tywin commanded firmly. “Do whatever is needed to see her well. But ensure she understands that this must not happen again. If she rides, she does so prepared.”

Aldren stood slowly, clutching his satchel. “Of course, my lord. I will prepare the necessary remedies and make inquiries at the Citadel.”

Tywin waved him away. “Go.”

Aldren bowed deeply and exited the room, the door shutting softly behind him. For a moment, Tywin sat still, the only sound the faint crackle of the fire. His fingers tapped against the desk in thought.

A saddle for a dragon… the very idea gnawed at him. He loathed how quickly the world had turned. He had spent decades carving order out of chaos, reshaping the realm to his will. Yet here he was, a dragon sleeping beneath his house, a dragon-rider wife whose blood carried the fire of old Valyria.

And somewhere deep within him, a quiet voice whispered that this fire could not be tamed.

He rose slowly, walking to the window and looking out across the horizon. The sun sat low, its light spilling over the cliffs like molten gold. Tywin’s face remained hard, his thoughts locked away.

“Knowledge is power,” he muttered to himself. “And I will have it.”

The roar of the distant sea rose up to meet him, but in his mind, he heard the cry of a dragon—ancient and unstoppable, and a herald of something he could not yet name.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #house of the dragon #hotd #house targaryen #house lannister #got #got/asoiaf #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #got tywin #tywin x reader #tywin lannister #tywin x you #tywin x y/n #legacy

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theoriginalkaminari · 9 months ago

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Imagine (before Dabi's big reveal maybe)

Imagine bro

Dabi had a beautiful partner, a beautiful S/O that was his, all his.

They made him feel alive.

They genuinely cared for him.

And then they were killed by Endeavour.

Dabi stares at your burning body, heart breaking every second he sees you like this. He watches as the blue flame flakes off your skin, the smell of charred and rotten skin filling the air.

Dabi found your body in an alley.

Endeavour didn't even take your body to your family. He just left you on the cold ground.

Of course he wouldn't, he fucking killed you. That would ruin his reputation if he brought your dead body to your family.

So Dabi decided to lay you down in the forest and burn your body. After all, he was always curious to see how you would look going up in flames.

"I think we should say some words." Dabi says to no one, spreading his arms out.

"Here lays Y/N. Beloved by all they met. The angel in hell." He growls out, clenching his fists as he continues to stare at the fire consuming your body.

He lets out a laugh, but its more of a scoff. "Thanks for loving a useless fuckin' idiot." He hisses out, venom in his voice as he watches the flames.

He picks up the bottle of whiskey he brought with him, flicking off the cap and taking a large sip from the bottle.

He lets out a breath after he removes the bottle from his lips. He feels like crying. He feels like tearing his fucking hair out, he feels like jumping into that pile of flames with you.

Instead he gulps, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "I told you you would still look cute even as a pile of ashes." He calls out to your body, extending his arms out again as if to present something.

"I know I said I'd take your ashes to your family, but we both know I'm a selfish prick. So I'll be keeping them." He chuckles darkly, taking another gulp of whiskey from the bottle.

"I still...love you." He then whispers, putting the bottle down. "Even if you are dead now." Dabi mutters, a fake smirk plastered on his face.

"And I'll make sure to kill Endeavour the same way he killed you. Maybe that will jog his fuckin' memory when I'm staring down at his pathetic burnt body." He growls out, clenching his fists so hard around the bottle that he breaks the glass.

Dabi tosses the shards of broken glass into the fire and ontop of your body. "Love you, doll. Always will."

From that day on, Dabi kept your ashes in a small bottle he keeps tied around his neck.

#bnha #mha #mha season 7 #my hero academia #todoroki touya #touya todoroki #mha dabi #dabi x male reader #dabi x reader #dabi x gn!reader #dabi x female reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #touya x reader

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fanbasetwo · 6 months ago

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TIL DEATH DO US PART , RICKY

PAIRING: husband ! ricky × wife ! afab reader

GENRE: fluff + angst

WARNING(S): not proofread, kissing, dirty jokes, a little bit suggestive, mentions of suicide and death, insecurities, mentions of pregnancy. lmk if I missed anything.

WORD COUNT: 16.2K

FEAT: JAY from ENHYPEN + some ocs

MASTERLIST !!

NOTE FROM SENA , this kinda flopped on my enha blog but I still wanted to reach more people, so here it is. an ricky version of the same fic, if you find ‘jake’ instead of ‘ricky’ in some paras please mention so that I can edit it out. hope you have fun reading this <3💗

DEAR RICKY,

I'm sorry, but I can't continue living like this. I'm leaving. Our marriage has become a constant battle, and I believe we're both suffering more by holding on than we would by letting go. I know neither of us wanted it to come to this, and I wish things were different. But deep down, I think we're better apart. I hope one day you'll understand.

With regret, Y/N.

TEARS BLURRED YOUR VISION AS YOU STARED AT THE CRUMBLED NOTE IN YOUR HAND—the one you had written to Ricky months ago. The one that now felt like a curse. Your hands shook as you traced the familiar words, guilt twisting your insides. I'm leaving. I'm sorry. He had never known the true weight of those words. And now he never would.

The police had found it in his pocket. They said he'd carried it with him, even after everything. Even when he... when he was gone.

You collapsed onto the couch, clutching the note like a lifeline, but it only felt like a reminder of how far you had pushed him. How much you had wanted out, and now, how deeply you regretted it. A year together, two lives constantly at odds, and it had ended in this way. A divorce that never came, an accident that did. You didn't want this, didn't want him gone, but now, all you had was this-regret, and a body that was too still in your bed to hold. The anger, the frustration of him being gone-it consumed you, ate at your soul.

Why couldn't you have waited?

You had hoped time apart would fix things, give you both breathing room. But he hadn't lived long enough for you to see the good you could have made of it. The guilt ate you alive, deeper than the frustration ever had. You tried to convince yourself it wasn't your fault, that you couldn't have known, but deep down, the truth stung. Your note had been his last reminder of your marriage. His last memory. He had carried your rejection right until the end.

Would things have been different if you hadn't written that letter?

Your thoughts flickered back to moments with him-so small, so easy to overlook. The way Ricky had rolled his eyes every time you'd scolded his niece Semi for spilling juice, or how he had tried to hide his smirk as he pretended to act innocent. The little things that used to irritate you, that you had never really appreciated until now.

You remembered the way he defended you against his relatives, his words sharp and protective as they made cruel comments about your body. They didn't understand, but Ricky did. He had always been there, not perfect but trying.

“She suits me well enough.”

The memory felt like a slap now, a cruel joke. You had spent so much time pushing him away, not seeing that he cared. You hadn't seen that he had tried.

“Why couldn't I have seen it?” You whispered to the empty room, curling up on the bed, pressing your face into the pillow. The tears soaked into the fabric, and the sobs wracked through you like a storm. Why was it only now, when he was gone, that you realized how much he had mattered?

“Please... Ricky. I'm sorry...”

The words escaped you as your sobs grew louder, choking your breath. Your body trembled with grief, the weight of regret pressing down on you until you couldn't breathe. If only you could undo it, go back and rewrite the note. If only you hadn't given up on him, on the marriage, on the chance for something more.

The room felt suffocating now, as though the walls were closing in around you. What now? you thought. There was no future with him anymore. No next step. No reconciliation.

Why had you waited so long to realize how much he meant to you?

And all that was left was you. And the note.

YOUR MOTHER IN LAW’S HANDS TREMBLE AS SHE EXTENDS THE ANCESTRAL RING TOWARDS YOU, her eyes glistening with raw grief. The ring's delicate gold band catches the light, an unwanted reminder of everything Ricky represented—strength, love, an unfinished story.

You stare at the ring, fingers hovering uncertainly. The thought of accepting it feels like admitting he’s really gone. Yet, you know you can’t refuse it; Ricky’s wish, even unspoken now, feels sacred. You slip the ring onto your finger, a silent acknowledgment of the man you had once promised yourself to, a man you’ll never get the chance to truly know.

Her grief pierces deeper. “He wouldn’t want to see you in pain,” you add, voice low, carrying the weight of a plea that even you don’t believe.

“I-I know,” she manages between sobs, her shoulders trembling. “But… he was so young, so full of life. It should’ve been me, not him. He barely started his life, and now…”

The room seems to warp under the heaviness of her words. You know she’s right. The unfairness of it all gnaws at you. But what would Ricky want? The question echoes in your mind, clawing for answers you wish you didn’t have to seek.

“I’m so sorry, Ricky,” you whisper, barely audible. The guilt is relentless, intertwining with the ache of loneliness that had settled deep within you long before he passed. You were alone when he was alive, and now that emptiness has transformed, sharpened by grief, into something more unbearable.

Her sobs quiet, just enough for her to lift her head and take in your expression, your tears mingling with unsaid words. She studies you, eyes clouded by grief but touched with understanding.

“You must feel so alone too… You and Ricky… barely had time,” she murmurs, her voice a weak echo of empathy.

The silence stretches, heavy and uncertain. You meet her gaze and see the exhaustion, the pain mirrored back at you. It anchors you for a moment, before she speaks again.

“You’re still young. You should think of moving forward one day. Remarry, maybe… You’ll always be like a daughter to me, but you have to live, too.”

Your heart clenches, rejecting the thought. You don’t want to. The ache of wanting Ricky, even in a marriage that had felt distant, is a raw wound you can’t imagine healing. The loneliness was familiar; life without him is uncharted, unbearable.

“I won’t… I can’t,” you admit, voice shaking as the tears finally spill, unchecked. “I just want him back. Even if it means being lonely again.”

YOUR HANDS CHILLED FROM THE BRISK AIR, DIG DEEPER INTO YOUR COAT POCKETS AS YOU GAZE OUT INTO THE SWIRLING SNOW, a faint numbness settling in your bones. Each snowflake that brushes against your cheek feels colder than the last, a physical reminder of the frost that’s taken root in your heart, a void Ricky's absence left behind. Life has lost its rhythm, its purpose, and the bustling world seems foreign, moving on a beat you no longer recognize.

The café’s warmth hits you as you push through the door, a momentary comfort against the gnawing cold. You shuffle forward, fingers fumbling in your pocket for money as your eyes wander the room. Ricky had always spoken fondly of this place, a little corner shop with its cozy mismatched chairs and the sweet aroma of cocoa and baked pastries. A small pang clenches your chest, regret whispering its usual 'what ifs.' If only you’d agreed to visit here with him, if only time hadn’t been a cruel master.

The barista, a young woman with weary eyes, glances up as she speaks. “Ma’am, are you ordering?” Her voice, though polite, carries a slight impatience with the growing line behind you.

“Ah, yes… a cold coffee,” you manage, the words falling flat as if they don’t quite belong to you. Her brows lift, a flicker of confusion.

“In this weather?” she asks, a hint of genuine concern lacing her tone.

Realizing the absurdity, you swallow, forcing a small, resigned nod. “Hot chocolate then,” you say, the warmth of Ricky’s recommendation tugging at the edges of your memory.

The wind picks up outside, tugging at your coat as you sip the hot chocolate. Its warmth spreads through you, but it’s fleeting, never enough to touch the ache within. You shake your head, Ricky’s face vivid in your mind, his teasing smile as he’d planned your future dates. You’d push the thought aside, but every step feels like dragging a part of him behind you.

“Why can’t I let go?” you murmur, voice snatched away by the icy air. Your brother-in-law’s words echo in your mind, urging you to stop living in Ricky’s shadow. But how do you tear yourself away from the ghost of a love that never got to finish its story?

The memory of Ricky’s voice flits through your mind, warm and teasing: “Good things happen to good people.” You scoff, the bitterness in that statement now a cruel joke. Were you not good enough? The universe seemed to think so, because it had ripped him away, leaving a hollow shell in his place.

Lost in thought, you find yourself on the bridge, fingers trailing over the iron railing that has frosted over, leaving cool streaks on your gloves. This place, once so filled with light and memories, feels haunted now. You trace a path where your and Ricky’s hands once met, where laughter and shared secrets once echoed.

A gust of wind stings your face, and you force yourself to look up, straightening with a resolve that feels fragile. Ricky’s brother and his wife were inside your apartment, their watchful eyes filled with concern disguised as casual chatter. You know why they stay—it’s not out of pity, but out of fear, a silent agreement to keep you tethered when your world felt like it was splitting at the seams.

The laughter from the park drifts over again, mingling with the hum of distant traffic. For a moment, you let yourself remember the warmth of Ricky’s embrace, the way he’d nudge your shoulder and murmur, “Life doesn’t stop, even when we want it to.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t,” you whisper into the night, the words barely a breath as they dissolve in the chill.

The warmth of the hot chocolate fades as the biting wind grazes your skin, a cruel reminder of the numbing void left behind. You stare at the bridge, eyes tracing the railings where Ricky’s laughter once echoed. A memory surfaces, unbidden yet vivid.

“I know this isn't what either of us planned, but... I wish we could work it out,” Ricky had said, a touch of hesitation softening his confident voice. His hands, hesitant but steady, hovered near you, respecting the space you held between.

“I wish that too,” you had murmured, the lie sliding off your tongue too easily. You’d convinced yourself you didn't care enough for Ricky then, but the pang of that memory now gnawed at your insides. Regret had a way of reshaping the past, twisting even the most indifferent moments into sharp blades.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Ricky had prodded gently, eyes bright even as he leaned down to meet your gaze.

Caught off guard, you’d raised an eyebrow. “Like what?” The question felt foreign, untouched by anyone's curiosity until now.

“Why would you ask that?” You'd played along, teasing but curious.

Ricky chuckled, the sound resonant and warm. “Because we're getting married, and maybe knowing each other better will make it feel less... strange. Maybe, just maybe, we'll fall in love.” His hand, finally settling on your shoulder, had felt reassuring, a silent promise in its touch.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Semi mumbles, eyes dropping to her tiny hands that fidget nervously. The sight twists your heart, guilt layering over the grief that refuses to ease.

“Still, I just—” Jieun’s words falter as you cut her off, your voice breaking the tension.

“Please,” you murmur, the word sharp and desperate, silencing the room. The stillness that follows is suffocating, your breaths shallow as you fight to keep your composure.

Jieun's eyes search yours, understanding but hesitant. “We just don’t want you to be alone,” she whispers, her voice thick with worry.

Semi’s voice pipes up again, the innocence piercing through your defenses. “Are you sending us away, Aunty?”

Jieun picks Semi up, nodding at you as if she understands, though her eyes glisten with worry. “We’ll give you some space. But we’ll check in. Don’t forget that, please.”

You were battling with the urge to just end it all.

So, you gave up.

A smile, then another.

A smile forms—hesitant, broken. Then another, and another, each one a mask that crumbles too soon. “To everyone who still cares,” you begin, your voice low and cracking, “Semi, sweet, innocent Semi. Jieun, always so patient. Jay... my husband’s shadow in every way. My sister, my friends, all of you who tried.”

The wind picks up, whipping strands of hair across your face as you pause, the weight of the unsaid pressing on your chest. You blink rapidly, tears slipping free, their warmth stinging against your cold cheeks. “Ricky wouldn't want this. I know he'd call me stubborn, weak even.” You let out a hollow laugh, the sound swallowed by the wind. “But he wouldn’t understand how loud it is in the silence he left behind.”

“I miss the little moments, Ricky,” you whisper, voice breaking as you squeeze your eyes shut. “I miss you making me feel lonely, and now... now I’m lonelier without you.” The ache in your chest is unbearable, a cavernous void that steals your breath.

And then the fall hits.

Silence wraps around you, one that made you feel like everything would be okay after this. Maybe, just maybe, peace waits on the other side. In death.

YOU WALK THROUGH THE DENSE, MILKY FOG, EACH REVERBERATING IN AN ECHO THAT NEVER QUITE SETTLES. The air is cool, feather-light, whispering like distant memories. Is this heaven? The question circles in your mind, unspoken. If it is, where is Ricky? A quiet laugh escapes your lips, hollow. He couldn’t have done enough wrong to land in hell, you think, the hint of humor biting through your longing. Yet, the anticipation twists your heart—an ache that makes you want to see him so desperately.

You try to call out, “Ricky?” but the sound stays trapped in your chest, choked by the thick fog. Another step forward and there’s nothing but endless white, stretching out, swallowing you whole. Your breath catches; suddenly, the air thins, compressing your lungs, squeezing out every ounce of oxygen. You gasp, your hands clawing at the invisible force stealing your breath. It feels like drowning in emptiness.

Your eyes snap open, pupils adjusting to the familiar pale ceiling. It’s your ceiling. Your shared room. The bed, the faint scent of Ricky’s cologne still lingering in the sheets, as if he just left. You sit up, heart thundering, hands brushing over your body frantically. No pain, no bruises, no broken bones—nothing. You’re whole, intact.

Then the realization hits you like cold water, and your fingers tremble as you pull them away.

January 29th, 2024. 6:30 a.m.

You’re back.

But this isn't a romance novel, is it?

Your eyes trail back to the empty bed, where Ricky should be. “Ricky?” The name falls from your lips, hopeful, trembling, but the silence stretches on, suffocating.

Your heart thuds like a wild drumbeat, erratic and desperate, the rhythm matched only by the single hope that propels you forward: seeing Ricky. Alive. Healthy. Breathing.

There he is. Ricky. Lying on his side, dark hair fanned messily over the pillow, the soft rise and fall of his chest hypnotic in its simplicity. Relief washes over you so powerfully that your knees almost buckle. You inch closer, careful not to make a sound. The blanket is snug around his torso, exposing his bare, muscular chest—the way he prefers when he’s alone. Your throat tightens at the sight, familiar yet so foreign now.

Ricky stirs, the sudden shift pulling you out of your trance. His eyelids flutter open, dark eyes glazed with sleep but sharpening as they land on you. He blinks once, then again, brows drawing together.

“What are you doing?” His voice, rough with sleep, carries a note of confusion that makes your hand fall away as though burned.

“But… we never kiss,” he says, voice low and edged with confusion. The statement slices through you, painfully reminding you of the distance you both had grown used to.

“I know... I...” you whisper, fingers clenching into fists at your sides. The silence stretches, heavy, until the sharp trill of his phone alarm shatters it. Ricky’s attention shifts, eyes narrowing as he leans to silence it. When he looks up again, the space where you stood is empty.

Frantically, you rub at the skin, as if the stubborn mark will simply smudge away under your touch. But it doesn’t. The date remains, stark and immovable, taunting you.

A shiver crawls up your spine, but then a thought—a glimmer of defiance—roots itself.

When you started nursing, blood was your greatest fear, the sight once enough to turn your stomach. Time had softened those edges, transforming anxiety into steady resolve. It was also during those early years when you married Ricky, the man whose smile was warm enough to banish shadows but whose presence now only haunted your memories. The marriage had lasted five years before everything shattered with the crash.

But the excuses run dry when you're standing in front of your door, keys cold against your palm. The air outside is crisp, biting at your cheeks as you draw a deep breath and hold it. The weight of the morning—Ricky’s sleepy, questioning eyes and the ghost of your impulsive words-hangs between you and the door.

Don't run, you tell yourself, even as the urge coils tight in your muscles. You close the door behind you.

As you push open the front door, the faint glow of the television casts flickering shadows across the living room. There he is-your husband, Ricky, reclined on the couch, eyes fixed intently on the news. His brows knit slightly as a montage of suited politicians gestures on screen, their voices droning promises as hollow as a whisper in the wind.

He is basically watching those politicians give some weird and untrue promises for the sake of votes.

How romantic. How normal. The bitter thought twists in your chest. But it isn't. Nothing about this is normal. Why would he be watching the news, of all things? Then, a pang of irony hits you like a wave. How hypocritical, you think. You promised Ricky your forever in a ceremony that now feels like an echo. The vows shared between you had been spoken out loud but never truly lived.

You shake the memory away, an old wound you refuse to pick at as you step inside, the floor cool under your feet. Ricky doesn't notice you at first, his attention locked on the screen, oblivious to the fact that the person who left him a note asking for space now stands in the doorway, wrestling with the tension roiling inside her.

“Hey,” you finally say, the word falling between you like an anchor. It comes out awkward, unsure, a fragile hope that he won't read too much into it. But Ricky's eyes flick to yours, a spark of recognition cooling to something unreadable.

“The note-I take it back. I don't want a break from you or this relationship, Ricky.”

“Because I don't want to stay away from you.” Your voice trembles, raw honesty exposed between you like an open wound. Ricky's eyes widen slightly, the stoic mask cracking as a flush creeps across his cheeks.

Ricky watches you, confusion settling into his features, the red on his cheeks fading as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You're acting weird,” he murmurs, the words half swallowed, uncertain.

Don't let go, you silently plead. Let this be the start of something real.

Ricky clears his throat, a subtle attempt to dissolve the tension settling over the living room like a blanket too heavy to lift. His fingers fidget, running nervously over the seam of the couch as he shifts his gaze downward. There you are, still seated on the floor, legs tucked to one side, eyes catching the soft glow from the TV. Cute, he thinks, the word rolling silently through his mind, too heavy with unsaid truths to speak aloud.

“So...” The word escapes him, thin and unfinished, hovering in the air. His eyes flit over your face, searching for a reaction. The awkwardness clings to the silence, but you don't falter.

“So?” you echo, your tone a notch steadier, holding the slight tremor that betrays your effort. You lean forward just slightly, a gesture that feels braver than it is. If courage could rewrite fate, you'd wield it now, not just for yourself, but for him. For Ricky, who might not know the sharp edge of reality that's cut you.

“Excuse me?” He stares at you, the faint crease between his brows deepening.

“Okay then, see you tomorrow, husband.” The word slips from you, unbidden, laced with a warmth that surprises even you as you turn on your heel. You make your way toward the guest room, feet padding softly against the floor. Ricky's brows knit again, eyes following your form until you pause, hand on the frame of the doorway.

“Why are you heading to the guest room?” His question is quick, a thread of confusion laced with something else-something vulnerable.

His jaw drops, eyes wide with stunned silence as the door closes between you. Ricky sits back, eyes fixed on the now-empty hallway, replaying the moment in disbelief. The wife who barely spoke above a whisper at their wedding, who tiptoed through years of silence, had just turned the tables with a single teasing line. His pulse hammers beneath the stillness.

What on earth just happened?

“ARE YOU TELLING ME Y/N JUST TURNED INTO A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT PERSON?” Jay's voice, casual yet curious, echoes through the phone. He's speaking to Ricky, who shifts from foot to foot, eyes glancing around the boutique as he waits for you to finish picking out a dress for his niece. The sound of soft music drifts around him, mixing with murmurs of other shoppers.

“Exactly that!” Ricky’s voice comes out louder than intended, drawing looks from the store's staff. A woman in a sleek uniform, brows raised in disapproval, approaches with a pointed glare.

“Sir, please keep your voice down or refrain from talking altogether,” she says, sternly but professional.

Ricky's ears burn as embarrassment blooms across his face. “Yeah, I'm sorry” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Through the phone, Jay's laughter rings clear and unapologetic. “You seriously got told off by staff? Man, you're killing me!” Jay's chuckles fade into a smirk that Ricky can practically hear. Jay's the same as he's always been-playful, relentless, the older brother who teases but listens when it counts.

“Fine, fine, I'll stop. Tell me what you mean by Y/N changing, just... keep it PG, will you?” Jay's tone is teasing, but curiosity laces through.

Ricky’s jaw tightens, eyes scanning the store for you as if your sudden return would put him on the spot. “There's nothing intimate going on between us,” he blurts, the words a knee-jerk reaction. His chest tightens with the memory of you resting your hand on him in your sleep last week, the way warmth had crept through him then. He clears his throat. “I mean, she's talking to me more, being... sweet. She listens. It's almost... submissive.”

“I told you, no bedroom details!” Jay chimes in, sarcasm sharp enough to make Ricky's teeth clench.

“THIS IS NOT A BEDROOM DETAIL!!!” Ricky retorts, frustration coloring his tone. It earns him another hard look from the store associate across the room, who pointedly glances over her glasses. Ricky sighs and mouths an apology again, shoulders drooping as he lowers his voice.

“What I mean is, she's more... attentive. She's not arguing as much. It's like she's listening to me for the first time.”

Jay's voice softens, just a hint of seriousness slipping through. “Isn't that how she always is with others?”

“Yeah, with everyone else. Just not with me,” Ricky admits, the admission heavy with a history neither of them mention.

“Interesting.” Jay's reply is contemplative, but before he can say more, Ricky's voice interrupts, distorted through the line. “Oh shoot, she's coming back. I'll call you later.”

As the call ends, Ricky pockets his phone, glancing up just in time to see you walking back with a smile. Jay, on the other side of the city, sets his phone down, a smirk playing at his lips as he thinks of sharing this tidbit with his wife later. Whatever was happening between his brother and sister-in-law, it was about to get even more intriguing.

On the other side, Ricky stands, a mixture of amusement and curiosity on his face as you hold up a tiny pink dress. It's perfectly frilly, fit for a little girl. But all he can think is how charming it would look in a size for you—a thought that makes him shake his head, realizing how ridiculous it sounds.

“Are you getting all of them?” he asks, more out of shock than judgment. He never imagined children's clothes could come with such hefty price tags.

“Yes, why? Is this too much? I can cover it if—”

Before you can finish, he interrupts, affronted. “I'll pay. It's for my lady, after all.”

The statement hangs in the air, not romantic as he'd intended but awkward, making your brows twitch slightly. You resist the urge to grimace, forcing a polite smile instead.

A staff member, the same one who had shushed Ricky earlier, walks over with an unimpressed expression, exchanging a silent, almost comic glare with him. She gave Ricky a look that said 'you're weird and I don't want to talk to you'

'what have I ever done to you' was the look that Ricky presented back to the staff before she looked away. You glance between them, slightly confused. Then Ricky clears his throat, moving the conversation forward.

“Do you have a similar dress in a bigger size?” His voice drops to almost a whisper. He feels self-conscious asking, but the idea has stuck.

The staff member blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?” She tilts her head, uncertain if she heard right.

“Yeah, do you have something like this,” Ricky gestures at the dress in your hands, “but, you know, for an adult?” A flush of red creeps across his cheeks as he points to you. The staff member nods after a moment, walking off to search, while you stand there stunned, watching her go.

“Why are you buying something for me? Semi’s dress is already pricey. A woman's size will be—”

“It's just a dress,” he interrupts with a small sigh, eyes softening. “Think of it as a gift.”

“But today isn't anything special.”

The staff returns holding a similar dress, but in an adult size. It's pink, short, and undeniably cute-something that looks a little too daring for your style.

“Will this do?” she asks.

“Absolutely not,” “hell yeah,” you and Ricky say in unison. The staff's eyebrows raise as she turns to you, sensing you as the more level-headed one.

“We're not buying it,” you insist, giving Ricky a look.

He doubles down. “We are.”

“Ricky, no.”

“Why not?”

“It's too short!” you argue, exasperated. He shrugs, eyes softening as he counters, “It's knee-length. That's normal.”

RICKY’S HEART STOPS FOR A MOMENT AS HE TAKES IN THE SIGHT BEFORE HIM. You, standing in the baby pink dress that hugs your figure just right, with its soft fabric brushing just above your knees. The playful, shy smile you wear as you twirl slightly sends a wave of warmth through him. He never expected to see you like this; the reality strikes him so suddenly that it leaves him breathless.

The laughter of Semi fills the room as she runs around in her matching pink dress, giggling and pulling you along by the hand. The soft glow of the post-birthday celebration lights casts a golden hue, warming up the atmosphere in the living room. Ricky sits on the edge of the couch, one hand resting on his knee as he watches you and Semi, his gaze softening with an emotion he hasn't felt in what seems like ages.

The air in the room shifts. You pause mid-spin, eyes darting to Ricky with a look of surprise. This isn't part of the script of your past life; this question throws you off balance, the sudden attention making your heart race.

Ricky’s father, seated across with a glass of wine in his hand, lets out a dramatic sigh. “I think I'll be long gone before I see any grandchildren from this one,” he jokes, though the weight behind it is unmistakable. The statement slices through the room's cheerful mood, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. Ricky's jaw tightens, a subtle tension creeping up his spine. He wants kids too, he really does—but not in a house that feels as unstable as theirs has become.

Ricky’s eyebrows lift in silent question, but he plays along, shifting to put on an unreadable expression. He nods, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he covers the uncertainty boiling beneath. The room shifts back into a mixture of excitement and surprise.

“Is that true? You're both trying?” Ricky’s mother's eyes glisten, her hope rekindled as she looks between you and her son.

“Really?” Ricky's father echoes, leaning forward, his earlier sarcasm replaced by genuine interest.

Jay, standing near the fireplace, furrows his brow, lips parting in disbelief. Only last week, Ricky had confided in him about how distant and weird things had become between you two.

Ricky forces a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah... we've been trying for a while.” The lie feels heavy in his mouth, and he shoots you a look that says, Why'd you lie about that?

Your sister-in-law, Jieun, raises her hand, pointing at you with wide eyes. “Since when?” she blurts out, unable to contain her shock.

Ricky stutters, “It's been a-a month,” the answer sounding rehearsed yet shaky. He glances at you again, his eyes pleading for an explanation that won't come.

The conversation quickly shifts into an excited buzz, with well-meaning wishes from your in-laws filling the air. You catch Ricky's gaze, and despite the tight-lipped smile you give the family, there's a flicker of humor in your eyes. The absurdity of it all makes you want to laugh.

You both know the truth: the notion of trying for a child is impossibly far from reality.

Heck, it was funny for you to watch.

You were still a virgin. You two didn't even kiss more than once in those four years and they expect a baby to suddenly pop out of you?

You smile, reaching over to gently ruffle her soft, dark hair. “Does the birthday girl like her dress?” you ask, voice playful.

Your heart melts, and you chuckle softly. “Aww, you learned how to give compliments, huh?” you tease, watching as her cheeks turn rosy and she averts her gaze to fiddle with her fingers.

But a small part of you can't help but smile at the idea, a blush rising to your cheeks. The dream is distant, almost unreachable, and not yet yours to claim.

When you and Ricky step out into the cold night, the air nips at your exposed legs below your knees. The dress he had picked out for you, delicate and pastel pink, offers little warmth, and the heels are beginning to pinch with every step. You trail behind him, taking careful, aching strides to avoid twisting your ankle.

Ricky notices, stopping suddenly to turn toward you, eyes scanning your shivering frame. “What’s wrong?” His gaze softens as he realizes how exposed you are, legs trembling from the chill. Without hesitating, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. The sudden warmth is welcome, but your teeth still chatter as you mutter, “Wish I had something covering my legs instead.”

He exhales, half exasperated, half amused, before a wry smile forms. “Should I carry you like a princess? You’d be warm then.”

Surprised, you bite back a retort, matching his teasing tone with confidence. “Maybe you should.”

Ricky’s eyebrows shoot up, stunned. “Wait, what?”

Ricky looks up, mildly annoyed but patient. “I’m helping you,” he says simply. Before you can argue, he pulls out a pair of slippers from a little carry bag he had brought from home. The realization hits, softening your expression as he glances up. “Lift your leg.”

“You had these the whole time?” you ask, voice softer now, eyes wide with realization. He places the heels into the carry bag, stands up, and meets your gaze with a smirk.

The memory makes you feel small, but you muster a sheepish, “Sorry.”

“So...” Ricky’s voice cuts through the silence, the question you've been dreading finally arriving. “Why did you lie about... us trying for a baby?” His tone is cautious, probing.

Ricky hums in agreement, the tension easing a bit. “I can’t argue with that.” A comfortable silence settles between you, only broken by the sound of your footsteps. He glances at you again and asks, “Are you hungry?”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Relief flashes across his face before he reaches out, taking your hand and leading you forward. The two of you approach a small, tucked-away restaurant, its sign faded but familiar. Ricky’s eyes light up. “You have to try the cold coffee from that café across the street,” he points out, the fondness in his voice unmistakable.

Ricky’s head snaps to you, surprise clear as day. He stares, a laugh escaping him as he shakes his head. “Since when did you start memorizing my favorites?”

You had heard about his fav things to eat from your brother in law, Jay. But Ricky never said it to you himself so the boy was pretty much stunned when you literally memorised them, as if you were waiting to flex this whole time.

You offer a small, knowing smile. “I have my ways.”

The waiter arrives promptly with your orders, and the rich aroma fills the space between you and Ricky. He takes a bite, but pauses, eyes drifting to you with a soft, contemplative expression. “We’ve never done this before…” he murmurs, his tone a mix of realization and gentle amusement.

You tilt your head, savoring a piece of shrimp. “You mean this date?” you ask, half-smiling.

“Ricky…” you whisper, voice trembling. He blinks rapidly, tears tracing paths down his cheeks as he tries to manage a laugh, a hand lifting to wipe at his face. “Did I go too overboard?” he chuckles, awkwardly, brushing his fingers over yours, an attempt to ease the intensity.

The confession... It did something to you. It made you feel things or you believed so.

AS THE DAYS PASSED FOLLOWING THAT UNEXPECTED DINNER, a subtle shift had occurred between you and Ricky. It had been a month since then, and despite your hectic lives—you, a dedicated nurse, and him, an ambitious lawyer—something had changed. You continued to sleep separately, a necessity due to your conflicting schedules. Late nights saw you returning home to find Ricky already asleep, and early mornings had him leaving before you awoke. This unspoken arrangement was born out of mutual respect for each other’s rest.

The room feels charged with an unspoken tension as you stand there, watching Ricky. The question slips from your lips, “Are we sleeping separately again?” masking the tremble in your voice with an attempt at confidence. Ricky’s eyes meet yours, an amused smile playing on his lips as he tilts his head. “Do you want to sleep with me?” he asks, casual yet knowing.

Should he lie down first?

Wait for you?

Or speak?

Ricky’s eyes widen, and a surprised silence falls over you both, broken only by your slightly quickened breaths.

Finally, you break it, murmuring, “So... do we sleep?” You wish the dim light hides your expression, but Ricky’s shifting on the bed signals that he’s as unsettled as you are. He lies down first, and you follow, settling into the bed with a space that feels simultaneously too close and too distant.

The air feels thick with tension as neither of you can fall asleep, despite the dim light and the shared silence. Ricky gently sits up, his voice breaking the stillness. “I’ll get changed into my night clothes—this is uncomfortable. You should get changed too,” he suggests. His words are practical, but they stir a shyness inside you. The thought of wearing shorts around him makes you feel self-conscious, though the blanket and darkness give you some comfort.

With a deep breath, you agree. You grab your oversized top and shorts, retreating to the bathroom to change. When you return, Ricky is already asleep, dressed in a soft T-shirt and shorts. His peaceful expression makes a pang of guilt settle in your chest. You feel both relief and unease at the same time, knowing he’s so close yet so far away.

You lie there, tense in the stillness of the night. Ricky’s hand lands instinctively on your stomach, the warmth of his touch sending a jolt through you. You hold your breath, carefully shifting his hand away. Just when you think you're safe, his leg shifts under the blanket, pressing gently between your legs. A rush of heat floods your chest as you gently push his leg away, silently exhaling in relief.

For Ricky though,

“Morning... Baby,” he says softly, though he’s hoping you’ll move just enough for him to slip out of bed.

You barely stir, your arms and legs still tangled with his. “Too cold,” you mumble, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“I know, baby. I’ll turn the heater on for you, is that good?” he whispers, his voice tender. He’s careful not to wake you fully, knowing you won’t even remember this when you wake up.

An hour later, you wake up alone in the bed, the soft comforter still wrapped around your legs. You stretch and yawn, rubbing your eyes, only to hear the door creak open. Ricky stands there, a plate in hand—an omelette and a fruit salad. You blink, unsure if you’re still dreaming, and pinch your cheek, just to make sure this isn’t some figment of your imagination.

“What's that?” you ask, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Breakfast in bed,” Ricky says with a playful grin, setting the plate down in front of you.

“For me?” you ask, surprised and touched.

“Who else?” he replies with a shrug, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

“Why...?” You blink at him, unsure of why he's being so considerate, so affectionate.

“Why not?” he answers, teasing, but there’s a sincerity in his eyes that makes your heart flutter.

You stare at the food in front of you, but the nerves kick in. “Well, uhm... I haven’t brushed.”

“It’s okay,” he reassures, waving off your concerns.

“Why?” you ask again, your voice shaky, as you sip some water. The question has been swirling in your mind ever since you saw him standing there, holding that plate.

“Hm?” he hums, genuinely confused, not fully understanding why you're so emotional.

“Why are you being so nice... and romantic?” You wince after speaking, regretting your words, but you can't take them back now.

Ricky tilts his head, his smile fading slightly. “Like I said a month ago... I meant those words. I want us to stay like this... And not go back to how it was in those four years.. Are we really that immature to let it happen again?” The vulnerability in his tone catches you off guard, and for a moment, you can see the hurt in his eyes.

It's raw, honest, and you feel a knot twist in your chest, not having a reply to his genuine question.

November 4th.

Ricky’s expression is heavy with exhaustion, dark circles under his eyes hinting at the long day he’s had. You offer, “I’ll heat up the dinner,” and turn toward the kitchen, but he stops you with a gentle grasp around your wrist. Before you can react, he pulls you back, pressing you against the wall. The soft strains of a romantic song drift from the living room, creating an intimate, almost fragile atmosphere.

He’s close—closer than usual—and you feel the warmth radiating from his body as well as the subtle scent of his cologne. The proximity sends your pulse racing.

“Ricky?” you say softly, confusion lacing your voice as you look up at him. His face is unreadable, the dim lighting casting a shadow over the tired lines of his features. His eyes meet yours, carrying an unspoken emotion.

“Can you stop calling me Ricky?” he says quietly, the request landing softly, yet weighted.

Surprise flashes through you. “What do you want me to call you?” you ask, voice muffled against his shirt. The question feels vulnerable, as if shifting something fundamental between you both.

“You’re being quite demanding,” you tease, looking up into his face. His lips part slightly as he considers your words.

Ricky’s voice lowers, a tremor in its depths that betrays the weight of his words. “You might not believe me, but... I come from a reality where I’m dead. So, I hope we can at least be nice to each other in my last moments. Can you do that?”

Ricky’s eyes mirror your shock. He releases you, just enough to reveal his own wrist. There it is, the same haunting date. The mark seems alive, almost mocking, as if counting down with every heartbeat.

RICKY’S FINGERS TREMBLE SLIGHTLY AS HE HOLDS OUT THE SMALL BOX, A HINT OF NERVOUSNESS CREASING HIS BROW. “This is for you.” His voice is softer than usual, his eyes searching yours for a response. The box is familiar, a relic from the present you left behind, steeped in memories. Inside is the ancestral ring, one that Ricky’s mother entrusted to you after his death—a token that held more value than any wedding ring could.

The way his eyes widen before softening speaks volumes—acceptance, regret, and hope, all blending seamlessly as he draws you closer.

Ricky’s expression shifts, a soft smile forming as he leans in, his body pressing yours gently against the bedroom wall. His breath mingles with yours, warm and scented faintly with his cologne. His eyes trace your features, holding a glimmer of something tender and fragile. You raise a brow in playful defiance, a silent challenge, and a sheepish smile tugs at his lips. Without another word, he cups your face, his thumb grazing your cheek, and leans in until the space between you disappears.

When he finally breaks away, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing in short, uneven gasps. The room is silent except for the soft crackle of a song playing somewhere in the background. Ricky’s eyes open, and in them, you see a question—a hesitation laced with anticipation. “Do you want to go further?” His voice, barely above a whisper, holds a vulnerability that makes your pulse quicken.

You exhale softly, a hint of a smile teasing your lips as you match his boldness. “How far can you go?” The playful edge in your voice makes him chuckle, low and breathy.

THE NEXT FEW WEEKS PASS IN A COMFORTING CALM, the bond between you and Ricky strengthening with each passing day. You're no longer weighed down by the regret of the past, but instead, you focus on cherishing the present. Yet, there's still a lingering unease.

Ricky driving the car is something that continues to gnaw at you. It's not just a simple fear; it's the haunting memory of the future you came from, where that very action led to his tragic end. As November nears, the pressure builds. You look at the date on your wrist—November 4th—and the thought of losing him again, of it becoming reality, is too much to bear. Your chest tightens, and you feel a mix of helplessness and dread, hoping with every fiber of your being that this time, things will be different.

Ricky offers a reassuring smile, the kind that tries to mask his own unease as he softly says, “Chill, I’ll be back in an hour, alright?” His hand moves up to gently smooth your hair, eyes soft with understanding as he takes in the worry etched across your face. You cling tighter to his arm, voice trembling as you ask, “Is it important?”

The minutes stretch painfully long, and every ten minutes, you can’t resist sending a text, the same anxious message: “If you’re okay, just send a heart emoji.” True to his word, Ricky replies with a heart every time—until the fifty-minute mark.

In desperation, you call Jay, your brother-in-law. His voice is laced with confusion as he picks up. “Jay, is Ricky with you?” The silence that follows your frantic question only amplifies your fear. “No, why? What’s going on?” he asks, suddenly serious. Before you can answer, he cuts the call, sensing the urgency and attempting to help in any way he can.

Ricky's expression softens as he speaks, keeping his voice low despite the frustration. “Why’d you call Jay over something like this? My phone died while I was working. I charged it and got caught up in the case. It’s embarrassing.”

Your eyes well up, the weight of worry turning to a sting of hurt. “So? It’s not important?” Your voice wavers, raw with emotion. “I was terrified, Ricky! I didn’t want to lose you again. Sorry for being the clingy wife you’re ashamed of.”

“I was so scared, Ricky. I thought I’d lose you all over again.” Your voice cracks, and he feels the tremor in your body. He wants to say the right thing, anything to soothe the tremble in your words, but all he can do is hold you tighter.

Both of you are haunted by that date imprinted on your wrists, “November 4th.” A reminder that looms like an uninvited shadow, a constant whisper of what could happen.

THE DAY ARRIVES, a heavy silence filling the air between you and Ricky. His promise lingers like a protective shield around you both: he won’t drive, he won’t leave. His presence is a balm for the fear that pulses in your chest. As the two of you snuggle on the couch, the soft glow of the TV playing a rom-com, you turn to him with a worried look, your voice low and unsure.

“What if something bad happens while we’re in the house?” you whisper, nuzzling into his warmth. The thought of losing him, of the world continuing without him, feels unbearable.

Ricky shifts, his arm wrapping tighter around you as he looks down at you, his breath warm against your neck. “Nothing will happen. And if it does, I’ll protect you,” he assures, his tone strong and sure, though his own heart is heavy. He knows how much your fear weighs on you, and he wants to shoulder it for you.

TWO MONTHS HAVE PASSED SINCE THE FATEFUL DATE, and though life has taken you and Ricky through different stages, there’s an undeniable warmth between the two of you. Sitting at the family dinner table, surrounded by loved ones, the air is filled with laughter, conversation, and the quiet hum of joy.

Semi, now a cheerful five-year-old, eats her meal quietly, occasionally looking up with shy glances.

You glance over at Ricky, noticing him take a deep breath as he prepares to speak, his hand resting on the table near yours. It’s clear he’s nervous, even though it’s just family. He clears his throat, the words finally tumbling out: “So… We’re having a baby.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Ricky’s father scoffs, not giving him an ounce of reaction, while his mother rolls her eyes. “Oh, c’mon, you can fool us one time, not twice,” she says, clearly referencing the last family dinner, where you had tried to casually mention trying for a baby, only for him to play along. He felt the blame was entirely on him, but you knew the truth—it was a team effort.

You chuckle softly to yourself, leaning into Ricky’s side, your heart fluttering at the thought of a new life, a new chapter. He meets your gaze, his lips curving into a small smile, even amidst the teasing.

“Really, Y/n’s pregnant. We're having a baby,” Ricky says, his voice laced with excitement. His mother, skeptical, eyes you closely. “Is that true?”

Without waiting for Ricky’s confirmation, you nod, feeling his fingers intertwine with yours beneath the table, his touch calming your nerves.

"I won’t hesitate to beat your ass if this is fake," his dad grumbles, irritation mixing with a hint of hope.

Jay, barely containing his amusement at the scene, watches the family react, while Ricky proudly pulls out the ultrasound pictures, revealing the truth. His parents take turns looking at the images, jaws dropping in surprise. Jay, knowing already, can’t help but chuckle.

"Father was starting to question your masculinity. Glad you proved him wrong," Jay teases, earning a gentle nudge from Jieun, urging him to keep it light.

"Wait... So there’s a grandkid on the way?" Ricky’s mother recovers first, grinning with hopeful excitement. Ricky nods, and your heart swells at the thought of everything that's to come. This moment, this family, it feels like the beginning of something truly special.

Ricky’s mother leans forward, still processing, but the excitement is slowly bubbling up. “A grandchild? Really? My little boy having a little one? I’m going to spoil that baby so much.”

Ricky chuckles, glancing at you. “Well, you already spoil Semi enough, so I guess it’s fair.”

“Hey, I’m a great grandma-in-training,” she quips, giving Semi an affectionate pat. “But if you two need any advice, I’m here.”

Your heart swells seeing the warmth in her eyes. But then, Ricky’s dad, clearly trying to keep his cool, mutters, “I’ll believe it when I see a baby in my arms.”

“You’ll see him,” Ricky says, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “Or her, right, Y/n?”

You smile, feeling the weight of the moment. “Definitely,” you whisper, feeling a rush of emotion.

Jieun smacks his arm lightly. “Don’t make them nervous, Jay. Let them enjoy the moment.”

Ricky laughs, looking over at you with that same loving gaze. “Honestly, I think we just need to take it one step at a time. But yeah, we’ll get there.”

Ricky nods, his hand tightening around yours as if to say, “I’ve got you, always.”

The whole family seems to settle into a comfortable silence after that, everyone soaking in the news in their own way, but all of them sharing the same unspoken bond.

“Guess we’ll need one more chair for next time,” Jay jokes, breaking the silence, and everyone bursts out laughing.

You glance at Ricky, his eyes full of joy, and your heart feels fuller than it ever has. There’s something about being surrounded by family—being with him—that feels right. “Yeah, we’ll need one more chair,” Ricky agrees softly, his gaze drifting to the future, to the family that’s just beginning.

In the end, you and Ricky had proven the vows true—til death do us part. Through all the challenges, fears, and moments of doubt, you had always found your way back to each other. The promises made, the trust built, and the love that had endured everything now stood as a testament to what you had together. With every touch, every shared laugh, and every quiet moment, you knew that no matter what, your hearts were bound—for life—and beyond.

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