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gojover · 2 months ago

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the one who knows.

phainon was no fool. he’d seen the way mydei looks at you, and—being the good, charitable, loyal friend he is—he was determined to help mydei win you over. alternatively, five times phainon tried to ease mydei’s heart, and one time he didn’t have to.

— pairing: mydei x fem!reader — contains: fluff, 5+1 things, friends to lovers!au, phainon in his matchmaking era—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! — word count: 4.6k | art credit: ma_mori74 on x

V. MARMOREAL MARKET.

It had taken Phainon ten minutes to convince Mydei to join him for a walk. Ten minutes that, if Mydei had had his way, he could’ve spent sparring with some of the Okheman soldiers instead. But Aglaea had thought it was a wonderful idea and that the Chrysos Heirs could all do with a bit of a break, and so, Phainon had hauled Mydei by the arm and dragged him out of his chambers.

“No one—not even the prince of Castrum Kremnos—can refuse an order given by Lady Aglaea,” Phainon reasoned. “Don’t look so glum, my friend! We’ll head to the bakery first, and buy a basket full of those golden honeycakes you like so much.”

“I don’t like them that much,” Mydei muttered, his brows furrowed low as they walked through the sun-warmed square, passing beneath a colonnade dusted in peach blossoms. His cape, lined with embroidered laurels, swayed with the rigid force of his stride. He marched even when he was on a break.

Phainon only smiled. “Forgive me, Your Stoicism. I must’ve mistaken the way you inhale three of them in one go for something resembling pleasure.”

He caught the faint twitch of Mydei’s mouth, but didn’t comment. The sun crept higher as they wound through the marble streets of Okhema. Vendors called out in sing-song voices, peddling pomegranates, olive oil, and silk dyed the colour of dusk. The marketplace smelled of fig jam and roasted almonds, with the faint scent of incense wafting from a nearby shrine. Children laughed somewhere behind them, chasing each other in between the columns.

It was a wonderful day to spend outside—but none of that mattered to the warrior from Aedes Elysiae.

No, Phainon had only one goal today. A mission, as sacred as any undertaken by the Chrysos Heirs: to help Mydei get over himself and talk to the person he so obviously liked.

Despite his scowl, Mydei’s pace slowed when they neared the familiar bend in the road where pale stone gave way to ochre tiles and the air always smelled faintly like cardamom and burnt sugar. Phainon didn’t miss it. He turned his head, grinning in the way of a conspirator up to no good.

“There,” he said, pointing ahead. “The sanctuary of your soul. The oven-borne paradise of your most secret cravings.”

Mydei rolled his eyes but didn’t correct him. His scrutiny had already slipped towards the storefront. Phainon followed his gaze and spotted you through the open arch of the bakery’s awning, standing behind the counter with your sleeves rolled up and and your cheeks dusted in flour.

You were frowning over a tray of pastries, fussing over their arrangement. When a breeze swept through the open market street, a lock of hair fell loose from the knot at your neck, and you pushed it back absently with the back of your wrist.

Phainon had eyes, too. But more importantly, he had sense—and he’d seen the way Mydei looked at you when he thought no one was looking. He looked at you with a stubborn sort of reverence, like someone studying a scripture and attempting to understand the words.

Well. That wouldn’t do.

“Look at that.” Phainon slowed and clapped a hand to Mydei’s back. “The bakery’s survived another day without you looming over it like a stormcloud.”

“We’re here for pastries,” said Mydei.

“You’re here for pastries,” Phainon corrected. “I think I’ll go admire the fruit stand across the square. Alone. Without my imposing, sword-wielding companion towering beside me.”

“Phainon—”

But Phainon was already backing away, hands clasped behind his back, whistling some song that Mydei was sure was some great, romantic ballad. Mydei let out a slow breath. He adjusted the drape of his cape, then approached the stall.

You looked up when his shadow crossed the counter.

“Oh,” you said, straightening. “You’re here.”

His gaze dropped quickly. “Phainon wanted pastries.”

Your smile came a second later, soft and uncertain. “Well, lucky him,” you said. “They’re fresh. I just pulled them out of the oven.”

He nodded. Then, realising you were waiting for him to say something else, cleared his throat and tried again. “They smell good.”

“Thank you.”

There was silence, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Mydei shifted from one foot to the other. He thought about what Phainon would say in this situation. Probably something clever. Something witty. Something that would fluster both you and him if it were to slip past his lips. You reached for a basket and began lining it with a square of waxed linen.

“How many would you like today?” you asked. “Six? Or—”

Mydei hesitated. “Seven.”

“Seven?” you repeated, looking up at him.

“Just…” He nodded again, firm now. “In case Phainon drops one.”

You laughed—a quiet, breathy sound, like you hadn’t meant for it to escape. You looked away quickly, but he caught the way your smile lingered at the corner of your mouth.

“I’ll pack eight,” you said under your breath.

Mydei blinked. “That’s—”

“In case you drop one,” you added, looking up again, a little more confident. “Or in case you decide you like them more than you’re letting on.”

He stared at you for a moment. Then—quietly—he said, “I already do.”

You froze for half a heartbeat, hands stilling over the basket. A faint flush crept into your cheeks. Instead of answering, you focused on arranging the honeycakes, carefully and methodically placing them in neat rows.

Mydei shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn’t know why he said that. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now that he had.

Phainon’s voice saved him.

“Have the Titans blessed this day with the sweet scent of ambrosia and gaucheness?” he declared. He draped himself over the edge of the counter, eyes dancing. “Tell me, Y/N—have you discovered a way to bake silence into your pastries? Because my dear friend here seems to have swallowed his vocabulary.”

You covered your laugh with your hand. “Don’t tease him.”

“Would I ever?” Phainon said, looking as innocent as a fox in a henhouse. “I’m simply here to collect our spoils and drag this poor, tongue-tied soldier off to see the rest of Okhema before sunset.”

You handed him the basket with a faint smile, then turned back to Mydei.

“Come by again,” you said quietly. “If you want.”

“I will,” Mydei said stiffly.

You smiled in farewell as they turned to go. Mydei didn’t look back—but his fingers brushed the edge of the basket where you’d tied the ribbon, and he didn’t let go until Phainon took it from him.

“Well?” Phainon said as they walked. “Anything you’d like to say?”

“...She added extra.”

Phainon’s eyes gleamed. “And you managed to remain calm! Incredible. At this rate, you might even ask her to dinner by the next century.”

“Don’t push it,” the Kremnoan grumbled.

“Oh, I plan to.”

IV. GARDEN OF LIFE.

Phainon hadn’t meant to stumble into the Garden of Life with Mydei again—but when they cut through the southern colonnade, they saw a few members from the Council of Elders crowding the forum steps, arguing over something trivial with Aglaea and Tribbie. It was a situation neither he nor Mydei wanted to deal with, and so, they took the longer route and let the scent of citrus and blooming oleander guide their way.

He didn’t mind. It was a pretty place. Calm, and peaceful, with a few straggler Chimeras who were slacking off work hiding behind the laurels.

What he did mind, however, was the way Mydei froze beside him, his entire frame tensing like a drawn bow.

Phainon followed his gaze, and—ah. Of course.

You were there, kneeling by the pond at the garden’s centre, sleeves rolled up and hands dusted with soil. You were tucking sprigs of rosemary into the earth next to the lilies, lips parted in concentration, a woven basket of herbs placed beside you. The sun caught the edge of your profile, golden and soft, and a smear of green streaked across your forearm.

Phainon blinked.

“Well,” he said, half-grinning, “fate certainly enjoys its comedy.”

Mydei didn’t reply. His jaw clenched once, twice, like he was recalibrating the entire concept of movement.

“I didn’t know she gardened,” said Phainon, crossing his arms over his chest. “How wonderfully poetic of her. Maybe she recites odes to every sprout. Maybe—”

“Deliverer,” Mydei said in warning. “Don’t start.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Phainon said, already walking ahead. “But since we’re both here, and you look like you might sprint in the opposite direction if left unsupervised, I’ll do the civil thing and say hello.”

Mydei grumbled something that sounded like traitor under his breath, but followed.

You looked up when their footsteps approached, blinking once before your expression lifted in slow, pleasant surprise.

“Hello,” you said. “You two again.”

Phainon pressed a hand to his heart. “You sound so thrilled.”

“We saw each other just three days ago,” you said, lips curving upwards. “I didn’t expect company.”

“Neither did we,” Phainon said, nudging Mydei forward a step. “We were merely passing through, but it felt as though Mnestia herself was summoning us.”

You looked at Mydei then—properly—and his shoulders visibly pulled tighter. “You’re not usually in this part of the city,” you said.

“I’m not,” he agreed.

Phainon supplied, “He didn’t know you’d be here.”

“But if he had?” you asked, raising a brow.

Mydei’s mouth opened. Closed.

“He might’ve worn nicer boots,” Phainon answered for him.

You laughed. Just once, but it was enough to make Mydei glance down, as though he was actually checking his boots, then quickly back up like he’d been caught.

“Do you help tend to the garden often?” he asked, surprisingly steadily.

“When I can,” you said. “My uncle oversees some of the Chimeras here. I bring him pastries sometimes.”

Mydei cleared his throat. “You have… dirt on your cheek.”

Your hand flew up and you swiped blindly.

“Other side,” he amended gently.

You blinked, then tried again, slower this time. He nodded. You smiled. “Thanks.”

The pause after was short but warm, filled with birdsong and the murmur of water in the stone channels. Phainon knew there was something—something blooming, something tentative. He rocked back on his heels and made a show of stretching.

“Okay, then,” he said, already backing away, “I think I’ll go find something blasphemous to do near the reflecting pools. You two—talk about dirt. Or gardening. Or destiny. I don’t care.”

“Phainon,” warned Mydei.

“Gone already,” he called, disappearing behind a laurel hedge. He found himself looking down at a pastel pink-coloured Chimera. It blinked up at him with wide eyes. He bent low and patted its head.

He could now hear the murmur of your voices, indistinct but undeniably warm. Your laughter came again, softer now, almost shy, and Mydei—Kephale help him—responded in kind.

It was rare, hearing that from him. So rare that Phainon stood there a moment longer than necessary, not to spy, but to witness. Something tender was taking root. A thread had been pulled taut between you, and it was holding.

He smiled to himself. Victory, he thought, is sweet and golden.

If he listened a little longer—just long enough to hear you say Mydei’s name again, and for Mydei to say yours in return—well. That was no crime.

III. OVERFLOWING BATH, MARMOREAL PALACE.

“Did you know, Mydei,” Phainon began, “that there is an ancient saying in Okhema that says: ‘You can lead a Dromas to water, but you can’t make him drink’? I think it applies to you.”

The bath chamber shimmered with steam, its marble walls veined with gold and silver, reflecting the soft glow of lanterns suspended from the domed ceiling. Water lapped gently against the edges of the vast pool, its surface disturbed only by the occasional ripple from the ornate fountains shaped like sea nymphs.

Phainon lounged in the water, submerged up to his chest, the heat loosening the knots in his shoulders. He tilted his head back, letting the steam envelop him, and then turned to regard Mydei, who sat rigidly on the opposite side, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on some indeterminate point on the far wall.

Mydei frowned. “I’m not a Dromas.”

“True,” Phainon conceded, “but the metaphor still stands. Here you are, in a bath designed for relaxation, yet you sit there as tense as a bowstring.”

“I find these indulgences… unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary? My dear prince, even the most stoic warrior needs respite. Or are you planning to wage war against relaxation itself?”

“I prefer to keep my guard up,” the Kremnoan grumbled.

“In a bathhouse?” Phainon raised an eyebrow. “Unless you suspect the loofahs of treachery, I think you’re safe.”

Mydei did not reply, so Phainon leaned back, letting the water buoy him, and said, “You know, she was asking about you.”

“Who?” Mydei’s gaze snapped to him.

“The pretty baker,” he answered. “You remember. The one with honey on her hands and sunlight in her hair. I visited Marmoreal Market again this morning. She makes exquisite milk pies, did you know?”

“Yes,” Mydei breathed out, and looked away, the tips of his ears reddening. “What did she say?”

“She wondered if the famously stoic prince ever smiles when he’s with others,” Phainon said, watching him closely. “I told her I’d seen it once, but it might’ve been a trick of the light.”

Mydei didn’t speak for a long time. The steam gathered on his eyelashes. His hands, resting on his knees, clenched, then relaxed.

“She shouldn’t ask things like that,” he said at last.

“Why not?”

“It implies something.”

“Yes,” Phainon said, amused. “It implies that she’s curious. About you.”

“That’s the problem,” Mydei replied. “She shouldn’t. I’ve done nothing to invite it.”

“You think attraction waits for an invitation? Mydei, please. You’re not a fortress. You can’t control who looks at you, or why.”

“I am heir to a kingdom where sentiment is seen as weakness,” the prince said. “I was raised to command, not to… to stay in gardens and smile at girls who bake bread.”

Phainon leaned forward, the water sloshing gently as he moved. “Yet, you stayed, and yet, you smiled.”

“It’s dangerous,” Mydei said, looking away. He looked troubled. “I wish I could tell her that. I may be immortal, but I won’t be here all the time, not if—not if fate has its way with me.”

“She isn’t asking for divinity, my friend,” said Phainon gently. “She’s only asking if you smile.”

Mydei’s gaze dropped to the water again. He didn’t answer, but his expression softened—imperceptibly, except to someone who’d known him long enough to notice.

After a while, Phainon leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Just something to think about, Mydei. No pressure. But if you do decide to bring her a flower sometime, may I suggest anything other than hemlock?”

Mydei scowled again and glared at the white-haired warrior. Phainon reached for a fig from the platter placed behind him and shrugged, eyes dancing with mirth. “Hks,” Mydei muttered, but his posture had eased—shoulders no longer braced like shields, hands no longer tense on his thighs. The prince looked away, but his expression had gone distant in a different sort of manner.

As if, perhaps, he was thinking about someone.

II. KEPHALE PLAZA.

Kephale Plaza was a marvel of architecture, its wide expanse paved with sun-kissed limestone that glowed warmly under the afternoon sun. The plaza was framed by colonnades of ivory marble, each column entwined with flowering vines that added bursts of colour to the pristine white.

Phainon wished he could say that he’d come here to marvel at the scenery. Unfortunately, Aglaea had received a report about a thief who was on the loose, filching bracelets and coin purses alike. Castorice was busy, and Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon were otherwise occupied. That left Phainon, who, in truth, didn’t mind the assignment.

What he did mind, though, was the way he’d caught sight of you and Mydeimos walking together beneath the arch of blooming bougainvillaea and promptly forgotten what, exactly, he was meant to be watching for.

He loitered near one of the shaded stalls, pretending to inspect a display of carved wooden figurines, though he only caught every third word of the merchant’s well-practiced sales pitch. His attention was fixed on the way Mydei leaned towards you slightly, his usually unreadable expression tinged with something that might’ve been—Kephale help him—softness.

You were speaking quietly, gesturing with one hand as you walked, and Mydei nodded along, occasionally offering clipped replies. Even from a distance, Phainon could see that Mydei wasn’t just listening; he was listening—brows faintly drawn, head tilted in that particular way he reserved for things he wanted to understand but couldn’t quite name.

Phainon narrowed his eyes. This wouldn’t do.

With a slow inhale, he pushed off the marble column and approached. His footsteps were light, but he made no move to hide his arrival.

“Fancy seeing the two of you here,” he announced cheerfully, slipping into step beside you easily.

Mydei faltered, immediately shifting half a step away from you. “Phainon.”

You blinked up at him, surprised but not displeased. “I didn’t know you were on patrol today.”

Phainon shrugged. “Technically, yes. I’m in pursuit of a nefarious criminal. But more importantly, I’m here to rescue you from the silence this one—” he nodded at Mydei— “can’t seem to escape. He’s the definition of a man of few words.”

“We weren’t silent,” Mydei groused.

“No, no—I’m sure it was romantic!” Phainon acquiesced. “If Y/N here is into hulking, brooding men.”

You laughed which was, frankly, unacceptable, because you were supposed to laugh at Mydei’s jokes, not his. Mydei look exasperated, but his cheeks were dusted red, which Phainon considered a personal victory.

“Actually,” you said, smiling at Mydei, “he was telling me about the coastal patrols in Okhema. They’ve been—”

“—more diligent than usual,” Mydei interrupted quickly. “Nothing worth reporting.”

Phainon raised a brow. “Not even to your dear friend who has spent the past hour avoiding elderly vendors who insist I’d make a fine husband for their granddaughters?”

You looked like you were about to say something sympathetic, but he pressed on. “What I am interested in,” he said lightly, “is how long you’ve both been here, because if you saw anything suspicious—like, say, a person darting between stalls with more rings on their fingers than they started with—I could finally do something productive.”

“We just got her not long ago,” you said, shaking your head. “I haven’t seen anything strange.”

Mydei only said, “No.”

“Of course not,” Phainon sighed. “Well, since you’re here anyway, I suppose I’ll deputise the both of you. Consider this your invitation to join me in chasing shadows across the sunniest place in Okhema.”

“Are we being drafted into service?” you asked, smiling.

“Yes,” he said promptly. “It’s terribly official.”

Mydei looked like he might object, but you nudged him gently with your elbow. “Come on,” you murmured, and just like that, the faint stubborn line in his brow faded.

Phainon didn’t miss it.

As you began walking again—now with Phainon very deliberately between the two of you—he leaned closer to Mydei and said under his breath, “You know, if you plan to pine in silence for much longer, I’ll be forced to intervene.”

“I’m not pining,” Mydei muttered.

“Oh?” he said. “So you weren’t giving her a lecture about border patrols as a thinly veiled excuse to spend time with her?”

Mydeimos said nothing, which said everything.

“You’re terrible at this.” Phainon grinned. “Just so you know.”

“Good,” the prince said shortly. “Then you won’t give me advice.”

“On the contrary. I’ll give you too much of it.” He glanced over at you. You had paused ahead to admire a display of ornamental silks. “You don’t want to wait too long, Mydei,” he said quietly. “The world doesn’t always give you second chances.”

With that, he strode ahead, catching up with you and saying loudly, “Now, if I were a thief hiding in plain sight, I’d disguise myself as a merchant selling outrageously overpriced scarves. Shall we investigate?”

You rolled your eyes but let him lead you away with a grin. Behind you, Mydei stood still for a moment, his expression hard beneath the bright sun—then slowly, he moved to follow.

I. HALL OF RESPITE, MARMOREAL PALACE.

The Hall of Respite was aptly named—a haven tucked away in the southern wing of Marmoreal Palace, where golden afternoon light filtered through tall arched windows and dust motes danced lazily in the air like sleepy fireflies. Columns of white stone held up the ceiling, each one wrapped in trailing ivy and blooms enchanted to stay in perpetual spring. A small fountain burbled in the centre. Plush divans and velvet-cushioned lounges lined the walls, draped in silks the colour of champagne and cloud.

Phainon was draped across one such divan, a chilled goblet of pomegranate nectar balanced in one hand, the other idly stroking the embroidery of a nearby cushion. He looked every inch the picture of languid nobility—except that he was not—save for the fact that his gaze was locked on the entrance, waiting.

When Mydei finally entered, Phainon perked up immediately.

“I was beginning to think you’d taken up permanent residence in the training grounds,” he said by way of greeting.

“I was training,” Mydei replied, as if the comment had any need of clarification. He was still in his tunic, sweat-darkened at the collar, his hair slightly damp. Even his gait carried the stiffness of someone who had just disarmed three men in a row.

“Of course you were.” Phainon gestured to the chaise opposite him. “Sit down. Hydrate. Pretend, for a moment, that you’re not forged from granite.”

Mydei did not smile, but he complied, lowering himself onto the edge of the chaise.

Phainon said, “I ran into Y/N earlier.”

“Oh?”

“She was near the reflecting pools,” he went on. “Feeding crumbs to that flock of silver-throated sparrows. You know the ones. She was humming, too, a sweet little tune—something old, sounded Kremnoan.”

Mydei’s eyes flickered. “Her mother used to sing to her in Kremnoan. She told me that, once.”

“Did she now?” Phainon blinked, momentarily wrong-footed.

“She said she doesn’t remember the words, only the melody. And how warm her mother’s voice was. Like a hearth fire.”

“She told you that?”

“Yes.”

“She also said that she was thinking of asking me to accompany her to the festival next week,” Phainon said, attempting to recover. “Something about needing a partner for the moonlight procession.”

He glanced sideways, hoping to catch a glimpse of jealousy.

But Mydei only tilted his head, thoughtful. “She would enjoy that.”

“...Would she?”

“Yes,” said Mydei, softly. “She likes the sound of drums, and the lanterns—she called them tiny captive stars. She’d probably spend half the night asking about the legends behind the constellations.”

“You know her very well.”

“She listens when you speak,” the prince said, as though that answered everything. “Not because she’s curious—though she is—but because she values what you have to say. That’s rare, and so I try to do the same for her.”

A breath of silence passed between them. Phainon blinked.

“She also makes that face when she’s trying not to laugh,” Mydei added suddenly, and there was a hint of fondness in his voice. “One side of her mouth curls first.”

“Wow,” said Phainon, trying to disguise the dryness in his throat with a sip of his drink, “aren’t you just the veritable poet.”

Mydei said nothing, but the corners of his mouth lifted in that almost-smile he so rarely offered.

Phainon sat back with a sigh, glaring up at the ceiling. “Remind me never to try and make you jealous again. It’s bad for my pride.”

“You tried to make me jealous?” asked Mydei, sounding genuinely surprised.

The warrior groaned. “Forget it.”

“I do think she’d prefer your company to mine at the festival,” Mydei said, standing to leave. “You could always offer her a poem, too. She might keep it.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been told,” he said, and with a nod, Mydei strode out of the Hall, leaving Phainon staring at his back, utterly defeated.

The fountain continued to burble. Somewhere in the gardens beyond, a sparrow sang.

O. PATH OF PARTING.

The Path of Parting curved like a river of stone through the eastern gardens, its flagstones pale and smooth from centuries of reverent steps. It was said that this was where lovers, friends, and comrades once walked when farewells had to be made—with flowers blooming along either side, as if to soften the grief. Today, the air was still and fragrant, golden with sunlight, and the blossoms were at their brightest: starblush vines spilling from trellises, yellow cypress roses nodding in the breeze.

Phainon hadn’t meant to take this route. He’d been wandering—well, brooding, if he were honest with himself—thinking vaguely about nothing and everything.

He rounded a bend and stopped dead.

There, further up the path, you and Mydei walked side-by-side.

You moved in that unconsciously mirrored way people did when they’d grown too close not to. Your shoulders tilted towards his just slightly. His hand hovered near yours by instinct. Your voice—he could hear it, low and laughing—drew out the kind of smile from Mydei that Phainon had never seen once with the Chrysos Heirs or the sparring ring.

He watched as you leaned in to whisper something. Mydei’s reply was inaudible, but whatever he said made you laugh softly, eyes shining.

Mydei reached up, unthinking, to pull a stray petal from your hair, his fingertips brushing over your temple with the kind of tenderness that could only come from a hundred small moments before this one.

Phainon stood rooted. “Oh,” he said aloud.

He hadn’t meant to say it, but the realisation bloomed sharp and fast, like a candlewick catching light.

Oh.

This wasn’t something that had just begun. It was something that had always been—quiet and steady, like the tide, like the stars shifting across the sky one inch at a time.

Phainon felt something between awe and exasperation fizz inside his chest.

“Gods,” he muttered. “I’m an idiot.”

He’d spent all this time trying to provoke a reaction from Mydei—jealousy, flustered affection, anything—when Mydei had already won the war without even playing the game.

And you? You hadn’t been some wistful maybe, some distant crush. You’d chosen him. You loved him.

Phainon drew a breath, long and slow, and stepped backwards, letting the ivy shadows swallow him. He didn’t interrupt. Not this time. Instead, he turned on his heel, hands shoved into the pockets of his cloak, and started back towards the palace with a huff and a half-laugh.

“Five times I tried,” he murmured to himself. “Five. And not once did it occur to me that they were already—” He waved a hand in the air, at no one. “Of course they were.”

He glanced up at the sky, as though expecting the Titans to be laughing, too.

“I hope he writes you sonnets,” he said aloud, mostly to the wind. “I hope you make him eat too many honeycakes and teach him how to dance.”

Phainon was smiling now, rueful but fond.

“Stars above,” he sighed. “You were never going to pick me, were you?”

He walked on, leaving behind the sweet scent of the flowers and the sun warming his back.

a/n: the names of the various places are actual locations taken from the okhema map, though their descriptions have been changed to fit the story. thank you to @lotusteabag for beta reading and making the gorgeous header for this fic! thank you for reading!

#honkai star rail #mydei #mydei x reader #mydei fluff #mydei x you #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail fluff #honkai star rail x you #hsr x reader #hsr fluff #hsr x you #mydeimos x reader #mydeimos fluff #mydeimos x you #honkai: star rail #hsr #mydeimos #hsr mydei

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slutla · 2 months ago

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“A” 4 EFFORT ! | MARK GRAYSON X FEM READER

warnings: 18+. nsfw. nerd ! mark grayson, bimbo! bully! reader. mark is a dork n i love him idc. boob job, blow job. marks a virgin. usage of puppy. spit. indecency in a storage room. whimpering. he cries. college au. no powers. pet names, corny nick names but it’s used in a degrading way. degradation. praise. he’s obvi a lil ooc.

summary: mark, smart, awkward, and far too soft-hearted, made the mistake of doing one too many assignments for you. a bully in heels, unhinged and relentless, you’ve taken a liking to him in the worst way possible. wc: 4.0k-ish

an: minors n ageless blogs dni. i scraped n rewrote this idea like 3 times b4 finally finishing it. whoops.

Mark is hiding—yes, literally hiding—curled up like some sad, oversized hermit crab shoved into the mildew-scented dark of the campus storage closet. Knees pulled to his chest, hoodie bunched over his head, the flickering overhead light doing nothing but throwing sad little shadows across his hunched spine. He’s tucked into himself like if he folds small enough, maybe you won’t find him. Maybe you’ll just assume he’s dead and move on.

He did your assignment again. Like always. Like clockwork. Like the stupid little pet you keep on a leash of guilt and half-smiles and flirty threats. But this time? He tanked it. On purpose. Slipped in the wrong citations, fudged the formatting, “forgot” a conclusion. Got you a solid C-minus. Barely scraped the bottom of passable. And now he’s sitting here marinating in dread, picturing your reaction—the dramatic sigh, the tilt of your head, the sharp, sweet twist of your mouth when you’re disappointed. Or worse, unamused.

He’d tried to convince himself it was a smart move. A soft rebellion. Maybe if you bomb once, you’ll stop throwing your workload into his lap like it’s part of his tuition. Maybe you’ll get the message without him having to look you in the eye and say no.

But now he’s here, heart doing that ugly fluttery thing like it’s trying to crawl up his throat, every footstep outside the door sounding like you in your usual stormcloud mood. Sharp clacking shoes. Soft voice. That sugary venom in your tone when you call his name like you own it. His phone buzzes. A small sound, pathetic even, but it might as well have been a gunshot for the way it ricochets through the cramped silence.

Mark jumps, a sharp, startled twitch of limbs against concrete and metal shelving, knocking into a box of dusty paper towels with a soft thud. His heart nearly claws its way out of his ribcage, frantic and feathered, wings beating uselessly against bone. With a hand that barely feels like his, fingers cold and trembling, he drags the phone out of his pocket. Screen cracked, brightness low. It lights up his face like an omen. One message. From you.

“I will find you.” That’s it. No smiley face, no punctuation. Just four words, typed clean and sharp like a promise. His blood turns into static. Because he knows you. Knows the games you play, the way you turn hide-and-seek into warfare. This isn’t a bluff. You will find him. You’ll crawl through every hallway, knock on every door, whisper his name down every corridor until he’s backed into a corner with no exit and no excuse. He swallows hard, breath caught halfway in his throat.

The knob fumbles. A weak, clumsy twist. Mark freezes, every nerve pulled taut like snapped violin strings and watches it turn in slow, gut-wrenching motion. And then you’re there. Grinning like you already won. Framed in the doorway like sin incarnate, all legs and ruined decency.

Your skirt’s a joke, barely there, riding high enough that he catches soft glimpses of plush skin, the smooth curve of your thighs glowing beneath the low hallway light. Your top’s slouched off one shoulder, bra strap peeking out. Lips glossy. Shameless. Entirely too much. Mark feels his soul leave his body. He should’ve picked somewhere with a lock. A church, maybe. A different continent.

“Well, well,” you laugh real pretty, like this is a game and you’ve already decided the ending. He wants to crawl into the mop bucket.

“Why do you look so scared, Marky?” Your voice is syrupy sweet, sticky with fake concern. A pout on your lips, mock-sincere, but your eyes give you away, glinting, bright, sharp like broken glass.

Mark flinches again, visibly, like the nickname itself has claws. He hates that name. You know he does. He’s told you, multiple times, in that tight, awkward voice like he’s trying not to snap. And still, there you go, dragging it out like gum on the sidewalk.

His skin prickles, goosebumps crawling up his arms like your words live beneath them. “I don’t bite,” you add, stepping forward, one slow click of heel against floor after another. But you do. You bite and chew and leave bruises just from talking, and he’s not sure what’s worse, the way your words twist around his spine or the way his traitorous heart jumps every time you say his name like it belongs to you. He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His mouth’s too dry.

He stands up. God knows where he finds the nerve, maybe somewhere between survival instinct and dumb luck but he pushes off the stack of old textbooks and stands on shaky legs, spine straightening like a man preparing for war.

Too late. You’re already on him. The door clicks shut behind you, soft but final, like the last nail in a coffin. You don’t even give him room to breathe, step right into him, cut off his air, your chest pressed flush against his. He feels everything. The soft weight of your tits against his ribs, the heat of your skin soaking through his hoodie, the sweet, toxic scent of your perfume curling into his lungs.

There’s nowhere to look. Nowhere to run. And God, he wishes he wasn’t so aware of the way his heart’s pounding like it’s trying to punch through his sternum.

“L-look…” His voice cracks halfway through, eyes darting to the dusty shelves, the light fixture, anywhere but you. “I’m really sorry… I didn’t do it on purpose.” A lie. Such a bad, obvious, choking lie. It clings to the back of his throat like smoke, bitter and foul. He can feel your smirk before he even sees it

Your face hovers just inches from his, the space between you nothing but shared breath and tension so thick it could choke. Your plum-glossed lips linger just over his, not quite touching like a threat, like a dare. You’re pretty. Pretty in a way that feels curated, intentional. Glossy and shallow like a magazine ad come to life. It makes his ears burn, dusted pink at the tips. He looks like he wants to disappear into the wall. You look like you’d pin him to it for fun.

“Awe, Marky, you’re being so mean to me, you know that, right?” Your voice dips low, not soft, not gentle, but lush and poisoned, the kind of sweetness that sticks in your teeth and leaves a burn going down.

You pout like you’re heartbroken, big eyes all shiny, lips pushed out in that perfect little curve, and jab a single manicured finger into his chest, firm and unforgiving. He doesn’t move. Can’t. It’s like you’ve nailed him to the floor, body locked up, breath hitched.

Your long nail presses into the fabric of his hoodie, right over the solid thrum of his heartbeat. He’s trembling under you, not visibly, not like a coward, but in that subtle way only you notice. The kind of tremble that starts in the hands and climbs up the neck. The kind that comes from being caught.

“I trusted you,” you add, voice dropping just a little more, breathy and laced with mock hurt. “And you went ‘n sabotaged me? After I've been soo nice to you?”

He gulps. Loud and shaky, Adam’s apple bobbing like it’s trying to make a run for it. Poor thing.

“Sweet puppy’s grown a backbone now, has he?” you coo, tilting your head, voice dipped in amusement that’s just short of cruel. You don’t pull away. Of course you don’t, instead, that impossible closeness tightening like a noose.

His shoulders hit the shelf behind him with a soft thud. He can’t back away any further. Your chest presses against his, soft curves molded against hard muscle, and you feel it—feel everything. The way his breath stutters. The way his hands twitch at his sides like he’s trying not to grab you.

And lower, the real betrayal. He’s half-hard, thick and aching, tenting his pants like a loaded secret he can’t tuck away. You smile, slow and lazy, eyes flicking downward, then back to his face.

“Cute,” you murmur, almost fond. He wants the ground to swallow him whole.

You slide a hand down. Deliberate. Slow. Like you’ve got all the time in the world to ruin him. Fingers trail over the thick line in his pants, heat trapped beneath the fabric, swollen and straining—and you wrap your hand around it through the material, squeezing just enough to make him suck in a breath. His hips twitch. His jaw clenches.

He’s trembling now, a little, but it’s there. A ripple under your palm. You look him right in the eyes, eyes wide and glinting with something unholy. Your thumb strokes once. Soft. Cruel.

“Did me callin’ you a puppy make you hard?” Your voice is low, a velvet drawl, wrapped around mockery like it’s a love song.

“You’re, uhh… too close…” He whispers it. Barely. Like maybe if he says it soft enough, the words won’t count. His whole body is stiff, locked up, trying not to think about your hand wrapped firm around his bulge, the heat of your palm, the way your thumb had moved.

But it’s impossible. You’re too close. Too close. You’re all over him, heat and scent and lips a breath away, voice curling into his ear like silk and fire. And his brain? It’s white noise. He swallows hard, again, like maybe that’ll push the shame back down. Like maybe it’ll kill the way his dick pulses helplessly under your grip. But it doesn’t. Nothing helps.

You can feel it too, the way his body betrays him, twitching under your hand like he’s trying so hard to behave, to not give in. It’s adorable, You think.

You half-smile, head tilted, lip gloss catching the light like temptation bottled up. “Let’s make a deal,” you hum, voice flat and casual, like you’re discussing lunch plans, not unhinged propositions. “I’ll suck your dick, and you do my work properly.”

He chokes. Not metaphorically, he literally chokes, breath catching mid-gasp like his lungs betrayed him. His face flushes immediately, that soft, pale pink crawling up his neck to the tips of his ears.

“W-what… what do you—” His voice breaks, small and high and strangled, as if saying it out loud would summon lightning. You roll your eyes so hard it’s almost theatrical, exasperation oozing off you like perfume. “What’re you actin’ dumb for?” you snap, grip tightening just a little around his cock, enough to make his hips twitch again.

“You’re already hard.” Your words hit him square in the gut, shame blooming behind his eyes, his mouth working silently like he wants to say something, protest, maybe—but all he manages is a sound. A low, broken exhale that sounds suspiciously like surrender.

He’s not pulling away. And he’s not saying no. You notice. And he’s cute, you think so now. In a nerdy, helpless, needy kinda way. The flushed ears. The twitchy hands. The stutter in his voice like he’s not used to being handled. It’s charming. Pathetic. A little funny.

So really, it’s a win-win. He gets to feel the touch of a woman—maybe for the first time, if you had to guess, and you get guaranteed grades for life. Straight A’s and a warm mouthful of praise every time you strut past your professors. Everyone’s happy.

You lean in, your nose brushing his, lips brushing the shell of his ear now, soft enough to be dangerous. “You gonna be good for me, Marky?” you whisper, voice sticky and slow.

“I’m a real good fuck, actually,” you say, so breezy, so matter-of-fact it’s almost cruel. Your smile’s all teeth and glittering pride as your knees bend, thighs spreading just a touch as they kiss the cold linoleum floor. He looks down at you, eyes blown wide and lips parted like he’s watching a dream and a nightmare crawl into his lap at the same time. You tilt your head, all smug satisfaction and sweet venom.

“You got lucky,” you hum, palms sliding up the inside of his thighs now, thumbs hooking the waistband of his pants like a promise. And he knows it. Knows he’s in over his head. Knows you’ve got him right where you want him.

You make a show of it. Fingers slow and precise, unbuttoning him like you’re unwrapping a present you already know you’ll like. The zipper drags down with a lazy hum, and his breath stutters. He clenches the fabric of his hoodie like it might anchor him.

You tug his pants down just far enough, and then the boxers. He twitches when the cold air hits him, body jerking like he wasn’t ready, like he should’ve been, but wasn’t. And yeah. He’s big. Your lashes flutter. A slow, lazy grin curls on your lips like sin itself is stretching out to get comfortable. It’s better than you expected—thick, flushed dark, heavy where it hangs, and already leaking like his body’s ahead of his brain. Small pearls of pre ooze from his slit, leaving a slimy trail all the way down to his heavy balls and a light dusting of hair.

You glance up, just to watch his expression twist, poor boy, caught somewhere between pride and terror. His mouth parts like he might say something, but nothing comes. You look back down and press a soft kiss to the tip, soft and sweet. The mess sticks to your gloss, shines faintly when you pull back just an inch.

He whispers something—barely, like even his voice is too embarrassed to say it out loud. But your hand’s already moving, slow and deliberate, working him up with lazy strokes that make his legs twitch. You tilt your head, smile playing soft on your lips like you don’t know he’s on the verge of breaking.

“What’dya want, baby?” You purr it, like honey slipping off your tongue, like he has any real say in the matter. A mercy, letting him speak at all. He stutters, Red all the way down his neck now, lip caught between his teeth as his voice cracks.

“Y-your tits…” A breathless pause. “Wanna… feel them.” His hands hover, fingers twitching mid-air like he’s too scared to ask properly, like he’s afraid you’ll laugh.

You blink once, then laugh anyway—not mocking, more amused, indulgent. You lean forward just enough for your chest to brush against him, soft and warm through the thin fabric of your top.

“You wanna feel these?” Your voice drips slow, the words curling at the edges, soft like something wicked in silk. He nods before you’ve even finished the sentence—frantic, desperate, practically drooling like a mutt starved for affection. It’s pathetic. It’s adorable. It’s everything.

You bat your lashes, long and thick, gaze dipped half-lidded as your fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt. You tug it up slow, just to watch the hunger flicker in his eyes, then reach behind your back, a quick flick, and the bra slips off like it was never really meant to stay on.

They bounce free, soft and full, skin warm and glowing under the harsh closet light, and his breath catches so sharp you swear he might choke on it. You cup them lightly, just enough to make them spill between your fingers, teasing him without saying a word. Then, voice dropping lower, sweeter, with a tenderness that makes it sting:

“You wanna feel ’em with your dick… or your hands, puppy?” You watch his brain short-circuit, like he doesn’t know what’ll kill him faster. He doesn’t answer —can’t. His mouth opens like he wants to speak, but no sound comes out. Just a shaky breath and a helpless look, red-faced and wide-eyed, every ounce of his nerve short-circuiting all at once.

So you make the choice for him. You lean in, slow and deliberate, gaze fixed on his like you’re daring him to look away. One hand slips between your tits, the other trailing down with intention, You press your breasts together again, as his leaky ‘n throbbing cock slides in between them.

His knees nearly buckle. His breath comes in short, desperate little bursts, hands twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know where to touch, if he even can.

You tilt your head. “Feels good, huh?” Voice velvet-soft now, syrupy and slow. “Bet you’ve never had anything close to this.” And he hasn’t, And he knows it. Your slick, glistening breasts slide along his throbbing cock, coated in his warm precum. As you glide them up and down, your tongue flicks deliberately at his sensitive tip, teasing with slow, hungry licks. Mark’s body trembles, his muscles clenching with every shuddering breath. He ruts eagerly against your soft, yielding tits, like a dog in heat lost in the overwhelming pleasure. Nothing he’s ever fucked—his hand, a pillow, a toy—comes close to the wet, enveloping warmth of your breasts and mouth.

Your tongue swirls and laps at his pulsing cock, wet slurps and soft gags echoing through the room, mingling with the rhythmic slap of his balls against your slick, heaving tits. Mark’s groans are deep, guttural, his chest rumbling as you gently squeeze his balls, sending a jolt through his trembling frame. “You’re pretty big,” you coo, voice dripping with praise, “such a shame it’s attached to a dork who doesn’t even know how to use it.”

Mark lets out a desperate whine as you guide his throbbing shaft into the tight, wet warmth of your throat, deepthroating the length not already enveloped by the soft, plush fat of your tits. His cock throbs with every bob of your head, slick and warm in your throat. Mark’s in bliss, thinking if he died now, he’d go out happy, his dick devoured by such a pretty girl. Your soft pants, warm puffs of air teasing his sensitive tip, push him closer to the edge. His balls tighten, hips jerking as he feels the surge building, ready to unleash his pent-up load across your face and dripping tits.

“Hah—‘m gonna cum,” Mark chokes out, voice shattered, breathless, like he’s unraveling at the seams, pleasure swallowing him whole. You hum, low and smug, a wicked edge to it, and double down. Your head bobs faster, throat clenching around his pulsing cock, gurgling slurps and wet gags filling the air—loud, obscene, a filthy symphony just for him. Your tits, slick with spit and precum, squeeze his shaft tight, a perfect, plush vise. His dick’s buried in heaven, warm, wet, yours to ruin.

His legs quake, thighs trembling like they might give out. Head thrown back, it thumps against the wall, his only anchor as he falls apart. You catch the way his fingers claw at nothing, fists white-knuckled, and that pathetic, broken whimper slipping from his lips? It’s fucking music. His balls tighten, hips jerking erratic, desperate. He’s a mess, sweat-slick, eyes glassy, whimpering like he’s never been touched before.

“Poor Marky,” you say with a pop, voice dripping with mockery, using your hand to finish him off. “Thought you could handle me. Big cock, no clue how to use it.” Your pace doesn’t falter, lips slick, hand relentless, tits bouncing with every move. “Gonna blow already? Such a shame.”

And with that little remark, that teasing curl of your lips, that tone too smug to be anything but wicked, he falls apart. All messy ‘n sloppy, big fat load creating a warm and wet mess all over your breasts and dirtying your pretty face. A few stray droplets kiss your cheek, cling to your lashes. You blink slow, licking your lips like it’s nothing. Like this happens all the time.

You blink slow, all lazy-lidded and smug, the corners of your mouth twitching like you’re holding back more laughter—the kind that would make him shrink even further if he had anywhere left to run. But he doesn’t. He’s stuck there, looking absolutely devastated by his own body, like his soul left him mid-spill and hasn’t come back yet.

“Tears?” you croon, voice dipped in honey and mockery. “You cryin’ over this? Oh, baby.”

You reach up and swipe your thumb across the corner of his eye, not gently. It’s teasing, purposeful, like you want to see if the contact will shatter him completely. And it nearly does. His breath hitches and his eyes flutter closed like even that’s too much. His lashes are damp. His cheeks hot. He’s blushing so hard it looks painful. Shame clinging to him like a second skin.

“Don’t tell me that was your first time gettin’ off with someone watchin’,” you murmur, tilting your head, lips twitching again. “God, that’s actually so cute. I could eat you alive.”

And he doesn’t answer—just stands there, stiff and red and broken open in the prettiest way. You lean in close, your voice a whisper now. “Bet you’ll do anything I ask now, won’t you?”

He nods, slow and small like he’s ashamed of it — like even that’s a surrender too humiliating to admit out loud. But it’s there. Clear as day. He’s yours now. All soft eyes and trembling hands and a brain melted to mush. You smile, bright and sweet like you didn’t just break him down into dust.

Your fingers trace lazy circles on his bicep—featherlight, affectionate, like you’re rewarding a pet after a trick well done. And your tone? Cheerful. Too cheerful. Like you’ve moved on already.

“Great!” you chirp, lips popping on the G. “You can resubmit that assignment for me.” He stares, chest still rising and falling like he ran a marathon, lips parted like he wants to protest—like he’s got dignity left in some corner of his soul. But he doesn’t speak. Just swallows hard and looks away.

“Don’t look so gloomy, Marky,” you purr, already turning to adjust your skirt, unfazed. “You came, I smiled, we both got something outta it. Now go on. I want that A.”

You wink over your shoulder. He’s still standing there, stunned, pants around his thighs, wondering how the hell he ended up in this situation when he was trying to get out of it the first time.

#mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut #invincible x reader #invincible smut #invincible #៹ archive !

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izzyatchi · 21 days ago

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mybabiesss omg welcome back stormcloud

#stormcloud au #stormcloud #winged ness #commander klaus #nessclaus #clausness #mother 3 #earthbound #claus mother 3 #mother 3 claus #earthbound ness #ness earthbound #izzy yapsalot

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yunholic-jongholic · 3 months ago

Note

could i request a woosan x soulmate au? it could be something like them being idols and used to each other and now they have a new addition to the bond so they’re kinda standoffish with the reader because they’re used to it being just them? orr it could be like a high school or college au where the reader hides from them because she’s scared of the bond? orrrrrr where each soulmate has a chibi that looks like them? (it doesn’t really matter which type of soul bond (like soul string, soulmate marks, soul touch etccc)

Tethered by Fate | C.S x Reader x J.WY

PAIRINGS | Choi San x Reader x Jung Wooyoung

RATING | Not really need a rating? But in case; 16+?

CONTENT WARNINGS | Soulmate AU, College AU, Soul string, Fluff, FLUFF, Nervous Encounters, Anxiety (Reader), Competition (WooSan), Jealousy, Flirting, PDA, F L U F F.

WORD COUNT | 10.8k

AUTHORS NOTE | YAY my first San story (and second Wooyoung!) I gotchu, I had to do some research on soulmates AU since I am still fairly new to it. I hope you enjoy! <3

•

You never asked for soulmates.

In a world where thin red threads faintly mark your wrist until they flare to life near the person fate ties you to, most people spent their lives waiting for that spark. But not you. The thought of destiny dictating who you should love — who you’re meant to belong to — felt more like a cage than a gift. So, when your thread began to thrum with heat one quiet afternoon in your second semester of college, your first instinct was fear.

And you ran.

It didn’t matter that the sensation wasn’t painful — just a soft, glowing warmth, buzzing with promise. It didn’t matter that it happened in the middle of the busy student union, surrounded by strangers and noise. What mattered was that it meant something — and you weren’t ready to face it.

Not if it meant them.

Wooyoung and San were hard to miss. Magnetic in completely different ways. Wooyoung, with his playful grin and boundless energy, could light up a room just by walking into it. San, all sharp focus and quiet depth, always seemed to notice what others didn’t. They were inseparable — best friends, roommates — already connected by a thread that glowed bright and sure.

And now, you were supposed to be the missing piece.

The second all three threads sparked to life, Wooyoung had let out a breathless laugh, San’s eyes had gone wide — and you’d turned on your heel and fled the building like it was burning.

---

You let out a long sigh as you closed the door behind you, the weight of the day settling on your shoulders like a stormcloud. The lock clicked into place — not just to keep them out, but to hold yourself in. Safe. Unreachable.

Hyojin, your best friend and roommate, barely glanced up from the couch, where a cheesy romcom played softly in the background. She raised an eyebrow, an all-too-knowing look on her face.

"Let me guess," she said, voice light but edged with concern. "Running from them again?"

You didn’t answer. You just dropped down beside her with a quiet thud, the couch dipping under your weight. The screen lit your face in soft colors — two strangers falling in love like it was simple, like it didn’t terrify them.

You wished you were that brave.

Hyojin didn’t press. She never did. She just nudged a blanket toward you with her foot, eyes still on the screen as if your whole world wasn’t quietly unraveling right beside her.

"You know, in these movies, the running only works for so long," she murmured, half-teasing, half-serious. "Eventually, the love interest shows up in the rain with a boombox or something dramatic."

You scoffed, curling up under the blanket. "Good thing it hasn’t rained."

"Yet," she added, casting a quick side glance your way. "And let’s be honest, if anyone’s showing up with a grand gesture, it’s Wooyoung."

You groaned, burying your face into a pillow. Just hearing his name made your thread pulse. Not painfully — it never was — but a low, steady ache that reminded you they were still there. Waiting.

"San wouldn’t," you muttered into the cushion. "He’d just stare at me until I broke into pieces."

Hyojin laughed, a soft and knowing sound. "Yeah. He has that vibe. All intense eye contact and poetic heartbreak."

You didn’t reply, but your silence was loud.

You wanted to say it wasn’t fair. That you didn’t ask for this — the connection, the glowing thread, the weight of expectation. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t about fair. It was about fear.

Because Wooyoung and San were real. They saw you. And worse — they wanted to.

And you weren’t sure you could handle what came next if you stopped running.

So instead, you sat there, pretending the movie was enough to keep your heart quiet, while your soul tugged in the direction of two people who refused to stop hoping.

---

Wooyoung paced.

Back and forth across the small dorm room, hands ruffling through his hair, his wrist glowing with that telltale red thread that never seemed to fade anymore. It hummed lightly — not in sound, but in feeling. Always there. Always warm. Always pointing toward you.

San sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, watching silently.

"She’s avoiding us again," Wooyoung muttered, more to himself than anything. "She saw me outside the art building and ran. Not walked, not slipped away. Ran. Like I was chasing her with a chainsaw."

San tilted his head slightly, his gaze calm but thoughtful. “You were holding a bouquet of red carnations.”

"...Okay, maybe that was a little intense."

San finally smiled, a flicker of amusement in his usually unreadable expression. But it faded quickly, replaced with the same quiet worry he’d been carrying since the threads lit up.

"She’s scared," he said simply. "It’s not us. It’s what we mean."

Wooyoung dropped down onto the bed beside him with a frustrated sigh. “But why be afraid of something that’s supposed to be… good? We’re not trying to force her. We haven’t even— We’re giving her space.”

"I know," San said. "But space doesn’t always feel like safety. Sometimes it just feels like distance. Like abandonment."

They both went quiet for a long moment.

Outside, campus life went on — students laughing in the hall, music drifting in through a slightly cracked window, the world moving forward while they stayed suspended in this waiting game.

"I just…" Wooyoung trailed off, looking down at the soft glow on his wrist. "I just want her to know we’re not here to trap her in some fate-shaped box. I want her to choose us. Not because of this—" he lifted his arm, the thread catching the light, "—but because she wants to."

San nodded slowly, eyes fixed on his own wrist. The thread stretched out into the unknown, toward you.

“She’ll come back,” he said quietly. “She just needs time.”

“And what if time doesn’t help?” Wooyoung whispered.

San’s answer was immediate, steady. “Then we wait longer.”

---

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep.

The romcom had ended. Hyojin had gone quiet beside you, her phone screen dimming as she dozed off mid-scroll. The apartment was wrapped in a soft kind of stillness — the kind that feels like it’s waiting for something to happen.

You stirred when a faint knock tapped against the door.

Once. Then twice. Soft, hesitant. Like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure they should be there at all.

You sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off your shoulders. Hyojin blinked awake, squinting toward the door.

"Expecting someone?" she mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

You shook your head, already knowing — somehow — who it was. You couldn’t explain how you knew. The way your thread felt suddenly alive, humming low and warm, like it was holding its breath.

You padded to the door quietly, heart thudding too loud for how little had happened. You didn’t unlock it right away. Just pressed your forehead against the cool wood, eyes closed.

“Y/N?” Wooyoung’s voice was soft. Barely a whisper. “I’m not here to push. I just… I wanted to leave something.”

There was a pause.

Then the rustle of a paper bag.

“I made too many honey muffins. Thought you might want one. Or not. Either way—” he hesitated, then gave a short, nervous laugh, “—I figured it’s harder to be scared of someone who shows up with baked goods.”

You opened the door a crack just in time to see him walking away down the hall, hoodie pulled up, hands shoved into his pockets like he wasn’t holding his breath too.

On the floor, in front of your door, was a small brown bag. The smell of warm sugar and cinnamon leaked through.

No note. No pressure.

Just muffins.

Just Wooyoung.

You didn’t call after him. But you picked up the bag and held it close, something in your chest trembling with the gentleness of it all.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like running.

Later that night, the muffins sat on your desk — one half-eaten, the others untouched, like maybe if you didn’t finish them, the moment wouldn’t end.

You stared at your phone screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The soft light of your desk lamp cast a pale circle around you, everything else fading into a blur of shadows. The world outside your dorm was silent. Even Hyojin was asleep now, curled under a mountain of blankets.

And still, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. About them.

You opened your messages, fingers hesitating before typing:

Y/N

You didn’t have to do that. But… thank you. They were really good. My favorite, actually. I don’t hate you. Or San. I’m just… scared. Of what this means. Of what I might become if I let myself want it.

You paused.

Deleted the last line.

Rewrote it.

Y/N

I think I’m afraid that if I fall for you — both of you — I won’t know how to be myself anymore.

Your throat tightened.

You stared at the message, reread it once, twice. Your thumb hovered over the send button, a storm of emotion brimming just under your skin.

Then you locked your phone and set it face down.

It wasn’t time. Not yet.

But maybe soon.

Maybe tomorrow.

You curled up under your blanket, heart still buzzing from the echo of Wooyoung’s quiet kindness and San’s patient silence.

And even though the message remained unsent, for the first time… you thought about what it would feel like to stop being afraid.

---

San couldn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, one arm draped across his eyes, the other resting on his chest — right over the thread that hummed beneath his skin. It never stopped. Not since that day.

The moment it lit up — glowing bright red between him, Wooyoung, and you — something in him had shifted. Not like flipping a switch. More like discovering a second heartbeat he didn’t know he had.

And then you ran.

He didn’t blame you. Not really.

But the silence since then had been a strange kind of ache. Not sharp. Just there — constant, quiet, heavy. Like waiting for a storm that might never come, only clouds.

Wooyoung had tried to fill the space between you with light. San tried to respect the space at all.

But every day that passed, he caught himself watching doorways, scanning lecture halls, hoping for a glimpse. Hoping you'd look at them again the way you did, just before you fled — like your soul recognized something your fear wouldn’t let you reach for.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He reached for it instinctively — the thread always made him hope.

Nothing. Just a group chat notification. Someone sending memes. Wooyoung, probably.

He glanced at your name in his messages. Still unopened. Still unread.

Still… nothing.

San sat up, feet touching the cold floor. His wrist glowed softly in the dark, casting a faint red light across his palm.

He whispered, to no one, to maybe you, “I’d wait forever, if that’s what you need.”

Because it wasn’t about the thread.

It was about you. Choosing him. Choosing them.

And until then, he’d keep the space open. Quiet. Gentle.

Ready.

---

The café was already buzzing with early morning energy — espresso machines hissing, students half-awake and wrapped in hoodies and oversized scarves, soft indie music playing through the speakers. You stood in line, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, scrolling through your notes to mentally prep for your first class.

Then it hit you.

That now-familiar jolt. Not harsh, but unmistakable — a spark beneath your skin, dancing along the glowing thread.

You didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

Still, you did — and there he was. San, standing just a few people behind you, hair messy from sleep and hoodie half-zipped like he’d just rolled out of bed and sprinted here.

Your breath caught.

You turned quickly, tugging your own hoodie up over your head and shrinking a little into yourself, silently pleading with the universe to let him not see you.

But the universe had other plans.

“Hey! Y/N.” His voice was bright, but not too loud. Casual. Like this was just any morning, any moment. “Let me get that for you.”

You turned halfway, offering him a sheepish smile, one hand wrapped around your phone like a lifeline.

“It’s okay, really. You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, already stepping forward and tapping his card before you could protest again. “Consider it as my apology for scaring you yesterday after class.”

You blinked. “That wasn’t me being scared.” You lied.

He shrugged, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Still. I figured coffee would be a safer follow-up.”

You glanced at him, searching for any signs of pressure, of expectation — but there was none. Just San. Open. Easy. Real.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, shifting your weight as the barista called out your name.

“For both?” he asked.

You nodded. “Mine and Hyojin’s. She’ll appreciate it.”

He smiled wider, but not in a flirty way — more like someone genuinely happy just to do something kind for someone they cared about.

As you reached for the drinks, your fingers brushed his — just for a second — and the thread pulsed gently between you.

You didn’t run this time.

And San didn’t comment on it. Didn’t ask for anything more.

He just said, “Hope your morning’s a little better now,” then stepped aside with a soft wave, giving you space to leave first.

And somehow, that simple act made your heart ache more than any grand gesture ever could.

You rushed back to the dorm in a hurried shuffle.

Hyojin was still wrapped in her blanket like a sleepy burrito when you returned, the TV already playing reruns of some old sitcom she liked to put on in the mornings — just enough background noise to keep things from feeling too quiet.

You handed her the coffee.

She sat up immediately, eyes narrowing as she took the cup from your hands. “Wait… you didn’t buy this.”

You blinked, trying to play innocent. “What makes you say that?”

She gave you a look over the rim of her cup. “Because you always get the oat milk latte when you’re paying. This is almond milk. That’s a San move.”

You sighed, sinking into the beanbag chair across from her.

“…He was at the café.”

“And he paid?” she asked, eyebrows rising. “And you didn’t sprint out the door like someone lit your thread on fire?”

You threw a pillow at her. “It wasn’t like that.”

She laughed, catching the pillow and hugging it to her chest. “Okay, so tell me — what was it like, then?”

You hesitated. Chewed the inside of your cheek. The words felt fragile, like they might shatter if you spoke them too fast.

“It was… calm,” you said finally. “He saw me. Didn’t make a big deal. Just… offered to pay. No weird comments. No guilt-tripping. No soulmate speech.”

Hyojin nodded slowly, sipping her coffee like she was giving you space to unravel it all.

“And you know what’s weird?” you added, softer now. “It felt normal. Like we were just two people… being nice to each other. Not fate. Not pressure. Just—”

“San being San,” she finished for you.

You nodded, thumb running along the rim of your coffee cup.

“And… I didn’t run. I wanted to. At first. But then he smiled, and it wasn’t… intense or hopeful or anything dramatic. Just real. And I guess… I wanted to stay in that moment a little longer.”

Hyojin smiled gently, eyes warm. “That’s not nothing, Y/N.”

You nodded, a small flicker of something brave flickering in your chest.

“It’s not everything yet,” you whispered. “But maybe it’s a start.”

---

The smell of sizzling eggs and butter filled the dorm, warm and familiar. Wooyoung stood at the stove in a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, humming quietly as he flipped pancakes with practiced ease.

The door opened behind him with a soft click.

San stepped in, cheeks slightly pink from the cold outside — or maybe from something else.

"Smells good," he said, dropping his bag by the couch.

Wooyoung glanced over his shoulder. “Got up early. Figured we could use a proper breakfast for once instead of vending machine muffins.”

San chuckled, toeing off his shoes. “You’re turning domestic on me.”

“I’m adorable like that,” Wooyoung said with a wink, flipping another pancake onto a plate. “So? Where were you this early?”

San leaned against the counter, eyes twinkling.

“I don’t want to make it sound like a competition,” he started, a teasing lilt to his voice, “but I had a nice meeting with Y/N.”

Wooyoung froze mid-motion, spatula hovering in the air. His head turned slowly, eyes wide.

“You what?”

San grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Ran into her by the cafe. She was alone. Didn’t bolt. We talked for a few minutes.”

Wooyoung put the spatula down a little too carefully.

“Was she… okay? Was she scared? Did she look like she wanted to leave? Did you freak her out?”

San laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “No. She was actually calm. Quiet, but not closed off. And…” He looked down, ears reddening slightly. “She was… cute.”

That made Wooyoung pause. Really pause.

He leaned back against the counter, hands resting on the edge as he stared down at the stove, lips pressed together. “I wish I’d been there.”

San glanced over at him, his smile softening. “You kind of were.”

Wooyoung looked up.

“She mentioned the muffins,” San said gently.

Wooyoung exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

“I don’t want her to feel chased,” he said quietly. “I just… I miss her. And we barely even had her yet.”

San reached out, nudging Wooyoung’s arm.

“She’s not gone. She’s just… figuring it out. You were patient with me. You can be patient with her too.”

Wooyoung smiled at that — tired, but genuine.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “For her? I can wait.”

And as he plated the last pancake and set the table for two, something in his chest settled. Because maybe slow was okay. Maybe slow was exactly what you needed.

---

Class had just ended, and students spilled out of the lecture hall like a slow-moving tide of tired bodies and caffeine breath. You adjusted your backpack, hoping to make a quiet escape down the side hallway—until you felt that buzz again.

The thread. Alive. Warm. And pulling in two directions at once.

You looked up and froze.

Wooyoung was leaning against one wall, arms crossed, eyes lighting up the moment he saw you.

San was on the opposite wall, perfectly still, casually scrolling through his phone like he wasn’t clearly waiting for you, too.

You blinked.

They blinked.

Then both pushed off the wall at the same time.

“Y/N! I was just about to head to the café. Wanna walk with me?” Wooyoung beamed, already taking a half-step toward you.

San cleared his throat softly, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Actually, I was going to check out that new study space in the greenhouse. Thought you might like it.”

You stared at them.

They stared at each other.

Then back at you.

It was obvious what was happening. And it was also very obvious they hadn’t coordinated this.

Wooyoung smiled a little too wide. “You can’t even study with plants, San. What is she gonna do, photosynthesize her notes?”

San, calm as ever, didn’t even blink. “Some people find greenery relaxing. Unlike… a loud café full of undercooked croissants and overconfident baristas.”

“That barista was flirting with me,” Wooyoung shot back.

“Exactly,” San said.

You raised both hands, barely hiding your laugh. “Okay, okay, please stop fighting with each other in front of the academic building like I’m the final boss.”

They both quieted instantly. Then Wooyoung scratched the back of his neck and mumbled, “We just… wanted to hang out with you. Not in a weird way. Not in a ‘soulmate pressure’ way. Just… you.”

San nodded. “We can walk you somewhere. Or nowhere. Or just… exist near you for a bit.”

You looked at them — standing there, trying so hard to not try too hard.

And it hit you again: they weren’t asking you to choose. They were just trying to be close. To be present. To be themselves around you, and hope you’d let yourself do the same.

“…Come on,” you said softly, starting to walk. “You can both walk with me. But no more competing, got it?”

Wooyoung grinned. “Define ‘competing.’”

San sighed. “He’s already losing.”

And just like that, the tension melted into something warmer, easier.

You didn’t say much as you walked between them — not yet — but you didn’t run either.

And for them, that was already a win.

The three of you walked along the tree-lined path that cut through campus, leaves crunching softly underfoot. The air smelled like autumn and coffee, and for once, the thread around your wrist wasn’t overwhelming — just a soft, steady pulse. Like background music you didn’t mind anymore.

Wooyoung was rambling about some club’s haunted house fundraiser — complete with inflatable ghosts and “jump scares that would definitely make San scream.”

You smiled, listening but not saying much. It was easy to let his voice fill the space, to let it feel normal.

Then there was a pause. Just long enough to be noticeable.

You glanced to your left. San had fallen a few steps behind, hands in his pockets, gaze distant. Thoughtful.

Wooyoung slowed too, looking back. “Hey, you good?”

San looked up and gave a small nod. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Wooyoung joked, nudging him lightly.

But San didn’t laugh. Not this time.

“I’ve been wondering,” he said softly, eyes still on the path ahead, “if maybe the reason soulmates exist… isn’t to force people together. But to remind them they can be seen.”

You stopped walking. Slowly.

So did Wooyoung.

San finally looked at you.

“Not just loved,” he added, “but… understood. The way you think no one ever will. That kind of scary, messy, real understanding.”

His voice didn’t waver, but something in it was raw. Honest.

“And I think…” He exhaled, gaze dropping for a moment. “That maybe you’re scared of the bond because it already feels like we see you. And that’s terrifying when you’ve spent so long trying to keep certain parts hidden.”

Your breath caught.

Wooyoung was unusually quiet beside you.

San didn’t step closer, didn’t reach out. He just stood there, his own thread glowing faintly against the falling dusk light, as if saying — I see you, and I’m still here.

“I’m sorry if that’s too much,” he added softly.

You shook your head, your voice low. “It’s not.”

It was everything.

And though you didn’t say another word the rest of the walk, something shifted. Not in the bond.

In you.

---

You sat on your bed, legs crossed under you, hoodie still on like a shield even though the room was warm.

Hyojin was at her desk, scribbling notes half-heartedly until she noticed you hadn’t said much since you got back. She turned in her chair, watching you over the top of her laptop with that familiar “I know something’s up” expression.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you pulled your legs in tighter and rested your chin on your knees. “San said something earlier.”

That got her full attention. “Oh?”

You nodded; eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

“He said…” You took a breath. “That maybe soulmates aren’t about forcing people together. That maybe they’re just about showing someone they can actually be seen. Not just loved but understood.”

Hyojin didn’t speak, waiting patiently like she always did when you needed time to untangle your thoughts.

“And he said he thought maybe I was scared because I already felt like they saw me.” You paused. “And he’s right.”

The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of a dorm heater.

You finally looked up at her, your voice quieter now. “I didn’t think anyone ever really could see me. I got used to keeping the real stuff hidden. Even from you sometimes.”

Hyojin didn’t flinch. She just stood up, walked over, and sat on the edge of your bed, nudging your foot with hers.

“You don’t have to be scared of being seen, Y/N. Not with them. Not with me. But it’s okay if you still are.”

You blinked fast, feeling your throat tighten.

“I didn’t run today,” you whispered.

Hyojin smiled softly. “I know.”

“And it didn’t feel like the world was ending. Just… heavy.”

She leaned over and rested her head on your shoulder. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

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

But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide from the weight of being known.

---

It was later in the week when it happened.

You had a late class that let out just after sunset, and the campus was quiet in that sleepy kind of way — golden lights flickering on, students trailing back to their dorms with earbuds in and backpacks slung low.

You didn’t expect to see him there.

Wooyoung, sitting alone on one of the benches near the fountain outside the arts building, hoodie pulled over his head, earbuds dangling around his neck. A takeout container sat next to him, mostly untouched.

He looked up when he heard your footsteps — and when he saw it was you, he smiled.

Not the usual bright Wooyoung grin. This one was softer. Tired.

You almost walked past him. Almost.

But something in you stopped. Turned. Sat beside him, even though your heart thudded a little too loudly in your chest.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Neither did you.

Just the sound of the fountain and the wind brushing through the trees.

Then, finally—

“I always thought being soulmates with someone would fix something in me,” Wooyoung said quietly, gaze fixed on the water.

You looked at him, surprised by the weight in his voice.

“But it didn’t. You showed up, and everything still felt… confusing. Unfinished. Scary, even.”

He rubbed his thumb over the glowing thread on his wrist, the light faint but constant. “And I realized, maybe soulmates don’t fix you. Maybe they just… stand next to the broken parts and say, ‘I still want you anyway.’”

You felt your breath catch.

“I don’t want you to love me because you’re meant to,” he went on, voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to love me because one day you choose to. Because you look at me and San, and you don’t see a bond — you see us. Messy, flawed, ridiculous… but real.”

He finally turned to you, eyes soft and so achingly open, like he wasn’t afraid of you seeing the cracks.

“And if that day never comes… I’ll still be glad I met you. I’ll still think you’re brave for even sitting here right now.”

His voice caught at the end, just slightly — enough to make your chest tighten.

For a heartbeat, it looked like he might cry.

But then he smiled. Just barely. A little sad, a little accepting. And when he spoke again, it was quieter, almost like it wasn’t meant for you to hear — like it was something he’d already accepted in the quietest parts of his heart.

“Even if you end up finding someone else… I will still think about this.”

You didn’t know what to say. Words felt too small for the weight of what he’d just given you — something so gentle, and yet so devastating.

You didn’t speak.

You reached out instead — hand brushing his, fingers trembling — and laced your pinky with his.

He looked down at the touch. Then back at you.

And for once, he didn’t try to fill the silence with words or jokes.

He just held on.

---

The sky was bruised with early morning light when you found yourself in the greenhouse.

You weren’t sure what pulled you there — maybe San’s voice echoing in your head from days ago, maybe the part of you that couldn’t stop thinking about the way Wooyoung had looked at you like he was letting you go just to make you feel free.

Maybe you were tired of being afraid.

The glass walls let in soft gold light, and the air smelled of damp earth and something alive. The space was quiet, warm. Peaceful.

San sat near the back, legs crossed beneath him on a bench, a book in his lap. He didn’t look surprised when you entered — like maybe he already knew you were coming.

You stood awkwardly for a moment before stepping closer.

“I didn’t come to study,” you said.

He smiled faintly, setting the book aside. “I didn’t either.”

You sat across from him, the little table between you filled with scattered pages, succulents, and a small ceramic frog someone had left there weeks ago.

For a long time, you just looked at each other.

Then you spoke.

“Wooyoung told me he’d be okay if I didn’t choose you both,” you whispered. “Said he’d still be grateful. Even if I found someone else.”

San’s brows furrowed slightly, his jaw tightening, but not with anger — with emotion.

“I think that broke my heart a little,” you admitted, voice shaking. “Because… he meant it.”

San nodded, slow and steady. “He did.”

You took a breath. It felt heavier than it should have. “I didn’t realize… how much love can look like letting go.”

San leaned forward, arms resting on the table, voice low. “That’s what makes it real. Not just the bond. Not fate. Choice.”

You looked at him, and this time, you didn’t shy away from his gaze.

“I’m scared that if I let you both in… you’ll see all the parts I’ve tried so hard to keep hidden. And you’ll love me anyway. And then I won’t know who I am without that love.”

San’s eyes softened, his expression still and grounding — like he was holding space for you without trying to fix you.

“Y/N,” he said gently, “loving someone doesn’t erase who they are. It just gives them more room to be.”

You stared at him for a moment. “How are you so calm about this?”

His lips curved into the faintest smile. “I’m not. I’ve just spent more time thinking about you than my fear.”

You looked away, overwhelmed.

But then you felt it — his hand, reaching out across the table, palm open. Not grabbing. Just waiting.

You didn’t think.

You placed your hand in his.

Warm.

Steady.

No pressure.

Just San.

And for the first time, you thought: maybe I can do this.

---

It started with a text.

San: We’re heading to get icecream in a bit. You’re welcome to join. No pressure. We’ll be at the parlor by the cafe.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a plea.

It was just… an open door.

You stared at the message longer than you needed to. Then you packed your bag and left before you could talk yourself out of it.

The icecream parlor was quiet — all hushed voices, the occasional sounds of the freezer running, and late-afternoon sun filtering in through tall windows. It cast a warm glow across the marbled tables and wooden floor, soft enough to make it feel like a different world.

Wooyoung looked up first when you approached.

He didn’t react dramatically — no wide smile, no flirty comment, just a soft blink of surprise followed by a warm, quiet grin. The kind that said you’re here without a single word.

San gave a small nod, already clearing a spot at the table between them.

You sat.

No one spoke for a while. Not in the way that felt awkward — in the way that felt comfortable.

San was already with you eating icecream as Wooyoung was ordering his.

You looked at them once Wooyoung sat down, San offered to pay for yours as a "Thank you for letting us take you here" gift.

At one point, Wooyoung offered you a bite of his icecream. San rolled his eyes thinking he was trying too hard. You glanced at both of them, your chest tightening a little — not with fear this time, but with something warmer.

There were no dramatic declarations. No glowing threads buzzing like sirens. Just the gentle presence of two people who wanted you close, even if it meant sitting in silence.

And somewhere in the middle of that quiet, you realized:

This — this space, this peace — was its own kind of love.

You didn’t say anything.

But you stayed.

And that, for now, was more than enough.

---

The walk back to your dorm was… peaceful.

Wooyoung talked about some ridiculous online quiz he took that said he was a golden retriever (he wasn’t even mad — just proud), while San chimed in occasionally with dry remarks that made both of you laugh harder than necessary. The thread around your wrist pulsed gently with their presence, but not in a demanding way — just there, like a heartbeat.

No fighting. No forcing. No fear.

Just three people walking home under the orange glow of streetlights.

When you reached your building, they didn’t linger.

“Thanks for coming today,” San said softly, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung added, leaning back on his heels. “You have no idea how much that meant to us.”

You smiled. “It meant something to me too.”

You didn’t have to say more than that.

They nodded, like they understood.

Inside the dorm, you barely had the door shut behind you before Hyojin popped up from the couch, eyes wide with anticipation.

“You’re glowing,” she said instantly, pointing at you. “Suspiciously.”

You rolled your eyes and kicked off your shoes. “I was literally just studying.” You lied. You were technically already on a first date with them eating Icecream.

“With two soulmates who are in love with you,” she sang, wiggling her eyebrows. “Don’t play coy with me. I’m emotionally invested in this fanfiction of a life you’re living.”

You laughed, a little breathless, a little tired.

“I’m serious though,” she said, walking into the kitchenette. “You need a change of scenery. Some dopamine. Some dancing. Good timing — Yunho and Yeosang are throwing a party tomorrow night. You’re coming.”

You blinked. “Yunho and Yeosang?”

“Yep.” She tossed you a granola bar. “One’s an extrovert golden retriever in human form — basically Wooyoung but louder — and the other’s a soft-spoken intellectual who wears sweaters even when it’s 90 degrees. He literally pulls Yunho away from dance circles by his collar.”

“…So, you and me, but more chaotic.”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “Yunho’s been asking if I’d bring you around anyway. Says Yeosang needs new people to judge quietly.”

You gave her a look.

“Come on,” she said, flopping onto the couch again. “You’ve spent weeks hiding. You deserve one night of music, weird drinks, and watching some guys do the worm badly on a hardwood floor.”

You hesitated.

And then… nodded.

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s go to a party.”

Hyojin beamed. “Hell yeah.”

---

The music was way louder than you expected.

As soon as you stepped into the off-campus house, the bass hit you in the chest like a second heartbeat. Lights glowed warm and golden, laughter spilled from the kitchen, and someone had already spilled something sticky on the floor by the entryway — probably juice, possibly regret.

Hyojin tugged your wrist. “Okay, rules,” she shouted over the music. “Don’t drink the neon stuff. Don’t make eye contact with anyone doing interpretive dance. And if Yunho challenges you to karaoke — run.”

You laughed, nerves dissolving into adrenaline.

That’s when he appeared.

Yunho, tall and glowing like someone physically made of sunshine and Red Bull, bounded toward you both with open arms. “HYOJIN! You brought your mysterious roommate!”

“She’s not mysterious,” Hyojin shouted back. “She’s emotionally complicated!”

You gave a weak wave. “Hi.”

Yunho spun dramatically and pointed to the guy standing stiffly behind him, sipping from a plain paper cup like he didn’t want to be perceived.

“And this is Yeosang. He hates this.”

Yeosang gave you a polite nod and a “hello” so soft it nearly got swallowed by the music.

“I don’t hate this,” he muttered. “I’m simply observing this social chaos with anthropological detachment.”

“I once caught him reading Plato in a hot tub,” Yunho said proudly, already turning away like he hadn’t just exposed Yeosang’s deepest philosophical sins.

Yeosang stared ahead, expression perfectly blank, save for the smallest twitch of his eye. “…He tells everyone that.”

You tried — tried — not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway.

Before either of you could recover, Yunho took off like a rocket across the crowded living room, yelling, “Mingi!” like it was both a greeting and a battle cry.

Your eyes followed him just in time to see him tackle a very surprised — but delighted — Mingi onto the floor. The two of them dissolved into uncontrollable laughter, limbs flailing as people parted around them like it was normal for grown men to recreate WWE in the middle of a house party.

You glanced sideways at Yeosang, who hadn’t moved an inch, his cup still delicately held in one hand as he watched his best friend roll around on the hardwood floor.

“…Is he?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

Yeosang sipped his water like it was a fine wine, voice deadpan. “Drunk? Yes.”

You snorted, covering your mouth as a laugh slipped out.

Yeosang’s lips quirked, just slightly. “He gets like this when he’s happy. Or when he’s had anything mixed with blue raspberry.”

“Both, then?”

“Undoubtedly.”

The two of you stood there, quietly united in mutual secondhand embarrassment, watching Mingi attempt to pin Yunho while yelling, “SURRENDER TO YOUR DESTINY.”

You leaned in slightly. “Should we… help?”

Yeosang took another sip. “No. They’d just drag us into it.”

You nodded. “Smart man.”

For a moment, the party seemed to blur in the background — too loud, too fast — but right there, beside Yeosang and his cup of water, everything felt still. Safe. Strangely comforting.

And then a voice called from behind you—

“Y/N! San’s about to lose at flip cup, come watch!”

Wooyoung, of course.

Yeosang sighed lightly. “Good luck.”

You smirked. “Want to come?”

He shook his head. “I’m the designated plant guardian tonight. Someone has to keep the fern alive.”

You left him to it, weaving through the chaos toward the rest of the night — but not without glancing back and seeing Yeosang gently move a party cup away from the fern like it was sacred.

You were definitely coming back to talk to him later.

You didn’t mean to start a conversation with the guy in the flannel.

He’d bumped into you near the kitchen, offered a quick apology, and then started chatting about the playlist. He was funny. Not in a flirty, overbearing way — just easy to talk to. You weren’t thinking about anything beyond the song and the shared complaint about how warm the room had gotten.

But across the room, Wooyoung saw it happen.

He’d just returned from cheering San on in an incredibly one-sided flip cup match (San was losing. With dignity.), when he spotted you near the counter, laughing softly as Flannel Guy leaned in a little closer — just a little — to say something in your ear.

Wooyoung paused mid-step, the grin on his face faltering for half a second.

He wasn’t angry.

But something in his chest tightened.

He knew — he knew — you weren’t his. Not in the possessive way. Not in the way soulmates get written in stories, where the bond means instant belonging. That wasn’t how he saw you.

But he also knew how hard you’d worked to be open. How slowly you’d let your walls down. How every glance, every conversation, every inch of closeness with him and San had been earned with time, not thread.

And now Flannel Guy was standing too close, and you were smiling in that soft, slightly shy way Wooyoung had come to treasure like a secret.

San appeared beside him, holding two drinks. He followed Wooyoung’s line of sight, instantly zeroing in.

“That him?” he asked, tone even but eyes sharp.

“Who?”

“The guy you’re absolutely not staring at like he’s a threat to your entire bloodline.”

Wooyoung blinked, then snorted. “Okay, dramatic.”

San handed him one of the drinks. “You are going over there?”

“Nope,” he said quickly, then added, “Yes.”

He didn’t storm across the room. Didn’t interrupt.

Just appeared next to you, sliding into the space beside you with practiced ease, that trademark Wooyoung smile back in place — charming, casual, just a little too bright.

“Hey,” he said, nudging your arm. “You vanished. Thought maybe you were pulled into a karaoke cult.”

You looked up, surprised. “I was just—”

“Talking about the playlist,” Flannel Guy offered, clearly catching the shift but trying to play it cool. “You’re her friend?”

Wooyoung glanced at you, then back at him. “You could say that.”

The guy nodded, but the energy had shifted. You could feel it — subtle, but unmistakable.

Flannel Guy made a polite exit a moment later, something about checking on his friends, and you turned to Wooyoung with a lifted brow.

“You, okay?”

Wooyoung shrugged, sipping his drink. “Fine. Just… don’t want you getting stuck talking to a guy who thinks ‘early Drake’ is a personality.”

You raised a brow, amused. “That’s a very specific accusation.”

“I know his kind,” he said seriously. “They carry acoustic guitars to bonfires.”

You laughed — but you didn’t move away.

And Wooyoung smiled at that.

Just a little.

The party had started to wind down.

The music was still thumping, but slower now, more background than center stage. People drifted toward couches, clustered in corners, or disappeared into late-night walks and whispered laughter.

You found Wooyoung and San on the back patio — Wooyoung perched on the arm of a bench, San leaning against the railing, both of them quiet in that familiar way they got when the world slowed down around them.

They looked up when you stepped outside, your expression unreadable.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Can I talk to you both for a second?”

Wooyoung blinked, then stood up straighter. San gave a small nod, eyes steady on you.

You walked past them, to the far end of the patio where the light didn’t quite reach — private, but not dramatic. They followed, like they would’ve gone anywhere you asked.

You turned to face them, heart hammering in your chest.

“I need to say something,” you began, voice quiet but sure. “And I don’t know if it’s going to come out perfectly, but…”

You exhaled, looking between the two of them.

“I see you. Both of you.”

They didn’t speak — didn’t move — but something in their eyes softened.

“I see the way you’ve been holding back. The way you’ve waited for me to be ready. How you’ve never pushed. How you’ve been patient and kind and just… here.”

You looked down for a second, then back up, meeting San’s gaze first.

“You listen more than you speak. You give space even when it probably hurts to. You look at me like I’m already enough, even when I’m not sure I believe it myself.”

Then to Wooyoung.

“You make everything feel lighter. You make me laugh even when I don’t want to. And even when you’re hurting, you still show up like you’re the one trying to make me feel safe.”

Wooyoung’s lips parted, a quiet breath catching in his throat.

“I know this bond is supposed to mean something,” you continued. “But you two are the ones who made it feel real. Not fate. You.”

They were both completely still now — not out of shock, but because they didn’t want to break the moment.

“I’m scared. I’m still scared,” you admitted, voice cracking just a little. “But not of you. Not anymore. I think I’ve just been scared of being loved the right way. Of being known.”

You let the silence sit for a second.

And then: “But I think I’m ready to stop running.”

Wooyoung was the first to speak — barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to jump in all at once. We’re not going anywhere.”

San stepped closer, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the steady calm of his presence. “We’ll meet you wherever you are.”

You nodded slowly; eyes misty.

And then — for the first time — you reached out, you bridged the gap.

You took both of their hands.

One in each of yours.

And when the threads pulsed between all three of you, soft and steady, no one flinched.

---

The dorm was quiet when you got back.

Hyojin had left a note on the whiteboard stuck to the door: “Crashing at a friend. Try not to emotionally combust without me. 💖”

You smiled faintly as you slipped inside, flipping on the little lamp near your desk. The overhead lights stayed off — too harsh for how full your chest already felt.

Wooyoung and San followed behind you, quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward or heavy, just… comfortable. Familiar. Like the air after a storm.

You dropped your bag and kicked off your shoes, curling up on the edge of your bed as they settled in, like they’d done it a hundred times before.

Wooyoung sat cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, chin resting on the edge of the mattress. San leaned back in your desk chair, spinning slowly, rhythmically, his gaze soft as it drifted between the two of you.

No one spoke for a while.

And it was nice.

Eventually, Wooyoung broke the silence. “I missed this,” he said, voice low, like anything louder might shatter it.

You looked at him. “We didn’t really have this yet.”

He smiled. “Still missed it.”

San added quietly, “This is the first time we’ve all felt… aligned. Together. Without fear between us.”

You nodded slowly, pulling your knees to your chest.

There was no grand gesture. No dramatic music. Just the three of you sitting in the soft haze of a new beginning.

Eventually, Wooyoung nudged your leg with his elbow. “Can I—?”

You didn’t let him finish.

You reached down and laced your fingers through his.

At the same time, San stood and walked over, crouching beside the bed on your other side. You held your free hand up, and he took it without hesitation.

And just like that — the three of you, linked quietly, hearts in sync — you sat there in the dim dorm light.

No pressure.

No fear.

Just a beginning that felt soft. Safe. Real.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to run from it.

San turned toward you gently, his hand still holding yours — grounding, warm, sure. You met his gaze, and something inside you melted at the way he was looking at you. Like you were something sacred. Like he couldn’t believe he got to be this close.

You took a breath, your heart fluttering like soft wings in your chest.

Then, without thinking — no overanalyzing, no running — you leaned in.

And San met you halfway.

The kiss was soft. Careful. Like he was afraid to break you. But underneath that caution was something deeper — a longing that made your fingers tighten just slightly around his.

You felt him breathe against you.

He kissed you again — deeper this time, like he didn’t want to stop, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And you let him.

You wanted to.

San’s heart was beating so fast you could almost feel the rhythm through his skin, like it was trying to leap out of his chest and into yours.

Then—

A very dramatic throat-clear.

“Okay, my turn,” Wooyoung announced, tapping San’s shoulder like he was cutting in at a dance.

San broke the kiss slowly, his face flushed and dazed, as he turned to look at his best friend.

“You’re seriously—”

Wooyoung was already leaning in, eyes twinkling but filled with something sincere behind the playfulness. “It’s only fair.”

You turned your head toward him, and before you could say anything, he kissed you too — but not the same.

Where San had been slow and steady, Wooyoung was soft and sweet and just a little smug about finally getting his moment. His hand gently cupped your cheek, his lips brushing yours like he’d dreamed of it but never dared to rush it.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Worth the wait.”

You blinked, breath catching in your throat.

And then San — who still hadn’t let go of your hand — leaned his head against your shoulder with a deep sigh.

“I hate how smooth he is sometimes,” he muttered.

You laughed, tears stinging the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming warmth, the safety, the sheer realness of it all.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But right here, in the quiet warmth of your dorm, with both of them beside you — one grounded, one glowing, both yours — you knew one thing for sure:

You weren’t afraid anymore.

You leaned down in bed with them as they both held you in their arms from opposite sides.

---

The sunlight slipped through the blinds, golden and slow, warming the room just enough to make getting up feel illegal.

You were barely conscious, your face smushed into a pillow, your body tangled between limbs that weren’t entirely your own. One of San’s arms was looped around your waist, his breath soft against the back of your neck. Wooyoung’s legs were thrown over both of yours like he’d lost a battle with gravity sometime during the night and just made peace with it.

There was a quiet creak — the door opening.

“Morninggg—” Hyojin’s voice cut off mid-yawn, followed by a beat of silence.

You blinked slowly, groggily lifting your head and squinting at her like a confused meerkat peeking out of a blanket nest.

Hyojin’s lips curled into a dangerous smirk.

“Well, well, well,” she said, arms crossed. “Looks like Y/N got herself a whole cat harem.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a muffled, exhausted noise.

San groaned softly behind you, pulling the blanket higher over all of you without even opening his eyes. Wooyoung cracked one eye open, saw Hyojin, and mumbled, “This isn’t a harem. It’s a heat-efficient cuddle pod.”

Hyojin snorted. “Sure, okay. Let me know when you start charging admission.”

And with that, she shut the door with a cackle, disappearing down the hall like the menace she was.

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, caught somewhere between embarrassment and the warm, sleepy contentment of knowing you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

San hummed softly. “Did she say cat harem?”

“Don’t ask,” you mumbled.

Wooyoung shifted, nestling his face into the crook of your shoulder. “We should’ve locked the door.”

“Next time,” you sighed.

Neither of them moved.

Neither did you.

Because honestly? It was kind of the perfect morning.

The day started simple enough.

You'd suggested brunch. Wooyoung had offered to cook. San immediately declared he would supervise, which actually meant doing absolutely nothing useful. Hyojin, coffee mug in hand, sat on the counter like a queen surveying her kingdom of idiots.

“What are you making again?” you asked, tying your hair up and peeking into the fridge.

“Kimchi fried rice, soft scrambled eggs, and maybe some pancakes,” San replied, already slicing scallions with precision.

“Wow,” Hyojin said, sipping her coffee. “You’re really out here being a better partner than half the men on this campus.”

Wooyoung spun dramatically toward her. “Excuse you, I am also contributing.”

“To the chaos,” San muttered without looking up.

Wooyoung gasped. “I am the heart of this kitchen! The ambience! The charisma! The—”

“You’re the reason we’re out of clean spatulas,” you pointed out, holding up the one he used last night to “mix” instant ramen seasoning directly in the bag.

He winked. “Innovative, not destructive.”

You rolled your eyes.

Meanwhile, Wooyoung was trying to focus, but San kept stealing bites of the chopped kimchi and turning up the volume on his “Cooking with Soulmates” playlist, which currently featured 2000s boy bands and at least one anime opening.

“San,” Wooyoung said patiently, “please stop dancing while I’m using a knife.”

“You can’t stop the rhythm, bro.”

You laughed as Wooyoung gave you a look like, see what I deal with?

Then—sizzle, pop, clatter.

San had turned too fast and knocked a bowl of eggs onto the floor.

“Oops.”

Wooyoung dropped his head onto the counter.

Hyojin didn’t even blink. “There it is. I was wondering when chaos would strike.”

Wooyoung crouched down to clean it up with a dramatic sigh. “I’m too pretty for this world.”

“Too clumsy, you mean,” you said, grabbing paper towels and helping.

Despite the mess, laughter kept bubbling up. The apartment was full of it — warm, genuine, the kind that made you forget about everything else. By the time the food was finally plated (only slightly delayed by Wooyoung burning one pancake into a hockey puck), the four of you were crowded around the table, mismatched mugs and all.

San looked over at you, smile soft.

“You good?”

You nodded, already reaching for your chopsticks. “Yeah. I’m really good.”

And as you listened to Hyojin roast Wooyoung for the third time that morning while he fake-cried into his orange juice, and San calmly ignored them both while handing you the best parts of the kimchi rice—

You realized this was your new normal.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

---

It happened on a Tuesday.

The kind of Tuesday where the sky was impossibly blue, students were sprawled out on the quad like sleepy cats in the sun, and the stress of midterms hung just slightly less heavy in the air because someone was handing out free donuts by the library steps.

You’d just finished your psych lecture, notebook tucked under your arm, earbuds half-in. San had texted to say he and Wooyoung were waiting for you by the big tree near the fountain — the one you always ended up circling like a moth on days you didn’t want to head straight to class.

You spotted them instantly.

San, legs crossed in the grass, flipping through his annotated copy of something you definitely weren’t going to read unless threatened. Wooyoung, lying flat on his back beside him, sunglasses on, hoodie hiked up just enough to show the thread on his wrist glowing warm in the daylight.

When you approached, Wooyoung sat up. “There’s the smartest person in our polycule.”

“We’re not—” you started, but San just smirked and patted the spot beside him.

You sat down between them, letting your bag slide off your shoulder.

San casually reached over to tuck your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing your jaw for a beat longer than necessary.

You froze for half a second. Not because you didn’t like it — but because people were around. Out here, in the open.

San’s hand dropped, and he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

But Wooyoung saw it. Saw you.

And without saying a word, he reached out and slid his fingers through yours.

No big gesture. No loud announcement. Just a simple act of affection.

And you didn’t pull away.

You let him hold your hand, and you leaned a little into San’s side.

Someone nearby whistled. Another person did that thing where they nudge their friend like, “Look, it’s the soulmate trio.”

You didn’t run.

You didn’t hide.

You just smiled, cheeks a little warm, heart a little full.

“PDA level one unlocked,” Wooyoung whispered proudly.

“Don’t make it weird,” San murmured, but he was smiling too.

---

It was after your late lab, and the sky had dipped into that perfect indigo blue — the kind where the stars were just barely starting to show, and the streetlights cast soft halos on the brick paths winding through campus.

San and Wooyoung had waited for you outside, like always.

Wooyoung had your favorite drink in hand — slightly melted but still sweet — and San had that patient look on his face, the one that said take your time, we’re not in a rush.

You walked between them, your bag slung over one shoulder, all three of you heading toward the front gates where Wooyoung had parked his bike like a chaotic gremlin on two wheels.

It was quiet. Not awkward — just that kind of peace you’d learned to love. The kind that only came from being around people who didn’t need to fill the silence to feel close.

You passed the student center — a few people milling around, sitting on steps, laughing in small groups. Someone waved at Wooyoung. San nodded to a guy from one of his lit classes.

And then you stopped.

Not because of anything specific — no grand thought, no particular reason.

Just… because you felt it.

You turned toward Wooyoung first, reaching out to brush a bit of his hair away from his eyes where the wind had pushed it.

He blinked, lips parting slightly, like he was about to make a joke — something light, something very him.

But you didn’t let him.

You leaned in and kissed him.

Right there, in the middle of campus, under the glow of a streetlight.

Soft. Sweet. Real.

His breath caught — just for a second — and then he kissed you back, one hand resting lightly on your waist like he was afraid to hold too tight.

When you pulled away, his eyes were wide, stunned, lips still parted.

“Whoa,” he breathed. “I wasn’t— That was—”

“I know,” you said softly.

San, behind you, let out the softest exhale of a laugh — warm and fond.

“You’re not even gonna warn us anymore, huh?” he teased gently.

You turned, reaching for his hand. “It just felt right.”

And it did.

Not because of the thread.

Not because of the bond.

But because it was you. And them. And this life you were slowly building, piece by piece, kiss by kiss.

---

It was later that night, after the campus had quieted and the stars had taken over the sky completely.

San walked you back to your dorm — not because he had to, but because he always did when it was just the two of you. The quiet walks had become a thing between you. No pressure. No rush. Just matching footsteps and the occasional shoulder bump under the moonlight.

Neither of you had brought up the kiss yet.

Not the one with Wooyoung.

Not the way it had happened — publicly, openly — like your heart had just decided it was done hiding.

You unlocked the door to your dorm, letting it click behind you softly, and dropped your bag onto the floor with a tired sigh.

San leaned against the wall beside your desk, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, his head slightly downturned like he was thinking through every word before he even said it.

You turned to him, waiting.

It was quiet for a moment.

Then—

“That kiss today,” he said softly, not looking at you just yet, “it wasn’t mine. And I still felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

You blinked, heart stuttering in your chest.

“Not because I was jealous,” he added quickly, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. “But because… it was real. And I’ve never seen you look so sure before. So free.”

You stepped closer, slowly.

“I was,” you said. “I am.”

San smiled — that small, quiet smile that didn’t need to be wide to mean everything.

“I’ve been waiting for you to let yourself want us,” he whispered. “Not just accept the bond. Not just stay. But want.”

You were close enough now to touch. You reached up, brushing a stray piece of hair from his forehead, fingers lingering at his temple.

“I do,” you said, just as quietly. “Want you.”

That was all it took.

San leaned in, slow, searching your face one last time — like he needed to see you give him permission even after hearing the words.

You closed the space for him.

The kiss was soft. Warmer than the first one. Deeper. Calmer. It didn’t burn, it settled — like sinking into something safe.

When you finally pulled back, you stayed close, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.

“Feels different when it’s just us,” you whispered.

San nodded, lips brushing yours again as he spoke.

“It always does.”

It was raining when you arrived at their dorm.

Not the dramatic, thunderous kind — just a gentle, steady rain that made the windows blur and the world feel slower, quieter. San had texted you earlier: “Come over. Stay the night. Bring your comfiest hoodie.”

So you did.

Wooyoung opened the door before you could even knock, like he’d been waiting with his ear pressed to it. He was wearing pajama pants and one of San’s old t-shirts, and his smile lit up the dim hallway like sunshine in a storm.

“You’re here,” he said, and it wasn’t a question — it was a confirmation of something he’d been hoping for all day.

You stepped inside, brushing raindrops from your hoodie as San appeared behind him, hair damp from a shower, holding a mug of tea that he wordlessly handed to you.

“Chamomile,” he said. “For settling in.”

That was exactly what this night was — settling in.

No pressure. No grand gestures. Just warmth.

The dorm lights were low. A candle flickered on the windowsill — something cinnamon-sweet and comforting. The sound of rain tapping against the glass filled the quiet spaces between your words.

Wooyoung made popcorn — burned the first batch and blamed the microwave. San changed the playlist three times before settling on soft acoustic songs. You curled up on the bed between them, a blanket draped over all three of you, legs tangled and laughter easy.

At one point, Wooyoung tried to explain the plot of a movie he only half-watched last week, and San kept correcting him with actual facts until Wooyoung gave up and fake-sulked into your shoulder.

You kissed the top of his head. Just because you could now.

San was leaning against the wall behind you, fingers lazily tracing shapes on your thigh beneath the blanket. He wasn’t saying much — but his presence wrapped around you like gravity. Quiet, grounding, always there.

Eventually, the conversation faded, the rain still whispering outside, the playlist down to nothing but soft instrumentals.

You shifted, nestling closer to both of them, and whispered, “This feels like home.”

Wooyoung hummed sleepily, half-asleep already. “That’s because it is.”

San kissed your temple. “You’re not visiting anymore,” he murmured. “You’re just… with us.”

And that night — wrapped in their warmth, the bond humming quiet and content — you believed it.

---

The rain had stopped sometime in the early morning.

The world outside the dorm window was still, soaked and silver-blue in the soft pre-dawn light. Inside, it was warmer — cocooned in quiet breaths and shared blankets, the air heavy with sleep and something else.

You lay between them in the tangle of sheets, Wooyoung’s arm draped lazily over your waist, San’s fingers still linked with yours from the night before. None of you had spoken in hours. Not even in whispers. Just soft sighs, slow heartbeats, a peace so deep it didn’t need words.

And then it happened.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was a feeling — deep in your chest, blooming behind your ribs like light warming the darkest part of you.

The thread.

That red, pulsing thread you’d feared for so long.

It tightened.

Not in a choking, panicked way. Not like it was pulling you in.

More like it was settling. Finding its shape around the three of you. Completing a loop that had taken its time, been patient, never forced you — just waited.

A quiet click, almost metaphysical — like the final piece falling into place.

You felt it hum beneath your skin, and this time, instead of fear, you felt complete.

You shifted slightly, just enough to see both of them. San stirred first, eyes still half-lidded but aware. Wooyoung blinked slowly, sleep still soft around the edges of him.

“…Did you feel that?” you whispered.

San nodded, voice gravelly. “Yeah.”

Wooyoung’s smile was slow, drowsy, genuine. “Finally.”

None of you moved to sit up. None of you needed to.

You just breathed together, wrapped in each other — the bond no longer glowing, but settled.

No more tugging. No more questions.

Just quiet connection.

A single thread. Three hearts.

And everything that came next.

•

A/N: Again! I hope you enjoyed :3 It is sort of my first soulmate au story and I'm fairly new so let me know how I did ^^ (I tried ;'3)

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