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lockefanfic · 2 months ago

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Part One of Three. 12k words.

---

The day before the trip, you’re turning a corner at the office and she’s spilling an iced caramel macchiato - extra whipped cream, extra caramel drizzle - onto your clothes.

“Oh my god-” she spits, mouth frozen open as the reality of what she’d just done dawns on you both. She sees the suit, sees the ID card dangling on a lanyard from your neck, sees the Director title on it - and freezes.

After you both overcome your momentary shock, she steps close, producing napkins from her blazer’s inside pocket and using it to wipe uselessly at the whipped cream and caffeinated sugar-water soaking into your jacket.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” you say, genuinely. You were late to a meeting, and it was probably your fault for turning the corner too quickly without looking. You notice the equally wet patch on her own blazer, and notice her napkins quickly shredding into wet pieces as they try and fail to absorb the rogue caffeine stain. You reach into your pocket for your handkerchief and offer it to her.

“I- shit, I’ll, uh,” she stammers, even as she takes your handkerchief.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, slipping the jacket off, offering a crooked smile. For the first time you look up at her. She’s an unfamiliar face, and her ID card isn’t immediately visible. She’s slim, with dark hair, and beneath the awkward, worried look on her features is the kind of face that belongs on a magazine. You smile sheepishly.

“I’m so fucking sorry, I’ll get it cleaned, oh my god-”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” you say, already heading down the hall. “Late to a meeting. See you around!”

She watches you leave, still a little frozen in shock. She clutches what’s left of her macchiato in one hand, your handkerchief in the other.

She sighs.

---

“Seoul. Tokyo. Two weeks each. You leave tomorrow.” Taeyeon slides a tablet across her desk, just past the Vice President, Strategy name plate. On it are graphs and spreadsheets, numbers generally in green and arrows pointing generally upward. She spares a glance at the clearly dripping blazer folded over the back of your chair, and the corresponding damp spot on your chest, before leaning forward and threading her fingers atop her desk.

“Seoul is doing fine. Tokyo needs to pick it up a little,” she continues, tone sharp and direct, business persona fully on and engaged. “Either way, the CEO wants a status report on both offices by end-of-month so he can decide whether to expand ops in either country. We already have the hard data we need for a business case - we just need someone on the ground to confirm the numbers. Meet with the directors of each office, let them wine and dine you, take a tour of the facilities and offices, slap together a report for me to hand to the boss when you get back. Piece of cake.”

“Sounds like a month-long vacation,” you reply, relaxing a little further into the leather chair opposite her desk.

“Consider it a thank you for the good work you did on the Hirai deal,” Taeyeon says with a shrug, taking a sip from her mug - double-shot Americano, black, extra hot. You smirk as you recall the details of the deal, which took every ounce of your attention and time for a couple of months. There were too many long nights spent in this very office, the two of you working away at this document or that. “And you’re too busy?” Taeyeon glares, but there’s no heat in the frown on her lips. “I’m going to London to check up on the office there. I’d spend too much time in Seoul fielding ‘why aren’t you married to a chaebol heir and popping out kids yet’ questions from the family.”

“Coward. Come to Seoul with me. I’ll play the handsome foreign fiance in front of your parents. Maybe we tell them there’s a bun in the oven. Maybe in the hotel room-”

Taeyeon throws a paper clip at you. Her faux-serious frown becomes a reluctant smile to mirror the one on your own. Thankfully, her promotion to a VP position a year ago didn’t change the close relationship you’d forged over almost a decade of working together, especially now that you technically reported to her. HR would’ve had a field day with the things said and done in this twentieth-floor corner office, had even a fraction of it somehow leaked beyond its walls.

“You had your shot with me,” she says, mostly-jokingly, under her breath. You don’t miss the wistfulness in the corners of her eyes as she crosses her arms and makes a playful show of looking out of her office’s floor-to-ceiling windows at Vancouver’s dark, cloudy afternoon. “I’ve moved on.”

Silence reigns for a moment that felt longer than it actually was. The I haven’t on your lips dies there, unspoken.

“Anyway, you’ll need a translator,” Taeyeon continues, eager to change the subject before it drowned you both in memories of years past. She shuffles a few papers around randomly on her desk in an attempt to alleviate the sudden tension in the air. When she looks up at you, the wistfulness isn’t entirely gone - just pushed down by the professionalism she wore like armor. “Her file’s on the tablet. Some new kid from Marketing.”

Your eyes linger on Taeyeon’s for a moment longer before you pick up the tablet. There is something behind her eyes in that split-second - thoughts she perhaps wants to turn into words. But the moment passes as quickly as it comes. She turns her eyes to her laptop, and you return yours to the tablet.

A swipe left reveals a resume and an unfamiliar name.

“Ryujin Shin.”

“Brand new to the company - only been with us less than a year, but apparently she’s already a bit of a rock star. Got promoted to Marketing Lead in six months. Her manager says she volunteered for this assignment. She was pretty insistent that she get it, apparently. Maybe she thinks overseas experience will be good for her career.”

“Hmm,” you muse, as you review Ryujin’s resume. Degree with honors, top of her training cohort, gleaming reference letters.

“She’s fluent in both Korean and Japanese,” Tayeon continues, “so make sure you get your translations directly from her. CEO wants real shit in the report, not a sugarcoated version from the local translators.”

You place the tablet back on her desk as you rise. “I’ll get it done, ma’am,” you state, before straightening up and giving her an exaggerated military salute.

Taeyeon returns the salute with one of her own, a soft smile perking up the corners of her lips. For a moment she’s twenty-six again, bright-eyed, greeting you with a smile at the company orientation that she was in charge of organizing. You feel something stir in your chest, somewhere deep down where the past still lingered.

“Dismissed, Director,” she answers.

Her smile follows you out the door. It lingers even after you leave, but tinged with a sadness that she’d fought to keep hidden while you were in the room.

---

Ryujin Shin was late.

You weren’t exactly sure what to expect - her profile didn’t include a photo or even so much as a birthdate, so you treated every female that approached within twenty feet as potentially being your translator and guide for the next month. This resulted in some awkward eye contact and equally awkward smiles with random female travellers making their way through Vancouver International Airport’s departures terminal.

You’re directing one such awkward smile toward a middle-aged woman when the actual Ryujin Shin approaches. “Director?”

You turn your head to the sound and there she is - the girl from the morning prior. The one that had left half her drink on your suit jacket.

“...Ryujin Shin?”

“That’s me,” she says, shyly. She fidgets with the slim silver chain around her wrist. She’s dressed casually, in an oversized navy cardigan and wide cut jeans, but looks just as fitting for a magazine cover as she did when she was spilling iced caffeine on you the day before. “Shall we get going?”

---

The thirteen hours over the Pacific are relatively uneventful - hours of movies on your iPad, a microwaved but surprisingly edible bibimbap, and dying more than you’d like in the latest Souls-like to test your blood pressure. Ryujin spent most of it asleep, snoring softly in the seat next to you.

It’s near midnight when the two of you arrive in South Korea’s capital city. The bright neon lights of downtown Seoul paint Ryujin’s soft features in bright blues and pastel pinks as she stares out the taxi windows with wonder, awe, and nostalgia clashing on her soft features. The taxi pulls up in front of a high-end boutique hotel that your assistant had insisted was popular with travel influencers.

Ryujin slipped into her translator duties early, helping the two of you check in to your rooms. You don’t miss the blush on her cheeks and the embarrassed wave of her hands when the desk clerk sheepishly asks her a question in Korean before shooting you a glance heavy with implication. Eventually, Ryujin receives two key cards from the clerk and hands one of them to you as you both make your way to the elevator.

“She thought we were married,” she admits, shyly, as she pushes the up arrow button on the wall. “Thought we were here for our wedding or something.”

“Cute,” you say, shooting her a smile. The blush lingers.

The elevator dings on the 10th floor, and the doors open. Ryujin heads out first, but when you make to follow her, she stops you with a raised hand.

“Company got you a suite. You’re on the 14th floor. Room 1421.”

“Oh,” you admit. “Got it.”

“Don’t forget - first meeting tomorrow is at 9am. See you in the lobby at 8?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good night, Director,” she says with a slim smile, before disappearing behind the closing elevator doors, leaving you still a little unsure as to what to make of her.

Your first day in the Seoul office is filled with introductions and greetings - it wasn’t your first time in the city and you were used to the overly formal introductions, but it didn’t make things any less awkward. The day starts with a meeting with the office’s leadership, each of whom rise from their seats in turn and provide you with their name, title, and what you assume to be the usual corporate platitudes and greetings.

At your shoulder, Ryujin translates.

“...Shin Yuna, Marketing Lead. She’s looking forward to working with you. Lee Chaeryeong, Operations Lead. She’s looking forward to working with you. Hwang Yeji, Legal Counsel. She’s looking forward to working with you. Choi Jisu, HR Head. She’s looking forward to-”

You turn your head to Ryujin and give her a smile. She looks sharp in a white blouse, navy blazer, and charcoal pencil skirt, hair pulled up into a professional bun atop her head.

“I get it,” you whisper, softly, with a small smile. “They’re looking forward to working with me.”

Ryujin nods. Her cheeks blush slightly and there’s the ghost of a smile on her lips, but she otherwise returns to translating as the office director begins his opening speech.

---

“...profitability is up eighteen point nine five percent - primarily driven by… logistics improvements- no, a better word would be enhancements… that allow for faster- actually, no, I mean smoother transport of goods up from the port of Busan to manufacturing and distribution facilities in Seoul,” Ryujin says, softly but clearly. At the head of the room, the Operations Lead continues her presentation in rapid-fire Korean, gesturing to a bar graph that emphasizes the eighteen point nine five percent increase in large green numbers.

“Ask her to elaborate on what she means by ‘logistics enhancements,’” you ask Ryujin, turning your head to speak softly to her. You watch as Ryujin nods and frantically jots down notes in a messy looking notebook.

Ryujin raises her hand, interrupting the presentation, and asks your question in Korean. She corrects herself with a couple of her word choices, as though a better word had come to her just as the previous one had left her mouth. The Operations Lead takes a moment to consider her response before answering. “She says they found a way to… get better pricing agreements- no, contracts- from their suppliers - no, I mean, she used the term suppliers, but I think she means shipping specialists. The big difference that resulted in the increase was how they went from relying on trucks -I mean, truckload shipping, to high-speed rail to send goods from the Port of Busan to Seoul. The costs for shipping via trains are lesser than shipping via trucks due to-”

“They went from trucks to trains, got it,” you say, with a grin.

Ryujin nods. “Yeah,” she agrees, with a flustered smile.

“Thank her, and ask her to continue.”

The smile lingers on Ryujin’s lips as she asks the Operations Lead to continue. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as she scribbles “trucks to trains” in her notebook.

---

The setting sun is painting Seoul in gold and amber by the time the day’s meetings have wrapped up. You were used to the long working hours involved with working in Asian offices, but the jetlag made the first afternoon especially draining.

Next to you, Ryujin stifles a yawn as you both step out into the early summer evening.

“Jetlag?” you ask as you both head towards the street and the taxis waiting there.

“Jetlag,” she repeats. She fidgets with the silver chain bracelet again, fingers tracing the delicate links - a habit of hers, you’d noticed. She flags down a waiting taxi, and you follow her into the cab as she gives the driver the address of the hotel and the car pulls away from the curb.

“Dinner plans tonight?” you ask as you watch Seoul’s downtown whiz by in a blur of concrete and glass.

There is a moment of silence. When Ryujin doesn’t answer, you give her a glance to find her eyes already on yours. She looks away shyly, fingers playing with the glimmering silver wrapped around her wrist.

“Uh, probably just going to grab something from the convenience store,” she says. “Kinda tired.”

“Gotcha. I suppose I’ll do the same and call it a night early,” you admit. “Jetlag’s a bitch.”

There is an awkward, uncomfortable silence for a few more blocks. At a red light, you watch as the neon sign above a fried chicken and beer restaurant beckons weary office workers into its doors. On the outdoor tables, tired-looking office employees tuck into delicious looking chicken wings and frosted mugs of beer.

“I wouldn’t mind some of that right now,” you say, hoping to break the tension.

Silence for a few more seconds. You watch as Ryujin peers out your window and notices the sign. Her lips curl up into a small, cautious smile.

She asks the driver to pull over.

---

The fried chicken and beer restaurant is busy but comfortable, the kind of neighborhood place that catered mostly to local employees from the surrounding corporate towers grabbing a bite and a drink on their way home. Ryujin orders in Korean, and soon enough you find yourselves presented with that heavenly combination of fried chicken and light beer. A side of fries and mozzarella sticks accompany the main course at Ryujin’s insistence.

The conversation is light and casual, mostly about the day’s meetings. It’s towards the end of the meal that you muster the courage to broach the topic that had been weighing on your mind for the whole trip.

“Hey, Ryujin,” you begin. “Are we… cool? I dunno, just wanted to make sure you didn’t secretly hate me or something.”

Ryujin takes a sip of beer, likely to buy time for her to form a response. She places her mug back on the table and examines the half-eaten piece of chicken thigh on her plate for a few seconds, as though she could find the right answer to your question somewhere amidst the delicious breaded and fried poultry on her plate.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks, cautiously.

You smile to yourself as you take a sip of your own beer.

“Hmm,” you begin, feigning ignorance. “I don’t think we’ve met prior to this trip. Your file says you’ve been with the company a year or so?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmmmmm,” you continue, tapping a finger on your lips for emphasis. “No, I think I’d remember if I bumped into someone like you. So no, I don’t remember. But my suit jacket might.”

A moment passes before Ryujin’s lips break into a tentative smile.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she says, covering her face shyly with her hands. “I felt so bad.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, happy to have lightened the mood somewhat. “I didn’t really like that jacket anyway.”

“I could pay to have it cleaned?”

“Naw,” you assure. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked. It was due for a visit to the dry cleaners, anyway. Dropped it off on my way to the airport.”

Ryujin nods, returning to pushing the chicken thigh around on her plate. “Alright,” she says, “but drinks after this are on me. Least I could do for leaving half a macchiato on your jacket.”

“Sure,” you agree, excited at the prospect of getting to know her better over drinks. You take your corporate credit card out of your wallet and place it on the table before excusing yourself from the table to hit the washroom.

The waiter comes by and Ryujin uses your card to pay for the meal. She gathers her things and waits for you outside the restaurant.

Outside, she lets a long, sad sigh escape her throat, wishing you had a better memory.

---

“I was born here,” Ryujin begins as she pours you a shot of soju from the second bottle the two of you were working on. “Family moved to Vancouver when I was six, so I essentially grew up there - but somehow, coming back always feels like coming home.”

“Ahh,” you say, taking the small shot glass and tapping it to hers before downing the shot. The soju here is harder and less sweet - unlike the overly sugary versions back home. You pick at the seafood pancake on the table with your chopsticks, chasing the burn of the alcohol with the grease of fried batter. “So - what brought you to the company?”

Ryujin takes her own bite of the pancake before refilling your glasses with another shot. She takes a moment to swirl the alcohol around in the glass, not quite bringing it to her lips just yet.

“It’s the biggest game in town,” she begins. “Wanted to work with the best.”

“Fair enough. How has the first year been?”

Ryujin’s eyes leave yours for a moment, drifting to the space between you.

“Good,” she begins, the word leaving her mouth in a measured, careful way. “The orientation week in particular was… fun.”

You perk up at the mention of orientation week. The company had a mentorship program wherein every new employee was matched with a senior leader for a week during their company orientation - one of Taeyeon’s ideas. It was during the inaugural orientation week, almost a decade ago, that you and Taeyeon had begun your friendship. You’d since taken over leadership of the program following her promotion to VP a year ago.

“That’s good to hear,” you begin. “I really enjoyed my own orientation week, and I really wanted to make sure new employees get the same experience. I’m glad yours went well.”

Ryujin nods, a soft smile perking up the corners of her mouth. The sight of it stirs you, because you’re convinced it’s the first genuine smile you’ve seen on her lips.

“It was great,” she says, eyes suddenly bright, smile a little more authentic, a little more real - as though she were waiting the whole trip to bring up this topic. “I really liked getting to know-”

Your phone, on the table between you, vibrates. The message preview on your lock screen shows a message from Taeyeon, asking if the weather in Seoul is as good as it is in London. Attached to it is a selfie - her in front of Big Ben, half a world away.

“Sorry,” you say, grabbing the phone and putting it on Do Not Disturb before replacing it face down on the table.

“It’s fine,” Ryujin says, not having missed the brief message preview or the attached photo. She downs her shot of soju - without tapping her glass to yours. “It’s getting late, and we’ve got meetings tomorrow. Shall we?”

---

“That was fun,” you say as the two of you wait for the elevators back at the hotel. “Thanks for translating those menus for me. Would’ve been microwaved rice and a can of tuna for me otherwise.” Ryujin smiles, but even the blush of alcohol on her cheeks fails to hide the awkwardness that is still lingering somewhere behind the curve of her lips.

“No worries,” she says, as the two of you step into the elevator and she hits the button for her floor. “Thanks for the food.”

“Thank the company card, not me,” you say with a grin.

She smiles back, politely, but doesn’t say anything more. The elevator doors open to her floor, and she steps out.

“First meeting’s at 9-”

“-see you at 8,” you finish.

She smiles a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You wave good night. As the elevator door closes again, the forced smile leaves her face, replaced quickly with a frown - just a moment too soon, just long enough for you to see.

The elevator rises to your floor, leaving you no closer to figuring out Ryujin Shin than you were the day before.

---

“Director!” Shin Yuna exclaims, the title overly sweet and saccharine, almost sing-song in its delivery. “Do you… want to drink? With us?”

The Marketing Lead is standing a few steps apart from a dozen or so members of the Seoul office that are seemingly debating which dinner and drinks spot to hit first. Yuna - bright, cheery, and a little too handsy - skips over to you, wrapping her forearm around yours.

“Team bonding,” she says, her accent giving the English words a pleasant lilt. Her smile is wide and cheerful, and for a moment you lose yourself in the fact that an attractive young woman is asking you to join her for drinks.

“Uh-” you stammer, even as Yuna forcefully drags you towards the rest of the team, who have begun to wander towards the first destination of the night.

“What’s wrong?” Yuna asks, lower lip extended in an exaggerated pout.

“Nothing, Yuna - it’s just-”

“Ah, I see,” she says, turning back towards where Ryujin is just appearing from the revolving door entrance to the office, eyes glued to her phone. “You need her. To… translate.”

Ryujin looks up from her phone to see you, Yuna’s arm hooked in yours.

“Ryujin-ssi!” Yuna exclaims, waving at Ryujin with her free hand more frantically than was actually necessary. “Come join us!”

Ryujin’s eyes flit to you, then at Yuna’s arm around yours, then back to your eyes.

“Sure,” she says, before moving toward you.

---

It’s somewhere between the second and third stops of the night that you finally find yourself alone with Ryujin. She is trailing just behind the crowd as it sings off-tune k-pop ballads into the warm Seoul evening. Yuna is at their head, leading them to the bright red pocha tents like a conductor leading an inebriated orchestra.

“Having fun?” you ask.

“Yeah,” she answers, turning to you with a smile that betrays the lie.

Silence for another few steps.

“Hey,” you start, stopping in place. “Ryujin,” you add, when she continues without you.

“Yeah?”

The questions come to your lips - What’s wrong? What’s your problem? Did I do something? Is this going to be the month-long business trip from hell with a translator that hates me?

“Can we talk?” you manage.

Ryujin glances over at the crowd of your colleagues as they disappear into one of the pocha tents.

“Sure,” she says, stepping towards a different one.

---

The soju arrives quickly. She hadn’t bothered to ask you what you wanted before ordering it. The bottle hasn’t been on the table for a second before Ryujin picks it up, twists the cap, and pours you both a shot. Neither of you move to take it.

“Ryujin,” you begin, cautious, wary of your word choice. “I… I’m a little confused,” you admit, honestly. “I thought things were cool between us after dinner last night. I liked… getting to know you.”

Ryujin can’t hide the small quirk in her lip, as though what you’d just said had physically hurt her.

“I-” you begin, “I feel like maybe there’s something you’re not telling me? Or something I’m missing? Because after we had drinks you seemed kind of… upset. We’re going to be working together for a month, and-”

“-and you don’t want things to be awkward,” she finishes. Her eyes finally find yours, an unreadable, blank expression on her face.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Did I fuck something up? Say something that upset you? Is this about the drink you spilled on my suit? Because I’m trying to remember if I-”

“No,” she interrupts. She takes a sip from her soju glass, but her eyes don’t raise from the table between you.

“Then what is it?” Your glass of soju sits on the table, untouched.

Silence for a few more seconds, each one far longer than it had any right to be.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, eyes rolling, before finally settling on you. “You really don’t remember me.”

“What? I just said I did. You spilled your drink on my jacket and-”

“I’ll see you at the office tomorrow,” she states, before she stands, her plastic chair scraping loudly against the concrete. She steps out of the pocha and raises her hand to flag a nearby taxi.

The silver chain on her wrist catches the fading Seoul sunset.

And you remember.

---

“My mother gave it to me,” she says, eyes dropping to the delicate silver on her wrist. “When I graduated. First one in the family to get a degree! She wanted to commemorate it somehow. It means a lot.”

“That’s awesome,” you reply, watching her fingers play with the glimmering links. “I bet she’s real proud of you.”

“She is,” she replies, eyes forlorn for a moment. You sense that she wants to tell you more, that there are thoughts right there on her lips that she debates turning into words.

She wants to tell you how much she’s looked forward to your one-on-one meetings, how she’s laid in bed at night going over everything you said and did that day with a smile on her lips. She wants to tell you about how she’s memorized the flex in your forearms as you point something out on your laptop, the way you tie your tie, the scent of your cologne. She wants to tell you that the way she bumped her knees against yours under the table “accidentally” that morning wasn’t really accidental at all.

But she settles for something less. Something more professional, more fitting for an orientation week spent with a senior leader she only just met a few days ago.

“Anyway - you were telling me about our distribution channels in Korea?”

“Right,” you say, glancing back at the PowerPoint in full screen on your laptop. “Our manufacturing happens all over the world, but our main distribution centre is in Seoul. Goods come up from Busan…”

---

“Ryujin!” you say, throwing some cash on the table before leaving the pocha tent and catching up with her on the curb. “Ryujin. I remember.”

She turns to face you, arms crossed, upset.

“Do you?” she asks, unconvinced.

“Orientation week,” you blurt, ashamed. “We were matched up.”

Relief and disappointment war on Ryujin’s features. When she speaks, the words leave her mouth with intent, as though she’d been waiting to say them for a while. “I couldn’t give less of a shit about that corporate bullshit,” she spits. “And I get that people like you are too busy to give a fuck about lowly Marketing drones. What I care about is-”

A vehicle pulls up to the curb. The door opens. A taxi.

“-when people break their promises,” she finishes, her tone suddenly sadder. “Or forget they made them in the first place.”

She gets into the taxi alone, and it pulls away from the curb. For a second, you catch the way Seoul’s streetlights make her eyes glisten.

---

“I had a great week, Director,” she says, hands clasping her tablet to her chest like it were some sort of life preserver. “Thanks for… taking me seriously.”

“Pleasure was all mine. You’re gonna kill it in Marketing. Your comments on the Hirai marketing campaign materials were visionary - I’ve forwarded them to your boss and he’s pretty impressed. I think they’ll make a difference when it comes to the bargaining phase. And please, drop the title. I have a first name like anyone else.”

She smiles, a hint of a blush on her cheeks. She says your name out loud, as though she were testing the way it sounded. You feel something stir inside you at the sound of your name, and the smile it leaves behind on her lips.

You want to tell her that the week flew by, and that you’d wished you’d had more scheduled one-on-ones with her to look forward to next week, where you’d start discussing market demographics and somehow end up discussing which of the Sailor Scouts was your favorite. You want to tell her you are a little in love with the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, or the cute burrow in her brow when she’s concentrating on logistics figures and graphs. You want to tell her that you’ll miss her perfume - something between caramel and vanilla? - and the way she laughs at your terrible puns. You want to ask her if she’ll have lunch with you next Tuesday - and maybe dinner the Friday after that.

But you settle for something less - something more fitting of a leader during a brief, HR-mandated mentorship with a new recruit.

“Anyway,” you continue, eager to make sure she doesn’t catch on to your sudden nervousness. “Tip #2,391 before you go: the ramen place a block away from here has a pretty great tonkotsu.”

“Ooooh,” she coos. “My favorite.” She plays with the bracelet on her wrist, fingers pinching the silver links as though she could squeeze the courage she needed from them. “...I don’t suppose you’d want to join me tonight after work-”

A woman approaches - Ryujin recognizes her from the executive introductions earlier in the week; the new VP of Strategy, Taeyeon Kim. She’s all poise and professionalism, corporate success in a tailored black pantsuit. She gives Ryujin a brief nod and a token smile before turning to you.

“Budget meeting for the Hirai deal in five,” she says to you, before heading off towards the meeting rooms.

“Duty calls,” you state to Ryujin. “Ramen sounds good, though. See you at six?”

“It’s a date,” she says, smile bright.

The Hirai deal budget meeting takes all night. Ryujin eats alone.

---

It takes three knocks for her to open the door.

“Yes, Director?” she asks, arms crossed, frosty emphasis on your title. Gone are the crisp pale blue blouse and heather grey pencil skirt, replaced with a navy blue oversized hoodie and strawberry-print pajama shorts. Her hair, released from the corporate bun she wore during the day, falls in dark waves around her face.

“The ramen date. I remember. I’m sorry. I was in a meeting that day that-”

“It’s not that that fucking matters,” she interrupts, the curse word somehow sounding sharper than you’d expected coming from her. “It’s the ghosting afterward. I wasn’t expecting a Director to give two shits about a lowly newbie in Marketing, but an apology would’ve been nice.”

“That deal took every ounce of my attention for a few months,” you protest. “I’m sorry, Ryujin. I really am.”

She seems only slightly placated by your apology. Her crossed arms tighten around her small torso, as though tightening her plates of armor. “And you just totally forgot about me afterward, huh? Even after I spilled a drink on your chest accidentally-on-purpose? Even after I volunteered for this assignment, hoping you’d remember me when saw my name on the brief?”

You frown, unsure of what else to do or say.

“Do you know how it makes me feel to have someone I was into ask me who the fuck I am? Twice?” she continues. “Make me feel like I’m top of the world one moment, then forget I exist the next? No one I’ve ever known has made me feel… seen like you did - and then you went and forgot all about me the second your precious VP smiled at you.”

There is silence for a moment. She was into you? A hand uncrosses itself from her chest and moves to her mouth, as though she regretted saying the words.

“Ryujin, I… I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say,” you manage. You look up at her and she’s covering her face with her hand now, brow furrowed, as though she were suddenly fighting a headache.

“You don’t have to say anything, Director,” she says, arms crossing again. “I’m used to not expecting anything from you.”

More silence. Her words hit you with the force of a punch to the gut. She lingers there for a moment, as though gauging your response and finding none. She moves to close the door.

“I… I’ll see you at the office tomorrow,” she says, defeat and disappointment in every syllable.

Your hand, operating out of instinct, holds the door open with your palm. She looks up at you, surprised. Your feet carry you forward until you’re standing in front of the door frame.

“I’m here now, Ryujin,” you say. “I see you.”

“Do you?” she hisses. “Did you ever? Or was I just-”

You step forward, and you kiss her.

Your hands drift to her sides, holding her close. After a moment, her hands find their way to your chest, and you fear that she’s about to push you away - but instead they wind around your neck, fingers sliding into your hairline. She kisses you back, and your tongues find each other.

You pull away first. “Fuck, Ryujin, I’m sorry. That was-”

“Stop fucking apologizing,” she spits, and then she’s kissing you again, leaving one hand around your neck to pull you into her hotel room and using the other to shut the door behind her. You both stumble backward, lips locked, until her butt brushes up against her room’s desk.

You break the kiss. You look into her eyes and find them half-lidded, full of need. You smile, and she returns it, before she leans to kiss you again.

Your hands find their way under her hoodie. You grasp its hem, testing the waters and her reaction.

“Quickly,” she says, taking the hoodie by the hem and peeling it off her body herself, “before I realize how monumentally stupid this is.”

You smirk as your mouth finds her neck and she leans her head backward to allow you better access. A soft gasp leaves her lips as you find a warm point on her neck, kissing and suckling, leaving a mark on her.

She’s topless - not having worn a bra beneath her hoodie - and you want more of her, want to taste her on your tongue. Your hands find their way beneath her butt and you lift her onto the desk, depositing her on it with a soft thud. She yelps - and you silence her with a kiss before bending to kiss a trail down her neck and to her heaving chest. Your hands snake up her sides, cupping her small, round breasts, teasing but not touching her nipples.

“Fuck, just-” she begins, the words turning into a wordless gasp as you capture one of her nipples in your mouth, tongue slick and wet and licking a flat stripe across it. You close your lips around the bud, swirling the tip of your tongue around it, feeling it tighten quickly with arousal. Her hands snake into your hair, her back arching as she offers more of her body to you.

You switch, suckling her other nipple, closing your lips around it and sucking hard. Your free hand reaches up to tease and pinch her saliva-coated breast, not leaving it unattended.

“Oh god,” she gasps, “like that, like that.” She says your name and it’s breathless and airy, the best possible iteration of it you’d ever heard.

She’s writhing now, a mess of sighs and gasps atop the hotel desk. You could’ve stayed there all night, suckling from her small, cute little breasts and the tight nipples atop them - but she has other ideas, other needs. Her hands find themselves flat against your chest and with a regretful sigh she finally pushes you away from her chest. She hops off the desk, pushing you back against the bed.

Ryujin straddles you as you sit atop it, and you’re kissing again - passionate, intense, wild. She breaks the kiss first - and when you angle your neck to resume it, she smiles and steps off the bed, standing between your spread legs.

“Off,” she hisses, bending to help you get your pants and boxers off your legs after you undo the belt buckle and zipper. You take the opportunity to rid yourself of your button-up while she lets her shorts slide down her legs to pool at her feet - and you’re both naked. She’s so slim and small and tight, her tiny waist and the fullness in her hips and thighs forming a perfect hourglass in the dim light of her hotel room.

She’s straddling you again - naked, this time, and you both let a deep sigh escape your lips as the heat between her legs makes contact with your stiffened shaft. Almost immediately she begins to gyrate and writhe in your lap, hips sliding her slick heat against your hips and cock.

“Fuck,” she hisses from behind gritted teeth, between frenzied, urgent kisses. “Fuck, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Me too, Ryujin. Fucking need to be inside you-”

“Now,” she snaps. “Fuck me now.”

“Condom,” you say, almost regretfully. “My jacket pocket.”

Ryujin lets out a sigh, hopping off your lap for a moment to retrieve your jacket for you. You fish it out of the wrapper, placing it on your tip - and you sigh, softly, as Ryujin straddles you again and rolls it down your shaft. You gasp as her slim fingers wrap themselves around you, giving you a small squeeze.

“Fuck me,” Ryujin hisses into your ear.

Your arms wrap around her and you turn her over on the bed so you’re on top. Your hand reaches between you, placing your tip at her opening. Even through the latex you can feel the heat of her, almost feel the slickness of her body as your tip divides her lips.

Your eyes find hers. She tells you without words what she wants.

You slide inside her, and she’s tight and hot, the thin barrier of latex doing little to dampen the sensations of her body wrapping itself around your shaft. You give her a moment to adjust to the stretch, the fullness - before you’re pulling out slowly, leaving just the tip inside her, and sliding back in, filling her again.

“Fuck, fuck yes,” she’s hissing into your ear, arms wrapping around your neck, thighs parting and lower legs pulling against your butt. There’s a hint of relief in the words and sighs spilling softly from her mouth, as though she were finally receiving something she’d wanted and waited for for so long. “Yes, yes, you’e stretching me out, fuck--”

Ryujin’s voice is like silk, smooth and light, and you find it difficult to reconcile the filth leaving her lips with the perfect, business-like translations she whispered in your ear from earlier in the day. To hear that voice now, urging you, begging you to fuck her harder, faster - it drove you insane.

“Harder, please, harder.”

You comply, and soon you're thrusting in and out of her cunt at a firm but consistent pace, her tight walls squeezing around you on each entry and only reluctantly letting you go on the backstroke. You kiss her again and it’s frantic, fevered. When your lips part your eyes remain locked on each other, inches apart.

“So… fucking tight, Ryujin.”

“Mmmmph,” is the only reply, at least initially - a soft, wordless moan after a particularly deep thrust that leaves her eyes rolling back into her skull for a moment. Her eyes close shut, her head tilted back to reveal the pale column of her throat. She lets a long, languid moan leave her lips when you place yours on her neck.

Your pace continues - in, out, in, out - each thrust sending another spike of pleasure up your spines. She brings her mouth close to your ear.

“I’m gonna cum soon,” she hisses. “Gonna cum on your cock, Daddy-”

The word unmakes you - ignites something dark and primal inside you that sends a jolt of sheer pleasure up your spine and into your brain. You increase your pace, her voice and the words they form giving you a high you want to chase. She moans louder, sighs louder, curses sweet words into your ear. Her walls tighten around you, pulsating; her legs lock themselves around your hips; her nails dig sharp furrows into your scalp.

“Fuck, Daddy, fuck--”

“Cum for me, baby,” reply, bringing your own lips to her ear - your turn to torture her with words. “Cum on my cock, Ryujin. Cum on my cock like a good little girl.”

Calling her that must have similarly ignited something dark and primal inside her, because almost as soon as the words leave your mouth, she cums. Her entire body spasms, her back arching off the now-sweaty mattress, her cunt pulsating and tightening exponentially around your shaft as you fuck her through the orgasm coursing through her veins.

The moan of pleasure that leaves her mouth is unholy - a wordless sound of uncontrolled pleasure tumbling wildly from her lips and into your ear.

Your pace slows, eventually, probably for the better as a few more moments of thrusting inside Ryujin’s pulsating, vice-tight cunt probably would have undone you. She comes down from her high, aftershocks still sending involuntary spasms through her limbs. Her eyes, shut throughout her orgasm, eventually open to find yours.

She pulls your head to her lips and you kiss, her tongue finding yours quickly and resuming the duel it had been waging for the past half hour.

“Fuck, Daddy,” she begins, the use of that word sending a little tremor of pleasure straight to your groin. “Fuck, that felt so good.”

“You feel even better, baby girl,” you reply, burying yourself into her neck again and planting small kisses onto the side of her neck.

“Did you--?” she asks.

“No, not yet,” you reply, emphasizing your response with a twist of your hips that sends another soft moan tumbling from her lips.

“Mmmmm,” she sighs. “We better fix that.”

Her palms find your chest and she gently pushes you away. You get the hint and slowly ease yourself out of her, sitting back on your haunches. You watch, in awe, as Ryujin turns onto her hands and knees.

“Fuck me like this, Daddy.”

You want to savor the sight of her - on all fours, that round, full ass of hers presented to you, the slick, dripping cunt between her thighs begging to be filled again. You last only a second before your urges overcome your self-control. Before you know it you’re positioning yourself behind her, hands giving her firm cheeks and a soft spank that wrests a yelp of surprise from her. She looks over her shoulder back at you and the image of her - naked, back glistening with sweat, eyes half-lidded with want - is one you want to remember forever.

You bring your tip to her opening - only to find her easing away from you. Puzzled, you find her eyes still locked on you.

“Not like that, Daddy.”

“What do you mean, baby?”

Her lower lip curls under a tooth for a moment before she licks her lips - another small, lustful gesture that drives you insane.

“I… I want-” she begins. “I want it. You. I want to feel you.”

You catch on to what she means, and know what she wants you to do, but you want to hear it from her. Want to hear that voice - the same one whispering business and corporate in your ear during the day - to say it.

“Tell me what you want, Ryujin. Use your words, baby girl.”

Ryujin’s lips curl into a wry smile, her tooth biting into her lip again. Her back arches, like a cat stretching. She pushes her dripping, slick cunt back toward your latex-covered cock, capturing your shaft between the cheeks of her ass and gyrating against it. You moan - long, low - as she grinds against you. She’s hot and slick against the underside of your shaft and you find yourself groaning at the feel of her grinding away against you.

She straightens up, presses her sweat-slick back against your chest. You reach around and wrap your arms around her torso on instinct, your hands finding and cradling her soft, small breasts, capturing and teasing her nipples between your thumbs and index fingers.

“Ryujin-” you begin, a token protest, as you place kisses on her neck and shoulder. Even though you can’t see it, you know she’s smiling. She lets a hand drift back between your bodies, cradling your trembling, covered cock.

“Daddy, please,” she says, half-gasp, half-demand. Her fingers curl around your cock. “I want to feel you inside me. Raw. Fuck me raw, Daddy.”

You tremble. Your cock twitches in her grasp.

“Fuck, Ryujin-”

“Take it off, Daddy. Let me feel you. Let me feel you cum inside me. Don’t you want to…”

“I do, Ryujin, fuck-”

“Do it, Daddy. Cum inside me. Breed me.”

That’s what undoes you. Your fingers work quickly, peeling the condom off your needy, trembling cock.

You push her back down onto the mattress, and she lets a soft, playful little yelp out at the sudden forcefulness. Her back arches. Her eyes find yours over her shoulder.

“Daddy, please-”

You slide your bare cock inside her. She’s sublime - tight, hot, so very wet. Your hands find her hips, and you’re fucking her again.

“Fuck!” she spits, as you fill her to the hilt for the first time - raw, uncovered - the new angle allowing you deeper inside her than you were when you were on top of her. “Yes, fuck me!”

You comply, your hands anchoring yourself on her hips as you begin to thrust in and out of her tight, slick cunt. You want to pace yourself, want to relish every entry and exit, but the tightness, the wetness, everything about Ryujin Shin is too much, too much to handle. Before long she’s throwing her hips back against you, firmly but steadily, matching you thrust for thrust.

You watch her, burn every inch of her body into your memory - the arch of her back, the sweat dripping down the column of her spine, the way the neon of Seoul’s skyline is striping her skin in alternating lines of shadow and pastel blue. You relish the feel of her body, the tightness of her velvet cunt wrapped around you, the softness of her hips, the moans and sighs that continue to spill wildly from her lips.

For a few minutes you fuck her. Minutes that feel like hours, your pleasure-addled brain suddenly unable to parse the passing of time. The sounds of your bodies meeting, her moans and your grunts, the ridiculous, sublime sight of her bent over, taking your cock - it’s all overwhelming, a heady mix of heat and wetness and pleasure that drives you insane, pulls you into a glorious high that you never want to come down from.

For a few brilliant minutes all that exists is Ryujin Shin’s body. Not the consequences of raw sex, not the complications of your work relationship, not the obstacles in your personal relationship that you’d both have to hurdle once the high of sex has worn off - none of that exists, right here, in this moment. She’s it, she’s all.

Your hands wander her body - gripping her hips and pulling them back toward you, or placing a palm flat on her lower back, or reaching forward with one hand and grasping one of her trembling shoulders - but they settle on her wide, firm hips. Your fingers dig deeper into her skin, surely leaving bruises she’ll feel in the morning. She takes it as the sign of your impending orgasm that it almost certainly is.

“Are you- are you close, Daddy? Fuck, you’re gonna… gonna make me cum again. Don’t stop, please.”

You grit your teeth. There was no denying the pleasure quickly building to a boiling point between your legs.

“Fuck, yeah, baby girl. Getting close. Where-”

“You know where, Daddy,” she hisses, hair whipping around her as she turns her head to look over her shoulder at you. Her eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes you tremble, her gaze holding firm on you even as her body is rocked back and forth with each thrust you make into her cunt.

“Ryujin-”

“Cum inside me, Daddy. Breed me.”

“Fuck-”

“Daddy, please - breed me, breed this cunt, cum inside me please, fuck I’m gonna cum too cum with me please, breed me-”

Ryujin cums - and you do too. Her body spasms, quivers, turns into a tight, wet, slick vice around your cock and all you can do is bury yourself as deeply as you can inside her before you let go.

Your cock pulsates as it sends thick, warm ropes of semen into Ryujin’s cunt - each one drawing a soft gasp from her, each one sending a jolt of pleasure up her spine that heightens her own orgasm. Your mind blanks, and nothing else exists aside from the pleasure coursing through your body.

When your eyes finally open some indeterminate amount of time later you look down to find another one of the many sights you wanted to burn into your memory - Ryujin bent over on the bed, chest and head pressed to the mattress. Between the reddened cheeks of her ass, your cock slowly withdraws, slick and wet and glistening. The well-used lips of her cunt grip your cock tightly, as though not wanting to let you go just yet.

When your tip finally slips from between her lips it’s quickly followed by a rush of warm, thick cum, dripping freely from her cunt and onto the pristine sheets below her.

Ryujin finally falls onto her side. You fall onto yours beside her. Your eyes find each other. Her hand comes up to your cheek, cradles the side of your face with a tenderness that surprises the both of you.

There is a warm smile on her lips. Her eyes glisten for a moment in the low light of the bedroom before she brings her body close to yours, tucking her head beneath your chin as your arms wrap around each other.

There are words to be said, conversations to be had. But all that matters now is the warmth of her body against yours, and the feel of her breath against your chest. Everything else can wait, and so it will.

“Stay,” she says into your chest, and so you do.

---

“I’m on the pill,” she says, on the taxi ride to the Seoul office. The morning after was awkward in some parts, sweet in others; after an uneasy parting so you could go back to your room to shower and change, you’d both met again in the lobby - both a little unsure how to navigate the uncharted waters, but knowing only that things had changed for the better between you.

“Would’ve been nice to know that before I went in raw,” you say, in English - sparing the driver an awkward few blocks of Seoul rush hour traffic.

Ryujin smiles, slyly. “Sure, but it was hot not knowing, wasn’t it? Knowing you could have bred me last night?”

She leans in closer to whisper into your ear - the way she whispered business translations, the way she whispered how close she was to orgasm.

“...knowing you could have put a baby in me?”

She leans back in her seat, giving you one last look before turning her attention to the buildings of downtown Seoul.

Your pinky fingers brush against each other on the seat. You hook yours in hers, and she doesn’t pull away.

---

To her credit, Ryujin was professional and effective with her translation duties throughout the day - mostly. It’s during a presentation by the Seoul office’s Legal lead that her facade cracks.

“...There have been some issues related to IP that they’ve had to deal with,” she says softly in your ear. “But they’ve been dealt with- …fuck.”

You turn to face her. There’s a small grimace on her face. She adjusts the way she’s sitting on her chair, her legs crossing and uncrossing beneath her pencil skirt.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, bringing her lips close to your ear as if to continue translating whatever the Legal lead was droning on about. “But every time I move, a bit of you leaks out of me. Gonna need to clean up in the washroom after this meeting.”

You’re speechless. The smirk on her lips is a victorious one.

“Anyway,” she continues, “the other thing they’ve had to deal with is patent trolls…”

The rest of the meeting goes in your ear and out the other, every small movement Ryujin makes in her seat stealing all of your attention. When the presentation ends Ryujin stands, gingerly, and excuses herself to the washroom. You watch her leave the room with a slightly awkward gait.

Across the room, Yuna catches your eye. She flashes you a knowing smile.

---

The work day ends, eventually - not that you got any work done at all.

After work, Ryujin is waiting for you in the lobby, scrolling her phone. As you approach she holds it out to you - on it is a Google search listing of several nearby restaurants.

“Feeling like burgers? Or more Korean food? It’s Friday night, so it’s gonna be busy, but there’s a place nearby-”

“No,” you answer, firmly, already walking past her and out the door.

“But dinner--?”

“Room service,” you answer. “Hotel, now.”

A devilish smile pulls at the corners of Ryujin’s lips as she hails a taxi.

In the hotel elevator, you don’t bother pushing the button for her floor.

---

You’re on each other from the moment you cross the threshold of your suite - lips crashing against each other, hands wandering, undressing. You only get as far as her blazer before she’s pushing you down onto the chair facing the floor-to-ceiling window that makes up one side of your suite.

She stands in front of you, silhouetted by Seoul’s glass and concrete skyline, and undresses.

The tight white button-up first, each button revealing a little more perfect vanilla skin, marred only by the marks your lips and teeth left the night before. Soon it’s a pool of white cotton on the floor, joined quickly by her white lace bra. Her small, perky round breasts tremble slightly under your gaze, her nipples already taut and tight.

She turns to face away from you, topless, exposing herself to the city - as she undoes the zipper holding her pencil skirt tight around her wide hips. She takes her time, making you watch, making you want, as the skirt finds its way onto the floor.

When Ryujin faces you again she’s naked save for lace panties that have been tormenting her all day with their damp stickiness. Eyes locked on you the whole while, she hooks her thumbs into the thin lace and slides them down her full, round thighs, then past her knees, until they pool on the floor and she is naked, with only Seoul’s fluorescent and neon lights to clothe her.

She steps toward you, straddles you in the chair. Your hands find her hips, soothing the bruises your grip had left there hours before.

Her hand drifts between her spread thighs. You watch, enraptured, as her middle and ring fingers slide inside her cunt for a moment. Her eyes shut, her head tilts back as she touches herself.

When her fingers emerge, they glisten.

“Look what you did to me,” she says, softly. “I’ve been dripping you all day, Daddy. But now… now I’m empty. Need you to fill me up again.”

“Ryujin. Fuck,” you stammer, because it’s all you can say, all your brain can muster for a response.

She smiles, your weakness giving her confidence. Her hands work quickly at your belt and slacks, and soon she reveals your cock, already stiff and weeping pre-cum. You groan at the feel of her soft fingers around your shaft as she strokes you softly, timing each movement of her wrist to the sultry words leaving her lips.

“Want you to fuck me again, Daddy, and raw and deep and hard. But first…”

She bends to kiss you - only to ignore your lips entirely, as she slinks down off the chair and onto her knees.

“-first, I want to taste you.”

She licks a long, slow stripe from your base to your tip, her tongue flat and tight against your cock.

“Wanted that for so long, Daddy. During orientation. Watching you in the office. Been dreaming about what you’d taste like-”

“Do I taste like you dreamed, Ryujin?”

“Fuck, yes, Daddy,” she says, after another long, slow lick. “Even better.”

“Suck my cock then, baby girl. Show me how much you wanted this.”

The words spur her, challenge her - and soon she’s taking your cock into her mouth. It’s all you can do to lean back in the chair and sigh as she works between your spread legs, taking you in and out of her wet, slick mouth with an enthusiasm that had been boiling over months of want and need.

When you open your eyes again it’s to look out at Seoul’s skyline. You watch as cars move on distant roads, as signs for restaurants and stores light up, as people on faraway sidewalks make their way home. You do anything but look down at Ryujin, knowing that the sight of her combined with the pleasure she is conjuring between your legs would be too much to handle, all at once.

You sigh. This was messy. Complicated. Might end up ruining one or both of your lives. But fuck if it mattered at all, right here, right now - with your cock in her mouth and a soft sigh escaping her lips as you finally look down and watch as she begins to finger herself.

She lets your cock slip from her lips after one last, slow suckle. Her tongue flicks around your tip one last time. Then she stands, eyes half-lidded, filled with want and need. She straddles you again and lowers herself onto your cock.

You think of bending to suckle from one of her soft, perky little breasts as they bounce up and down, inches from your face. You want to reach a hand up to that pale, thin throat of hers and squeeze with just enough pressure to make her gasp for her next breath. You want to reach down with both palms and squeeze her ass, thrusting up with your hips each time she impales herself on you - but you do none of those things.

You watch. Watch as she rides you, takes you in and out of her dripping, pulsing cunt. Watch as Seoul paints her slim, tight body in gold and shadow. Watch as she ruins herself, ruins you with something that is reckless, stupid, and utterly irresistible, all at the same time.

Her hands aren’t idle, like yours are. They fondle her own breasts, pinch her own nipples. They reach forward and anchor herself on your shoulders, or dig furrows into your hair when she brings you close and increases her pace. They lie flat, palm against your chest, feeling your heart hammer a wild beat as she slows down again, bringing her face in front of yours so your noses touch, fucking herself slowly, passionately on your cock, making you feel everything.

You wanted to talk to her, wanted to discuss this idiotic thing that you were both giving in to. You want to have a conversation about what it would mean for your professional and personal relationship. You want to ask her if this was a stupid fling borne out of a stupid week of meetings that happened a year ago. You want to ask her if this was just sex or-

“Fuck, Daddy, I’m gonna-”

Her voice - her perfect fucking voice - shatters any thought you might have had that wasn’t focused on the pleasure she was creating for the both of you with every movement of her body.

“Me too, Ryujin, fuck, you’re too-”

“Daddy, breed me, give me a baby-”

A lie, a pretend act - but no less arousing. No less utterly devastating to what remained of your self-control.

“Gonna cum, Ryujin. Ryujin--”

“Daddy--!”

She cums. You spasm beneath her as your cock fills her up. Afterward, when you’ve both stopped trembling, you feel your cum drip from her stuffed cunt, down your balls, and onto the leather of the couch.

She slides off you - and you both watch as her cunt drips more of your cum onto the couch and the slacks that you never bothered to remove. She takes you by the hand and leads you into the bedroom, into another terrible mistake, another act you will probably both regret later, when sanity somehow finds its way back into your lust-addled minds.

You follow her willingly into ruin.

---

It’s not until the next morning, as you wander a morning market together after breakfast, when you finally have your talk.

“Ryujin,” you begin, as the two of you walk down the street, past stalls selling vegetables, treats, and souvenirs. “We should talk. About this. About us.”

She sighs, takes a sip from her caramel macchiato - extra whipped cream, extra caramel drizzle - as though the caffeine and sugar would fortify her for what was about to be said.

“I want you,” she says, confidently, as though it were a phrase she’d rehearsed with her eyes closed as she lay in bed alone, dreaming of a moment like this. “I’ve wanted you since the second you walked into that meeting room in that stupid-hot suit on my first day and said your name. I’ve wanted you every second since. I want to be with you.”

You take a moment. Your heart leaps, but your brain fears.

“I want you too,” you admit, the words leaving your mouth quickly, even before you knew you were speaking them - your heart outpacing your brain, as it had gained the habit of doing around her. “But-”

“-we work together,” she interrupts. Another sip of her caffeine. Her eyes remain locked on the stalls hawking hotteok and japchae. “You’re a Director in Strategy, I’m just some newbie in Marketing. You’re older than me. Your boss is holding a torch for you, and she’s fucking perfect - ‘girlboss’ in all caps. HR will have a fit. Our colleagues will whisper; say you’re taking advantage of a younger girl, or that I’m sleeping my way into a promotion. And maybe one day we’ll end up hurting each other, and ruin one or both of our careers and/or lives in the process.”

You don’t reply. The list is long. Daunting.

Finally, she turns to you. There is a faint smile on her lips. “Did I miss anything?”

You return her smile with a slim one of your own. “No,” you admit.

“Are you for real, or do you just need a fucktoy to keep your cock warm while you’re working overseas for a month?”

Her question stuns you, catches you unprepared. But it takes you only a moment of consideration before you answer.

“I’m not sure yet,” you answer, honestly. “But I want to find out.”

Something between a smile and a frown forms her lips as she casts her eyes downward for a moment.

“That’s good enough for me,” she says. “Because that’s what I want too.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“But I want you, and you want me.”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s it,” she states, eyes forward, as though the future of your relationship existed somewhere amidst the winding lanes of the bustling market. “That’s all that matters.”

After a few more steps, your hand finds hers. Your fingers intertwine.

“That’s all that matters,” you repeat. “We’ll figure this out.”

She turns to look at you as you walk through the market. She smiles and says nothing further, because nothing further needed to be said.

---

A week and a half pass quickly. Meetings, meals, sex - it all passes in a long, hazy blur. There are candlelit dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants by the Han River, and there are nights having instant noodles outside convenience stores at 2am because you were both too lazy to have or make anything else. There is slow love making, hard, fast fucking, and everything inbetween.

The two of you navigate that first week together with the kind of eagerness and enthusiasm that is in great supply at the start of a relationship. In some ways it is like every other first week of every other relationship you’d ever been in - sweet, hot, exciting in a way that nothing else can be. In some ways it is completely different, completely unique.

Ryujin was not like any other girl. She was professional and proper during the day and wild and needy at night - and you saw it all, every moment, a gradual transformation over the course of the day from dedicated and thorough businesswoman to the barely controlled wantonness of the night. Throughout it all she is confident, self-assured, assertive.

But she was also sweet, caring, and thoughtful in her own unique way. She knew you, already. She asked questions during presentations even before you voiced them to her, because she knew they were questions you would ask. Without telling you, she bought you a spare charger for your phone when yours broke five days into the trip - and made sure a charged power bank was packed in your suitcase when you left the hotel room in the morning. She showed genuine interest in you - your childhood, your family, your quirky hobbies, as though she were writing a book on you and wanted to know every single detail, every single story you had to tell.

“I want you,” she said once, sometime during the second week of this ridiculous, dangerous, stupid thing you were both undertaking. Her head was on your chest as you lie together in bed atop a mattress soaked with evidence of recent lovemaking, her finger tracing random patterns on your skin above your heart. “And that includes figuring out what you keep in here.”

Neither of you knew what this was, where it would go, even how long it would last - whether the other was a terrible mistake, the love of your life, or something inbetween. You only knew you wanted to find out together, one day at a time.

It’s not until your last day in Seoul, when the two of you attend an industry gala, that Ryujin Shin inched a little more towards the ‘love of your life’ end of the scale.

---

The elevator door opens - she insisted you meet in the lobby, as she needed a few more minutes to get ready - and there she is, in a little black dress that steals the breath from your lungs. Simple, demure, utterly captivating. You realize that the ‘few more minutes to work on her hair’ was an excuse, and she just wanted to make an entrance.

The smile on her lips is confident, assured, as is every click-clack of her heels on the marble of the hotel foyer as she walks up to you, takes your hand, and leads you out to the waiting taxi - all without saying a word.

The gala, held in an outdoor venue with plenty of string lights and stand-up tables, is busier than you’d expected. Colleagues from the Seoul office are in attendance, including Yuna in a bold red dress that’s one inch off the hemline away from sparking multiple emails to HR - if it hadn’t already. She comes close to the two of you and says she’s happy for you, shooting you both a wink as she saunters off to chat up a group of investors that spend the rest of the evening vying for her attention.

For most of the evening your mind is elsewhere - on Ryujin’s dress, and what it will look like hiked up around her hips or on the floor of your suite. Your thoughts drift to the trip to Japan, and the two weeks to follow. A new country to explore with her by your side.

You’re mid-conversation with a couple of staff from the Seoul office, and about ready to lean over to Ryujin and ask if she’s ready to head back to the hotel, when a commotion at the entrance to the venue steals your attention for a moment.

Yuna and a couple of the other leads are huddled in a crowd around a figure that has emerged from a sleek black sedan. They chat excitedly, as though they were meeting a celebrity for the first time.

“Go see who it is,” Ryujin urges. “I’ll get us a drink for the road, then we can hit it.”

You excuse yourself from the conversation to join Yuna and the others. The crowd parts, and she emerges.

“Sorry I’m late,” Taeyeon says, smile beaming. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

At the bar, Ryujin turns, drinks in hand, just in time to watch Taeyeon embrace you.

---

Author’s Note: Whelp that pretty much wrote itself. Ryujin best girl.

Get ready for more “Business Trip but with Ryujin lmao” no but fr this will only be 3 parts max I promise <3

#itzy #ryujin #itzy ryujin #kpop smut

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beloveds-embrace · 6 months ago

Text

The day begins like any other.

You wake up to the soft sound of the morning breeze rustling the curtains, sunlight spilling into the room in gentle golden streams. John is already gone, leaving only the faintest trace of warmth in the bed beside you. It’s no surprise- he’s a man of duty, all of them are, always rising early to tend to matters of the estate. But as you stretch and let out a soft sigh, you have no idea the storm you’re about to stir in his household.

You dress yourself today, in one of the lighter gowns Kyle had set out for you the night before. It’s soft and flowing, another gift from Simon, a delicate ivory fabric that catches the light and makes you glow as if spun from sunlight itself. You think nothing of it- it’s a comfortable gown, one that’s perfect for the warm weather of today. You fix your hair, a few strands left free to frame your face. It’s a simple look, practical even.

But it is enough to absolutely ruin them.

John is the first to catch sight of you.

You find him in his study, poring over letters and documents, glasses perched low on his nose. The moment he looks up, his quill halts mid-stroke, ink dripping onto the parchment below.

You don’t notice the way his breath hitches. You don’t see the way his eyes darken as they sweep over you, lingering far longer than they should on the soft curve of your throat, the swell of your breasts just barely visible through the gauzy material of your dress, the delicate shape of your collarbone begging to be kissed.

“… My Duchess,” he greets, voice low and strained.

You smile, unaware of how the simple gesture strikes him like a bolt of lightning straight through his chest. “Good morning, John. I didn’t mean to disturb you- I was just going to the gardens.”

His jaw tightens. God, you’re beautiful. Ethereal. Untouchable, almost, and yet here you are- his wife. His to hold, his to cherish, his to adore. The mere thought of it makes his heart pound painfully in his chest.

You’re so sweetly oblivious, so utterly trusting. You lean over his desk, pointing at one of the letters as you ask about estate matters, and all he can focus on is the faint scent of roses lingering on your skin and the warmth of your breath against his cheek. He aches to pull you into his lap, to ruin that pretty dress and leave you breathless and marked, but-

“My Duchess,” he rasps again, standing abruptly. You blink up at him, startled. “Don’t linger in the sun too long. I shall see you later.” It’s the only warning he can give himself before he brushes past you and leaves the room, his restraint hanging by a thread.

Kyle finds you next, standing in the rose garden with a soft smile as you hum to yourself. You’re radiant, the sunlight catching in your hair and making you glow like some goddess of nature.

He was supposed to be bringing you tea. Instead, he stands there frozen, tray in hand, just watching.

You turn and catch sight of him, greeting him with that bright, lovely smile that never fails to make his heart lurch. “Kyle!”

He clears his throat quickly, straightening his shoulders and bringing the tray over, though he’s painfully aware of the warmth creeping up his neck.

“My lady,” he murmurs, setting the tea down on the garden table and pouring for you. His hands are steady, but his mind isn’t.

He barely hears you as you speak about the roses, about the arrangements for the next gathering. His thoughts are clouded by the way you keep brushing your hair behind your ear, the gentle tilt of your head as you sip your tea, the way your lips press together so sweetly.

You lean forward suddenly, reaching to brush a leaf off his shoulder, and Kyle stiffens. You don’t notice.

“You’re always taking such good care of me, Kyle,” you say softly, smiling up at him. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He only nods stiffly, stepping back quickly before he does something utterly improper.

Johnny is the worst of them.

You come into the kitchen around noon, asking him for a small snack to hold you over until dinner since you had a small lunch. He’s elbow-deep in flour and dough, sleeves rolled up and shirt slightly damp with sweat, but the second he sees you standing in the doorway, his brain completely short-circuits.

“Johnny?” you call again softly, stepping in.

He drops the spoon that’d been near, cursing as he scrambles to pick it up and then cursing again because his hands are now dirty. Yet- his eyes keep flicking up to you- how you look so soft and delicate in the kitchen’s golden light, how the dress hugs your figure and makes it so damn hard for him to focus.

You laugh at the sight of him like this, and the sound is like honey poured straight into his veins.

“Sorry, m’lady.” he says, voice rough, but you’re already stepping closer.

“It’s alright.” You reach past him to grab a plate, and he just about groans aloud at the way you brush against him, soft and warm and plush and utterly unaware of the effect you have on him.

“Johnny?” You look up at him, eyes so wide and trusting.

“Yeah?” He barely recognizes his own voice.

“You’re staring.”

He chokes, turning back to wash his hands as quickly as possible. “Sorry, m’lady. I’ll- uh- I’ll make something quick for you, promise.”

You only smile, sitting down at the counter and watching him work. He feels your gaze like a brand, burning into his skin, and he has never been so grateful for the long apron covering the very obvious evidence of his distraction.

And then there’s Simon.

You don’t even realize he’s there, watching you from the shadowed corner of the room as you flip through the books in the library. You hum softly to yourself, trailing your fingers over the spines, your dress shifting with every movement.

Simon feels like a beast barely kept on a leash. He’s gripping the edge of the shelf so tightly his knuckles have gone white, jaw clenched so hard it aches.

He wants you. Needs you.

You tilt your head to read a title, exposing the curve of your neck, and his breath catches. He imagines what it would feel like to press his lips there, to hear you gasp as he holds you close-

And then you turn and spot him.

“Simon!” You smile, moving toward him without hesitation, and he’s utterly undone.

“Hello, darling.” he murmurs, low and strained. Knows that he if lifts his hand to cup your cheek, his fingers would be trembling.

“I was just looking for something to read.” You say, so casually, so obliviously, as if you aren’t standing there looking like every single one of his fantasies come to life.

Simon only nods, forcing himself to step back before he does something he can’t take back.

By the time evening falls, the tension in the house is unbearable.

John’s jaw ticks as he watches you lean over the table, in a private dining room just for them, laughing at something Johnny said. Kyle’s eyes darken when he sees how your fingers brush against Simon’s as you pass him a dish. Johnny keeps flexing his hands as if he’s trying to resist the urge to grab you and pull you into his lap.

They’re all desperate, wound tight, and utterly at their limit.

And you- blissfully unaware- just keep smiling sweetly at them, unknowingly fanning the flames.

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miedei · 7 months ago

Text

terrible profilers

(aka the team meets early seasons!spence's not-so-secret girlfriend)

a/n: this came to me in my dream last night and i cannot get over it, pls send asks/requests and tell me what you thought! (look at '#mystery girl!au' on my blog to see more musings about them <3)

cw: USE OF Y/N IM SORRY reader has she/her pronouns, the team is nosy, reader is a phd student, my niche personal headcanons of how i think spencer would text, probably more tech inaccuracies

wc: 3.5k

part one | part three | mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

The moment Spencer walks into the bullpen, he knows something’s up. Garcia never replied to the text he’d sent on Friday night, and he’d hoped she was just busy on their first weekend off in a while, but it’s clear there’s more. Clutching the strap of his satchel, he walks to his desk, observing the strange tension blanketing the room.

For one, Hotch and Gideon are in the bullpen, standing in the corner speaking in hushed tones. Weird. They usually go to one of their offices to talk, and either way, they usually are stuck in their offices until lunchtime when they don’t have cases.

Another thing. JJ and Penelope are standing around Elle’s desk, which isn’t out of the ordinary, but they’ve swivelled around to stare at Spencer like he’s an alien (which they do on occasion, but Spencer is pretty sure he hasn’t been strange yet. He just walked in!).

Derek is sitting on Elle’s desk, leaning over to huddle with the three girls, but he’s frozen with his mouth open, like he just shut up for some reason.

“Uh… Good morning.” Spencer furrows his brows, but tries to shrug it off, more interested in the smell of coffee emanating from the kitchenette. Setting down his bag, he quickly busies himself with pouring his signature overly-sweet (according to you) coffee.

It’s like his movements snap a thread that has been holding his colleagues together, and they suddenly start bustling around the bullpen again. Derek sidles up beside him as he’s stirring in sugar, and Spencer braces himself for some Morgan-esque prod. But what he says has Spencer confused.

“Kid. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Ok, something is going on. Spencer has worked with Derek since he was 22, and they’ve fallen into a very comfortable dynamic ever since. But neither of them have ever felt the need to reassure the other of their closeness.

“What’s up, Morgan? No jabs today?”

Derek stiffens, like he’s been caught in a lie, and scrambles to reply.

“Well… We- Um, Garcia worried about you on Friday. What was up with you leaving so suddenly?”

Spencer has to bite back a smile, memories of you, coming to O’ Keefe’s just to see him, flooding into his mind. But he answers as smoothly as possible, still turned away from Derek as he elaborates.

“Oh, I felt a bit sick. It was probably the drinking and travelling back and forth from the more arid parts of the country that did it. Did you know, travelling between warmer and colder climates makes you more susceptible to contracting viruses because it strains your immune and musculoskeletal systems, causing the feedback loop of homeostasis to-” Derek puts a hand on his arm, and Spencer quiets.

“Okay, okay, pretty boy, I get it.”

With that, he walks off, and Spencer is left at the kitchenette, stirring his coffee, confused. It’s not like it was a lie, he was feeling nauseous in the bar, so you insisted that you go home. He recovered that same night over a cup of tea, Metropolis on the television, and you cuddled up on the couch next to him.

When he walks back to his desk, mug in hand, he calls out to JJ, still standing by Elle’s desk.

“JJ, no cases today? …JJ?” The blonde is looking at him, but his words seem to fly right over her head, until Elle pokes her shoulder.

“Oh! No, the cases I’m being called about are still pending, we’re probably not leaving on anything until tomorrow.” Spencer smiles softly, glad to have at least one more night sleeping at home this week. Because of his reverie, he doesn’t notice the way JJ, Penelope and Elle are staring at him, befuddled expressions on their faces.

The day continues to be a little weird, much to Spencer’s chagrin. Around 1pm, Gideon emerges from his office again. This, already, is out of the blue. Gideon only leaves his office an average of 3.78 times a day, mainly to go to Hotch’s office, or to go home. This time, however, Gideon marches to Spencer’s desk.

Gideon comes to a stop next to Spencer’s desk chair, and it’s all he can do to muster a blank face and look into his mentor’s eyes.

“Hey, Gideon. What’s… What’s going on?”

The older man sighs wearily, looking down his nose at Spencer, looking uncannily like Spencer’s highschool Calculus teacher when she got irritated at him for being a ‘13 year old know-it-all’.

“Spencer. You weren’t sick on Friday, were you?” What is happening? Spencer doesn’t lie, he’s never told Gideon something untrue, so this is incredibly out of the blue.

“Huh? No, what’s wrong? I felt nauseous, which could’ve technically been a symptom for an inner ear problem, inflammatory bowel disease, gastroenteritis…” Spencer continues to rattle off a list of things he could have had, not noticing the uncharacteristically soft, paternal gaze that Gideon has trained on him.

“...and even a brain tumour, but it was probably because I drank more than I usually do. Why do you think that’s not true?” Spencer finishes his little speech, looking up at Gideon with a confused expression. There’s nothing else the older man can do but sigh, patting his shoulder softly.

“Okay, Reid. Glad you’re feeling better now.” With that, the experienced profiler walks away, not bothering to reply to Spencer’s continued questioning:

“Gideon! What’s wrong? Why are you-” Gideon’s office door slams shut.

Unfortunately, Spencer cannot ignore the rest of the signs, spending the rest of the day in a state of coiled anxiety. Something is going on, but he can’t get anyone to tell him.

Derek and Elle are constantly glancing over at him, unreadable expressions on their faces. Penelope keeps finding excuses to go to Spencer’s desk, and even if Spencer wasn’t a profiler, he’d be able to see the words bubbling up in her throat, but she never says anything.

JJ doesn’t come talk to him at all, which is strange. Instead, she shoots him knowing looks whenever she’s in the bullpen, sending Spencer into a spiral every time she doesn’t say anything about why they’re all acting weird.

He’s even caught Hotch and Gideon peeking through the blinds over their office windows to look at Spencer, with the analytical looks they get when they’re observing a crime scene on their faces. It’s driving Spencer crazy, and he has to tell someone.

You’re leaving your desk when your phone buzzes.

SPENCE <3: Hi. I looked normal when I left the house, right?

Your brow furrows at the text. Normally Spencer isn’t a fan of texting while he’s at work, and you’d told him multiple times how handsome he looked when he left the apartment this morning. He’s wearing his striped white button down and the purple tie you bought him for his birthday last year, he looks pretty. And you made sure to tell him so.

YOU: hi <3

YOU: no spence you look pretty i told you this morning didnt i?

SPENCE <3: You did, thank you. Everyone’s acting weird at work, and I can’t think of what it could be.

YOU: maybe its something with a case?

SPENCE <3: They would tell me if it was that, right?

YOU: ur right

YOU: if you cant think of it with that big beautiful brain its probably something to do with them

There’s a solid minute of silence before he texts you back, and you grin to yourself as you walk through the halls. You can see the flush growing over his face in your mind’s eye, the way he does every time you pay him a cheesy compliment.

SPENCE <3: I guess so. They won’t tell me anything about it, which is strange.

You frown a little, imagining his frustration at being out of the loop. Spencer has expressed his love for his coworkers to you many times, but he’s also told you about his struggles feeling like the ‘baby’ of the office, and the way it makes him feel isolated at times. Racking your brain to think of a way to cheer him up, you check the time on your watch (the twin of which is settled on Spencer’s wrist).

YOU: its nearly 6

YOU: if i leave my building now i can make it to your office in 30mins

YOU: i can pick you up and we could get thai for dinner

YOU: ?

The reply is instantaneous, and you smile, looking forward to seeing him earlier than you’d expected today.

SPENCE <3: That sounds great. I’m finishing up here but text me when you’re in the lobby and I’ll come down.

SPENCE <3: I need to go, I’ve been texting you from the bathroom.

SPENCE <3: See you soon :-)

The last half hour of Spencer’s workday flies by, unlike the way the clock had crawled previously. He finishes up the consults he was working on for the day, and begins packing up the moment the clock hits 18:27.

Derek and Elle are still sneaking glances at him, but Spencer couldn’t care less at this point. As he closes the flap of his satchel, his phone buzzes in his breast pocket. He can’t help but whip out his phone immediately, missing the bewildered looks that pass between his fellow profilers as he smiles down at the screen.

Y/N L/N: in the lobby now!

Y/N L/N: i forgot how fancy it is here i feel underdressed

He doesn’t bother replying, instead opting to leave the bullpen through the glass doors, nodding at Derek and Elle, and pressing the elevator button immediately. He’s so engrossed in his thoughts as he stares at the closed doors, that he realises far too late what’s happening behind him.

He can hear the sounds of shuffling feet, a squeak of surprise (Penelope), hissed insult (Elle to Derek), and a firm clearing of a throat (Hotch). After sighing rather petulantly, Spencer turns on his heels to find the entire BAU team standing there, faces just as confusing as they’ve been all day.

“I’d ask you what’s wrong, but none of you gave me an answer the last 23 times I asked, so.”

There’s a beat of silence, before Hotch, of all people, says, “Reid, we need to… ask you something. About last Friday.” That’s strange. Spencer cocks his head in confusion.

“What about it? I already told Morgan and Gideon, I was feeling sick, but it turns out it was just that I’d just drank more than I was used to.”

Penelope looks like she’s about to burst, and finally, she blurts it out, voice slightly shrill. “Reid! Who is she?”

“Who is who?”

Derek butts in, a hand on Penelope’s shoulder. “Kid, that girl. The girl you were… close to, on Friday. At the bar?” Oh. That’s what they’re talking about?

“That was Y/N. My girlfriend. Are you mad I didn’t introduce you guys? I thought you were all busy.”

Spencer sees six sets of jaws drop. There’s more silence, before JJ croaks out, “Girlfriend?”

It’s a bit of a sight, to be honest. Penelope has clutched on to Derek, and Derek on to Elle. JJ looks gobsmacked, eyes bulging out of their sockets. Even Hotch and Gideon look the most shocked Spencer has ever seen them. But why?

“Uh, yeah. She came to see me because we’d had plans before we decided to go out. Then when she found out I felt sick we went home.”

Gideon looks a little green, and when no one makes a sound, Hotch speaks, his normally stoic voice coming out a little shaky. “Reid, we didn't- We didn’t know you were seeing anybody.”

What? Now they’re being even weirder. Spencer can hear the elevator doors open behind him, but he doesn’t bother. This is something he has to get to the bottom of.

“How did you not know? I’m sure I’ve mentioned having plans with her multiple times. Elle, I told you about the time I went to the movies in New York with her, when we were on that case.” Elle looks more shocked, if that’s possible, but doesn’t say a word.

“Garcia, I asked you to help me find florists that have Gibraltar campions in Vegas that one time.” Penelope jolts, muttering under her breath about ��idiot geniuses and their mothers’.

“Gideon, I asked you for advice on how to ask her out!” Gideon stiffens, remembering the time Spencer had asked him about his ex-wife. Was that Spencer asking for advice?

“I ran into you, JJ and Morgan, when I was with her, don’t you remember? She was in the aisle over” Derek distinctly remembers a time at the bookstore, they’d seen Spencer, but not noticed anyone with him. JJ shamefully recalls being too busy making fun of Spencer’s heart-studded tie to look around.

Spencer looks bewildered, eyes bouncing between the different members of his team.

“Hotch, I literally told you about her! When I added her to my emergency contacts?” At this, Hotch pales. A year ago, Spencer had come to him with a request to change his 1st emergency contact from his mother to a Y/N L/N. How he never registered that this was a girlfriend, Hotch would never know, but he stares fixedly at his shoes as he contemplates quitting his job as a profiler.

Spencer looks at them, mystified. How did they not know? It’s not like he was ever hiding you! Of course, Spencer wanted to keep you to himself, so he didn’t talk about you that much, but they were profilers. He assumed they’d known, and just didn't want to embarrass him.

His phone buzzes three times, and he pulls it out to see more texts from you.

Y/N L/N: spence are you coming

Y/N L/N: a guy in a suit is eyeing me weird

Y/N L/N: he knows i dont belong come save me

A happy sigh leaves him, before he remembers the people standing in front of him, still gobsmacked. He scrubs a hand down his face wearily, and mutters slowly, as if he’s not sure if he wants to do this.

“She’s downstairs right now, we were going to take the metro home together. Do you… Do you guys want to meet her?” Penelope brightens up, and the rest of the team seem in higher spirits, despite their continued disappointment in themselves. Warily, Spencer opens the elevator door with a press of a button, and they all file in obediently.

“Please don’t be weird.”

“My good doctor, I would never!” He eyes Garcia with a fearful expression, but presses the ground floor button anyway. As the doors close, a strangled shout leaves JJ’s mouth.

“Wait, you live together?”

You are sitting on a bench inside the lobby of the FBI Headquarters. No matter how many times you drop Spencer off or pick him up, this will always be surreal to you. And, right now, it’s not just surreal, it’s a little scary.

A real Danny Ocean type guy is sitting on a bench across the room, talking on the phone and eyeing you. Clearly, you don’t exactly look like an agent, you know that. Dressed in the uniform of a PhD student, jeans and an oversized Doctor Who t-shirt (Spencer’s), you know that you look out of place.

You’re just hoping Spencer walks out of the elevator before you get escorted out on suspicions that you’re a spy or something.

Like some deity has heard your words, you look up at the ding of the elevator to see Spencer… and a whole gaggle of people behind him, slapping at his shoulders and barraging him with questions. He looks harried, a line between his pretty eyes.

The line disappears, though, when he locks eyes with you. His eyes light up, and his steps grow in length, before he's left his entourage behind, at least for a couple of seconds.

He uses this time to explain to you: “Hi, hello, I'm so glad you're here and I need to tell you something-” As if on instinct, your hands come up to rest on his upper arms, thumbs moving in circles soothingly as he continues to ramble, only catching the tail end of his sentence.

“-and well, they didn't know about you somehow? Which is crazy to me because you know I don't hide you so I don't know where they got that from but either way they were acting crazy, so I suggested they come meet you, and…” The group of people you now recognize to be the BAU have caught up to him, eyes darting between your face and Spencer's. His shoulders slump, and the agitated look returns, if a little less intense.

“Well, here they are.” He motions to the group behind him. “These are my coworkers, Jennifer Jareau, Elle Greenaway, Penelope Garcia, Aaron Hotchner, Jason Gideon, and Derek Morgan. Guys, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

Rising on your toes to see over his shoulder, you wave with a smile, eyes zeroing in on Penelope Garcia, who looks like she's vibrating from excitement, shouldering past Spencer to hold both of your hands.

“Hi! It's so good to meet you! I'd say I've heard a lot about you, but you know that's a lie, we didn't realize you existed until 10 minutes ago, but oh my god! You're here! You're so pretty- Spencer, she's so pretty!” She's practically bouncing up and down, causing Spencer to laugh sheepishly.

“Yeah, Garcia, I know that.” The next few minutes are a barrage of introductions and handshakes, all so brief that you can only get quick first impressions of them all.

Penelope is incredibly kind, not letting go of your hands until Spencer pries her off of you, telling you that you have to come out on girl's night with us, exactly like Spencer described her.

Elle is nearly intimidatingly cool, giving you a handshake and a smile, mentioning that she likes your eyeliner.

Aaron (Hotch? You're not sure how to refer to him) is nowhere near as stoic and intimidating as Spencer makes him out to be, breaking into a smile as he introduces himself, and grinning even wider when you congratulate him and his wife on their newborn child.

JJ is the sweetest. You've heard a lot about Spencer's best friend, and she lives up to expectations, squeezing you into a chaste hug with warm words.

Gideon is a little terrifying. He gives you a handshake, quirking the side of his lips in what you assume to be a smile, but saying very little beyond an introduction. You know how highly Spencer thinks of him, and hope he will warm up to you (Spencer is over the moon that he smiled, and informs you later that Gideon loved you).

Derek is exactly how you expected him to be. Somehow, he makes you feel wholly comfortable after a single comment, and promises to regale you with all the Spencer stories you'd want (you see him punch Spencer in the arm, grinning and saying he approved).

Spencer pulls you away from them as quick as he can, citing your dinner plans as an excuse. He slings an arm around your waist, leading you out the door as you wave over your shoulder.

“It was great to meet you guys! We should go out to dinner or something!” You hear mixed shouts of agreement from behind you, before the doors shut and it's just you and Spencer, on the sidewalk outside the building.

It's butterfly-inducing, the way you can see the tension leave his shoulders when he turns to look down at you, brown eyes shining.

“I'm sorry that was so last-minute, I know they can be… a lot.” You giggle at the weariness in his tone, resting your forearms on his shoulders.

“They were really nice, Spence. I'm glad to finally meet them. They didn't know who I was?” He sighs, hands tightening slightly on your waist.

“I don't know what goes on with them half the time. I've told them things about you so many times, but they were just being dense, I suppose. They saw us on Friday, at O’ Keefe’s, and they had no idea I was seeing someone!” He bends to rest his forehead in the crook of your neck with a sigh. As if on instinct, your hands come up to play with his hair.

“I guess they would have found it a little strange that you acted like nothing had changed, huh? Is that why they were being weird today?” He grumbles unintelligible words into your skin, before raising his head to look at you.

“I guess… You know I wasn't hiding you, right? I really thought they knew about you,” The earnestness on his face makes you want to implode, his thumbs rubbing minutely on your waist. Speaking would pop the bubble you've found yourselves in, so you find the best next option for you to show him your assertion.

Your hands roam up his neck to cup either side of his jaw, and slow, slow, slowly, you rise to your toes and kiss him.

Suddenly, Spencer's not worried anymore.

#divas send me an ask and tell me what you thought!!!!#requests are welcome!!#reader is so self-indulgently me in this miniseries #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fic #posted from my phone bc im at the airport tell me if there are any formatting mistakes pls #mystery girl!au

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josephandrewstarkey · 9 months ago

Text

beach fight - part 1

warnings: angst, mentions of blood, cussing, topper, fighting, mentions of cheating, Ruthie

disclaimer: this is so satisfying to read — requests are open!!

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

The Pogues were lounging on the beach, enjoying the rare moment of peace. Y/N tried to relax, but the air felt tense, like something was about to go down. She couldn’t help but notice the Kooks pulling up in their flashy cars, parking way too close. Rafe, Topper and the rest of their stupid crew stepped out, making sure everyone saw them.

The last thing Y/N needed was to see Rafe. After everything he did— cheating on her with Sofia. it still stung. they had a thing going on for a while, he changed when they were together— but that all went away when Sofia happened. And now, here they were, together, acting like nothing had happened

Topper and JJ had made a quick agreement not to start anything. Both knew things could get messy fast, so they decided to keep it chill for the day.

Everyone settled back into their spots, but Y/N could feel the tension in her muscles. She couldn’t help glancing over at Rafe, who looked too comfortable around Sofia, his arm draped lazily over her shoulder. Her stomach twisted with a mix of anger and hurt.

Suddenly, Kiara gasped. “Guys, look!”

The Pogues’ attention snapped to the tiny turtle hatch making its way to the ocean.

Everyone gathered around, watching as the turtle moved slowly through the sand. It was a rare moment of quiet wonder, the kind that reminded them why they loved this place.

But then the loud roar of an engine shattered the peace. Ruthie’s truck tore through the sand, heading right for the turtle, swerving dangerously close to the Pogues.

“Watch out!” JJ yelled, grabbing Kiara and pulling her out of the way.

The truck barely missed them, the tires kicking up sand. Ruthie laughed from inside, clearly amused at the chaos she was causing.

“She almost killed them!” Kiara said, horrified, looking back at the little turtles still struggling through the sand.

Y/N clenched her fists, biting her tongue. Her heart raced with anger, but she tried to hold it in. Not yet, don’t explode yet.

But Ruthie wasn’t done. She spun the truck around, her laughter echoing through the air. As she drove past them again, she leaned out the window, holding a drink. Without warning, she tossed it right on Kiara, drenching her in sticky liquid and ice.

Kiara stood there, frozen, dripping wet. “Are you kidding me?”

Y/N felt the last thread of control snap. “Don’t” John B muttered, trying to keep the peace.

But Y/N couldn’t take it anymore. She stormed toward Ruthie, eyes blazing with fury, not caring what anyone said.

“Y/N, don’t!” John B called after her, but it was too late. The anger that had been building for months—Rafe’s betrayal, seeing Sofia here, Ruthie’s blatant disrespect—had reached its breaking point.

Y/N marched right up to Ruthie, who was standing by her truck now, smirking at the mess she’d caused.

“What’s your problem, you bitch?” Y/N spat, her voice shaking with rage.

Ruthie sneered, completely unfazed. “What’s yours, Pogue? Go cry about it with your dirty friends.”

That did it. Without a second thought, Y/N grabbed Ruthie by the shirt and shoved her back, hard. Ruthie stumbled, caught off guard, but before she could react, Y/N swung her fist, landing a solid punch to Ruthie’s face.

Ruthie shrieked in pain, clutching her nose as blood started to drip. “You psycho!”

The Kooks looked on in shock, unsure of what to do. Sofia’s eyes widened as she watched Y/N completely lose it. But she noticed something else—Rafe wasn’t running to Ruthie’s defense. Instead, his eyes were glued to Y/N, a mix of anger and concern flashing across his face.

Ruthie tried to fight back, but Y/N wasn’t having it. She grabbed Ruthie’s hair, yanking her down toward the sand as Ruthie let out another scream. Y/N’s fists flew, fueled by months of pent-up rage.

“Y/N!” Rafe’s voice finally broke through, but she didn’t stop. He rushed over and grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her off Ruthie. “That’s enough!”

Y/N struggled against his grip, still fuming. “Let go of me!”

Ruthie lay on the ground, crying and holding her bloody nose. Y/N had done enough damage, but the fire inside her wasn’t out.

Rafe held her tight, his breath warm against her neck as he tried to calm her down. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Get your hands off me, Rafe,” Y/N snapped, finally breaking free of his grip. She spun around to face him, her chest heaving. “What am I doing? I’m doing what you should’ve done—keeping your bitchass friends in check.”

Rafe narrowed his eyes, but Y/N didn’t give him a chance to respond. “You’ve been running around with these Kooks, pretending like nothing matters, while you’re just as bad as them. You cheated on me with her!” Y/N’s voice cracked as she pointed at Sofia, who was standing frozen, watching the whole scene unfold.

Rafe clenched his jaw, but there was a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “That’s not—”

“Don’t even try to defend yourself,” Y/N cut him off. “You lost that right the second you chose Sofia.”

Sofia, who had been silent this whole time, shifted uncomfortably as Rafe’s attention stayed focused on Y/N. She could see how much Y/N still affected him, how his whole demeanor changed around her. His concern, his frustration—it was all for Y/N, and that realization stung.

Y/N turned her back on Rafe and marched back toward Ruthie, who was still sitting in the sand, clutching her bleeding nose. Before anyone could stop her, Y/N grabbed Sofia’s drink from the hood of the truck and dumped it right over Ruthie’s head.

Ruthie gasped, soaked and defeated, blood and soda dripping down her face.

“Don’t ever mess with my friends again,” Y/N hissed, her voice low and dangerous.

Rafe watched in shock, still standing frozen in place, as Y/N walked back toward the Pogues. He barely noticed Sofia next to him, her face twisted in jealousy and confusion as she realized how much control Y/N still had over him.

The Pogues erupted in cheers as Y/N rejoined them. JJ slapped her on the back, laughing. “Hell yeah, Y/N! That was awesome!”

Kiara, still wiping the drink off her, grinned. “You really know how to handle things.”

But as the Pogues celebrated, Rafe stayed behind, his eyes locked on Y/N, conflicted emotions swirling inside him. Sofia glanced between them, noticing the way Rafe’s attention was fixed on Y/N, and it was clear: no matter what had happened between him and Sofia, Y/N still had a hold on him that Sofia could never break.

part 2 here

#drew starkey #rafe cameron #sofia obx #topper thornton #outer banks #obx 4 #rafe cameron smut #drew starkey smut #obx

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soaps-mohawk · 10 months ago

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 35: Threads

Summary: Pack bonds are made up of delicate threads, small fibers webbing together the dynamics and relationships that make up each individual pack. The omega stands in the middle, holding the pieces together, keeping the pack from crumbling by clinging to those threads like a strongman holds pillars up with chains.

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 11,752 words

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, descriptions of physical pain, brief description of drowning, medical stuff, panic, crying, panic attacks, nightmares, PTSD, very heavy emotions, alcohol and brief mention of alcoholism, language, fighting (not physically), Kyle being the best boy, aftermath of trauma, brief mentions of the events of the previous chapter, guilt and shame, angst, and finally some comfort after the hurt (but not quite what you'd expect)

A/N: So I may have been slightly wrong, the angst isn't over, but it's not quite as intense as it has been. There are little tidbits of comfort in this one, though it's not like "okay it's over, let me wrap you in this blanket and everything is fine and happy now". It's...you'll see. If you're waiting for the fine and happy comfort then...you might want to wait a few chapters still. The comfort will come on slowly, but it has officially started.

11/30/24: **This chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

Screaming.

Someone is screaming.

It hurts your ears, high-pitched and ringing. Your hands cover them, but even that can’t block out the sound.

It’s ringing in your own head.

Your body hurts, every joint and muscle aching and throbbing. They’ve been locked in place too long, frozen in one position, a safe position. Safety. That’s what you’re seeking, that’s what you’re trying to find. That’s why you’re here.

This isn’t a safe space anymore.

The walls are crumbling, the darkness is fading. There’s light seeping in, threatening to pull you out, make you face whatever is waiting on the other side. It’s not a comforting light, it’s bright and piercing and threatening. You don’t want to leave the darkness. You don’t want to face the light. You want to stay there, stay frozen, stay safe.

Your throat burns, raw and painful with every breath.

It’s you.

You’re screaming.

Hands are flying, mouth open in a scream. It’s a horrible sound, grating and feral sounding. Your body twists and turns as they try to hold you down. No restraints. You’ll just hurt yourself more.

Blood is flying, splattering on the gurney, the floor, the walls. Yours or someone else’s? It’s hard to tell.

Simon.

“Simon!”

He snaps out of his daze, his eyes darting up to look at Dr. Keller across the gurney. Her hand is around his wrist, your elbow knocking against his forearm as you try to fight whatever it is you think you’re seeing. Maybe you’re seeing nothing at all.

“I know.” Dr. Keller’s voice is soft despite the chaos of the moment. Her gaze is firm but comforting. She knows. “I need you to hold her still. She’s going to hurt herself further if she can’t calm down.”

She’s going to hurt someone else too.

The monitors are beeping and screaming. They managed to get a blood pressure cuff around your arm before you snapped out of the daze he’d put you in and started fighting. You’re like a wild animal, cornered and fighting for your life again with a renewed vigor. Renewed for now. If you don’t calm down again, something will give out.

There won’t be any coming back from that.

“Don’t be afraid if you hurt her.” Dr. Keller says, squeezing his wrist. “Bones can be fixed.”

He catches your wrists in his hand, pinning them down against your chest. He uses his weight to his advantage, pushing his arm into you as he leans down so you’re face to face. You let out another scream, fighting against him but he has you beat. He’s bigger, stronger, calmer.

“Look at me.” He says, his alpha rumbling low in his chest. It has even the beta nurses stopping in their tracks to look at him. The only one unaffected is Dr. Keller as she uses this moment to her advantage.

You stop fighting him, breathing in heavy gasps as you stare right up into his eyes. Wild and untamed, pupils dilated in your aggressive state. Dilated out of aggression or dilated out of fear? Perhaps both. Beads of sweat slide down your face, your body hot under his. It mixes with the blood on your skin, blood from your own injuries and from the Shadows you killed. Your cheek is bruised, discolored from broken blood vessels. Your left eye will swell shut soon. He needs to get you calm before then.

It’s almost cute, the way you bare your teeth up at him. He might have thought it cute in a different setting, if your life wasn’t dangling over a ledge right now. A low growl rumbles in your chest, a warning that has his own hackles raising. He bares his teeth back, an answering growl, deeper and angrier, rumbles in his own chest. The nurses take a step back. Even Dr. Keller pauses at the sound.

Yet, despite the threat in his growl, it doesn’t deter you one bit. Your knee drives into his side, making him grunt from the impact, but he doesn’t let up. You’re fighting him again, trying to wiggle your way out of his hold. If he pushes any harder, he might break a rib. You’re going to break something if you don’t stop.

You’re too far gone to recognize anything but fear and danger. You’re only going to fight, only going to attack anything you perceive as a threat. You won’t even recognise him. He has to get you to calm down before you have a heart attack. He considers getting one of the nurses to bring Johnny in, but there’s no guarantee that will work. You’ll just perceive him as another threat, another danger. More people in the room will only make you more aggressive...make your omega more aggressive.

He’s not dealing with you. He’s dealing with your omega in her raw form, the animal deep underneath forced out of her hiding place. Whoever said omegas are weak never had to face one in this state.

He stares down at you as you fight and scream, battering his side with your knees but he can hardly feel the pain. His arm is still throbbing where you bit him, but he can hardly see the blood streaked on his skin.

He has to save you.

He can’t let all of this go to waste.

They’ll never recover if they lose you now.

He moves almost seamlessly, time seeming to slow as he lets you go. He unclips his vest and rips it over his head in one movement, uncaring as it hits the floor with a heavy thud. You lunge up at him but he’s ready, catching you before your lower body can leave the gurney. It’s a risk. A huge risk, but it’s all he can think of doing. It’s hardly the worst place to be if things go wrong, if this fails. If he does fail, at least he’ll know he tried.

He pushes his mask up to his chin, pressing your face right into his neck.

Your nose pushes against his scent gland as he cups the back of your head, holding you there. He projects his scent as strong as he can, hoping it can reach some deep part of your mind, some glimmer of you that’s left in there.

If this goes wrong, you’ll rip out skin and veins with your teeth. He’ll bleed out on the floor before they can even get him on a gurney.

He wraps his other arm around you, holding you as still as he can. Tears prick his eyes as he holds you, shoving away the beeping machines, the panic still thrumming inside of him. Scruffing you was only round one of this fight. He should have held it longer, should have been brave enough to do it a second time.

He can still feel it, your neck in his hand, the way you gave in so easily. You had no choice, he gave you none. It was necessary, it was vital that he did it. You wouldn’t have made it this far if he hadn’t.

He should do it again. It would be easy, just slip his hand down and squeeze and you’ll be gone, lost in your head again and under his control. Maybe then he’d get you to calm down, get you out of this state and free from the danger looming closer and closer.

Heart attack, stroke, organ failure.

Why couldn’t Price be the one to go after you? Why couldn’t it be Price standing here making this decision.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers before slipping his hand down, wrapping it around the back of your neck again.

Pain.

You’re in pain.

You try to fade away again, try to push yourself back into the darkness to avoid the pain, but you can’t.

There’s no escaping it.

Your body hurts, every joint and muscle throbbing. Fire licks at your very cells, burning hot through your veins, scorching your skin. Safety. You want safety again. You want to retreat back into yourself, back into the comfort only the darkness can offer you.

Nowhere is safe anymore.

Tears are rolling down your cheeks, the light pressing closer and closer. It’s somewhere above you, shining down in offending shades of white. You can see it behind your eyelids no matter how hard you try to squeeze them together. There’s no escaping this light. There’s no retreating back into safety. There’s no safety anymore.

You’re underwater, slowly rising to the surface. There’s sounds around you, muffled and dampened by the water. You need to breathe, you need to inhale precious oxygen but you can’t get to the surface fast enough. Lungs burning, your fingers claw at the water but you can’t reach it, you can’t swim fast enough.

Your hands curl into soft fabric as you cough, choking on imaginary water. There’s warmth surrounding you, pressed in on all sides. You’re leaning against something, something hard and solid and warm. The sounds are louder now, mixing into a convoluted cocktail of constant noise. You hate it.

Pain ripples through your throat as you let out a groan, the sound catching and cracking on the rough edges of your vocal chords. Another choked sound leaves your lips, pain rippling through your very nerves. The skin on your face is burning, simmering ashes being fanned by every tear sliding down your cheeks.

You’re crying.

There’s a deep sound coming from under you. It’s vibrating against your body, your pulsing ears focusing on that sound. It’s familiar. You’ve heard it before, somewhere back in the recesses of your mind.

Your mind.

It’s there. You can feel it beginning to take shape, thoughts beginning to form out of the fractured darkness. You’re not in your mind anymore, your mind is in you. You’re a being inside of a body, a body wracked with pain. The urge to retreat back is strong, but you can’t. That part of you has been closed off, sealed away by the light.

Fingers and toes twitch, tingling and throbbing with the cold despite the fire blazing its way through your veins. It is cold, your hand pulling at the softness you’re clinging to. The low vibration begins again, rumbling through you, igniting something in the back of your mind.

You know it. It’s familiar.

Something tingles in the back of your mind, starting to come to life. Despite the agony there’s something in there, something warm and comforting. There’s no name for it, no thought flashing through the swirling mass of neurons slowly taking shape. It’s soft and warm and whispering to you.

Wake up.

Wake up!

Your eyes open before you can stop them. You’re immediately blinded, eyes throbbing from the bright white light above you, a high pitched whine leaving your lips. It rattles through your throat, broken and squeaking through your shredded trachea. You clench your eyes shut again, wincing away from the intrusive light, the movement sending a bolt of pain through your body like an electric shock. You let out another garbled sound, your fist tugging on the fabric it’s clenching.

“I know, I’m sorry sweetie.” A voice says, the light disappearing before another takes its place, softer and lighter and less painful.

Your eyes crack open again, still throbbing despite the light being removed. Your entire body is throbbing, pulsing like an exposed nerve. You feel like an exposed nerve, weak and vulnerable. It triggers something deep in your brain, the light starting to dim. Something is rising, something is coming. You want to lay back, let it take over, let it take control. You want to sink into the darkness again. The darkness is safe, the darkness is secure.

The beeping is getting louder. Beeping, that’s what that sound is. There’s something beeping. It’s getting faster and faster. You’re starting to go numb, the tingling in your fingers and toes fading away. It’s not so cold anymore, the ache in your limbs fading into oblivion. You’re fading into oblivion.

“Oi! None of that.”

You’re awake. You let out a disgruntled sound as the warmth and comfort leaves you, deserting you in favor of retreating into the recesses of your mind again. A shiver runs down your spine, your very skin tingling with pinpricks of pain as it goes.

“Open your eyes again for me, love.”

Your body moves before you can tell it not to, your eyes fluttering open again. You’re squinting despite the bright light being gone. Any light is too much, your mind seeking out the comforting darkness once more.

Darkness makes you vulnerable.

In the dark, you’re blind to things that may be hiding there.

No.

No more darkness.

You want the light.

Scents flood your brain as your eyes fully open, slamming into you like a wave. It’s too much, nearly choking you again as you try to register everything. The burning scent of sterilizer, the soft scent of clean linens, the harsh scent of chemicals. There’s a soft scent mixing in with the others, something easing the turmoil in your mind just slightly. Above all else, though, is the intense smell of leather and something soft and fresh. It overpowers almost all of them, standing out distinctly. It makes your nose throb, something tickling in the back of your mind. You’re afraid of the scent, yet...there’s something else. Something...familiar.

“Back with us yet?” The sound rumbles under you again.

“Nearly there.” Another voice says. “Heart rate is coming down again. Still feverish, though.”

You’re suddenly aware of your body again, the pains, the aches, the burning, the cold. You’re trembling, your skin prickling from how cold it is. You try to press forward against the warmth in front of you, but the movement has pain slashing through your very cells. Another pathetic whine tears through your throat, every movement sending stabbing pain through your very being.

“C...C-Cold.” You manage to croak out, the word forming clumsily on your tongue. It feels heavy, like you’re relearning how to speak.

“I know.” The softer voice says, something dragging across your skin. “We’re trying our best.”

Something moves against your back, dragging against your skin. Whatever it is, it’s warm, but it’s rough. You push into it, something telling you to get closer, to wrap yourself in it and let it suffocate you. Somehow it’s comforting to you, somehow it’s familiar.

Slowly thoughts and sensations begin to return to you, your mind dragging itself from the depths it had sunk into.

It was purposeful.

You did it to save yourself.

You’re shaking for a different reason now, suddenly aware of the parts of your body that ache the most. Your shoulder, your cheek, your throat, your wrists. There’s a deep chill that has settled in your bones, sinking past the fever and the pain, past the memories beginning to resurface, past the hopelessness and the anger and the fear.

“Simon?” You croak out, the name burning its way through your dry throat. You desperately want something to drink, anything to ease the burning desert in your mouth.

“It’s me, love.” The sound rumbles under you again.

Leather. Eucalyptus. Warmth. Alpha.

You groan, trying to shift closer but the tensing of your muscles has pain screaming through your body. A shuddering breath leaves your lips, your body tensing until it passes.

“Try not to move too much.” The other voice says, a hand coming to rest on your arm. You’re still clutching Simon’s sweatshirt in your hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this earthly plane.

It might be.

“Dr. Keller?” You croak out, recognizing that voice.

“I’m here too sweetie.” She says somewhere behind you. “Take it easy, you’ve had a rough go of it.”

She’s not wrong.

The memories are coming back slowly, each one playing through your head like an episode of some fucked up television show. Except, it isn’t a television show. It’s your life.

You hate it.

“John?” You ask, trying to get your tongue to work, but you desperately need water.

“Probably yelling at every person who crosses his path.” Simon says. “He was blazing a path to hell and back earlier trying to get ahold of anyone he could yell at involved in this.” He rubs your back. “He’ll be here as soon as he’s calmed down. Kyle and Johnny are working overtime trying to help restrain him.”

You'll always be a second thought.

“You?” You ask, unable to form the whole question you want to ask. Why are you here and not with your pack?

He's quiet for a moment. “We got here before John and Kyle did.” His hand stills against your back, palm pressing below your shoulder blades. “You wouldn't let anyone close to you. The doc said it's normal, coming out of that state. I had to help keep you calm so you could get patched up. Then you wouldn't let me leave.”

Your fingers ache from how hard they're gripping his sweatshirt. He stayed. He's the one here with you, not your alpha.

You let out a groan, the pain starting to intensify. There’s a throbbing in your calf, and a deep ache starting to pulse in your joints. You’re almost glad for it, the turmoil in your mind starting to twist and fog your thoughts pushed aside in favor of the pain screaming at the forefront of your brain.

“Time for more pain medicine.” Dr. Keller says somewhere behind you. “You’ll probably get sleepy, but rest is what you need right now.”

You let out another groan, pressing your face back against Simon’s chest. Despite the pain in your body, there’s an even deeper ache in your chest. It’s not a physical one. Your alpha isn’t here. He’s left you again, abandoned you in favor of something else, something he deems more important.

Tears are brimming in your eyes as they slip closed, the exhaustion and the drowsiness from the pain medicine taking over.

It’s not quite so cold when you wake up next. It’s brighter in the room, the light not quite so artificial as it had been the first time. There’s no body against yours, no warmth seeping into your skin or scent in your nose. Your fingers twitch, almost like they want to seek it out again.

You’re alone.

You let out a quiet breath, your brows furrowing. Your shoulder aches, throbbing in time with the beep of the heart monitor. It hurts less to move as you shift your arm to itch the other. It’s horribly itchy, but your fingers meet gauze instead.

Right. Phil had cut you there. Not very deep, but still deep enough to hurt. Just another injury to add to the list.

You try to lift your arm but burning pain shoots through your shoulder. You wince, letting out a quiet moan of pain as you drop it back into the bed. You breathe as the pain shoots through you, swirling through your veins before it begins to settle.

“You shouldn’t try to move too much.” A voice cuts through the silence.

Your head whips to the side, your arm shooting out to grip the side rail as pain burns through your body like lava. It seeps slowly from your left shoulder down to your toes and into your very hair follicles. You let out another groan of pain, your eyes squeezing closed as you wait for it to pass.

“Sorry.” The voice says softly. “I suppose that didn’t help any.”

You open your eyes, still breathing heavily as the pain begins to fade. Your hand is still wrapped around the side rail as you stare at John. He’s seated next to the bed, his elbows on his knees as he stares at you. He looks tired, eyes puffy with dark circles around them. He’s in a simple green shirt and cargo pants, yet he’s not quite as put together as he normally is. His hair is sticking up in different directions, his beard scruffier than normal. There’s a faint pink line of what was probably once a cut on his cheek.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him in weeks.

You should be happy.

You should be ecstatic.

You should be relieved.

Yet, all you can feel is pain and anger and betrayal.

“There’s nothing I can say that will make this better.” He says, his voice rougher than usual, even after returning from a deployment. His eyes shine with emotion. You hate it. “There’s nothing I can say that will undo what happened.” He runs a hand over his mouth, letting out a breath through his nose. “This shouldn’t have happened in the first place. We should have known better, we should have questioned it.” He shakes his head. “We put too much trust in those above us, and we were all fooled.”

Tears blur your eyes as you stare at him. He’s not just talking about Shepherd and the initiative. He’s talking about you too.

“I regret it more than any decision I’ve ever made. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life,” He continues. “You put your trust in me, and I failed you. I let this happen to you because I chose to follow blindly instead of thinking about the good of my pack. You’re here because of me, because of the decisions I made. I had one job, and now you’re paying for my failure.”

He pauses for a moment, tears shining in his own eyes. You should feel surprise, sympathy, something. All you can feel is hatred. He doesn’t deserve to cry over you. He doesn’t deserve this chance to try and explain himself to you, to try and give excuses for his actions. He made his choice. He made it very clear where his loyalties lie, where they’ve always been, where that line was laid before he even claimed you. It was never about you. Nothing was ever about you. It was always the initiative, and then when the initiative turned out to be false, it was about the ‘greater good’. You should have been the greater good. You should have been their focus. Instead they all betrayed you.

They betrayed you in the end.

“I made a bad call.” He continues on. “I shouldn’t have left so quickly. I shouldn’t have allowed you to be left alone. Now you’re here, like this, because I made a stupid mistake.”

He stares at you for a long moment, as if he’s waiting for you to say something, as if you should have something to say in response. He’s waiting for an acceptance to his half-assed apology, as if his words can somehow undo the pain, the burning in your wrists, the throbbing in your shoulder, the agony every time you simply move a limb. As if his half-assed apology can somehow undo the weeks of depression and anguish and the worry and the fear. As if his half-assed apology can make up for the way they all cut you off, treating you like a traitor before abandoning you. As if his half-assed apology can undo the hours and hours of torment and pain the man you once thought of as a family friend unleashed on you all because of them.

The hatred burns almost as hot as the lava in your veins, so hot you’re surprised the tear that slides down your cheek doesn’t start sizzling. Your heart rate is picking up again, the monitor beeping with the sound of the anger simmering inside of you. The blood pressure cuff squeezes around your arm, a grunt of pain cracking in your throat.

“Yeah,” You say, your voice hardly more than a whisper. You turn your head away from him, wincing as an electric shock of pain jolts through you from the motion. You drop your hand from the side rail before he can touch you, tucking your arm back under the rough blanket. “You did.”

You have nothing more to say to him.

John enters the room solemnly, the silence nearly palpable as they all wait in anticipation. They’re all looking at him, waiting patiently for their captain, their alpha, to speak. They always look to him, they always rely on him, they always trust him and now look where he’s led them. So rarely does he make the wrong decision, so rarely does he lead them astray.

What happened this time?

Why did he fall into the trap so easily? Why did he so easily turn his back on you?

What words are there to say? He knew his words would do little to calm the raging storm inside of you, the hurt and the pain and the betrayal they put you through all because of him.

The rejection still hurts, but it should. They all rejected you as soon as they left you behind.

It’s only a fraction of the pain you must be feeling.

“How is she?” Kyle asks, breaking the tense silence.

“Upset.” He sighs, sinking down in a chair.

“Fuckin’ sure she is.” Johnny snaps, anger radiating off of him in steaming waves. He’s been on edge, they all have, since the four of them were reunited. He had been there, stuck in the hall as you screamed and fought. He thought the worst when your screams cut off until he was finally updated by one of the nurses leaving the room. “Of course she doesnae want to see any of us! We just fucking left her, just like that, and it was your fuckin’ fault!”

Simon grabs his beta before he can throw a fist at John, holding him back. Johnny lets out a string of curses none of them understand, fighting against his alpha. Simon holds him tightly, the image of your bloody form fighting against him still at the forefront of his mind. He grips Johnny tightly, muscles straining. Johnny is bigger. Johnny is stronger.

He has half a mind to let him go.

John doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch as Johnny yells and rages. He’d welcome a good beating right now. He could use some physical pain to distract from the ache in his chest.

“Calm down,” Kyle says, getting in Johnny’s face. “I said calm down!” Kyle yells, Johnny stilling for a moment. It’s not often Kyle raises his voice at one of them. “We’re not doing any good being upset with each other. We all made mistakes over these last few weeks, especially these past few days. None of us are guilt free in this. We all have our omega’s blood on our hands. Fighting amongst ourselves will only fray the bonds more than they already have been.”

Johnny deflates with a sigh, standing there in Simon’s arms for a moment. Kyle is right. They all can feel it, the way their bonds are fraying. Their pack is resting on a dangerous ledge, tipping back and forth with every strong emotion, every argument, every sour feeling. They’re all holding onto that bond, trying to pull it back to keep it from falling into the abyss. As angry as they are with each other, just one of them letting go will be the end of the pack.

“There’s nothing we can do to change what happened.” John says, looking up at the other three. “Kyle’s right. I made the decision to trust those we were suspicious of. We can’t undo what happened to us, we can’t undo what we did, we can’t undo what we...” He lets out a breath. “What I let happen to our omega.”

“She won’t trust us again.” Simon says, his hands still shaking as he releases Johnny. They haven’t stopped shaking since he scruffed you a second time. “I don’t doubt Graves played with her head, convinced her we chose to leave her there with him.”

“She won’t trust us.” John affirms, no matter how badly it hurts him. “She won’t forgive us either. The best we can do is to give her what she needs, what she wants. Right now that’s space. Dr. Keller will keep us updated as things develop.” He pushes himself up to stand, looking at each member of his team, of his pack. They all share the same guilty look on their faces, they all hold the same anger at themselves deep inside. “This may be the hardest mission we’ve ever had. No matter what we feel...none of that matters anymore. What matters is keeping our pack together. What matters is that we keep those bonds from fraying. We lose ourselves, we lose everything.”

“Still sore?”

You nod, wincing as it sends a bolt of pain through your body.

“I know.” Dr. Keller says, adjusting the ice pack on your shoulder. “Hurts like a bitch, but luckily it won’t cause any lasting damage.”

You blink at Dr. Keller, staring at her for a beat. You don’t think you’ve ever heard her curse before. You’re not sure she was ever capable of it.

“What? I use swear words. Sometimes.” She says, almost like she can read your thoughts. “Sometimes expletives fit the moment better than any flouncy, sophisticated words do. This feels like the proper situation to use some.” She lets out a sigh. “Your shoulder will be the worst of the pain, at least physically. The mental pain...well, that’s not something I can treat with pain medicine. Shouldn’t, would be the proper wording there.”

Some people do use it to numb the pain.

“We all made a lot of bad decisions these last few days. Your support system, those you were supposed to be able to trust, failed you.” She stares down at you, emotion shining in her eyes. It’s a mirror of John’s own stare when he’d looked at you, but this time there’s no anger burning inside of you. Dr. Keller didn’t betray you. Dr. Keller will mean her apology, because you know that’s what’s coming. “I know you’ve probably heard this a lot over the last few hours, but I am sorry too. I shouldn’t have left you alone like that. I shouldn’t have fallen for that phone call...I should have been there.”

You stare up at her, tears pooling in your eyes. If she had stayed, things would have been worse. It was almost better she left you. You can’t lose her. You need her now more than you ever did.

Tears streak a flaming path down your face, a choked sob tearing its way through your trachea up through your lips. It burns your throat, no amount of water you’ve had in the last few hours has been able to ease the ache that’s taken up permanent residence there.

Graves choked you. It’s the bruising from his hand squeezing your windpipe making you ache. Your voice may never recover, may never go back to normal. Crying hurts, hurts more than just your mind, your chest. It hurts your whole body, yet you can’t stop.

“I know, I know.” She says, petting your hair as you sob. “I’m not going anywhere this time. We’ll get through this, okay? It’ll be a long road, but you won’t be walking it alone. You’ve got me, and you’ve got your pack.”

Your gaze hardens at the mention of your pack, the sob in your throat coming out almost as an angry grunt. The thought of them makes your chest ache, the pain of their betrayal burning hot in you. “I don’t want them.” You whisper.

“I don’t blame you.” Dr. Keller says, leaning against the side rail of your bed. “They let you down. The betrayed your trust in a lot of ways. They made you feel abandoned, and then abandoned you when you needed them most, even if they thought they were doing the right thing at the time. You have every right to be angry at them, upset with them. They hurt you in the worst way they could.” She pulls the blanket higher over you, tucking you in. “You’ve gone through a lot these last few days. Some very traumatic events, on top of being injured and your body going through extreme stress. You’re exhausted in every way you can be. Rest first. Worry about everything else later. Doctor’s orders.”

“I did it to myself.” You say before she can walk away.

She turns back to look at you. “What?”

“I made myself distress.” You say. “I made my omega come out.”

“That was very brave of you.” She says, giving you a soft smile. “Sometimes we have to take drastic measures even knowing the risks. You did what you had to in the moment and I think it was the right choice. You didn’t know what was going to happen, what was happening. Things worked out and you’re still here. That’s all that matters.”

You think about her words for a moment. You did make it out. The fact you’re here means someone found you, someone saved you. Someone scruffed you.

“It was Simon, wasn’t it?” You ask, even though you already know the answer to that.

You wouldn’t let him leave.

“You’ll have to ask him for the whole story, but yes. He’s the one that rescued you.” She adjusts the blanket around you again. “Get some rest.” She moves the call button closer. “I’m on the other end of that button if you need me.”

You stare up at the ceiling after she leaves, counting the tiles above you. It looks like every other ceiling you’ve ever seen in a doctor's office or clinic or hospital. It’s not all that different from the ceiling in the med center on base.

Base.

You don’t ever want to see that place again. You don’t want to step foot in the barracks, you don’t even want to think about the clinical sterility of the buildings and the cold comfortless spaces meant for nothing more than to serve their purpose. Just like you. You served your purpose. You proved their point, even if it was never the true point of the initiative. Packs will get stronger with an omega, but it will come at the detriment of that omega.

The job always comes first.

There was a time you thought perhaps it wouldn’t. Maybe they could put it all behind them and put themselves first, put you first. Then they proved they can’t. They won’t even put you first when you’re at the threat of being tortured. You were hurt because they wouldn’t put you first. You are hurt because they wouldn’t put you first.

You don’t care about them. You don’t care about their excuses. You don’t care about the bonds or the claims or the emotions.

You’d be happy if they left you here. Just a few days ago you were panicking about them leaving you, about them deciding you weren’t enough and abandoning you.

Now you wish they would.

“Has she said anything?”

“Not much.” He sighs. “She won’t see any of us. I can hardly blame her.”

“You made a choice, John.” Kate says, hands wrapped around her cup of coffee. “Choices have consequences.”

“You were right. Then again, you usually are. We should have thought twice about that mission. She should have never been left alone like that.” He sips at his tea. Bitter without milk, but then again, he’d prefer a glass of whiskey right now over tea. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“I don’t think you can.” Kate takes a sip of her coffee. “She’s going to decide when she wants you to fix this, if she wants you to fix it.”

John lets out a sigh. “We’re her pack, it’s our job-”

“You’ve failed at your job.” Kate says, her gaze hardening as she stares at him. “You’re good at being a soldier, you’re good at being a leader, you’re good at saving the world, but that’s not your only job. You have a responsibility to take care of your omega, and you failed. You made your choice, and you turned your back on her. She’s not a soldier, John. She’s never been tortured, she’s never been left for dead, she’s never taken a life before and here she’s been through all of that in the span of two days. You made a choice, John. You made a choice knowing damn well what the consequences would be.”

He sits in silence, staring at Kate. It’s not often she gets mad at him, the frustration evident on her face. It’s a mirror of the anger and disappointment on the faces of his packmates. They’re all feeling the weight of his decision, of his mistakes. They’re all feeling the weight of their rapidly fraying bonds.

“You have a choice to make now, John.” She stares at him pointedly. “You pick up the pieces from this, you all take the time to recover and heal. Then what? Things aren’t as simple as we thought they were, John. None of us knew what was going to happen. We were all so focused on the potential benefits that we all overlooked just how much of a detriment this would be. Your omega hasn’t had a choice in anything in her entire life. Every decision has been made for her, whether or not she wanted it. She has had no say in any of this. She’s been nothing more than a variable in an experiment, a statistic, a number, a list of pros and cons. She’s been reduced down to nothing more than an object.”

John winces at her words, the weight on his shoulders growing heavier and heavier. He’s treated you as nothing more than an object, even if not directly. Leaving you so easily, yelling at you when you made an innocent mistake, letting you be taken just like that because he couldn’t get his head out of his own arse far enough to see the truth of what was going on.

“We all know she’s more than that. Far more than that. But she will never have any say in anything, unless you let her. Outside of your pack, she has nothing. In your pack? She should have the loudest voice.” Kate leans her arms on the table, shifting closer to him. “Right now she has no voice because you’ve proven where your loyalties lie, and they’re not with her. You have one more decision to make, John. Do you keep standing where you are, put the job first and wear your omega down until she’s nothing but an empty shell? Or, do you take this chance while you have it and finally put her first?”

Kate pushes herself up to stand, grabbing her cup of coffee. John’s not used to feeling small. He’s used to being in charge, being the captain, being in control. People look to him, they listen to him, he’s the one everyone turns to when things go to shit to lead them out.

He’s not even capable of doing that anymore.

“Your life as you knew it ended as soon as she was placed in your pack. It’s up to you to decide how it continues.” Kate leaves with those heavy parting words, the door clicking shut behind her.

John stares down at his cup of tea, the cup half full, or perhaps half empty depending on how one looks at it. It feels more than half empty now, spilling slowly through some microscopic hole in the side. It’ll only be so long before that hole will widen, worn down by the weak paper the cup is made of, the liquid eating away at the cup until there’s nothing but a puddle of tea on the table, slowly rolling towards the edge to dip onto the floor.

That microscopic hole started as soon as they left you alone for the first time, and none of them were aware enough to even notice it.

That hole is a gaping wound now. The contents inside turned acidic as soon as he cut you off in his disappointment, as soon as he started digging into the belly of the initiative. That acid has been eating away slowly at the fragile bonds that were in place. Fragile. They really were. No matter how strong they all thought those bonds were growing to be, they were built with fear and anxiety and uncertainty. Uncertainty of the future and what it may hold, anxiety towards a new pack and an entirely new shift in lifestyle, and fear of one day losing a pack member.

Bonds built upon such frailty can hold no weight should one piece fall.

How strong can bonds really be when you live with that knowledge, that constant fear that someone could die at any time? Someone in the pack, someone you’ve bonded with, someone you’ve grown a relationship with, might leave and never return because of the risks of their job. How strong can those bonds be? Was that the point of the experiments all along, the 141 and the initiative? Testing the limits a pack could be pushed to, testing if bonds could be formed in such a high stress environment and if so, how strong they’d be? What limits would they have gone to, to test that theory? Would they have gone to the point of sacrificing one of them to test those theories, had the truth not come out when it did? One wrong decision, one wrong step in the field and everything can crumble. Would they have gone to that length to test just how a bonded pack would react, if they could still function after everything?

The sacrifice was you.

Kate is right. You’re not part of their world. You’re not a soldier, you haven’t been conditioned to live with that fear, you can’t be conditioned to live with that fear. You shouldn’t have to be conditioned to live with that fear. You had no choice in this. None of it. From the moment you presented, nothing in your life would be yours. From the moment you presented, you would never make a choice for yourself again.

The sacrifice was you.

And he played right into their hands.

The cup is blurring as he stares at it, his eyes blinking rapidly.

They say an omega is the balance that holds a pack together. It’s a delicate bond, a single thread coiled around the structure of the pack. Wear that thread down until it snaps and everything crumbles. How long have you been fraying? How long have you been silently screaming for help, desperately trying to hold the pieces of the pack together like a strongman holds two pillars up by chains? You never had chains, you’ve been holding everything together with sewing thread, fighting desperately to keep the pieces from crumbling at the risk of being torn in half.

How long have you been silently screaming?

It’s all his fault. He’s been wearing you down, he’s been fraying that bond fiber by fiber. He’s been standing there watching you fight to hold the pack together while screaming at him to help, screaming at him to take one of those threads and hold at least half of the weight for you.

That’s what he’s supposed to do.

The threads have snapped. You were torn in half by the weight and those threads are gone. They’re crumbling, the bonds coming undone, unraveling minute by minute, second by second. They’re losing each other because they lost you.

He covers his face with his hands, not even bothering to try and silence his sobs.

Something has pulled you from the sweet arms of sleep.

It’s dark in the room, the only light coming from the one behind the bed. The curtains are drawn over the window, keeping you hidden from the darkness outside the window. It’s late, or at least you think it is. You can’t quite see the clock in the darkness with your one good eye. It’s fuzzy in the darkness, too far away for you to truly find where the hands lie.

Shadows fill the corners of the room, oppressive and claustrophobic. The longer you stare, the bigger they seem to grow as if they might suck the light right out of the room and swallow you in darkness. The longer you stare, the more it seems like there’s something there, something hidden in the darkness.

Something is staring at you from the shadows. There’s eyes on you, your skin prickling from the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. The more you stare into the darkness, the more the shadows begin to take shape, forming monstrous beasts just being held at bay by the light.

“Hi, darlin’.”

No. No, no, no, no.

“Miss me? It’s been a long time.”

You shake your head, your heart monitor starting to beep rapidly as your heart pounds in your chest. “N-No.”

Phil sits forward in the chair in the corner, his face coming into the light. It is him, blonde hair, blue eyes, that disarming grin on his face. He can’t be here...unless he escaped before your pack could catch him. Did they manage to catch him? You don’t know. You hadn’t even thought to ask about Phil or his whereabouts. No one informed you either.

“No? You didn’t miss me?” He tilts his head, his eyes shining with faux hurt and disappointment. “That’s not very nice of you to say. I thought your father taught you your manners. Have you forgotten them in the time you’ve been away.” He tsks, shaking his head. “Those boys have been letting you get lazy.”

Your breathing is picking up, panic starting to fill you as you stare at him. It’s impossible. He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here. He couldn’t have just walked onto base and walked into the medical center, could he? Corporal McKinney fooled everyone for months and drove right off base with you in his car and no one said anything. How much would the guards at the front entrance of the base take as a bribe to let him in?

Why isn’t your pack outside your door? Why would they let him in?

They had to have put out a warning. Someone should have put Phil’s face everywhere, sent out a message, something.

He lets out a sigh, pushing himself to stand. “I guess I’ll have to teach you some manners myself.”

The glint of metal catches your eye, the icepick catching the light as he steps closer.

“No, no,” You shake your head, your fingers scrambling for the call button.

Not again. Please, not again.

Your fingers close around the call button, your thumb pushing it over and over and over again. Someone has to hear it.

He lifts the ice pick, reaching out for you...

You’re being shaken. A scream tears from your lips as you struggle, trying to get away from whoever is holding you. Your body is alight with pain but you wait for more, for the ice pick to drive into your scent gland again, open the wound and light your body on fire once more. You expect it to come down again and again, filling your body with holes so you bleed out on the floor.

Where is your pack?

“Easy, easy. You’re alright.”

You know that voice.

You’re sobbing, your brain slowly beginning to come back into consciousness. You had been asleep. You were dreaming. The light is on in the room, the harsh fluorescent a welcome presence for once. The shadows are gone, dissipated by the bright light overhead. Phil is gone, wiped away with the rest of the shadows.

He’s nowhere to be seen because he wasn’t there in the first place.

It was just a dream. It was just a nightmare.

There’s a hand on yours, gently easing your fingers from the call button. You’re still trying to press it, your thumb moving almost automatically. You started pressing it in your sleep.

“You’re okay. Breathe for me.”

It’s Dr. Keller’s voice. It’s her arms wrapped around you, trying to stop you from moving as much. Your body is screaming in pain, but the panic flooding your body makes you almost numb to it. The pain in your chest is screaming with every rapid inhale, tightening and tightening the more until your fingers and toes start to go numb.

“Deep breaths.” Dr. Keller says, her own breaths slow as she holds you. “In and out.”

The inhale catches, the air shuddering into your lungs before you hold it, trying to force your body to calm down, just like the two of you practiced so many times. The heart monitor is beeping rapidly, another thing that must have translated in your state between wakefulness and sleep when Phil had shown up. Your heart is beating rapidly, thudding in your chest almost violently. It’s been through a lot these last few days. You wouldn’t be surprised if it just gave out suddenly.

“Phil.” You gasp out, still trying to slow your breathing. “Phil was here.”

“It was just a nightmare.” Dr. Keller says calmly, keeping her arms wrapped around you. “No one has come in or out of this room besides me. The guard outside won’t let anyone else in.”

Guard. There’s someone outside the door. Your pack? No. She would have said so.

Where is your pack?

Phil was never here. It was just a nightmare.

The last two thoughts repeat over and over in your head like a mantra as you start to cry, sobs wracking your body. You hate it, the fear, the terror, the anguish you felt as he lifted that ice pick, ready to stab you with it.

“I hate it.” You croak out, voicing your thoughts for the first time in a few hours.

“I know.” Dr. Keller says. “It’s normal to have nightmares after a traumatic event.” She adjusts her hold on you, tucking you against her chest. “It’s your brain trying to process what happened, trying to work its way through the trauma of the last few days. It’s cruel, but it’s a necessary part of healing.”

Healing.

Are you healing? Can you heal after everything? The pain is intense, not just outside but inside as well. The hurt, the anger, the fear, the anxiety, the panic, the depression, the rage, the betrayal. It’s too much. It’s so much all at once. You hate it. You hate that this happened in the first place. You hate that you have to go through this, have to heal, have to live through more nightmares.

You hate your pack. That’s why they’re not here.

For all you know they’ve left you. For all you know they’re on a plane back to the UK.

Why would they want a broken, angry omega?

“I just want to be okay.” You sob, face pressed against her shoulder.

“I know.” She says, cradling the back of your head, keeping you tight in her arms. “I'm so sorry this happened to you. I know words can't change that it happened, words can't make it all better, but we'll get you to where you're as okay as you can be again. I promise you I’ll do everything I can to get you there.” She leans her chin on the top of your head, squeezing you against her chest. “We'll get there, no matter how long it takes.”

How long will it take? How long will your pain and suffering drag on for? Your body will heal eventually, but will your mind? Are you going to be this way for the rest of your life? Will you ever know peace again? But...have you ever really known peace? Your home growing up certainly wasn’t peaceful. Your presentation wasn’t peaceful, and neither was life at the institute. Being chosen by the FBI for this initiative that never existed in the first place certainly wasn’t peaceful. Despite how happy you became with your pack, even that life wasn’t peaceful. What little peace you thought you had was upended in the blink of an eye.

How easily everything crumbled.

Will it be possible to put it all back together again?

Do you want to put it back together again?

Alcohol is easy to find in a place like this. Soldiers gravitate towards whatever crutch they can find to erase the nightmares they live in. It numbs the pain and the brain and keeps one sane, or at least that’s what his father used to say.

Of course his father would drink himself into a stupor every Friday night, and he’d wake Saturday morning still in his chair with a full breakfast waiting for him.

Much like his father, John has lost track of how many times he’s filled his glass.

It’s been a long time since he’s gotten this drunk. He shook that habit after a shameful morning over ten years ago. He’d just gotten back from a bad deployment, one that gets labeled as a “mission gone wrong.” It failed under his command. He lost a lot of lives, not just his fellow soldiers. He’d drunk himself past a stupor and woke up passed out in a bush covered in vomit outside the gate with a rather angry CO over him.

He shook the habit after that, easing himself to just a glass every so often on those days he needs to take the edge off, on those days he needs to numb the aches.

Then Kyle came along. Kyle, his sweet beta with his ethical moral compass. His sweet beta who deserved a better life than what he was pulled into. Dutiful, loyal, principled. A good soldier, but a better man than John could ever be. He could fall into Kyle, bury himself under those soft touches, the soothing whispers, the comfort Kyle could offer him. The screaming in his head became less and less as he allowed Kyle to do what he was meant to do at his core.

Comfort.

Then you came along.

He found himself turning to the liquid medicine less and less because he could bury himself in you. He had an omega, he had someone he could lean on, someone who understood without having to be told. The bond between alpha and omega is something so sacred and special, something to be cherished.

And he threw it all away.

He downs another glass, staring at the almost empty bottle. It had been sealed when he got it, brand new and fresh. He can feel it, the fogginess of alcohol clouding his brain. The world is swirling, melting together. He can’t feel much of anything anymore, yet that pain lingers deep in his chest.

The bond.

It’s like an open wound, gaping and pulsing. Eventually it’ll slow, eventually it’ll give out. That bond will be cut and everything will crumble.

It’s all his fault.

He ended things, he ended the pack, he ended the bond, he ended you.

Would Graves have killed you? Would Shepherd have given those orders if they pushed onward, if they caught up to him? Graves would have done it slowly, taken his time, reveled in it. They would have gotten a video of it, hours long as you were tortured to death, zoomed in on your face as the life left your eyes.

The thought makes his stomach churn. He wants to vomit at the mental picture of you laying there, covered in blood, those lifeless eyes staring at him. Eyes that once shone with life and happiness. Despite everything you had been happy. Despite everything that spark inside you was never extinguished. A fiery little thing that would give what they gave right back to them.

Now you’re not even smoldering.

You’ve been reduced to ashes, and it’s all his fault. It’s all his doing.

He skips the glass this time, drinking straight from the bottle.

“Have you seen John recently?” Kyle asks, standing in the doorway to their temporary living quarters. It’s a single room with two bunk beds. Far too tight of a space for their quickly souring dynamics.

“No, not recently.” Johnny says, lifting his head up from his pillow. He’s been crying again. “You, LT?”

LT. They argued earlier...more like yelled in each others’ faces until they had to be separated at the risk of things getting physical. Kyle’s not even sure what they had been arguing about in the first place. Probably something miniscule and unimportant. Everything seems to be setting them off like grenades. Pull the pin and watch them explode. They’re all on edge, all of them feeling the distance growing wider and wider despite their best efforts to stop it.

“No.” Simon says simply, staring up at the bottom of the bunk over him. He’s flat on his back, hands folded on his stomach. He looks like a corpse, might have been mistaken for one if it hadn’t been for the slow rise and fall of his chest. He’s still in his mask. He hasn’t taken it off since he arrived in the field.

It’s late, but none of them can sleep. None of them have been able to get much sleep since they arrived nearly two days ago. Weeks without good, decent sleep wears on the brain too.

“If he comes back here, text me.” Kyle says before closing the door, resuming his search for their missing captain.

John has been beating himself up for nearly two days now. Kyle’s never seen his captain quite so distraught and lost. He’s blaming himself, which in all fairness, he should be doing. It is his fault. Kyle will be the first to point blame in this situation, but none of them are truly blameless. None of them questioned it, none of them even argued with him on that decision. They followed blindly as they were supposed to for the first time in a long time. They didn’t question their captain, their alpha, their leader.

He hates himself for it.

Why didn’t he question it? Why didn’t he argue? Why didn’t he voice his opinion, fight back against that decision? He trusted his alpha when he shouldn’t have, and you paid for it.

He’s glad he didn’t have to see you. He’s glad he didn’t have to face down the state Johnny and Simon found you in. He’s glad he didn’t have to see what you looked like even after the blood had been cleaned off and the true horror was revealed.

He hasn’t gone to see you at all.

He’s not sure he could handle it. You won’t care either way from the sound of it. You’ve been reduced to a shell, silent and empty. You’ve barely said a word since this morning, instead just lying there and staring at the ceiling according to the doctor when she’d updated them this afternoon.

Your body will heal slowly, but your mind will remain a battleground.

He leaves the barracks, looking up at the dark sky. It’s clear tonight. He’d probably see the stars if there wasn’t constant light pollution around the base. What do the stars look like here? He’s stared up at the stars constantly in the last few weeks in places there was little light pollution. His only comfort about being away from you so long was the knowledge that you were under the same sky. Be it day or night, the stars were overhead. You wouldn’t be able to see them either way, but they were shining for you too.

Now you’re both under the same stars, but you’re both still so far away.

He lets out a sigh, lowering his gaze. He has a job to do, a captain to find.

“Where are you John?” He breathes, looking in all directions, trying to decide which way to go next. He had stopped in at the med center already, but he wasn’t there. No one had seen him, even the doctor. He’s searched everywhere he could think to search, but his captain is nowhere to be found.

He walks around the side of the barracks, hoping maybe he’ll run into John coming back this way. Usually he wouldn’t bother searching for him, but with his mind how it has been, Kyle can’t help but be worried. Even with the bonds fraying between them, he still has that instinctual need to make sure his alpha is okay. Instincts can’t be ignored. No matter how much bonds between packs fray, instincts will always remain the same.

That’s why he still feels that urge to go and see you.

John will kill him if he requests a base-wide search.

He knows how self-destructive John can be despite how composed he makes himself appear. He’s only seen his alpha in that state once, and he has a feeling he’s about to a second time.

He leans against the wall with a sigh when he reaches the other side of the barracks. Nothing. No sign of him. No texts from Johnny or Simon either. He’d asked Dr. Keller to let him know if he shows up in the med center too, but there’s been nothing. No word. No signs.

Maybe he should just give up looking. John will find his way back to the barracks eventually. Or he won’t.

That could be tomorrow’s problem. A distraction, a mission, something to give them purpose and force them to unite again.

Find their missing captain. Find their missing alpha.

He turns back around to follow the sidewalk back to the front of the barracks when he hears shuffling footsteps dragging on the concrete. He turns, squinting into the darkness between lamps as a figure stumbles through the shadows, muttering under its breath. He knows that voice, he knows that figure.

John.

John stumbles forward, nearly falling but Kyle reaches out, catching him. His mind is racing, silently checking for any blood, any sign of injury, but there’s nothing.

Maybe everything is finally getting to him. Maybe his body has finally been pushed to the limit and it’s giving out. He’s having a medical emergency.

“Easy, sir.” He says, trying to calm his panic as he fights to keep John upright despite John’s body wanting to fall the rest of the way onto the ground. Kyle takes a breath in, catching the sour scent of alcohol wafting off his captain.

Not a medical emergency, then.

He sought out some liquid comfort instead.

The thought makes Kyle’s chest twinge still.

“’S all over.” John slurs, his weight getting heavier and heavier. “Everything is over.” He turns his head, blinking slowly. “Kyle?”

“It’s me, sir. I’ve got you.” He slings John’s arm over his shoulders, making his weight easier to hold.

“Kyle.” He slurs again, the two syllables blurring together. “Too good to me, Kyle.” John pulls his arm free, stumbling forward.

Kyle just manages to lessen his fall onto the concrete, making sure John doesn’t smack the back of his head at least. He’ll have some scrapes and bruises tomorrow, though. Right now he probably can’t even feel it. If he was responsible, he’d take John to the med center, let him sleep off the alcohol on the safety of a gurney, but that would probably just cause more problems for everyone.

John would be pissed when he woke up.

He lets out a sigh as he stands there, staring down at his captain. John’s on his back, eyes up and focused on the sky, hiccuping every so often. He’s never seen his captain quite this drunk before, though he has heard stories of when John was younger.

“I’ve killed her.” John mumbles. “I’ve killed all of us.”

Kyle drops to a knee beside John. “You haven’t killed anyone.”

“She’s fading away. Soon she’ll be gone.” He murmurs. “We’ll go too.” John pushes himself up to sit. “It’s all over. Everything is over.”

Kyle grips John’s arms before he can fall back again, holding him in place. “Nothing is over yet, sir. We can still do something. It’ll just take time.”

John turns to look at him, his eyes hazy and far away. “Kyle.” John says his name softly, reaching out to brush his fingers across Kyle’s cheek. “Pretty boy.” He slumps against Kyle’s chest, his weight nearly making both of them topple over. “Too good to me, Kyle.”

“I care about you a lot, sir.” Kyle says, rubbing his back. “More than I think you realize.” He murmurs the last bit more to himself than anything. Not that John will likely remember any of this in the morning. “We should get you in bed. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

They do. They have to decide what to do next.

“Come on.” He says, hauling John to his feet carefully. John lets him, letting Kyle wrap his arm around his shoulders.

It’s slow going, Kyle half dragging John back to the barracks. He’s quiet at least, only the occasional scuffle of his footsteps as he stumbles breaking the quiet night. He gets John back to their room fairly easily, easing him into the other bottom bunk across from Simon. The room is still and silent aside from the occasional sniffle from one of the top bunks.

He grabs the blanket from his own bunk, draping it across John instead. Maybe in his drunk state, the scent will bring him some comfort, help ease that ache inside of him.

He’s hoping John’s scent will do the same for him.

“It’ll be alright, sir.” He says, making sure his captain is comfortable. He stands up, staring down at his Captain. “Everything will be fine.”

He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

John stares down into his tea as they sit around a table. His head is throbbing, pulsing heavily behind his eyes. It’s his own damn fault, going out and getting drunk like that. He hasn’t done it in years, yet he couldn’t stand the pain gnawing away at his chest. Alcohol hadn’t fixed it. It’s still there, still pulsing away. The alcohol had only numbed it at least for a few hours, and if anything, it made it worse.

“Kate left this morning back to DC.” He says, glancing up at the other three members of his team. “They're still working on cleanup and helping Alex and Farah track Shepherd. I spoke with Dr. Keller this morning. We’ll be able to fly out soon.”

The words hang heavy in the air. He hadn’t mentioned you at all, but he’s not sure he could without breaking down. You are improving slowly, Christine had said, giving him a sympathetic look as he squinted in the harsh fluorescents. She knew. She could tell just by looking at him. She’s that good at her job.

He’s glad they have her. He’s glad you have her.

“Where are we going tae go?” Johnny asks.

“We can’t go back to base.” Simon says.

“You’re right. Going back to base is too risky.” John says. “Shepherd could have eyes there already. And with her mind where it is...” Taking you back would be too much too soon, even without the risk. One of their own had already betrayed them once. They can’t trust anyone anymore. “We need somewhere secluded and quiet. Somewhere no one will know we’re going where we can lay low for a while.” Both out of necessity for their safety, but also for your sake.

It falls silent between them. Shepherd knows all of their possible safehouses, all of the places they mind go to stay hidden. Those only they know off the record are hard to get to, requiring miles of hiking. You wouldn't be up for that even without the physical injuries, and they doubt you'd let one of them carry you. If they had to get out quickly...

“My parents have a place,” Kyle says, glancing up at them from his own cup of tea. “Out in Cornwall. A cottage near the cliffs. It’s quiet, secluded. No one knows about it but us. Tourist season is over too. There won't be many out there poking around this time of year.” Anyone wandering around out there that close would be suspicious.

“It’s a good option.” Johnny shrugs.

“It’s our only option.” Simon says.

“It’s exactly what we need.” Kyle says. “Trying to rent this time of year will only draw attention, and we can't trust we won't be ratted out. Shepherd likely still has allies. We were betrayed by one of our own before.” Kyle says.

“You're sure no one else knows about it?” John asks, looking at his beta.

“Just my parents and my siblings. They wouldn’t ask any questions if I told them it was being used.” Kyle shrugs. “It might be our best option.”

John looks around at them. It is their best option for now. He knows Kyle's family is just like the rest of theirs. They know they can't know and they won't ask questions.

“We had a conversation once, months ago.” John says. “She told me she wanted to live next to the sea someday. She wants to be close enough that she can smell it and see it.”

He pauses thinking back months ago after Simon left, after you were so affected by his absence. That conversation when you asked if he’d ever leave for you, when he told you if your life was ever in danger because of them he’d leave in a heartbeat. He’s made a liar out of himself. He broke his promise, so many promises, made not just to you. Not just to the pack.

He glances at the other three, fighting back the lump in his throat, the endless threat of tears that has been rising like the tide and threatening to drown him at any moment. He’s made his decision, he’s made up his mind.

You have to come first.

His priorities have changed. There’s no initiative to follow, no orders to be given out. Kate was right. This is their moment to change things, this is his moment to change things. His pack will follow. Despite everything, they’ll trust him to make the right decision. They won’t hesitate to challenge him anymore, but there’s still that deeply ingrained trust in their alpha and captain.

The alpha comes first.

No, the omega comes first.

He takes a sip of his tea, bitter without any milk, but it’ll do. “She wanted to be close to the sea.” He looks back up at the other three having made his decision. “Taking her there might just be what she needs.”

NEXT ->

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#call of duty #call of duty fic #task force 141 x reader #tf 141 x reader #poly 141 #John price x reader #captain price x reader #Simon Riley x reader #Simon ghost riley x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #Johnny soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #Kyle Garrick x reader #gaz x reader #Kyle gaz Garrick x reader #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #a/b/o #omegaverse

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ryescapades-archived · 5 months ago

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rin itoshi + nsfw + "don't act so shy now" please!!! thank you sm <3

→ EVENT OVERVIEW

prompt: 11 - “don’t act so shy now,” characters: itoshi rin (bllk) x f!reader contents: nsfw mdni !! overstim, fingering, squirting, implied multiple orgasms, petname (baby), use of y/n once, teasing, lmk if there's more :') wc ~ 1k (not proofread!)

a/n: tysm for participating anon! wrote this as an expansion to this little brainrot i had yesterday

itoshi rin is getting restless.

the heat on the practice field is oddly suffocating, the clothes sticking to his back feels strange and icky, his goals aren’t hitting, his passes are lukewarm at best and impractical at worst, his teammates are more irritating than usual… among other things.

he’s fucking restless, and the aforementioned issues are not even the source of it.

rin slouches on the bench, leg bouncing as he reigns in the urge to literally bite his infuriating teammate's head off who’s sitting beside him and has been prattling on and on about the match. his coach had told him to sit the second half out, considering how much of a joy he had been acting the past almost half an hour.

his phone buzzes again in his duffel bag by his feet, the vibration sending his teeth grinding against each other in agitation. he pulls it out and immediately opens the message app to your contact just as another text from you comes in.

and there it is. the root of all his problems.

‘have i told you i missed you today? no?? i miss you rinnie :))‘ the text reads. and it would’ve sounded completely innocent if not for the image attachment you’d shared along with it.

it’s a selfie of you in the mirror, looking all pretty and absolutely his while wearing one of his jerseys. no pants, no bra, and no underwear. rin found that out from all the other– how many was it again? probably seven or eight pictures you’d sent prior to this one.

a wave of feverishness rushes inside his veins, flowing down south and making his blood boil until he can feel his pants tightening at his groin. his control is persisting on a fine thread, waiting to snap just at the right moment–

his phone vibrates in his hand. one text of ‘i think she misses you too lol’ and another scandalous photo that insinuates the heaven between your ridiculously sinful thighs later, rin thinks his mind has blacked out from that point on. the last of his control splinters and fractures into bits, and he’s already gathering his stuff from the ground before he heads towards the exit with no more than a muttered “i’m going home,” towards his coach.

the drive back feels like a nonexistent event to his brain, and so is the moment he steps through the threshold, teal hues darkening when they connect with your pair of frozen, unblinking eyes as if resembling a deer caught in headlights. “r-rin? you’re back early… how was–”

everything passes by in a blur and the next thing you know, rin has you sat with him on the bed, back against his chest and jersey bunching on your navel as he pulls another earth-shattering orgasm out of you with his fingers. “come on, baby. you can give me one more, can’t you?” he murmurs against your ear.

tears clump your lashes together, and the hitched breath erupts into a broken whine when rin starts another ruthless pace, his middle and ring fingers thrusting in and out of your sopping cunt to make you fall over the edge again.

“rin–” your hips buck in his hold as you barely notice the drenched sheets underneath your ass from how much you’ve been coming. “‘s too much, i can’t–” you whimper, thighs shaking from the overstimulation and threatening to close before rin hooks one of them beneath his and keeps a firm grip on the other, hindering you from hiding away.

“should’ve thought of that before sending those pictures to me,” he tuts against the side of your head and relishes the way you squeeze around his digits, soaking them with your slick and cum even more. his own arousal grows, digging further into your back and pushing against the constraint of his pants as your hand weakly tries to push him off.

wouldn’t be surprising if there’s already a wet patch there but he’ll take care of that later. for now, you need to be taught a lesson first after teasing him like that.

there’s a dirty cacophony of wet squelching sounds, your moans and his grunts that continues to echo in the room. rin pays it no mind, moving his thumb to rub harsh circles on your swollen clit instead. your eyes roll to the back of your head, the constant drag of his deft fingers against your sensitive walls making you delirious and drunk in an unstable cloud of maddening lust.

another broken sound spills from your parted lips as more slick visibly gushes out between his fingers, causing you to turn and hide your reddened face in his neck. “don’t act so shy now. didn’t you say this pussy missed me? i’m just giving her what she wants,” he gruffly says before gripping your chin to make you watch him play with your body as he pleases.

that familiar heat pools in your stomach, burning up your entire body in a flame of carnal desire as your next climax approaches. rin, however, is becoming impatient. he did mentally decide for one last time before he fucks you on his cock, after all.

desperate now more than ever to get on to the latter part of his decision, his fingers keep the relentless pace on your poor cunt as he rests his palm on your lower belly and gently presses down.

there’s a slight pause in your labored pants, the air getting stuck in your throat before you keen, a sharp and dizzying sense of pleasure colliding against your very mind, body and soul like a tidal wave. you’re once again thrown off the cliff, shattering and coming undone with a ruptured cry of his name tearing from your mouth.

“shit, y/n.” he curses, unable to take his eyes off the sight of you squirting on his fingers as his cock throbs even harder, your cum dripping down to his wrist in an obscene trail.

holy fuck, that might’ve been the hottest thing rin has ever experienced in his entire life.

i’m ovulating don’t look at me taglist open !

©🅁🅈🄴🅂🄲🄰🄿🄰🄳🄴🅂. do not steal, translate or repost my work anywhere else !

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filmsbyun · 3 months ago

Text

Daffodils || Choi Soobin

To you, the bond of soulmates was as sacred and divine as a delicate flower. Growing up, you had watched your parents bask in a love so grand, drawn together by the cruel yet beautiful trial of flowers and ink. You dreamed of your own bond one day awakening, of finding the one destined for you.

Until you didn’t.

One vicious prank was all it took to crush the seedlings of your young heart. The idea of soulmates began to sicken you—no longer a dream, but a wound.

Soobin had always gathered your broken pieces, helping you reassemble what was torn apart. The time you spent closing your heart to love, he spent his trying to cup the love that only grew for you with both hands—trying to keep it from spilling over. And one day, that love blossomed into soft, bright daffodils, nestling deep within his chest.

⊹₊⟡⋆ 35k

pairing: best friend! Choi Soobin x afab! reader

warnings: soulmate au, hanahaki au, best friends to lovers au, mention of past bullying, physical violence, reader suffers from past trauma, coughing out petals, feelings denial, character growth and development, lots of crying, mental breakdown, angst with comfort, [soobin with glasses], almost self-sacrifice, they're bad at feelings but they work it out (aka idiots in love), hasty decisions, one scene has blood, longing and yearning, oc used

Sorry guys for the delay, I got hit by a car. ALSO, sorry how the 22k became... 35k. Whoops? Well, anyyyways, this is a rewritten version of Daffodils. This story is part of the Fleur de Destin event. To my old readers of Daffodils, a lot has been changed and polished in the new version so I'm gonna suggest re-reading teehee >.< alright see you all next month I got hit by a car again- Reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!

Back in one late spring of middle school, when the season took its dying breath, and summer inhaled it to bring itself to life, Soobin learned what it meant to be ruined—really, truly ruined.

It wasn’t his ruin, not then. It was yours. And perhaps that was what made it worse—the hushed way your world cracked, the trust in your eyes shattering like glass beneath careless hands.

A joke—a cruel performance staged for the sick satisfaction of a restless classroom. A boy, one named Kim Doyun, with a heart far less tender than yours—claimed you as his soulmate. He wove his words carefully, painfully cunningly, each one a thread tightening around you—a noose disguised as fate.

At first, you hesitated. The bond was sacred, wasn’t it? A tether between souls, something that cannot be broken or erased. And yet, he convinced you otherwise. He told you the flowers had not taken root in him because you had both acknowledged the bond early. He said the universe had granted you mercy, sparing you—and him—from suffering. And when you questioned the absence of the soulmate mark on your skin, he smiled, easy and assured, and told you it would bloom in time—petal by petal, slow and gentle, just like your love.

And you—young, hopeful, desperate to believe—fell into the lie. You had seen love, real love, in the way your parents looked at each other. A love grand enough to house a family, to turn walls and windows into a home filled with warmth, laughter, and unwavering devotion. You had grown up in its glow, in the certainty that love could be both gentle and fierce, a force that built rather than destroyed. So how could you not yearn for the same? Was it wrong to long for something so beautiful? To want a love that could stand against the world and remain unshaken?

For a week, you lived in a dream spun of hollow promises. You thought you were chosen. Loved. But reality came crashing down in the form of laughter, cruel and cutting, echoing through the classroom when he revealed the truth.

It had been a joke all along.

You could only stand there, frozen, as they jeered. And Doyun grinned like he had done something clever. It was everywhere, filling the space, pressing against your skin, echoing in your skull. Your heart clenched tight in your chest, something inside you withering like petals left too long in the cold. The air tasted different, heavy with humiliation, with betrayal.

It wasn’t just him—it was all of them. Their satisfaction at your expense, their voices blending into the shadowy monsters that one sees during nightmares. You wanted to move, to run, to disappear, but your body refused. Instead, you stood there, crumbling in real time, splintering under the force of their laughter.

Till this day, Soobin regretted it—because the day the cruel joke came to light, he hadn’t been at school. And so you, his best friend, were left to stand alone in the wreckage.

He only came to know of it when you showed up at his doorstep, eyes puffy, sobs so raw they shook through your whole frame. You clutched onto him as if he were the last solid thing in a world that had betrayed you. And Soobin—helpless, furious, burning with something too vast to contain—held you back just as tightly.

The very next day, to everyone’s shock—including yours—Soobin, the soft-spoken, kindhearted boy who never even raised his voice, left Doyun with a broken arm.

You weren’t there to see it happen, only heard the shocked whispers afterward—how Soobin had slammed his knuckles into the boy’s face until he could barely feel them anymore. How the sickening crack of bone cut through the air, screams raw and sharp. How he didn’t stop until the teachers had to drag him away. They sent Soobin home with a week’s suspension, but Doyun—the one who had turned the concept of sacred bond into mockery—was expelled. A fitting punishment, they all said.

You couldn’t bear the burden of knowing that your pain had become Soobin’s. When you visited him at his home, battered and still recovering from the injuries, you asked him, your voice trembling, why he had done it. His response was quiet. “I still think a broken arm is far less of a punishment for what he did to you.”

Your chest tightened at his words, and the sting behind your eyes burned hotter. You moved closer carefully, as if afraid that even the slightest touch might hurt him. But as you hugged him, you held him as though trying to pour all your feelings into that one moment—an overwhelming mix of gratitude, guilt, and sorrow.

From that day on, you swore to never speak of soulmates again. You refused to search for the tattoo you were meant to bear. You convinced yourself that love, in all its destined cruelty, was nothing more than a well-dressed illusion. Gone was the soft-spoken warmth, the quiet trust, the belief that the universe would never be so cruel. In its place, something sharper took root.

And just like always Soobin saw it before anyone else. Saw it in the way your smiles never quite reached your eyes anymore, in the way you deflected kindness like it was something dangerous. He watched as you built walls where there had once been open doors. He watched as your heart, guarded by time and pain, resisted the touch of love, while his struggled to contain the overwhelming flood of it, spilling over for you. And though it broke something in him, he understood, because the universe chose you to be the punchline of its cruel joke.

If someone asked him when he started loving you, Soobin wouldn’t have a clear and proper answer. It was quite simple, and at the same time, it was not. His love for you formed gradually over the years; it was a paradox: a source of profound joy and deep anguish.

His heart swelled with happiness at your every smile, yet ached with the fear of unrequited affection. Loving you was both his greatest blessing and his most harrowing curse, intertwining elation with despair in a dance as old as time. Harrowing curse, because if you were to become soulbounded to him, Soobin would grapple with the knowledge that you’d have to carry the burden of loving him when your past wounds were still tender. Yet at the same time—he selfishly wished you were his.

But wishes had no place in reality.

Soobin swallowed another sip of his drink, the bitter aftertaste coating his throat. The golden glow of overhead lights of the restaurant reflected off half-empty glasses. A long dinner table sat in the center, plates pushed aside as the night stretched on, the warmth of alcohol loosening tongues and drawing out old stories. Across the table, bathed in the same golden light, you leaned back in your chair, smiling at the right moments, laughing when the time called for it.

One moment, the conversation revolved around careers and future plans. The next, it veered into something suffocating, dragging with it the unwelcome choke of soulmate stories.

“Man, I thought I was gonna gag to death the first time it bloomed,” someone said, shaking their head. “Daisies right in my throat. I swear, I almost never confessed because of it.”

Another laughed. “At least you had a happy ending. I had to watch mine wither.”

More stories followed—tales of aching chests and blooming petals, of whispered confessions and love that came too late. Some spoke with fond smiles, recounting the moment their floral marks appeared, the way their hearts had raced with hope. Others shared quieter stories, voices dipped in accepted melancholy, remembering the pain of unrequited love, the suffocating grip of petals that would never fall away. Every word carried the weight of a fate decided long before they had any say in it, a thread spun by the universe without their permission.

Soobin glanced at you the moment the topic changed. You didn’t react right away, swirling your drink as if the discussion barely registered. But he knew you. He saw the way your fingers curled just a little tighter around your glass, the way your gaze flickered away before you took a quick small sip—like the liquor might wash down the bitterness rising in your throat.

The warmth of alcohol no longer felt as comforting, its haze unable to soften the sharp edge of the conversation. Words had touched a wound too deep. Then, someone turned to you.

"What about you? Have you found yours yet?"

You blinked, then let out an airy, dismissive laugh, setting your glass down a little too roughly. "Eh. I don’t really care about all that." A shrug. "Doesn’t matter to me."

The words came easily, well-rehearsed over the years. A script you had perfected.

Around you, protest and teasing erupted, lighthearted jeers from friends who didn’t know better. They nudged at you, pushing for a confession, insisting you were just too shy to share. And you, you only shook your head, lips curling into a carefully constructed smile, the kind that concealed rather than revealed.

The conversation continued, the voices blending together again like an orchestra that had shifted tempo, but it felt distant, distant enough that you were now barely part of it. You could hear the chatter, but you were no longer really listening. Your mind wandered, the words still echoing in the back of your head, while the bitter aftertaste of that one question lingered in your mouth.

You found yourself drinking more than you intended. One glass became two, then three, until the burn of alcohol dulled the edges of everything, the world blurring around you. But even as the alcohol worked its way through your veins, it couldn’t wash away the suffocation, the discomfort of that moment—the reminder that you were still, after all these years, broken in ways others could never see.

The moment your fifth glass met the table, Soobin was already reaching for it, his grip was firm as he slid it away. “That’s enough,” he murmured, a quiet finality in his tone.

You blinked at him, sluggish from the alcohol. “Soobin, I’m fine—”

“I know,” he said softly. “But let’s go.”

He was already easing you to your feet. The room swayed, lights blurring into a hazy glow, and Soobin steadied you with a hand at your back. He draped your coat over your shoulders, his warmth seeping through the fabric.

“I’m taking her home,” he told everyone. The others threw out goodbyes as he walked you out, brushing off questions with a polite smile.

Outside, the night air curled around you, crisp and biting against your flushed skin, yet it did little to clear the fog in your mind. Your steps faltered, the pavement uneven beneath you, and Soobin sighed before guiding you toward a nearby bench by the bus stop.

“Sit,” he said, his voice softer now.

You obeyed, letting your body sink into the worn wooden slats as he knelt before you. The glow of the streetlamp cast long shadows over his face, the muscles of his face soft as his fingers moved to undo the straps of your shoe. A sigh of relief left your lips as he slid them off, the dull ache in your feet subduing. You watched him, gaze heavy with the weight of intoxication and fatigue that seeped deep into your bones.

“You’re too good to me,” you murmured, your words thrown casually. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His fingers stilled against your ankle, breath catching for half a second before he masked it with a quiet exhale. He looked up at you then, his heart lurching at the sight—your face tilted toward the sky, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks, utterly unaware of the storm unraveling in his chest.

Soobin only smiled, a wave of melancholy flickering in his expression. Then he scoffed lightly, trying to lift the mood. “Crash and burn, probably.”

You pouted, nudging his shoulder with your socked foot. “Mean.”

He grinned, then shrugged. "I don’t really have a choice, do I? You’ve been shoved in my face since birth."

Your brows furrowed as you processed his words, then, in your drunken indignation, you lifted your foot to kick at him. He dodged easily, laughing, hands raised in mock surrender.

"You—" you began, but the bus arrived before you could retaliate.

It pulled up with a hiss, and Soobin helped you up, guiding you inside. The moment you sat down, exhaustion finally won. You leaned against him, head tucked into the curve of his shoulder, breath evening out as the sway of the ride lulled you into sleep.

Soobin stayed still, adjusting slightly to make sure you were comfortable. The world outside blurred past in streaks of neon, but he didn’t look at any of it.

He looked at you.

The gnawing fear returned, creeping into his chest like an old, familiar ghost. It settled deep in his ribs, twisting tight, whispering the questions that had haunted him for so long. What if you really were his soulmate? And, What if you were meant for someone else? What if the universe had already decided, and he was simply a spectator, standing at the edge of something he could never have?

Soobin swallowed hard. He didn’t have answers. He didn’t have solutions for any of the scenarios playing in his mind. But one thing was certain—he was a coward. Because his love for you couldn't be conveyed in phrasal combinations; it either screamed out loud or stayed painfully silent, trapped in the spaces between words. It beat louder than anything he could ever say.

His fingers found yours, hesitating only for a second before curling around them. His eyes softened when your hand fit perfectly in his large one. The softness of your skin against his sent another wave of longing crashing through him.

“I don't ever want to hold you back from where you’re trying to get to,” he whispered, his voice nearly lost in the quiet hum of the bus. His thumb traced a light, barely-there stroke over your knuckles. “I’m sorry I never tell you what I really mean.”

And when he was sure you wouldn’t stir, he allowed himself one selfish moment. He risked a small kiss on your head, a quiet surrender to the wave of affection that threatened to overwhelm him. His small, only liberty.

You woke up feeling like absolute shit.

Your skull pounded as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, your mouth dry and bitter, and your entire body ached like it had been trampled by a herd of elephants. As you shifted, a groan escaped your lips, muffled by the pillow you tried to suffocate yourself with. The light coming through the blinds felt like daggers against your eyelids.

God, never again.

The sound of your apartment door unlocking barely registered in your haze. However, the obnoxious thudding of footsteps on the wood floor knocked the rest of your brain into place.

“You look awful.”

You pried one eye open just enough to shoot Soobin a glare, but it was hard to look intimidating when your head felt like it might split in half at any moment. He stood at the foot of your bed, arms crossed and way too amused for this time of the morning.

“You look awful,” you grumbled, your voice a hoarse rasp that you barely recognized as your own.

Soobin snorted. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t the one drinking like I went through my third divorce last night.”

You grunted, pushing your face further into the pillow. “Shut up.”

He was still talking—probably about how you needed water or food or some kind of life-saving intervention—but it was not until your gaze drifted lazily to the clock on your bedside table that your entire soul nearly left your body.

You were late. Shit.

You bolted upright so fast that your brain rattled against your skull. “Oh my god—” You clutched your head, vision swimming. “I’m late. I’m fucking late.”

You flung the covers off, nearly tripping over your own feet as you scrambled toward the bathroom.

“Late for what?” Soobin called after you.

“My TA duties, Soobin, what else?!” you shouted, shoving toothpaste into your mouth in a blind panic.

Five minutes later, you were half-dressed, hopping on one foot while desperately shoving your shoe on while simultaneously stuffing papers into your bag. Your cardigan was barely on, your hair was still a mess, and Soobin—incredibly unhelpful Soobin—was leaning against your doorway, watching the disaster unfold with a mouthful of cookies he stole from your kitchen.

“I can still make it,” you panted, grabbing your phone and whipping around to face him. “Please drive me there.”

He lifted a brow, pointing a finger at you with a scrutinizing look. “I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but usually TAs are dressed very professionally and—”

“Soobin.”

“Alright, alright,” he squeaked, hands raised in surrender. “Get in the car.”

You practically threw yourself into the passenger seat. The moment he pulled out onto the road, you glanced at your reflection in the side mirror, quickly rifling through your makeup bag, attempting to force some semblance of order onto your chaotic appearance and tried to mentally will yourself into looking more put-together by the time you arrived.

As you busied yourself with your mascara, Soobin reached back into the backseat, the faint sound of fabric rustled before he dropped a tiffin bag onto your lap with a soft thud. You blinked at it, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden arrival of... breakfast? Inside was a tupperware box with sliced bananas and oatmeals, a spoon neatly wrapped in tissue, a bottle of water, and a small strip of pills inside. It took you a second to register it. Of course, Soobin had packed this. Before even coming to check on you. Because he knew you’d be useless this morning.

“Eat up,” Soobin said simply, keeping his eyes on the road, though his lips curved slightly as he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “And take the pills. It’ll help with the headache.”

You stared at the food for a beat. Soobin’s thoughtfulness was so Soobin. Though you were sure he got his sister to help him arrange this because he, for the life of him, couldn’t cook.

"Soobin!" You cried out dramatically, holding up the box and bottle like they were some kind of sacred offering. Your voice dripped with mock reverence. “I am forever indebted to you!”

His eyes flicked to you for a second, and you could feel the eye-roll before he even did it. A deep sigh escaped him, but his lips were still twitching as he turned his attention back to the road. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, his voice unusually soft. “Just eat.”

The gentleness in his tone made your heart squeeze a little, a pang of affection you were too tired to process fully. Instead, you grabbed the tupperware, carefully peeling back the lid. The warmth of the oatmeal was a small comfort in your otherwise frazzled state. You shot Soobin a sideways glance, noticing the subtle way his fingers tapped on the wheel. His presence brought you the comfort you never once had to search for in this vast universe. And as you basked in the combined warmth of his presence and the oatmeal, the campus loomed ahead.

The car pulled to a stop at the edge of campus. You gulped down the last of the water, fumbling with the lid before reaching for your bag.

“Alright, alright, get out.” Soobin’s voice was laced with playful annoyance, nudging his finger on the side of your shoulder.

You swatted his hand away with a huff. With a quick goodbye, you reached over and gave his perfectly styled hair a ruffle. The reaction was instantaneous.

A strangled gasp tore from his throat, his whole body jerking back as if you had just mortally wounded him. “No—!!”

You were already halfway out of the car when he grabbed his sun visor, flipping it down in a frantic panic to check the damage. “Oh my God. You did not just—” His fingers flew to his hair, patting it down like it had just been violently attacked. A choked-off groan left him when he saw the carnage in the mirror. “Do you know how long it took me to style this?! You—you absolute menace—!! I swear, you just live to ruin me.”

You, of course, were cackling. “See you later!” you called, already grabbing your things and practically launching yourself out of the car before he could say anything else. You dashed through the halls, skipping a few steps on the stairs as your heart pounded from the adrenaline coursing through you. Somehow, you’d made it. You’d actually made it.

You knocked gently before pushing the door open. Sunlight poured through the large window behind Professor Park Minhye’s desk, giving the office a vibrant look. She barely looked up at first, glasses perched on her nose as she scanned a stack of papers. Then, noticing you, a warm smile broke the stern lines of her face.

"Ah, there you are. Morning. How are you feeling today?"

You managed a small, sheepish smile. The oatmeal and painkillers had helped, but exhaustion still sat at the edges of your body like a lingering weight.

"Morning, Professor. I'm alright, just a little under the weather."

She raised an eyebrow, the kind that saw right through excuses but chose not to call them out directly. "Hmm. You didn’t have to come in if you weren’t feeling well, you know."

You shook your head as you set your bag down, already reaching for the lecture notes. "It’s my duty. I didn’t want to skip."

Professor Park studied you for a moment, her sharp gaze softening just slightly. "You remind me of myself at your age," she mused, before leaning back in her chair. "Too stubborn for your own good."

A flicker of warmth curled in your chest. It wasn’t disapproval in her voice—if anything, there was something like quiet pride laced within it.

"I’ll be more careful," you promised, meaning it.

She nodded, satisfied, before turning her attention back to the papers. "Good. Now, let’s focus on today’s lecture. I was thinking we should add more interactive elements—wake these students up before they start drooling on their desks."

A small chuckle escaped you. "You mean like last week?"

"Exactly," she said, exasperated but amused. "We’re not letting that happen again."

You settled in, organizing the materials by the sunlit desk. You found yourself being quietly grateful—not just for the sunlight, but for the presence of someone who cared enough to notice when you weren’t quite at your best.

Professor Park handed you a file, her wrist briefly turning as she reached forward. It wasn’t the first time you had seen it—the delicate purple ink of an iris flower tattooed just above the bone. The file stayed in your hands, unopened, as you stared. An iris soulmate tattoo. Proof of a bond that ran deeper than flesh, deeper than choice. There was a bittersweet melancholy in your chest, creeping up like an old memory, like something you weren’t sure you wanted to feel right now.

"You think it's pretty, right?"

Her voice was gentle, pulling you sharply out of your thoughts. You startled, fingers gripping the file tighter as you met her eyes.

"Pardon?"

She smiled knowingly and turned her wrist, letting the ink catch the light. "My tattoo," she clarified, the corner of her lips tugging up just slightly. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

Heat crawled up your neck. You hadn’t meant to be so rude and obvious, and now you probably looked and sounded nosy. "I—I didn’t mean to—" But before you could offer a rushed apology, she hummed, tilting her head as if recalling something distant yet cherished.

"I was about your age when I met him," she mused. "It was spring, and I was stubborn—too focused on school, too determined to ignore all that soulmate nonsense." A quiet chuckle escaped her. "And then one day, all he did was hand me a book."

You listened, words caught somewhere in your throat. You knew the look of love.

"He was so full of life," Professor Park continued, her eyes soft with memory. "He made everything feel lighter, even when things were hard. I used to think soulmates were a cage, something that defined you before you even had a choice." Her fingers traced absent patterns over the tattoo. "But with him, it was never about being destined. It was about choosing each other. Over and over again." A small pause. Then, she added, "He’s my husband now, that silly man."

The past tense you thought you’d heard in her voice had tricked you—her partner wasn’t a memory, wasn’t someone lost to time. They had chosen each other and continued choosing each other, even now. There was something so steady about the way she spoke, something warm enough to reach beneath the guarded parts of you. You should have looked away, should have ignored the way her words made something unfamiliar settle in your chest. Instead, you found yourself holding onto them.

Choosing each other.

A faint warmth stirred in your chest. But just as quickly, a familiar chill crept in to smother it. You remembered the laughter that wasn’t kind. The way their voices lilted with amusement as they told you it had all been a joke. That you had been foolish to believe—even for a moment—that someone had been meant for you.

The past never truly faded.

Yet as you watched the way she spoke of it, gazed at it so lovingly, you couldn’t stop yourself from feeling a little hopeful too. Not a revelation, not a surrender, but the faintest crack in the walls you had built.

Acceptance was a distant shore, but for the first time in years, the tide of possibility brushed against your feet.

After a long day of juggling work and classes, you finally stepped out in the courtyard. The cool night air kissed your skin as you walked into the parking lot, the scattered glow of lamplight pooling in uneven patches on the asphalt. A handful of cars dotted the space, but your eyes instinctively landed on Soobin, his tall frame leaning slightly against his car, bathed in the dim luminescence of his phone screen.

His brows were drawn together in concentration, the faint glow casting sharp angles on his face, making the usually soft contours appear more rigid. His lips were pressed into a firm line, and for a moment, he looked unapproachable—which made you chuckle quietly because he was anything but that.

You jogged up to him, waving. His expression softened the moment his gaze met yours. The crease between his brows smoothed out, and the corners of his mouth tugged up. You smiled back at the sight instantly.

“Guess who didn’t die today from working like a dog?” you chirped, pushing the fatigue from your voice as you reached him.

His lips parted, a quiet exhale escaping—part sigh, part laugh. But before he could respond, you did what you always do: you looped your arm through his, the movement ingrained in muscle memory.

Soobin simply adjusted, shifting his weight, before opening the door for you.

“You saved yourself from having your TA position revoked, all thanks to me,” he quipped, casting a sideways glance.

“So kind! Won’t even let me have a moment for myself!”

“A moment of embarrassment?”

“Fuck you.”

His only response was a low huff as he shut the door behind you both with a soft, muted thud, sealing you in the quiet cocoon of the vehicle. The scent of his cologne lingered inside—one that you've gifted him on his birthday last year. It wasn't a woody or a spicy scent, something more mellow but crisp, like he had spent a moment too long beneath the night sky. You thought it suited him. The dashboard lights flickered on as he turned the key, the engine purring to life.

You leaned back, exhaling as you checked your phone. “Tomorrow’s gonna be awful.”

Soobin raised a brow, adjusting the rearview mirror. “How so?”

“The weather. Says it’s gonna rain.”

“Hmm.” He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, thoughtful. “You like the rain.”

“I do. Just not when I have to be outside.”

Your love-hate relationship with the rain leaned more toward love—because who doesn’t love the rain? But only when you weren’t working your ass off or getting stranded outside without an umbrella.

At a red light, Soobin flicked his phone open, scanning the map for a quicker route home. Meanwhile, you busied yourself with the glove box—not for any real reason, just feeding a faint curiosity. Your fingers brushed against something small and wooden, its texture rough beneath your touch. You frowned, lifting it into the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

“Jesus, Soobin—” you muttered, cradling the tiny figure in your palm. A handcrafted wooden bunny, worn at the edges, slightly uneven, the imperfections unmistakable. You had given this to him when you were kids.

“Why do you still have this?”

Soobin flicked his gaze toward the object, then back to the road, his lips curling upwards. You knew he was getting ready to throw some mocking words at you even before he said anything.

“Ah, that one.” His voice held the air of someone recalling an inside joke. “It’s so ugly I couldn’t bear to throw it away. Some unfortunate trash bin would have to take it in.”

The incredulous look on your face was enough to send him into a cackling frenzy, shoulders shaking in what you called his ‘dry ass humour’. You wanted to reach out, smack the back of his head for that one—but he was driving, and you cared about your expensive life. So instead, you resorted to cursing under your breath, grumbling.

Your fingers clipped against the wooden surface, a ghost of a smile playing at your lips as you reminisced about the moment you gave him that. The memory drifted back like a slow breeze, warm and golden, carrying with it the scent of sun-heated grass and the distant hum of cicadas.

It was summer. The sweltering heat hung around your bodies like a thick embrace, and the glaring sunlight streamed through the leafy canopy, casting dappled patterns onto the wooden floor of your living room. Both of you lay sprawled across it, limbs aching from the aftermath of your previous game of catch. The effort of moving even an inch felt unbearable, so you remained there, pathetic starfishes sinking into the cool embrace of the polished floorboards.

Then the front door creaked open. Footsteps echoed through the house before your father’s voice cut through the haze of exhaustion.

“Kids, come with me. Let me show you something.”

Curiosity flickered between you and Soobin, the kind that burned bright in young minds. With newfound energy, you both scrambled to your feet and followed him outside to the lawn. The grass prickled against your legs as you knelt beside him, watching intently as he pulled out a collection of small wooden figurines from his bag. Tiny animals, each one meticulously carved and smoothed down, painted with gentle strokes of color that brought them to life.

“These are so adorable!” you gushed, grabbing two figures in your hands before shoving them toward Soobin. “Aren’t they?”

Soobin, equally awestruck, turned them over in his palms, his eyes wide with wonder. Your father looked pleased at your reactions before emptying the rest of his bag onto the grass, revealing a set of carving tools and unfinished pieces of wood.

“All right, who wants to learn how to make them?”

The two of you practically shouted ‘Me!’ in unison.

What followed was an afternoon of sawdust and determination, of fingers slipping over tools too big for your small hands, of giggles bubbling up every time a carving went wrong. You were awful at it, absolutely horrendous. But you didn’t give up. Soobin, on the other hand, sighed in exasperation halfway through, pouting as he set his unfinished piece aside. “I can’t do it,” he muttered, defeated.

That was all it took for you to push forward even harder. If he couldn’t do it, then you would. And when you finally managed to carve out something resembling a bunny—albeit lopsided and rough around the edges—you knew exactly who you wanted to give it to. Because, somehow, you’d always thought bunnies suited him.

That was years ago. Yet, here he was, holding onto something so worn out as if it still felt relevant.

“Hey, don’t even think about taking it away,” he warned, his large hand swiftly snatching the figure back before you could get another look. “I still have unfinished business with it.”

You gave him a nasty look. “That sounds so weird. You should’ve thrown it away ages ago. It’s not even that good,” you sighed, sinking back into your seat. “I can make you a better one now. Something polished. You could actually use it as decoration.”

“I appreciate it,” he said, slipping the figure into his pocket. “But like I said, I’ve got unfinished business with this little guy.”

You snorted, shaking your head. You made a mental note to yourself that you will make a new, better figure for him. The silence dawned upon you lulled you into comfort, the kind that only came with years of knowing someone inside out. You watched the soft glow of the dashboard reflect against his skin, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the steady rise and fall of his breaths.

You couldn't shake away the thought that had already taken root in your mind. A slow, nagging pull that refused to leave. Your mind went back to the iris tattoo of your professor. You have always wondered, but never dared to word it for some reason, why didn't Soobin search for his soulmate?

You turned toward him again, more specifically looking at his hands—the same hands that had held onto a worn-out wooden bunny for years. You imagined a small, floral tattoo on it. But the imagination couldn’t develop any further, breaking and shattering by your will when your heart lurched at the thought. He was sentimental, in ways he didn’t often admit. Maybe that was why the question itched at the back of your mind.

Would he still hold onto you that way, too? Ah, what a selfish thought.

You didn’t mean to ask it. But the silence coaxed the words from your lips before you could stop them.

“Soobin… don’t you want to find your soulmate?”

For a moment, nothing changed. Then his grip on the wheel tightened, just slightly, but you caught it. His mind went blank, your words rattling around in his head without quite sinking in. The car hummed softly beneath you, but his foot eased off the gas, the vehicle slowing as though mirroring the sudden change in the air. Without a word, he pulled over near the sidewalk, shifted into park, and exhaled—slowly.

Your brows furrowed. “Whoa—what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

He turned to you, and you were struck by the sheer intensity in his gaze. His eyes searched yours like they were looking for something. Like they were desperate to understand.

“Did someone say something to you?” you were taken aback by the tone of his voice. “Did anyone try to mess with you again? About—about soulmates?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? No! No, I swear, nothing happened.” You waved your hands for emphasis, but his shoulders remained taut, tension rolling off him in waves. You noticed how he exhaled through his nose, a little too controlled. How he ran a hand through his hair—an old habit, a telltale sign of unease.

“Then… where did that come from?” he asked, still watching you closely.

You hesitated, albeit only for a second. Then you shrugged. “I mean… it’s been so long, and you haven’t found yours yet.” You glanced at him, lips twitching. “Granted, you aren’t the most talkative or extroverted person I know, so your chances are slim, but—”

“Hey.”

“Did I lie, though?”

He huffed a laugh, the corners of his lips curled upward into that charming boyish grin of his. Your best friend was handsome, undeniably so. Which is also why you wondered how come he still hadn't found his soulmate yet.

You exhaled, letting your head fall back against the seat, gaze tracing the blurred city lights streaking past the window. “I just mean… don’t you wanna find your soulmate?”

Soobin’s grip on the wheel loosened slightly, knuckles no longer as taut. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the gear shift, started the car again, and pulled back onto the road. The silence stretched between you, thick with thoughts you weren’t sure you wanted to voice.

Because the truth was—you had thought about it. Many times. More than you cared to admit.

You had imagined the day Soobin would finally meet his soulmate. How it would happen, where he’d be. Maybe it would be something mundane, like Professor Park—his hand brushing against theirs as he reached for a book, or eyes meeting across a crowded sidewalk. Maybe it would be grand, something cinematic, fate conspiring to bring them together in a moment so perfect it would seem almost scripted.

And when that day came, you would smile for him. You would support him, cheer him on, celebrate the happiness he had always deserved. Because that’s what you were supposed to do. That’s what any best friend would do.

But deep down, beneath the surface of rationality and selflessness, there was a part of you that recoiled at the thought. A part that curled in on itself, heavy and aching. Because when Soobin found his soulmate, it would mean the inevitable—something you had always tried to ignore. It would mean that he would no longer belong here, in this in-between space with you. That the quiet moments, the inside jokes, the way he always understood you without you needing to say a word—all of it would fade, replaced by a force greater, something predestined.

And you? You would be left standing at the threshold of his happiness, unable to step through with him.

You blinked, shaking yourself free from the thought. It wasn’t fair to feel this way. But even so, you couldn’t shake the heaviness that lingered in your chest, an ache so profoundly baffling that refused to be silenced. Which only seemed to tenfold by his next words.

“You know that I refuse to find happiness without you.”

He had seen the way you guarded yourself over the years, the way you locked your heart away from the possibility of love. He had been there through all of it—the worst of it. And because of that, because he refused to leave you behind, he let himself be held back, too. The realization, albeit knowing already, still left you unsettled and deeply guilty.

Your fingers curled slightly in your lap. “Soobin…”

He glanced at you, just briefly, before turning his gaze back to the road. You sometimes wished you could see what was going on in that head of his.

You swallowed. “Just because my world stopped in its tracks doesn’t mean everyone else’s has, too. That includes yours, Soobin. You should allow yourself to move forward.”

His grip tightened again. But who was going to tell you? Who was going to tell you that you were his world?

And if you stopped, he’d stop for you. Every single time.

Just then, your phone vibrated in your lap. A message lit up the screen, and when you read it, you almost cried out in happiness.

[University Announcement: Due to the incoming storm, all classes are cancelled tomorrow.]

“Oh my god,” you breathed, a grin spreading across your face. “Soobin, you have to come over tomorrow. If I’m stuck inside all day by myself, I’ll go insane.”

The sudden shift of the mood and conversation made him let out a subtle shaky breath, one that you failed to notice. But he was glad for the turn, that you were busy with an entirely new topic now. Soobin chuckled, shaking his head. “You act like you don’t have a million things to do at home.”

“I don’t,” you insisted. “I’ll die of boredom, Soobin. I mean it.”

He sighed, feigning reluctance. “Fine. I’ll come over.”

By then, he was nearing your apartment complex, pulling into the familiar underground garage. As he eased into the parking spot, your question from earlier still haunted his mind, refusing to fade. But you didn’t move to get out. Instead, you stayed where you were, staring ahead at the dashboard, as if trying to gather your thoughts.

“You should really focus on finding your own happiness, Soobin,” you murmured at last. Your voice was soft, despite the hollowness pressing against your ribs. “I’m not dying. It won’t be the end of the world if I never find my soulmate. I’ll be okay.”

You turned to him then, flashing him a small, reassuring smile. It was the same one you always gave him when you wanted to convince him you were fine. The same one that never reached your eyes. Soobin clenched his jaw, knowing full well you were lying. And if you were a liar, he was a coward. So he had no right to call you out.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, then leaned in toward you. It wasn’t a dramatic movement, nothing inherently alarming. But it was enough for your thoughts to screech to a halt, for something in your chest to lurch violently. You froze, pulse skipping in confusion, in something dangerously close to unease.

Soobin reached past you, fingers grazing the handle of your door. Then, with a quiet click, he unlocked it. It was a simple act, one he had done before. One that, in any other moment, would have meant nothing. And yet, the proximity, his presence, the insistence of his movement—it unsettled you. It felt… intimate. Too intimate.

He had always been close to you. You had always been in each other’s space. But this—this somehow felt different. And you hated that you didn’t know why. You felt sick to your stomach suddenly for even thinking of such a thing.

His voice was quiet, steady. “Go home. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t trust yourself to. You hastily muttered a goodbye, shoving the door open and slipping out before you could think better of it.

Soobin watched you go. Then, with a quiet sigh, he leaned back against the headrest, eyes falling shut. He hadn’t meant to make things weird. But somehow, he felt like he just did.

And he thought—if he were braver, if he were more honest, he would say it. He would say it, so he would know it, and you would know it, and he could never take it back. But he wasn’t that brave or that honest.

So instead, he stole one last glance at you, letting you slip away from the reach of his hands.

The clock struck 11 a.m., and Soobin was already at your doorstep, looking far too disgruntled for someone who had just been invited over. Dressed in a white polo and faded jeans, he looked casual, soft even—but the scowl of disdain slowly creeping onto his face ruined the effect as he took in the sight before him.

Stacks of papers. Attendance files. Your laptop was open to what he assumed was a grade sheet. Your living room had been turned into a mini office space, the big coffee table at its center, surrounded by neatly arranged papers. You held out a stack toward him, your expression far too innocent to be trusted.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he asked flatly.

“You’re helping me grade them. You do half, I’ll do the other half.”

Soobin blinked at you, then at the papers, then back at you. “Are you serious?”

You merely grinned, shaking the stack at him until he had no choice but to take it. He flipped through the pages, his scowl deepening. “Oh my god. What the hell is this handwriting?” He squinted. “Are these written by university students or kindergarten children?”

You let out a laugh as you walked into the kitchen, retrieving two mugs and filling the electric kettle with water. “Does coffee sound good as payment for your patronage?”

“Barely,” he muttered, still staring at the indecipherable scribbles in front of him. He plopped onto the floor with an exaggerated sigh, resting his back against the couch as he picked up a pen. “I can’t believe I came all the way here just to be scammed.”

“Oh, please.” You shot him a look from over your shoulder. “You would’ve just stayed in bed all day otherwise.”

“And that would’ve been preferable to this.”

“Lazy asshole.”

“Bitchass scammer.”

You rolled your eyes, setting down the two mugs before settling across from him. Soobin had already started grading, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he focused. The weather outside remained gloomy, the soft gray clouds blanketing the sky, promising rain.

For a while, the two of you worked in a comfortable silence, save for the occasional sigh of frustration or the scratching of pens against paper. Then, Soobin suddenly let out a strangled noise.

You looked up. “What?”

He slowly turned the paper toward you. “‘The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the solar system.’” He met your gaze, his expression unreadable. “Are you seeing this? Are you actually seeing this?”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking as you tried—and failed—to stifle your laughter. “Oh my god—please give that person a zero.”

“Oh, hell yeah, I will.” He clicked his pen with finality and scribbled a huge zero on the page, a menacing laughter escaping his lips that could make children cry.

You slid his coffee toward him as a peace offering. “You’re doing great, TA Soobin.”

He took a slow sip, eyes narrowing at you over the rim of the mug. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You were right, he didn't.

The rain started gradually, a soft patter against the window. You barely noticed at first, too focused on the papers in front of you, until the rhythm grew steadier, filling the quiet space. Your attention shifted, eyes flickering toward the glass where droplets slid down in thin, winding trails.

Without a second thought, you set your pen down and stood up. Your steps were quiet against the floor as you walked toward the balcony door, sliding it open. The cool air rushed in immediately, carrying the crisp scent of rain. It brushed against your skin, the damp breeze slipping through the fabric of your sleeves. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, relishing in the sensation, in the way the world outside blurred behind the silver curtain of falling water.

From where he sat, Soobin could only watch the way you stood at the threshold, your silhouette framed by the spring rain. The glow of the sun peeking behind the grey clouds cast a soft halo around you, turning the raindrops into tiny shimmering stars clinging to your skin. He couldn’t see your expression, but he didn’t need to. He knew how the rain looked through your eyes, how it danced in your eyes like a silver meteor shower.

Behind you, his voice was soft. “It’s raining. You’ll get soaked.”

You turned to him, mischief tugging at your lips. “So?”

Your voice, light and carefree, drifted back to him. He felt a tug in his chest—a twisted pull, one he had never been able to escape. He tried to warn you, tell you that it’s too much, that you’ll ruin your clothes, that you had papers to grade with him, but the words felt empty. You had dragged him into the downpour with a breathless laugh, twirling under the weight of the storm, arms outstretched as if you could catch the sky itself. The rain greeted you like an old friend, cool and insistent, clinging to your skin and threading through your hair. It slicked the world in a watercolor blur, every sharp edge softened to nothingness.

Soobin stood there for a moment, watching. His breath hitched as his glasses fogged up, blurring everything but you—your figure bathed in the dim glow, your rain-drenched lashes, the ghost of a smile on your lips. Slowly, almost reverently, he reached up and slid them off, as if removing them might somehow let him see you more clearly. And maybe it did. Because in that moment, you were all he could see.

“Dance with me,” you called, your voice bright against the muted sky.

His chest ached. If you asked him to stay in this moment forever, he would. If you asked him to drown in you, he would sink without hesitation.

Soobin had spent years concealing, building walls that matched yours, forcing his love for you into something unobtrusive, something that wouldn’t show and hurt you. But right now, in the rain, with you looking at him like that—his love felt too vast to contain. It cracked at the edges, spilling into every breath, every heartbeat. And he let it.

Because if love was ruin, then he would gladly be destroyed by you.

Slowly, he let you pull him into motion. Your fingers curled around his, tugging at him as you guided his steps. There was no music, just a symphony of the rain and your laughter, a soft tune that winded between you. Your smile was infectious, your laughter intoxicating as Soobin hardly managed to conceal his. He felt like a child again with you, dancing under the weeping sky, free from the shackles of reality and the hidden truth.

You were his doom, he always knew that.

So when it happened, Soobin was all but shocked.

It started small, a bloom unfurling deep within his chest. A warmth, soft and almost timid, spreading like sunlight breaking through the clouds. Soon the warmth sharpened, edges curling inward, soft petals pressing against his lungs. The world seemed to still, the rain fading into background noise as his pulse pounded in his ears. He’d known it was coming, but knowing didn't soften the ache.

His worst nightmare. His deepest, most forbidden dream. The fear of a lifetime, wrapped in something that should have been beautiful. The bond had awakened, and it was you—of course it’s you.

Dread clawed its way up his throat, but beneath it, beneath the fear of losing you, was something just as terrifying. If not, then more. Relief.

Because at least now, he knew. At least now, there was no more pretending. No more wishing. As much as the truth was excruciatingly painful, Soobin’s senses were clouded by the strong waves of solace. You were destined to him.

You turned to him mid-spin, your eyes sparkling with joy. Soobin’s gaze softened as the petals took root within him. He watched you, his smile warm, yet his eyes wavered with a sadness rooted in love too profound to express.

You didn’t see the way his chest rose and fell, uneven, as the flowers inside him stole his breath. He let you laugh, let you hold his hands, let you live in the moment, even as it broke him.

Because how could he tell you? How could he burden you with something you’ve spent so long running from?

That night, long after you had fallen asleep, long after you had waved him goodbye with that sweet smile of yours, Soobin stood in front of his bathroom mirror. The storm had passed, but its remnants lingered—the air was cold, seeping through the cracks of his window, rattling the glass with each gust of wind.

Hands gripping on the edge of the basin, his eyes bore into his reflection. His hair was still wet, slick strands stuck against his forehead, though he wasn't sure if it was the rain or the sweat that now clad his body in a thin sheen. The discomfort bloomed like a sledgehammer to his chest. A pressure so insidious and cloying—crept up his throat. It coiled tight, as if unseen roots had wound themselves around his windpipe, burrowing deeper, deeper, deeper. His breath came unevenly, a shuddering inhale that barely made it past his lips before something inside him cinched tight, forcing his body into rebellion.

The first cough punched through him like a force of nature. Then another. His chest burned with every heave, his throat raw as he gripped the edges of the sink, knuckles white. His body lurched forward, stomach twisting painfully until—

—A lone yellow petal slipped from his lips.

It drifted down, fragile and weightless, landing against the porcelain with a silence that felt deafening.

A daffodil.

You made daffodils bloom in him. The flower that symbolizes new beginnings and rebirth.

But as Soobin stared at the petal, trembling in the aftermath of what it meant—he thought, perhaps, destiny was not so cruel after all. Perhaps, just as flowers withered only to bloom again in the warmth of spring, your heart, too, was meant to be reborn. And if fate allowed it, if you let him, he would wait for that day—when love no longer felt like a wound, but something you could finally hold without fear.

When you had woken up the next morning, you felt sore—there was a massive clog of pain biting down on your entire shoulders and nape, eerily similar to the dull, stubborn pain of a post-vaccine shot. You moved out of bed, wobbly, needing to use your wall as a crutch as you staggered toward the bathroom. Your head was throbbing and turning on the bathroom light only made it worse.

You wanted to mumble something to yourself, a quiet reassurance maybe, but your body wouldn’t let you. The piercing headache drowned out every coherent thought, leaving you grasping at your temples, willing the pain to stop. Fever? Your skin burned with heat, yet a violent shiver ran down your spine.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. With trembling hands, you turned the faucet, cupping cold water and pressing it against your face. The biting chill stung your skin, washing away the sweat, the nausea—but not the unease clawing at your chest.

What the hell was happening? Was this the result of yesterday’s antics? You had never gotten sick from the rain this badly before. So why did it feel like your body was crashing all at once? And then, a different thought hit you.

Soobin.

How was he? Was he sick too? The idea left a sour taste in your mouth, gnawing at you worse than the fever. You needed to check on him, but even looking for your phone felt like an impossible task. You squeezed your eyes shut, gripping the sink, trying to collect yourself. You had responsibilities—your TA duties, the students relying on you, the work piling up—but none of it seemed to matter at this moment. None of it could override the singular thought threading through the haze of your fevered mind.

You needed to know if Soobin was okay.

Your legs moved on instinct, carrying you back to your room as you fumbled beneath your pillows.

"Where’s my phone…?" you muttered under your breath, voice scratchy. You twisted around, spotting it on the bedside table just as your elbow knocked over a ceramic cup. It hit the floor with a hollow thud, but you barely noticed. With slightly unsteady fingers, you dialed his number.

One ring. Two. Three.

Then the line clicked.

"Hello?"

His voice was low, frayed at the edges; exhaustion, clinging to each syllable, weighing them down until they barely reached you. Your stomach twisted.

"Did you catch a cold? Shit, Soobin—I'm so sorry." You pinched the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut as another wave of pain pulsed behind your skull. "It was a bad idea."

A soft chuckle echoed on the other end. "This is nothing. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine."

But something in his tone made you frown. It wasn’t just hoarseness—it was hesitation. Like even he wasn’t convinced by his own words. There was a pause, before you heard him speak, sounding a little too cautious.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

You parted your lips, but nothing came out. How were you supposed to explain this? The way your body felt like it had been wrung dry, like every muscle ached with an exhaustion that ran deeper than any fever. But you took note of how your pounding headache had faded to a faint throb by now, and your joints no longer felt rusted. You didn't know what was going on.

You swallowed. "I’m okay."

A long pause stretched between you, filled only by the sound of your breaths. You thought he might call you out, might say something to shake the dishonesty from your voice—but he didn’t. Instead, there was a sigh, barely audible, as if he had already known what you would say before you said it.

"Take the day off today. I’ll stop by your place later, alright?"

As soon as the call ended, you quickly typed out a message to Professor Park, apologizing for missing morning TA duties due to your sudden sickness and promising to stop by in the afternoon. The guilt nagged at you—leaving work unfinished, leaving tasks hanging—but even if you forced yourself through the motions, you wouldn’t be of much help to anyone like this.

You exhaled, dragging a hand down your face before forcing yourself into the shower, letting the warmth ease the last remnants of tension from your body.

By the time you stepped into the kitchen, towel wrapped loosely around your head, the hunger hadn’t quite returned. But you still made breakfast—because at the very least, you needed energy. Because no matter what was happening to you, life would go on, and you had no choice but to keep up.

Next, you checked your pantry, scanning for ingredients to make soup. You weren’t particularly fond of cooking, but ever since living on your own, it had become a skill you’d polished. Gathering everything you needed, you wasted no time getting to work.

When you finished prepping and packing, the lingering soreness in your shoulders had faded. Only a dull ache remained at the nape of your neck—a sharp, stinging sensation that you ignored. It was bearable. A couple of painkillers would take care of it, you reasoned.

You changed quickly, grabbed the packed meal, and stepped outside, the cool air pressing against your skin. It was only a ten-minute walk to Soobin’s apartment, yet every step felt heavier than it should have. The fresh spring air did little to soothe the worry settling in your chest. You could only hope he had actually listened to you and stayed home to rest.

You exhaled, willing the tension in your chest to loosen. You had no reason to feel this unsettled. And yet, when you finally reached his door, standing in front of it with your knuckles poised to knock, you hesitated. What were you doing? You rang the bell before you could overthink it any further. The door swung open and your doubts subsided.

Soobin stood before you—disheveled, a little pale, dark circles shadowing his eyes, lips cracked and dry. He was hunched slightly, as if just standing upright took more effort than it should. But despite the fatigue etched into his face, despite the way he barely had the energy to greet you, the moment your eyes met his, something in you soothed. Unbeknown to you, for Soobin, having you close to him again finally made the roots loosen their grip on his lungs, allowing him to breathe in the much needed oxygen he was forbidden from these past hours.

You opened your mouth to say something but faltered, lips pressing together instead. Seeing you struggle with words almost made Soobin cage you in his arms, run a soothing hand through your hair and whisper reassurances to you. But he restrained himself by stepping away from the door.

The guilt climbed up your throat as you stepped inside. You really should've thought before you acted yesterday, pulling him into the rain with you seemed like an innocent and fun act until it wasn't anymore. The comforting and familiar ambience of his apartment did not help you as the sight of him slumped over made everything feel just a little off.

You set the bag of food on the table. “Eat it while it’s hot. You’ll feel better.”

Soobin didn’t respond. Instead, he flopped onto the couch, burying his face into the cushions. A muffled groan was the only indication he had heard you.

You lingered for a moment, watching his unmoving form. Then, glancing at the time, you exhaled quietly. You should’ve left by now.

"I’m heading to campus. If you need anything, let me know, alright?"

A lazy thumbs-up peeked from the couch. Another muffled groan.

You should’ve left. Should’ve turned on your heel and walked out the door without another thought. But something inside you hesitated.An odd, intrusive urge crept up your spine—the sudden, dizzying need to close the distance, to reach out and thread your fingers through his hair, to feel the warmth of him against your skin. It struck you so unexpectedly, so viscerally, that you jolted back, as if burned.

What the hell?

Clicking your tongue, you pressed your fingers against your temple as another dull wave of pain thrummed inside your skull. "Bye," you muttered, a little too briskly, before slipping out the door.

The moment the apartment door clicked shut, Soobin let out the coughing fit he had been holding back. His body lurched forward, shoulders shaking as he clutched his chest. The bond reacted whenever you were near—he felt it too, the same overwhelming pull, the same aching urge to close the distance and pull you into his arms.

The soulmate bond had its own cruel mechanics. Proximity dulled the pain, soothed the discomfort, but never erased it. It was like a fire burning low instead of blazing—it still smoldered beneath his ribs, simmering just enough to remind him of its presence. Worse still, the bond had a will of its own. It nudged, coaxed, demanded. It made him crave touch, made him reckless, made him want to close the gap between you and ease the ache in both of you, even if just for a moment. And yet, no matter how deeply he longed, no matter how much his hands itched to reach for you, it did not count as acceptance. It was just an impulse, one of the many effects.

He groaned as he sat up. Dragging a hand over his face, he exhaled slowly, his breath heavy in the silence of the apartment. "This is going to be harder than I expected," he muttered to himself.

His gaze landed on the bag sitting on the table. His chest tightened again—but this time, not from pain. You had gone out of your way to make him soup. Warmth bloomed in his heart, momentarily overthrowing the ache. It was such a simple thing, yet the love he felt in that moment was staggering. He wasted no time, pulling the container out and prying off the lid.

The aroma curled into the air, rich and homely, and the first spoonful melted on his tongue, warmth spreading through his body in a way that made his eyes flutter shut. It was good—really good. The kind of homemade warmth that settled deep inside, easing everything in its wake.

Reaching back into the bag, he found the toast you had packed alongside the soup. Lightly golden, crisp at the edges, soft in the center. He huffed out a small laugh. You really had thought through it. Tearing off a piece, he dipped it into the broth, watching as it soaked up the warmth before bringing it to his lips. He sighed, pressing his palm to his chest as if that would do anything to calm the lingering discomfort.

Then, an odd thought crossed his mind. Are the daffodils getting drenched in soup too, or does it go through a completely different canal?

The mental image of flower petals swimming in broth was ridiculous enough that a breath of laughter escaped him. Whatever the case, the soup was working—soothing his throat, the tightness in his chest, momentarily distracting him from the reality of what was happening to him.

You stopped by the cafe near your campus for a quick coffee. The late morning crowd had the typical scenario—students hunched over laptops, business professionals sipping their drinks with absentminded focus, a couple near the window speaking in hushed voices over half-eaten pastries—soulmates, you deduced.

You waited for your order, feeling the exhaustion settling into your limbs. Though the worst of the morning’s sickness had passed, a vague tiredness clung to you, like a heavy mist that refused to lift. Just as you let your eyes flutter shut for a brief moment, a familiar voice cut through the ambient noise.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the most beautiful person in this café.”

You huffed out a laugh before even turning around. “Yeonjun.”

Leaning casually against the counter, Yeonjun flashed you his foxy grin. His presence was impossible to miss, exuding that cocky charm he carried wherever he went. Dressed in a dark sweater layered under his club jacket, he looked both put-together and relaxed, like he had just come from practice but somehow still managed to look better than half the people in the café.

His gaze flickered around the café before settling back on you. “Weird not seeing Soobin with you. You two are usually attached at the hip.”

You shook your head with a small smile. “Not today. He’s sick.”

“Sick?” he inquired with a raised brow.

“It’s my fault actually. We were out in the rain yesterday for some fun,” you said, sighing.

That caught Yeonjun’s attention. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he leaned forward resting his chin on his propped hand over the counter. “You two were out in the rain?” he drawled. “That is so romantic.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. "Yeonjun, you should be worried about him instead."

He chuckled, standing to his full height. "Oh, I am. Just saying, though.” He gave you a small smile before adding, “Guess I’ll have to check in on him.”

You let out a quiet huff of amusement, shaking your head as the barista set your drink down with a quiet call of your name. You picked up your cup as you turned to face him again. “I left him with some food. If you stop by his place, check if he ate, alright?”

Yeonjun straightened. “Aye, aye, captain.”

You snorted, waving him off dismissively as your gaze flickered outside the café. The rain had picked up again, albeit light, dotting the pavement with dark speckles. The extra jacket you had brought would come in handy now.

Digging into your bag, you fished it out and turned to Yeonjun. “Hold this.” You shoved your cup into his hand before pulling your hair into a loose ponytail, fingers working quickly. The jacket slipped over your shoulders. “Thanks,” you chirped once he handed your drink back.

Yeonjun’s expression shifted, brows pinching ever so slightly, lips parting like he was about to say something but stopped himself. His eyes lingered—on your neck, your hair, something. It was subtle, but you caught it.

You raised a brow. “What? Is there something on my face?”

He hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face before he quickly masked it with an easy grin. “Nah. Just… did you get a haircut?”

“You creep.” You blinked. “That’s what you were staring at?”

Yeonjun barely dodged the playful kick you sent to his shin, letting out an exaggerated gasp of offense. “Excuse you. I was appreciating art, my darling.”

You nearly gagged, holding a hand up to stop him from saying anything else. He only laughed, though there was something off about it—too light, too quick to cover up whatever had momentarily distracted him.

Pushing open the café door, he held it for you as you stepped out into the cool drizzle. You pulled the jacket tighter around you. “I’m gonna go now. Already running late for my TA duties.” Then, shooting him a pointed look, you added, “Please, if you’re done early today, check on Soobin.”

He gave a lazy salute. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

Yeonjun watched until your figure couldn't be deciphered among the crowd ahead, his playful demeanor fading as his lips pressed together. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek. Was that… a soulmate tattoo?

He wasn’t entirely sure. It had only been a glimpse—a faint outline, a floral shape against your skin when you tied your hair back. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light, a shadow cast in passing. But it gnawed at him.

Yeonjun’s classes had ended earlier than expected. After wrapping up his club duties and delegating tasks, he decided to call it a day. As he slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped out of the building, your words from earlier echoed in his mind. He knew how busy you were with your TA responsibilities, meaning you wouldn’t be able to check in on Soobin until much later. And if there was one thing Yeonjun understood about Soobin, it was his frustrating tendency to downplay when he was sick.

With a resigned sigh, he changed course, making a quick stop at a convenience store to pick up food and drinks before heading toward Soobin’s apartment. When he arrived, he knocked on the door, expecting to hear the telltale shuffle of Soobin dragging himself out of bed to answer. But there was nothing. He knocked again, harder this time, his knuckles rapping sharply against the wood. Still no response.

Frowning, he pressed the doorbell, foot tapping impatiently as he listened for any signs of movement inside. “Come on, dude…” Silence stretched out, gnawing uncomfortably in his chest. Something wasn’t right. Soobin wasn’t the type to ignore people, especially not when he was sick—if anything, he should be dramatically lamenting his misery by now, groaning about his sore throat or asking for sympathy points.

Unease curled in Yeonjun’s stomach as he reached for the doorknob. It twisted open with no resistance. His breath hitched, heart stuttering as his brain lurched toward the worst possibilities. Unlocked door? An intruder? Has Soobin passed out somewhere? His grip tightened around the plastic bag as his gaze darted around the dimly lit apartment. Nothing looked out of place, but the silence felt too terrifying. The hum of the fridge was the only sound filling the still air.

Then, a sound reached Yeonjun's ears, causing the hair on his arms to stand. A deep, heaving cough, followed by the unmistakable retching noise of someone struggling against their own body. His pulse pounded, a mixture of alarm and determination flooding his system as he scanned the room for anything he could use as a weapon. His eyes landed on a lamp perched on a nearby shelf. Without thinking, he grabbed it, wielding it like some absurd, makeshift club. Every instinct screamed at him to be ready for the worst as he crept forward, following the source of the noise with careful steps. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and through the narrow gap, he could hear another hoarse gag.

Shit. Is someone choking him?

Every muscle in his body tensed. If there was someone else in there, they weren’t walking out unscathed. With a surge of adrenaline, he pushed the door open with a sharp burst of energy, yelling out a battle cry, lamp raised high in a ridiculous but entirely committed fight stance.

What he saw instead made him freeze.

Soobin was hunched over the sink, a trembling hand clamped over his mouth. His complexion was ghastly—pale, exhausted, his shoulders rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. But what made Yeonjun’s mouth fall wasn’t the sight of Soobin sick and miserable—it was the delicate yellow petals stuck to his fingers, some drifting in slow motion as they slipped from his grasp and fluttered to the tiled floor.

For a long moment, Yeonjun simply stared, brain struggling to catch up with what he was seeing. The gears in his head turned sluggishly, thoughts colliding in slow-motion confusion. Then, finally, with all the brilliance of someone facing an unimaginable scenario, he blurted out, "Have you been eating someone’s flowers? What the fuck?"

Soobin made a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a cough, before another violent heave wracked his body. He barely had time to turn back toward the sink before he was coughing again, his breath coming out in wheezing gasps.

Yeonjun dropped the lamp onto the bed and was at his side in an instant, gripping his shoulders. “Hey, hey—breathe, dude. Easy there.” He started rubbing firm circles over Soobin’s back, his own pulse thundering. “Oh my god,” Yeonjun breathed, the realization seeping into his bones like ice water. “No way. No fucking way—”

Soobin, still gasping for air, groaned weakly. “Shut up, Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun ignored him, his own face paling as his gaze dropped to the basin. Yellow daffodil petals clung to the porcelain, some floating in the water, their edges curling inward. That means—earlier that day, did he really see a soulmate tattoo on your nape? His stomach twisted as the dots started connecting, a pattern emerging before his eyes, clearer than day.

Was that a lie you told him about Soobin catching a cold? Or worse—did you not even know?

The mechanical clogs in his mind started turning. He didn’t know which possibility was worse: that you had lied to protect Soobin, or that you had been completely unaware of the suffering he had been enduring in silence. But if you were lying, then you wouldn't really ask him to check up on Soobin knowing the possibilities of him discovering the truth. And, how could someone not know about the awakening of their own soulmate bond? Fuck, the more Yeonjun tried to seek answers, the more questions he was facing.

With careful hands, Yeonjun guided Soobin down onto the closed toilet seat. The younger boy slumped forward, elbows resting on his knees, his entire body trembling from the aftermath of the coughing fit. His skin was damp with a sheen of sweat, lips cracked, his usually neat hair sticking to his forehead in damp strands. He looked utterly spent—like he had been carrying this burden far longer than anyone had realized.

And then, Soobin looked up. His eyes, exhaustion glazed, pinned Yeonjun with desperation. His voice, hoarse but firm, cut through the thick silence between them. “Not a single word about this, you hear me?”

“What?” Yeonjun scoffed, frustration bubbling up. “Are you fucking serious? You were just coughing up petals, Soobin. That’s not something you can just keep under wraps like some minor inconvenience.”

Soobin flinched, his fingers clenching into his sweatpants. He looked like he wanted to argue, but no words came. His gaze dropped to the floor, his breath unsteady.

Yeonjun exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face before his rational side finally took over. With a calmer voice, he asked, “It’s her, isn’t it?”

Soobin’s lips parted as if to speak, but still, silence stretched between them. His fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his sweatpants—gripping onto something, anything, as if to ground himself. And that was all the confirmation Yeonjun needed.

His confusion only deepened. If you were Soobin’s soulmate, why was he going through this hell instead of just accepting the bond with you? You guys were best friends. Did you really not know the bond had awakened? As if sensing Yeonjun’s endless spiral of questions, Soobin finally spoke.

“She has trauma regarding soulmates,” he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. “Back in middle school… a boy lied to her about being her soulmate. He made her believe it—lied to her about the bond being accepted between them, played along for a week, only to reveal in front of the whole class that it was a prank.”

Yeonjun’s mouth fell slightly ajar at the story. So, that’s what was going on. Yeonjun’s stomach twisted, feeling sick. There was no way someone could be this cruel to play with something so, so sacred. He felt terrible about it, about you.

“She still has fresh wounds from it,” Soobin continued, his voice trembling. “She’s terrified of opening her heart, of trusting in fate. That’s why… that’s why I can’t tell her.”

Yeonjun stared at him. “You do realize she’s gonna find out sooner or later, right?” he said after a beat, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.

Soobin let out a shaky breath. “I’ll hold on till then.”

There was something bone-deep in his tone—something that sounded like both a promise and a plea. Yeonjun could only sigh, tilting his head back against the cabinets.

“Listen, man. This isn’t my place to say anything, but…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Do you really think she’ll feel less hurt knowing you never told her until she finds out herself? That you kept her in the dark? You, of all people—who’s supposed to be her everything?”

At that, Soobin’s ears flushed pink, and Yeonjun almost rolled his eyes.

Anyone with eyes could see how deeply this idiot was in love with you. It was only a matter of time before the soulmate bond manifested, as if the universe itself had merely been waiting for you both to catch up. But your connection had never been dictated by fate alone—your bond was stronger than fate itself. As if, in another life, in every life, you would have found each other anyway. As if you had reached for one another, bending destiny’s rules before destiny had the chance to decide.

“I’m not her everything,” Soobin mumbled.

Yeonjun scoffed again, shooting him a deadpan look. “Right. I’m the one soulbounded to you.”

That earned him a weak glare. He inhaled shakily, his voice trembling when he spoke again. “You don’t understand, Yeonjun.” He dug his fingers into his hair, his frustration laced with something far more fragile. “I can’t do this to her. Not when she’s still hurting. Not when the past still haunts her. I don’t want to be the reason for her relapse.”

Yeonjun stayed quiet, letting him vent.

“I don’t think anyone will ever understand what I really feel for her,” Soobin choked out. He swallowed, blinking rapidly as if that would push back the tears that threatened to spill. “How I feel knowing fate tangled our souls together.”

Yeonjun’s chest ached at the rawness in his voice. “And how do you really feel?”

Silence stretched between them. Soobin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Then, with a voice that sounded like it had been clawed from the depths of his soul, he answered, “Like I’ll never recover. Like I’ll never draw another breath without half of it being a wish for her to be mine.”

Yeonjun’s lips parted slightly, as if something inside him had been struck. He let the words settle in the quiet, allowing them to soak into the bones of the moment. “You know,” he murmured, slowly leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees. “the way I see it… love is cruel sometimes.”

Water dripping from the faucet filled the silence, the petals swirling gently in the basin as if they, too, understood the depth of Soobin’s suffering. Yeonjun continued, “It gives you something beautiful, something so overwhelming, but it makes you fight for it. Makes you bleed for it.” He sighed. “And it’s terrifying, I get it. But you’re bleeding either way, Soobin.”

“I just want to protect her,” Soobin’s voice broke.

“You think you’re protecting her by staying silent,” Yeonjun said, meeting his gaze firmly. “but you’re not. You’re just delaying the inevitable. And in the end… isn’t it crueler to let her figure it out on her own?” His gaze flickered to the basin of wilted daffodil petals before meeting Soobin’s eyes again. “How much of yourself are you willing to lose in the process?”

Soobin swallowed thickly but didn’t answer. His grip tightened on his own arms, as if bracing himself against the thoughts threatening to consume him whole.

Yeonjun sighed, pushing himself up from the floor. He dusted off his jeans, then glanced down at Soobin. “You think she doesn’t deserve to carry this burden, but Soobin, you’re carrying it alone. And trust me when I say, it will break you before you even realize it.” He frowned. “You love her, don’t you?”

Soobin squeezed his eyes shut as if that would stop the emotions from rising to the surface, but his silence spoke louder than any confession could.

Yeonjun’s gaze softened. “Then don’t let that love turn into a curse. Don’t let it be something that eats away at you from the inside out.” He let the words settle for a moment, watching as Soobin’s fingers slowly loosened from their death grip on his arms. He reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “I don’t have all the answers,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “And I can’t tell you what the right thing to do is. But I do know this—you can’t keep tearing yourself apart like this. One day, you’ll have to stop running. And she’ll need to as well.”

Despite the fear curling inside him, despite the uncertainty that still gnawed at his ribs, Yeonjun’s words felt like a lifeline. He didn’t know if he had the strength to make the right choice, but the pressure felt a little less unbearable knowing he had someone for support.

Yeonjun clapped a hand on his back, then pulled him fully to his feet. “Come on. Get up. Go wash your face.” He was pushing the younger male towards the sink. "And tomorrow morning, I’m taking you to the doctor."

"What?" Soobin's eyes widened. "Why? There's no need for tha—"

Yeonjun arched his brow. “Because I know you. You’re gonna choose to keep suffering alone despite everything I just said. So if you're gonna keep quiet about it anyway, better know the risks of avoiding the bond. What to do when the pain gets too much and all that.” He pressed his lips in a thin line as he watched Soobin struggle to form words. "Besides, after all, you won't be the only one affected from avoiding the bond, right?"

Soobin could only stare at him, throat tight. Right, how could he forget about that? You'd feel the pain as much as he would. In fact, you were probably feeling it right now. His chest hurt at the thought, eyes stinging with tears.

For your sake, and his too, in the end, Soobin agreed to visit the doctor.

Darkness loomed over you like a vulture waiting for its prey to take its dying breath.

It was the kind that bled into your lungs, pressing into every crevice of your being. It did not matter whether your eyes were open or closed—sight had no meaning in a world where only the weight of phantom hands dictated your reality. You gasped, but no air came. Your body thrashed, heels scraping against nothing, fingers clawing at revenant wrists that would not yield, their grip only tightening against the fragile column of your neck. Panic seized your limbs, tears blurred your vision, desperation blooming in your chest like a withering flower.

A chorus of cruel, ringing laughter echoed, bouncing from unseen walls around you, filling the void with the taunt of memory. You blinked, and a cheshire grin emerged from the darkness, wide and gleaming, the only feature granted to the faceless specter above you.

"It was all a prank."

Your body lurched upright, lungs heaving as if they'd been starved of breath for hours. The room was silent, bathed in the pale silver glow of a moon that seemed distant, too far away to anchor you back to the present. Cold sweat clung to your skin, a sheen of ice trailing down the nape of your neck, settling deep into the marrow of your bones.

Your fingers trembled against the sheets, curling, uncurling—seeking something to hold onto, to remind you that the hands around your throat had never been real. But real and unreal blurred at times like this, when nightmares did not fade upon waking but instead latched onto your ribs, tightening with every shallow breath.

The nightmares never stopped haunting you. The past was a corpse long buried, but its roots never loosened their hold. They twisted around your lungs, curling tighter with every restless night. For you, it had never been the roots of flowers constricting your lungs. It was the fear from the past, one that only grew, refusing to let go.

You dragged a hand over your face, fingers trembling, the dampness on your forehead matching the dampness behind your eyes. You tried to breathe through it, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. Not when the shadows clung to the corners of your room like remnants of that nightmare.

What you needed wasn’t silence. It was light. And the only light that had ever pierced through your worst nights had always been him.

With hands that shook, you reached for your phone. Your thumb hovered above his name, that familiar form of letters more sacred than any prayer. You pressed, blinking at the time glowing back at you. 2:57 a.m. You hesitated for the briefest second, wondering if he’d be asleep. If this was selfish. The line clicked on the first ring.

"Soobin," you breathed. His name fell from your lips like a cry swallowed by the wind, fragile and cracked. But that single syllable was all he needed.

Fifteen minutes later, he was at your doorstep.

He was breathless, evidently so, as he ran all the way to you. But before a word could leave your lips, you were in his arms—swept into a haven carved from comfort and homeliness. His hold was strong, a harbor you had always known. Your cheek pressed against his chest, making your senses focus in the wild rhythm of his heart instead of the lingering hollowness of your nightmare.

The moment his body met yours, the ache that had been floating inside you dissipated. A sense of calm, inexplicable and consuming, bloomed through your veins. Above you, Soobin let out a shuddering exhale, his shoulders falling the slightest bit. Though you didn’t see it, he, too, felt the reprieve—the choking roots retreating from his lungs. It was like your souls, stretched too thin by distance and silence, had finally returned to their rightful place.

One hand rose to your hair, fingers combing through the strands in a motion so gentle it unraveled the remaining tight knots in your chest, and your mind. “Another nightmare?” he whispered.

You gave a faint nod against him, not trusting your voice just yet.

He pulled back slightly, enough to cradle your face in his hands and coax your gaze up to meet his. The touch was so familiar, done a thousand times before—a gesture stitched into the fabric of your friendship—but tonight, it made your breath catch. Tonight, you looked at him like you were seeing him again for the first time.

In the hush between heartbeats, you stared, wide eyes tracing his features like an artist committing them to memory. The slope of his nose, the soft furrow in his brows, the tremble of concern behind his dark eyes. Instead of snapping out of your thoughts, you indulged in them.

Why does this feel so…

Soobin blinked down at you, unaware of the mess blooming in your chest. “Do you want to eat something? Or just talk?”

You stared at him for a beat, then deadpanned, “Dumbass, you can’t cook. I’d have to do all the work.”

He spluttered, eyes momentarily shutting, the tips of his ears reddening. Trying to feign a cough to save his reputation, he said, “I—I meant like instant ramen or something!”

You shook your head with a faint laugh, one hand brushing your hair back. “Let’s just talk.”

So you both padded over to the living room. The cushions dipped beneath your weight as you curled up on opposite ends of the couch. You watched him move in the quiet as though afraid to disturb the fragile stillness that clung to the room. He reached for his phone, tapping a few times, and soon enough, the soft chords of your favorite CAS song spilled into the air like a lullaby. Your gaze lowered to your hands in your lap. A warmth bloomed in your chest, but it was quickly eclipsed by a sharp sting.

How long could this go on?

You chewed the inside of your cheek, guilt curling like smoke in your lungs. Nights like this—when the nightmares were persistent and your thoughts frayed at the seams—had begun to blend into a pattern. And Soobin was always there, arriving like your one and only light in the suffocating dark.

But that wasn’t fair to him, was it?

One day, he would find someone—someone stitched to him by floral vines and the ink of fate, leading him somewhere you couldn’t follow. Someone else would be his sanctuary. Someone who wasn’t you. And when that day came, when the ache in your chest couldn’t be soothed by the sound of his voice anymore, you’d have no one but silence.

The thought slashed through your ribs, leaving a hollowness behind. You couldn't keep leaning on him like this, asking him to piece you back together each time the ghosts clawed their way back into your sleep. He had a life beyond your hurt, beyond your late-night calls.

Your voice cracked through the lull of music and night, barely audible. "I’m sorry."

Soobin turned slowly, concern etching itself into the slope of his brows as he made his way beside you, his presence a balm even before he spoke. He sat close, not touching, but near enough to feel the tremble in your breath.

You kept your eyes fixed on the floor, nails digging into your palms. “I’m sorry for being like this,” you whispered. “For needing you this much. For calling you at 3 a.m. For making you run every time I fall apart.”

You finally looked at him, and the sorrow in your gaze made his chest cave in. “I’m being selfish, aren’t I?” you said, voice cracking. "I just—I know you can’t stay forever. And I have to learn how to survive without you.” Your fingers trembled in your lap. “This has to stop. You have your own life to live. You don’t owe me anything, Soobin. You’re not supposed to be the one picking up my broken pieces all the time.”

Soobin’s eyes softened, a small smile drew its way on his lips. If only you could see what he saw every time your eyes met his—how the flowers in his lungs bloomed and withered all at once when you were near. And even if the stars decided to pull you both in opposite directions, Soobin would have defied every last one of them. Because where you ended, he began. Because you had long ago taken root in his soul, and nothing—not time, not fate, not the arrival of another—could ever change that. The overwhelming urge to tell you that you were already his, and he was yours almost consumed him whole.

“You’re not selfish,” he said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You searched his face as if it would offer a reason, a rationale, a loophole to all the guilt clawing its way through your chest. But all you saw was him—Soobin, sitting beside you like he always did. Like he always would.

“I don’t know how long I’ll take to get better, Soobin. It’s been years, and I still can’t sleep through the night without reliving it. Still can’t breathe without choking on air that doesn’t want to stay in my lungs.” Your words spilled between stifled sobs. “And the worst part is—I don’t even know if I want to heal. Because sometimes…” you swallowed hard, “sometimes the pain is the last thing I have. The last link to what I lost. If I let that go, what do I even have left?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to word it out. The love you’d once held onto so tightly it had cut your hands. The hope that someone, somewhere, was out there for you—probably still is, waiting. But your fear held you back from reaching your hand out.

Soobin laced his fingers through that hand of yours, giving a gentle squeeze. And then, he let out a small, breathless laugh. Not from amusement, but from the ache of irony. Here you were, mourning the love you thought you'd never receive, and he—your soulmate—was sitting right in front of you, heart and soul offered without condition.

“You think you lost yourself when you lost your hope,” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “But you didn’t. You’re still here. Maybe a little bruised, but you are healing. You’re here, and I see you.”

His thumb moved across your knuckles, slow and gentle. His words embraced you so gently, you felt your eyes moisten again, needing to pull your bottom lip between your lips. Soobin smiled faintly at that. “You didn’t lose your heart the day it shattered. It’s still yours. Still beating. Still capable of love. And just because it broke doesn’t mean you’re lost. I promise you, you’re not.”

The words had tangled somewhere deep in your chest, caught between the weight in your heart and the rawness in his gaze. Soobin didn’t know how he’d managed to stay afloat until now—until this moment, where the dam of his own emotions had threatened to burst, wave after wave rising beneath his ribs. But he meant every word. He had spoken them before, during your darkest hours, and he would speak them again for as long as you needed him.

Soobin stood and quietly extended his hand toward you. “I’ll stay the night with you,” he said.

You looked at his outstretched hand, calloused fingers you’d clung to before. Fingers that had gathered your broken pieces time and again—and a thought, selfish and startling in its intensity, bloomed inside you like a flare in the dark when you slipped your hand into his.

You didn’t want to let him go. Not now, not ever.

That night, you fell asleep in the circle of his warmth. He held you close—close enough that the daffodils rooted in his lungs could feel the nearness of you, and it brought him a calm he hadn’t known in the past nights. If you thought yourself selfish for leaning on him, then Soobin was just as selfish for wanting you near.

His hand moved in slow circles on your back, a quiet lullaby echoing the rhythm of your heartbeat. He pressed his lips to your temple, breath warm against your skin, and whispered promises to guard your dreams. Promises he had every intention of keeping.

You dreamt of yellow.

Of sunlight painting the horizon in gold. Of yellow daffodils swaying in a field that stretched beyond the edges of your pain. You dreamt of laughter that didn’t echo with grief. And in the middle of that bright, blooming world stood Soobin—arms open wide, eyes crinkled with the kind of joy that made your soul ache. The kind of joy you didn’t think you’d ever feel again.

He looked like something you knew by heart—your home.

When your eyes fluttered open the next morning, the sheets beside you were cold.

Soobin was gone.

“Are you nervous?” Yeonjun nudged the taller male sitting beside him in the quiet waiting room. It was barely 8 a.m. He hadn’t woken you when he left. Instead, he’d pulled the blanket over your shoulder, let his fingers hover for a moment above your brow, then retreated like the coward he felt he was. Now, he sat beside Yeonjun, phone screen dimming in his hand as he stared at the last message he sent.

[Had to run some errands. See you at campus.]

You hadn’t read it. The tiny gray checkmark was a silent reassurance—you were still asleep.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confessed quietly. What if today changed everything? What if it didn’t change anything at all? The questions spiraled, each one heavier than the last. Would confronting the truth bring relief, or only more hesitations? Forcing the bond on you, forcing love from you—he couldn’t do it.

Soobin’s thumb brushed against the edge of his phone, then curled around the device, grip tightening. His head fell back against the wall with a muted thud. He closed his eyes, throat bobbing with the force of his swallow. “I’m scared, Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun eyed the younger, lips pressing in a thin line. At that moment all he could provide was a comforting hand on his shoulder. They sat in silence until Soobin's name was called.

Inside the chamber, flowers filled the space—not just real ones in vases, but inked into canvas frames, stitched into cushions, even printed along the soft border of the curtains. A comforting illusion, as though beauty could soften the sting of truth.

The doctor was an older man with kind eyes and a voice like worn velvet. “Have a seat, son.”

Soobin nodded and did as told. They exchanged a few words, standard questions and details spoken like ritual. Finally, the doctor asked what brought him in. Soobin, however, deflected it with his own, straightforward question.

“How long can you go without accepting the bond?”

There was silence. The clock ticked on, every second scraping along his nerves. The doctor didn’t answer right away, and Soobin couldn’t meet his gaze. His fists curled on his knees, nails pressing against the flesh of his palms. Maybe it was a bad idea to come here.

"Rejecting the bond doesn’t kill you, son," he began, words practiced, yet not unkind. "It never has. That’s a myth people like to romanticize. Drama makes for good stories, not truths."

Soobin nodded slowly.

"The rejection of a soulmate bond isn’t new. People have been doing it for centuries. Some out of grief, some out of love that wasn’t returned. Others simply fall for someone who isn't their destined match. The reasons don’t change the outcome." The doctor leaned back in his chair, fingers lacing over his stomach. "When the bond awakens, one carries the flower and the other, the mark. A perfect mirror of souls meant to align. It only settles when both recognize the love for what it is. When they accept it—mutually, honestly—the flowers begin to wither, and the mark, once faint, blooms in full colour for both, even the one who bore the blooms. That’s when the bond settles."

Soobin knew that much. He was aware of the mechanics. If you accepted the bond with him, he too, would get a matching tattoo of a daffodil—one that is currently residing somewhere on your body.

"Until then, it’s the most difficult part," the doctor said. "Touch helps. So does presence. It soothes the ache, but it doesn’t cure it. The bond starts to pull you toward each other, urges your bodies and minds to close the gap. Fighting that… well, it creates friction. Pain. For both, but especially the one bearing the bloom." The older man removed his glasses and began cleaning them with a handkerchief, tone turning solemn. "You might feel fatigue, spells of dizziness, even blackouts. The more you resist—especially if your counterpart is unaware or distant—the harder it gets. The bond feeds on proximity, on shared moments. Prolonged avoidance can cause the flowers to decay."

Soobin’s throat tightened. He could feel the burn behind his ribs. "And when that happens?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"It depends," he let out a breath, not quite a sigh, not quite a chuckle. "Some people slip into comas. Others just… lose the feeling. Walk away with scars you can’t see. No one reacts the same way, but there is one constant." He met Soobin’s gaze directly now. "You don’t get a second bond. Once it breaks, it doesn’t come back. It’s one soul, one tether."

If Soobin made the decision to break the bond... will you be finally free, then?

He paused, then added with a dry chuckle, "Some call it a kind of freedom. Earning the right to defy destiny. But whether that’s a blessing or a curse—that’s not for me to say."

Soobin sat motionless. But his head was loud, too loud.

The doctor scribbled something on a notepad and tore the page out, sliding it toward him. "These will help manage the pain if it gets unbearable," he said. "It might help you sleep. Might keep the coughing at bay."

Soobin reached for it with a quiet thank you, his hands a little shaky. As he stood, the doctor offered him a nod, eyes soft once again.

"Whatever you choose, do it with your whole heart, son. That’s all I can tell you."

Soobin managed a small bow before turning to the door, prescription clutched in his hand. The flowers in the doctor’s chamber swayed faintly in the morning light, as if encouraging him to quickly make the hardest decision.

“You’re not planning to break the bond, are you?”

Yeonjun’s voice broke through the silence as he chewed on his bottom lip, brows furrowed in concern. He watched Soobin slump onto the bench near the Arts building, the morning sun casting long, dappled shadows through the trees.

It was strange—Yeonjun used to think he knew Soobin like the back of his hand. Now, that certainty felt like a lie.

“Relax, Yeonjun. I can’t and won’t make the decision for her,” Soobin muttered, exhaling a long breath as he rubbed his temple. His entire being felt frayed, like he was barely stitched together. His chest ached, his mind was loud and cluttered, and a pounding headache throbbed behind his eyes. He glanced down at his phone, checking the time. You should be on campus by now.

Yeonjun took the spot beside him. "Hiding it from her is already bad enough," he said, voice low as he fixed Soobin with a look that said more than his words. "You do remember everything I said, right?"

Soobin gave a tired hum. It felt like his soul was dragging. Maybe this was the bond’s way of punishing him. The roots shifted again—sharp, stabbing pain erupting through his chest. He winced, folding forward with a hand clutched tightly over his heart. A rasping cough followed, one he barely managed to muffle with his other hand as his eyes squeezed shut, bracing against the wave of discomfort.

Yeonjun’s hand was on his back instantly, drawing firm circles, but it wasn’t enough. Soobin needed you. Your touch, your presence—his body screamed for it, every nerve ending crying out your name.

Destiny decided to be a little gentle with Soobin, as if it had grown soft with pity. Because the next moment, a familiar voice reached his ears, breaching past the fog of his mind.

“There you are, asshole.”

His eyes flew open, head tilting up, and there you were—standing in front of him, arms crossed, looking down at him with a frown. But to him, it felt like sunlight finally breaching through stormclouds.

“Damn, why do you look like that?” You crouched, concern drawing lines on your forehead. “Are you okay?”

Shit. Panic flared in Soobin’s chest. He scrambled for something to say, anything that would mask the truth—that wouldn't make you suspicious. But Yeonjun beat him to it.

“He swallowed a bug!” Yeonjun blurted.

The two of you turned to face Yeonjun with varying expressions of ‘what the fuck did you just say’. The awkward silence that followed caused Yeonjun to give a nervous laugh, patting Soobin’s back a little too enthusiastically. “Silly guy, right?”

You blinked, facing Soobin. “You eat bugs now?”

“Do you believe this idiot?” Soobin deadpanned.

“No.” You shook your head. “Forgot he’s an idiot.”

“I’m glad we both agree on that.”

“I’m literally right here,” Yeonjun muttered, offended. “Can you not talk shit about me in front of me?”

But neither of you spared him a glance. You studied Soobin’s face more closely now. Something tugged at your attention—a smudge on his glasses. Without a word, you reached out and gently slid them off his face.

He froze but every fiber of his being begged him to lean into your touch, to collapse into the comfort you offered so freely. But he held still as you wiped the lenses clean with the hem of your sleeve and perched them back on his nose. You tilted your head, smiling fondly. “Much better.”

Soobin’s heart stuttered. A blush crawled up his neck, painting his ears red. “Thanks,” he mumbled, fingers fumbling to adjust his glasses. Gosh, you'd be the death of him.

You stood, reaching into your bag. “You look dehydrated, Soob. Did you not drink enough water this morning?” You handed him the bottle of lemonade you’d packed for yourself. “Keep this with you for the day.”

“Oh!” Soobin straightened quickly, accepting it with both hands. He inspected the drink with a scrunched nose. “Did you put enough sugar in it? Is it edible?”

“Try it for yourself.” You rolled your eyes.

There were these mundane moments between you two that made Soobin forget the storm churning beneath the surface, forget the bond entirely, forget that you two were on the risky edge of a cliff. And he wasn’t the only one to feel this way, Yeonjun did too.

He watched in silence, watching the way your gazes held, how the space around you seemed to draw inward, cutting off the world beyond the two of you. He’d spent enough time around Soobin to understand the depth of his feelings. But watching you now, Yeonjun saw it too. You cared for Soobin in a way that ran deeper than friendship, deeper than even you realized. But because you hadn’t acknowledged it—hadn’t given yourself permission to see it for what it truly was—the bond remained waiting.

“I gotta run. Professor Park’s other TA ditched me today,” you said with an exasperated sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag. “I need to collect reports from three sections and drop them off at her office.”

“I’ll help,” Soobin said, almost instantly. “Let’s go.”

You blinked, pleasantly surprised. “Really? Woah, so my training that day worked!” Soobin knew exactly what day you meant—the rainy morning when you danced with him under the weeping sky, the day the flowers took root in his chest, chanting your name. You grinned, your eyes crinkling with light, and reached up to ruffle his hair. “Pleased to be working with you, TA Soobin!”

He narrowed his eyes fondly, a small chuckle escaping him. How could he say aloud that soon, you might come to hate him for the truth he’d kept hidden? Every second you stood beside him, every laugh you shared, made that thought feel more unbearable.

Yeonjun cleared his throat from behind, reminding you both of his existence. “I’ll see you guys later then. Have fun doing TA stuff, nerds.”

You flipped him off without turning around. “Love you too, Jun.”

He laughed as he walked away, only to glance back a few seconds later. You and Soobin had already fallen into step beside each other, your voices rising and falling in half-bantered words, like always. Yeonjun’s smile lingered, soft and wistful. If there was anyone who deserved happiness, it was the two of you. Soulmates or not—he knew, with a certainty that didn’t need flowers or fate to prove it—you were meant for each other. And nothing, no one, could ever take that away.

Soobin and you had successfully collected all the reports, now divided into two teetering stacks between your arms as you made your way toward Professor Park’s office. When the elevator arrived with a soft chime, you both stepped in. You leaned against the cool metal wall, breathing out a sigh. The weight of the stack was beginning to bite into your fingers with dull ache, but you could care less about it. What plagued your mind instead was last night’s conversation, Soobin selflessly offering to stay the night, and the lingering ache on your shoulders.

"Thank you for last night," you mumbled, voice barely rising above the hum of the elevator. You didn’t meet his eyes, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed.

"Weirdo." Soobin huffed out a short laugh. "You don’t need to thank me for that. I’ve always done that for you."

The elevator chimed again, doors gliding open onto the quiet hallway of faculty offices. You stepped out first, boots soft against the floor. You glanced at him, brows gently pulling together. "Soobin—"

"Shh." He shifted the reports to one arm, lifting his free hand and pressing a finger lightly against your lips. The touch seared through your body, startling your mind and settling against your nape, and you swore you could've imagined it—but the ache that was gripping on your shoulders almost immediately lifted. “We’ve already talked about this, haven’t we? I’m not going anywhere.”

You felt yourself going numb, eyes widening, mind slipping out of your grasp. Your lips parted slightly, and the pad of his finger nearly touched the warm, tender pink of tongue and teeth. You saw the flicker in his eyes too—that blink of surprise, as if even he hadn’t meant to reach that far. But he didn't pull away, both of you standing motionless in front of the office room.

No. You shouldn't be feeling this. Not for your best friend—he wasn't your soulmate. You couldn't do this to him.

Your thoughts couldn't spiral further. The door to the office opened, a soft creak that made both of you jolt and spring apart like children caught sneaking out. Professor Park stood in the doorway with a kind smile. Her eyes went first to you, then to Soobin, pausing there just a little too long. His smile looked a little forced before he bowed down. You caught the faint red on the tip of his ears which soon got covered by the strands of his hair.

"I’ll put them on your desk!" you said quickly, brushing past her with your stack, needing the space more than ever. The room gave you a reprieve, however temporary. You placed the reports down, but your hands were trembling, and you had to hold the desk to keep your balance. You must've been out of your mind.

Soobin lingered by the door, awkward now. His glasses had slipped down slightly, and he pushed them up as he tried to reassemble himself under Professor Park’s gaze. "You’re the boy who’s always with her. Choi Soobin, I suppose?"

He nodded, unsure what to do with his hands, still clutching his half of the papers. But her words filled him with an odd sense of pride.

She studied him a moment before stepping forward. "Let me take those."

He handed them over with careful precision, retreating a half-step. The moment he did, he felt the cough building in his throat again—the pulling ache of distance. He turned away and buried it in his sleeve, barely suppressing the noise. When he looked back, Professor Park was still watching him. Not harshly, but rather with sharpness. Soobin managed a small smile, but deep down, he had a feeling she was already figuring things out.

“I’ll be needing her for the rest of the day. Is that okay with you, Mr. Choi?” she raised a brow, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

Soobin blinked at her words, caught slightly off guard by how pointed they sounded. The question was innocent on the surface—but layered beneath was an insinuation. It made him afraid. He couldn’t make anything obvious.

Professor Park was a cunning and smart woman. She always had a motherly instinct when it came to you—more watchful than most, always attentive, protective in a way that reminded Soobin of someone guarding a fragile but sharp blade. She might’ve smiled kindly, but he knew better than to take it lightly. He straightened and lowered his gaze in a modest bow. “Of course, Professor. I have no right to interfere in your TA’s duties.”

There was a pause—a beat of stillness where he could feel her eyes analyzing him again. Then she nodded once, turning into the office. He risked a glance into the room. You were already seated at your desk, focused on the reports.

Soobin turned away from the door, slipping his hands into his pockets as he walked down the hall. His chest tightened, the bond pulling taut again, almost resentful of the growing distance. He coughed quietly into his fist, already missing you. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep doing this—lying to you, to himself. Every day he delayed, the roots grew deeper, tighter. Things were unraveling slowly, and he feared the day it would all come crashing down.

The nightmares didn’t return the next few nights, but neither did sleep.

Insomnia had always lingered at the edge of your life—an occasional visitor that made itself at home during finals week or after caffeine-fueled late-night study sessions. But this felt different. It wasn’t the sharp exhaustion of an all-nighter or the foggy disorientation from too much screen time. This was deeper, as if something inside you was quietly being siphoned away. A depletion not of sleep, but of something more vital.

You had brushed it off at first. Everyone was tired. Everyone had aches. But by midday, the way your body moved felt foreign, like a clockwork machine beginning to wind down.

The desk creaked faintly as you leaned back, typing in the final number on the marksheet. You stretched your arms high above your head, a groan slipping out as your muscles protested. Across from you, Yujin was still hunched over her stack of reports, scribbling comments with concentrated diligence. Her water bottle sat empty beside her elbow.

"I’ll fill this up for you," you offered, your voice rougher than usual.

Yujin looked up and smiled, grateful. You managed one back, grabbing the bottle and pushing to your feet. The ache in your shoulders pulsed with a dull insistence, like someone had lodged a weight between your blades and left it to fester. You rolled your shoulders once, then again, trying to loosen whatever tension had locked itself into your bones as you crossed the room toward the water dispenser.

You placed the bottle under it, pressed the lever. Your gaze followed the line of rising bubbles, but your thoughts began to drift, fogging over like breath on glass. A strange lightness stirred in your chest. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the room tilted.

You kept blinking. The edges of your vision smeared, like ink bleeding through wet paper. You reached out instinctively, hand bracing against the cabinet near the dispenser. The cold metal felt far away. Your fingers twitched, but your grip faltered. The bottle slipped from your grasp, clattering onto the floor with a muted thud.

A sudden rush of sound came from behind—shoes against linoleum, someone calling your name. The voices stretched and warped, muffled as if underwater. You tried to turn, to say something, but your mouth didn’t respond. Your knees buckled and before your body could hit the floor, hands caught you—Yujin’s voice rising, sharp with panic.

"Hey—! Hey, are you okay? Stay with me!"

She helped lower you gently to the floor, guiding you to sit back against the cabinet. Her hand hovered near your forehead before she began fanning you with the stack of papers she'd been grading just moments before. You blinked, disoriented, her face a blur of movement and worry, your surroundings tilting with every breath you took. A door opened somewhere, footsteps quick against linoleum.

“Move,” came a voice, worried but laced with command—Professor Park.

Cool fingers touched your wrist, then your cheek. The air conditioning hummed louder; someone must’ve lowered the temperature. Another hand placed a cup of water to your lips, coaxing you to sip. You tried, but your throat was too tight.

“You’re overheated,” Professor Park murmured. “Yujin, the sofa.”

They got you up with careful hands, guiding you to the couch that had always sat in the corner of her office. You collapsed into it with little resistance. The cushions welcomed you, but the pain on your nape didn’t ebb—it flared, the ache radiating outward like ripples on still water. It made your head spin. Your eyes fluttered, catching glimpses—the fluorescent lights overhead, Yujin pacing nearby, Professor Park pressing something cool against your temple.

“Bring Choi Soobin.” Her voice echoed faintly in your ears, as though it traveled through water. Your eyes slipped shut, the dimness behind your lids somehow more bearable than the stark light of the room. You stayed like that for a while—adrift in the hum of voices, the rustle of paper, the whisper of shoes against tile. Feeling the older woman's hand slip into yours, you held on. You didn’t know how long it lasted. Time felt both distant and immediate. But slowly, the world began to piece itself back together. The blurriness began to lift.

“Professor Park,” you rasped.

She leaned in without hesitation, tissue in hand, gently wiping your damp forehead. The lines around her eyes were tight with concern. “Why didn’t you tell me you were unwell?”

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” you whispered. “I thought it would pass.”

You sat up, not quickly, but with effort, like pushing through water. The ache at the base of your skull pulsed in time with your heartbeat. “I think it’s just the semester catching up to me. Sleep’s been… hard. It’s not just the work. I don’t know. There’s this pain in my shoulder. It keeps spreading. Sometimes it grips my neck like it’s caught something.” Then, almost reflexively, you added, “I’m sorry if I sounded like I was complaining. I know I have my TA duties—”

She stopped you with a shake of her head. “You don’t have to apologize. My student’s health is my top priority. Always.” She handed you the water again. This time, you drank it. Not all of it, but enough for it to wet your tongue, cool your throat.

You didn’t catch the shift in Professor Park’s eyes—the way they narrowed slightly before scanning over your skin almost imperceptibly, sweeping over the curve of your collarbone, your wrists, your posture. She opened her mouth, hesitated, as if pondering. Then, almost cautiously, she asked, “Dear, have you by any chance—”

The door burst open, rattling the stillness of the room. Soobin stumbled inside, breath ragged, shirt half-tucked, his hair windswept like he’d raced through the hallways without a thought for anything but the destination. Yujin trailed just behind, breathless herself, but he was already scanning the room with a wild urgency. His eyes landed on you, and the panic cracked wide across his face.

You startled upright, your heart stumbling over itself. Heat surged into your cheeks before you could stop it. Professor Park was still beside you, your gaze darted to her, guilt prickling at your skin. “I’m sorry,” you said, your voice small, breath hitching. “He must’ve been worried. I didn’t mean to cause a scene—”

But she didn’t scold. She didn’t even frown. Her eyes remained calm, voice even softer than before. “Don’t apologize. I was the one who sent for him.”

He was across the room in moments, knees hitting the floor in front of you with a dull thud. He didn’t touch you. His hands hovered, uncertain, before one of them dropped to the cushion beside your thigh, fingers splayed against the worn fabric.

“Are you okay?” His voice cracked around the edges. “They said you collapsed. I didn’t know what—”

You nodded quickly, leaning forward, voice a soft rush. “I’m okay now. Really. I just got a little dizzy, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just bowed his head, breath shaking through his chest. His fingers curled against the couch, shoulders taut like he hadn’t let himself breathe until now.

You reached out and touched his shoulder, your palm light against the fabric of his shirt. “You look like you aged ten years,” you said, trying for a smile that was only half-formed. “You can’t keep worrying like this, you’ll go bald.”

It came out shaky, but it earned a faint huff of air from him, the sound catching somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. You didn’t know how he did it—but with him here, you felt as if you’d already recovered, like the worst had passed the moment he arrived.

Neither of you caught the shift in the older woman’s eyes, too engrossed in your own little world. Her lips slowly curved, and for a moment, she seemed to be somewhere else entirely, tracing a line of thought she had no intention of saying aloud. A faint shake of her head followed, barely there, almost to herself. Just a thought—perhaps it has happened.

“Soobin,” she said, her voice warm, “take her home.” Then she looked at you. “And you’re taking a few days off from your TA work. Come back when you’re well.”

You couldn't bring yourself to politely turn her order down. At that moment, a break truly sounded like the escape you needed to clear your mind, rest and give yourself some time. You even made a mental note to visit the orthopedics next weekend as you two walked to Soobin’s car.

He held your hand the entire way, going as far as to make sure you were seated comfortably in the passenger seat before getting in himself. Inside the car, he reached into the console and pulled out a half-full bottle of water. He placed it in the cup holder without a word, eyes flicking to your face as if to check for protest.

You raised an eyebrow at him, lips curving faintly. “I’m not dying, you know. You’re worrying too much!”

Soobin shook his head. The keys turned on the ignition, letting the low hum of the engine fill the silence. “I know,” he said eventually. “You’ll be fine now. Get some sleep. I’ll take you home safely.”

You liked the idea of sleeping. The seat was warm, and the sunlight spilling through the windshield turned the world outside into blurred strokes of gold and shadow. But just as you were about to let your eyes slip shut, your gaze caught something bright by the gear stick, lodged in between the corners. Two or three yellow petals had gathered there, you could've almost missed it had they not been yellow, bright against the dark trim. Curious, you reached forward and picked one up, holding it between your fingers. It caught the afternoon light like glass, the veins translucent, glowing.

Your brows drew together slightly as you turned the petal in your hand. “Is this… a daffodil?”

Soobin’s blood ran cold. A ghastly and crippling fear travelled through his limbs, eating away his entire being until it settled heavily at the pit of his stomach. You didn’t need to look directly at him to notice the stillness that overtook him.

“Why do you have daffodils in your car?” you asked, glancing at him now, a teasing edge in your voice, though your eyes narrowed with the faintest suspicion. “Did you get yourself some flowers? Or, rather for someone else?”

In the driver’s seat, Soobin’s thoughts spiraled. He hadn’t meant to leave them there. He was sure he’d brushed the petals off before you arrived—had even checked the console twice. He remembered how careful he’d been. Too careful. But somehow his anxiousness won over his diligentness, and now that mistake sat blooming quietly in your hand. He scrambled for an answer, anything to redirect the truth.

“Oh—uh,” he stammered, trying to sound breezy, “they’re Yeonjun’s. He got flowers for someone. Must’ve fallen out of the bouquet.”

The lie tasted wrong the moment it left his mouth.

You hummed, still turning the petal between your fingers, watching how it caught the light. There was something wistful in your expression—your lips parting slightly, eyes far away. “Yeonjun must’ve spent a fortune,” you said softly. “Getting daffodils this time of the year…”

It was Spring, almost reaching Summer. Daffodils are best grown in Autumn. But you seemed to have bought the lie, so Soobin nodded, his breath shallow. “Yeah,” he muttered, and followed it with a brittle laugh that faded too fast.

He glanced sideways when you didn’t respond. You were staring out the window now, and though the petal still rested gently in your hand, your focus had drifted.

“I saw them in a dream once.”

His heart gave a quiet lurch. Was it another one of the bond’s effects?

“There was a whole field of daffodils,” you continued, lashes lowered. “And you were standing in the middle of it.”

“Oh really?” he raised a brow, a crooked smile finding its way to his lips, his dimples charmingly full on display that barely masked the swell in his chest. You’d seen him in your dream? With those very flowers—the ones that were slowly consuming but at the same time held proof of his raw love for you? “You’re seeing me in your dreams now?” he asked, almost teasing. But he could barely hear himself over the thrum in his ears.

You scoffed, turning to him with a playful look. “Being best friends since diapers isn’t enough for you, is it? Now you’re haunting my dreams too.”

The corners of his mouth tugged higher, but he didn’t say anything. One of his hands reached up to fix his glasses.

A soft laugh escaped your lips, and your hand fell back into your lap, the yellow petal still caught between your fingers. “We might as well be soulmates at this point.”

The smile slipped from his face like dusk settling over a sunlit room. The silence that followed was too still—it pulled at you before you even registered why. Your gaze darted to him, apology already tumbling from your lips. “Wait—I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t thinking—”

“What if you are?” he said, cutting in before he could stop himself. “What if you end up being mine?”

He didn’t know where the question came from. Maybe it was the petal still resting in your palm, the way you were holding it as if you were accepting everything it had to offer. Maybe it was the way you’d sounded when you mentioned that dream, like it hadn’t hurt to imagine him there with you. But the moment the words left his mouth, dread sank in low and hard.

What had he just done?

His heart beat a little too loudly. He wished he could snatch the question back, laugh it off, pretend it hadn’t slipped through the cracks in his restraint. But you were already looking at him, not startled, not confused—just unreadable. He wasn’t ready for any of the possible answers you could give him.

Your fingers played with the petal’s edges, the yellow catching light like a fragile flame. You pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth, taking in a shaky breath. “It wouldn’t be so bad,” you said after a long pause. Your voice was soft. “We’ve been in each other’s lives for so long, I think destiny’s probably just gonna throw you at me for the rest of eternity anyway.”

You tried to joke, punctuating your sentence with a humorous laugh. The words were for yourself more than for him, as if you were trying to convince yourself only. But they didn’t feel wrong, and didn't taste bitter on your tongue. If anything, they felt only right.

Your answer blurred at the edges in his mind, static roaring in his ears. He couldn’t look at you. He couldn’t find a single sentence to say in return. All of them felt like they’d come out wrong.

“I said it before, didn’t I?” you continued. “You’re everywhere. Tangled into my days, tucked into the corners of my life. You touch me, and I suddenly feel a little less war-torn.” You gave a quiet laugh, barely a sound. “I don’t really know what peace is supposed to feel like after everything. But if I had to guess… I think it might feel a lot like you.”

Still, you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Because if you looked at him, you didn’t know what would happen. Because in your heart, a truth coiled quietly where he couldn’t see. If he really was your soulmate, it would’ve happened by now. That mark, that flowery grip, that cosmic moment—none of it had come. And because of that, you refused to let yourself reach too far for what you couldn’t hold. You convinced yourself it wasn’t love. It couldn’t be—not if the universe had stayed silent for so long. Were you strong enough to defy fate?

Here you were, ironically untouched by fate’s confirmation, sitting in his passenger seat like you always had. Always his best friend. Always almost. But this is what you had wanted, no? Closing your heart to love and soulmates? Your heart shouldn't be beating and longing for him now, right?

Sometimes you could find peace with the thought of Soobin leaving with his soulmate, accepting that it wasn't meant for you. Other nights you would be bargaining with God asking what you had to do or give up for Him to make Soobin stay forever.

Soobin was trying to squash that terrible feeling in his chest. What awfully felt like hope.

He wanted to say it then—tell you how the petals weren’t Yeonjun’s, that he'd picked them out with trembling hands days ago, thinking only of you. But he didn’t. You’d had a long day. He wouldn’t lay such an important truth on your shoulders when you needed rest instead. So he breathed in, pushing down the swell rising in his chest, and leaned into the curve of a smile that barely held its shape. He reached out to pat your head with a soft, teasing coo, “Don’t get emotional on me now.”

You groaned at the gesture and caught his wrist mid-air, fingers curling around his hand to stop him—but you didn’t let go. And neither did he. His fingers shifted slowly until they slipped between yours, your palms pressing together like two puzzle pieces that had always known how to fit. A surge of warmth passed between you both, Soobin exhaling in relief as the bond’s effect took action.

“By the way,” Soobin said then, nudging the silence aside, “are you still going to that thing on Saturday? The gathering hosted by Beomgyu?”

“Right… I almost forgot about that.” You tutted, shaking your head.

“You still up for it?”

“Might be good,” you said, letting his hand go at last. “Break starts soon and that should be a good way to unwind, don’t you think?”

“Great. I’ll pick you up.”

The rest of the drive passed in a haze of shared jokes and soft complaints about crowds and snack quality. You both agreed to find a corner and hide there together like you always did—on the outskirts, but never alone.

When he pulled up in front of your apartment, you lingered a moment before opening the door, hand brushing his over the gear stick. “Now that I’m laid off from my job—”

“You weren’t laid off—”

“Bitch, let me finish.” You flicked his forehead, earning a startled yelp from the boy. “You better watch your back on campus, Choi. I put in a very good word for you with Professor Park while you were helping me out.”

Soobin’s eyes narrowed instantly, the color draining from his face. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did,” you said with a self-satisfied grin. “Told her you were the most promising assistant she could ever have. You might even replace me.”

With that, you were gone—climbing the steps, fading into the night with that same soft laugh still dancing from your lips. And Soobin could only watch, a dumb smile on his face like the lovestruck idiot he is. Then he leaned back against the seat, chest rising and falling with swelling giddiness. His hand reached for his phone, fingers shaking with the building adrenaline coursing through his body, he tapped Yeonjun’s name.

Were things finally going to be okay? Would he be able to reach for you without fearing breaking you? It almost felt too good to be true. Your words felt way too good to be true. A grin broke across his face, too wide to hide when the line clicked.

“I think I’m going to tell her.”

You pushed through the final stretch of hell week with the kind of tunnel vision that only caffeine, stress, and pure willpower could summon. Somehow, you made it out the other side. Semester break welcomed you like the first breath after surfacing from deep water. Surprisingly, you were feeling better, more refreshed. The heaviness in your chest no longer clawed to get out. Even your exams had passed without draining every last bit of life from you.

With your TA duties suspended for the time being, you managed to focus on your own coursework for once. Professor Park had let you know beforehand she’d be taking a short vacation once her lectures wrapped up for the semester. She asked if you’d be alright coming in on the weekends during the second week of break to help grade finals. You’d agreed without hesitation. By then, you figured, you’d be rested enough to feel human again.

Saturday came faster than expected. You stood before the vanity as the evening light spilled in, fading gold stretching across the floor. A dark navy dress clung to your frame, snug at the waist and flaring slightly just below the hips. It was the one Soobin's mother gifted you for your birthday last year. You remembered her warm smile and the teasing glint in her eyes when she told you who had chosen it. Soobin had flushed red, muttering denials that didn’t fool anyone, while his mother waved him off and told you that he’d sent her screenshots of dresses two months in advance.

The memory coaxed a smile from you.

Your phone buzzed on the table.

[Arriving in five minutes. Don’t keep me waiting, brat.]

You gave yourself one last look-over, brushing a hand down the dress and checking the subtle sheen of gloss on your lips. The necklace lay on the vanity, waiting.

True to his words, he rang your bell five minutes later. You swung open the door, ready with a sarcastic quip—but your voice tangled mid-thought. Soobin stood there, black shirt crisp against his frame, tucked into tailored pants that only emphasized his height. A charcoal coat draped over his shoulders, the collar crisp and clean. His hair was styled in a messy slick back way, a few strands falling across his forehead, and his glasses framed his eyes just right. He looked... too good. Unreasonably good. That made your heart drop somewhere to your stomach and detonate into fluttering fragments.

Your breath snagged for a moment as his gaze roamed. He wasn’t subtle about it either—his chest had tightened the moment you opened the door. The daffodils blooming deep within him stirred restlessly, agreeing with how devastatingly stunning you looked. He had known that dress would suit you when he picked it out last year, even though he’d vehemently denied it back then.

“I had a feeling you’d wear that,” he said as he stepped inside.

You shut the door behind him, shaking your head. “Didn’t really have an occasion to, so I figured why not now? I love this dress.”

“It suits you,” he said. Then, a beat later, “I knew it would.”

You didn’t comment on that. He followed you into your room as you gestured him in, glancing once in the mirror before grabbing the necklace from your dressing table.

“Give me two minutes. Just need to put this on, and we’ll leave.”

“Take your time,” he mumbled, already sitting on your bed, scrolling through his phone.

The clasp was being stubborn. You tried once, twice, but the hook refused to cooperate. Huffing, you looked over your shoulder.

“Soobin?”

He looked up, already pushing off the bed. “Yeah?”

“Can you—help?”

You watched him approach through the mirror’s reflection. When your hands brushed as you passed him the necklace, you felt your breath catch again. Holding your hair up with one hand, you stayed still while he worked.

Soobin’s eyes trailed up your back, then his hands stilled—because that’s when he saw it. Just below your hairline, resting against your nape, was the small daffodil tattoo.

His chest pulled taut. Of course you hadn’t figured it out yet. You never wore your hair up. All those days he spent wondering—fearing—when you’d confront him, when you’d say something before he ever got the chance to say anything first—this explained everything. You didn’t know yet because of where the tattoo had taken root.

A smile curled at his lips, bittersweet and fond. For a fleeting second, he wanted to press a finger against the ink, to feel the warmth of it—or better yet, press his lips against the softness of your skin. Instead, he clasped the necklace curtly and let his hands rest on your shoulders, eyes finding yours through the mirror. You were already watching him.

“You look beautiful,” he said, voice soft and air against the shell of your ear. His fingers gave the lightest of squeezes. “Let’s get going.”

And then he stepped back. You stood frozen, knees untrustworthy and cheeks burning. Holy shit. You shouldn’t be thinking about his hands or his voice or the way he looked at you. You stood still for a second longer than necessary, blinking yourself back into motion. You called after him as you grabbed your purse, doing a last check before locking the door and following him out.

The drive was peaceful for the most part—until it wasn’t. Sometime between your shared playlist and petty arguments about music choices, the lingering tension finally fizzled and before long, the back-and-forth banter returned.

When you arrived, Beomgyu didn’t waste a second before throwing his arms around you pulling you into a hug that lifted you briefly off your feet.

“You actually came. You guys made my night,” he said.

“We wouldn't have missed it,” you replied, grinning.

Beomgyu pulled Soobin in for a casual shoulder bump of a hug, laughter low in his throat as you both chimed in with your congratulations. The occasion—his job offer—had given just enough excuse to gather the people closest to him, and the group that filled the small venue reflected that.

It was a modest turnout: a mix of familiar faces from your department and a handful of Beomgyu’s friends from school. He led you through the warm buzz of voices and soft music to a table he’d reserved. There, Yeonjun lounged with a drink in hand, tipping his head up as you approached. He raised an eyebrow, then did a theatrical double take.

“Okay, wow.” He stood, tone laced with exaggerated awe. “Prettiest girl in the room just walked in.”

You scoffed and laughed, brushing off his teasing as he gave a dramatic bow. “Still running your mouth, I see.”

“Only when the truth demands it.”

Then his gaze flicked to Soobin, brows lifting in recognition. The silent look between them said enough—Yeonjun hadn’t forgotten that last phone call.

As all of you settled in your seats, you recognized many, and even those you didn’t were kind, open, easy to be around. You didn’t feel drained or anxious. If anything, this was the most relaxed you’d felt in weeks. And Soobin, as always, stayed by your side.

Between laughter and conversation, you barely realized how fast time was moving. At one point, Soobin leaned toward you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“You okay?” he murmured. “If you’re tired, I can take you home.”

Your heart curled at the care threaded into those words. You turned to him with a small frown that softened into a smile. Then, reaching up, you pinched his cheek gently. “I’m fine. Stop being so soft.”

His grin twitched. Yeonjun cut in next, announcing he’d be spending the break with his grandparents, and the conversation spiraled off—travel plans, internship woes, stories from the semester. Plates emptied, drinks refilled. Somewhere between a retelling of a disastrous group project and someone’s impersonation of a professor, your eyes occasionally sweep across the room, catching small moments, little details.

That is until you felt your blood run cold.

You were laughing just moments ago. But that was before—before your eyes caught on a silhouette through the crowd. Before every fiber in your body locked into place as though it recognized a threat before your mind could comprehend it. There was no way you were seeing it right. It must've been an illusion, someone else perhaps, some who just simply looked like him. You felt the noises around you fade, a sick dizziness washing over you.

To your utter horror, there was no mistake. Laughter. His, echoing faintly across the room like a whip across skin. His face tilted up, caught in motion and frozen in time all at once.

It was Kim Doyun.

The name roared through your bloodstream like fire.

The room lost color. Sound dulled into a low drone that no longer made sense. Even the warmth of the bodies around you couldn’t reach the numb frost crawling beneath your skin. He was just across the room, completely unaware of the wreckage he had left behind years ago.

Soobin's voice broke through—muffled, distant. You felt his presence shift, but you couldn’t focus. Your fingers twitched once before going limp in your lap. Your breath snagged in your throat.

Then you blinked, and his eyes were on you.

Doyun saw you.

"Soobin," you choked, his name barely formed.

Your eyes didn’t leave Doyun’s face as if daring it to vanish, to prove itself a hallucination, but he remained.

Soobin followed your stare. You felt his body lock beside you, the sharp draw of breath through his teeth. He didn’t speak. He reached for you with the steadiness of someone trying to stop an avalanche with their bare hands. His palm touched your jaw, tilting your head toward him.

To anyone watching, it would’ve looked tender. But there was no tenderness in the way your lungs refused to inflate, in the way your pulse raced like a deer through brush. No sweetness in the white-hot panic crashing down like floodwaters. Soobin’s hand cupped your cheek like he was trying to keep you afloat.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” he murmured, his voice a thread trying to tether you to the present. But it barely pierced through the noise. “I’m here. It’s alright. Do you hear me? Do you want to leave?”

You shook beneath his touch, barely aware of your surroundings. Yeonjun sat up straight, catching on Soobin’s sudden shift in tone. But Soobin shook his head once, and the older male caught on fast. He turned back to the table, pulling attention toward himself, giving you the illusion of privacy.

Your fingers clutched the fabric of your dress until your knuckles paled. Soobin leaned closer, voice trembling with restraint.

“Tell me what you need,” he urged.

Through the fog, through the tears threatening to spill over, you looked at him. His face—the home you’d found after a storm. And in a voice thin and cracking at the edges, you said,

"Take me away from here."

Soobin held your arm with careful strength as he guided you around the corner of the rooftop cafe—secluded enough for no one to see, dimly lit by the muted golden glow of a wall sconce that flickered under the wind’s touch. Your heels scraped against the concrete tiles, breath coming out with forced efforts, your vision tunneling with every echoing thud of your pulse. Your knees buckled, but Soobin caught you just in time.

You collapsed against him as though your bones had given up the pretense of holding you together. His arms wrapped around you with a desperation that trembled at the seams, rocking you as you curled into his chest, your fists clutching the fabric of his coat as you struggled to steady your breathing.

The sobs tore through you—violent, unrestrained, deep from the gut where grief had festered too long in silence. They didn’t fall like gentle rain but came crashing like a storm, howling out of your body in a rhythm too erratic to follow. Soobin’s breath stuttered against your crown as he held on. You wept like the past had come to drag you back under.

"Why would he be here?" you gasped out between cries, each word ripped raw from your throat. "Soobin—he saw me. He looked right at me."

He didn't speak. Just pulled you closer as your shoulders shook harder.

"I thought I was okay," your voice cracked, high and small. "I thought—I thought I was healing. I was trying. Why now? Why here? Why is fate so cruel to me? Why does it keep throwing me back into him? Answer me, Soobin. Please—please tell me."

Each plea gutted him. The daffodils in his chest clawed like wildfire, each petal curling inwards, burning into his ribs. The pain was vicious now—no longer a dull ache, but a searing collapse. And then he realized. It wasn't just your panic that trembled through you.

It was the bond.

You couldn’t tell the difference in that state—how could you? The way your shoulders clenched, the way your nape throbbed—it must’ve felt like the panic itself, not the sacred thread between you both beginning to reject its place inside you. But Soobin felt the split begin at the roots, the bond fighting to hold on while your trauma pushed it out.

You weren’t ready.

And seeing you like this—shattered and gasping for control of yourself—it shattered him too. All his plans, all the words he thought he’d finally say tonight… they evaporated into the night air. In hope’s place, his past fears began to take root.

He pulled away just enough to see your face, his thumbs brushing over your damp cheeks, though his hands were shaking. "I’m sorry," he whispered, hoarse. His own eyes glossy with unshed tears.

Your eyes searched his through a haze of tears, confusion flickering somewhere beneath the anguish.

"I’m sorry," he repeated, softer this time, like it was all he had left. He couldn’t give you peace, couldn’t give you safety, couldn’t give you freedom—not when his presence was laced with something that caused you more pain than comfort. "You didn’t deserve this. Any of it."

You leaned into his touch again, letting the silence between you breathe for a moment as the sobs dulled to broken exhales. When your body finally allowed air to return in full, when your chest began to rise and fall without catching, you gave him a nod.

“Let’s go home,” you murmured.

He stood first, offering you a hand that you took without looking, and together, you walked across the roof tiles, step after step under the pale light of the moon.

To anyone else, your footsteps might have sounded like you were going home together, when in reality, with each step Soobin was preparing to walk away.

He would give you what you deserved—freedom. Even if it meant breaking a bond that tied every breath of him to you.

The apartment was lit only by the faint amber glow of the lamp on your bedside table. Soobin had been careful—gentle hands wiping the remnants of ruined makeup from your cheeks, brushing the strands of hair from your damp forehead. You’d fallen asleep at last, exhaustion overtaking even the panic that had wrecked your body. He’d stayed until your breathing evened out, until your grip on the blanket loosened.

He stood by the door for a long time, staring at the outline of your resting figure, memorizing the rise and fall of your chest. He should’ve walked away long before the ache in his chest had turned into something unbearable. But how could he, when the thought of leaving you—even for your sake—felt like choosing to suffocate?

It was supposed to be a calm night. A soft end to a long day, a crazy semester. But instead, you had shattered. And he had watched it happen. Watched the exact moment you cracked open, the past dragging its claws through your present.

He didn’t go home. He headed back to the venue. Yeonjun was already waiting when he arrived—called out of worry, out of desperation. He took one look at Soobin and froze, wincing at the way the younger looked as if he had visibly shrunk in the past hour.

“Soobin—what the hell—are you okay? Is she okay?” he asked in a rush, stepping closer. “What happened?”

Soobin’s eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with tears that hadn’t quite dried. His shoulders were rigid, but his expression was hollow. “She’s not ready.” The words fell like stones. “She’s not ready and I was stupid enough to hope.”

Yeonjun’s throat tightened. “What do you mean? What happened back there?”

“She saw him.” Soobin’s voice cracked. “Doyun. He was there. And she... she broke, Yeonjun. Right in front of me. I’ve never—” he blinked rapidly, breath hitching, “—never seen her like that since middle school. Since that day.”

Yeonjun’s heart dropped, hands shooting forward to help Soobin sit down on one of the bar tools near the railing. His gaze darted around quickly, making sure there were no prying eyes around.

“She was sobbing in my arms, asking me why fate keeps doing this to her,” Soobin continued, voice straining against the weight. “And all I could think about was how much worse it would be if she found out about the bond. If she ever knew and hated me for it.”

“Soobin,” Yeonjun tried, “you don’t know that. She might not hate you. This isn’t just about you—this is fate, the bond is not in your hands—”

“No.” Soobin’s voice turned steely. “It’s in my hands. It’s been in my hands since the beginning. I can’t let her go through that again. I won’t. I’m going to break it.”

Yeonjun reeled back, mouth falling open. “Are you insane? You heard what the doctor said. The pain—one of you could fall into a coma. You’ll never get another soulmate. Neither of you will.”

“So what?” Soobin spat, but the tremble in his voice betrayed him. “What does any of that matter if she ends up suffering? If I’m the reason she relives that hell again?”

A sharp stab exploded in his chest, so sudden and vicious it nearly stole the air from his lungs. Soobin’s eyes widened. A choking noise escaped him before a violent, gut-wrenching cough tore from his body. He doubled over, one hand flying to his mouth as his spine arched with the force of it, the yellow petals spilling out with every cough.

Soobin's eyes flew open when he heard Yeonjun take a sharp breath followed by a curse under his breath. To their horror, the petals weren’t just soft and golden—they were stained red this time, ruined by the dark, wet blotches that soaked through like spilled ink.

Yeonjun’s heart nearly stopped. “Shit—Soobin!” he exclaimed, lunging forward. He dropped to his knees beside him, hands hovering helplessly as Soobin doubled over, his fingers trembling and slick with crimson. The petals scattered across the rooftop floor like ruined confessions.

Soobin’s breath came in ragged gasps, blood dribbling down his chin. The metallic tang filled his mouth, the floral aftertaste bitter and overwhelming. Pain flared white-hot behind his eyes. His vision blurred.

Yeonjun felt the sharp pang of panic shoot through his chest. It had never been like this before. Not with blood. Not with this much agony. Not with Soobin looking like he was being ripped apart from the inside out.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Yeonjun muttered, grabbing Soobin’s shoulders and steadying him, his voice tight with desperation. “You’re killing yourself.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” Soobin croaked, tears slipping down his cheeks, mingling with the blood on his chin. He looked up suddenly, eyes raw, swollen with pain and something far worse—resolve. Then, with sudden force, he reached out and gripped Yeonjun’s arm. There was a subtle ferocity in the gesture, a finality that made Yeonjun’s skin crawl.

“I need a place to stay.”

Yeonjun blinked. “What...?”

“I can’t be near her. Not if I’m going to go through with this. Please.”

Yeonjun stared at him, caught in the cruel space between horror and heartbreak. He didn’t want to be a part of this. Didn’t want to watch his friend lose himself thread by thread. He couldn't imagine the look on your face when you’d find the truth. But staring at Soobin, who was like a brother to him—the shattering, the absolute devastation—it told him that Soobin had already made his decision.

After a long silence, Yeonjun sighed harshly, before speaking, “You can come with me to my grandparent's house.”

Soobin’s breath left him in a shaky rush. “Thank you.”

“What if she asks for you?” One last time, Yeonjun asked, as if to make sure this is truly what Soobin wanted.

Soobin looked up at the stars, tears clinging to his lashes. “Then I hope she lives free. That’s the least I can do for her.”

The memory of your tear-streaked face haunted his mind. The sound of your cries, echoing like a wound that wouldn’t close. It reminded him of the day you ran to him back in middle school, shattered by Doyun’s cruelty, sobbing so hard you couldn’t breathe. He had held you then, just like he did tonight.

If he let himself stay—if he gave in to the bond—it would destroy you. At least that’s what he believed. And Yeonjun, no matter how much it hurt, couldn’t bring himself to argue anymore.

You'd been awake for a while. Watching the sun rise, your room was washed in soft morning light. Your eyes were heavy from the night before, the memories returning in slow waves. But they didn’t sweep you under this time. Instead of anguish, you felt anger. And beneath that—pity. For yourself. For giving someone like Doyun that much power over your life.

You exhaled slowly, letting the thought settle. It was time to tear through the veil of the past, wasn't it? To love without fear. To feel without bracing for pain.

You were strong. You could take your life back, right?

The morning moved at its own pace. You showered, hoping the warm water might ease the aches gnawing at your body. When it didn’t you settled with some painkillers. It somehow got even worse overnight. Maybe it was time to restart your orthopedics plan.

You weren’t surprised when Soobin showed up. The two of you stood in your kitchen, the kettle humming between you. It felt domestic—normalcy woven into your very existence. It always did, with him. You promised yourself not to take this comfort for granted.

“I’m visiting a relative tomorrow,” he said, eyes finally meeting yours. “I’ll be gone for a while.”

You blinked. The words hit without warning, slipping into the room like a chill. “Is it serious?” you asked. “Everything okay with your family?”

He offered a soft smile. "Yeah. My mom hasn’t seen her side of the family in years. Distant folks—I barely know them." A smooth lie.

You tilted your head, feigning sadness. “I was planning to spend the break with you, you know. But no, go ahead, leave me all alone.” You let out a dramatic sigh. “Hope your relative’s more fun than I am.”

A breath of laughter escaped him, but he didn’t respond. The silence hung around you like mist. Then, he stepped away from the counter, his arms parting for you.

Your eyes trembled, shoulders slumped as you stepped into him, letting your forehead rest against his chest with a quiet thud. Soobin’s arms engulfed you, almost hiding your frame into him, resting his chin on the top of your head. You stayed like that for a while.

Closing your eyes, you drew in his scent—there was a faint floral note. Did he change his cologne? Or his soap? But either way, underneath all that was Soobin that you knew like second nature—like the warmth of a late summer afternoon, like the pages of a well-loved book, like home.

“You’re the bravest person I know,” he murmured into your hair. “You’ve been through hell and still chose to get back up. That’s not easy. But you’re doing it. And I know you’ll make it through.”

You sniffled. The knot in your throat was too tight. With him here, it felt possible—like maybe the world wasn’t as cruel as it had felt yesterday.

“Be back soon,” you whispered.

For a moment, he didn’t speak or move. When he finally pulled back, just enough to see your face, his gaze locked onto yours. You couldn't name what you saw there. And that unsettled you more than anything else. Because there was no promise in his silence. No reassurance. Just the numb feeling of something slipping through your fingers before you even realized you were holding onto it.

You felt the hollowness the moment he was gone.

The next few days passed in a daze. Your friends dragged you out—cafés, arcades, walks through the city under cloudy skies—but it all slipped by like smoke through your fingers. Their voices rose and fell like static, laughter bursting like fireworks you couldn’t see. You gave smiles on cue, nodded in all the right places, but there was a gap between your body and your mind. It was as if you stood behind a pane of glass, watching it all unfold without reaching through.

Communication with Soobin was scarce. You told yourself he was somewhere far, where the signal was weak. When you messaged him, he replied right away. Sometimes with words, sometimes with photos—a table set for one with warm, homemade dishes; a wind-blown field under a peach-colored sky; his shadow stretched long along a country road. You stared at those pictures longer than you meant to, your eyes stinging as you tried to make sense of the pressure tightening in your chest.

You weren’t sure what ached more: the flare of your chronic pain, which returned with a vengeance, or the way time had begun to move strangely without him. You finally booked an appointment with your orthopedist, fingers trembling as you keyed in the date. The apartment felt too quiet. You missed the sound of his voice, the way he'd fill your kitchen with his humming, his rambling thoughts. You felt lonely.

By the time the semester break began to wane, you’d returned to your duties like how you promised Professor Park.

"Dear! Come on in!" Professor Park beamed the moment your head peaked in. The lady shuffled around her desk, hand outstretched as she rushed toward you before engulfing you in a hug. It felt good to be back in your space, you missed the affection and comfort the older lady gave you. She reminded you of your own mother.

“I brought gifts from Singapore! For you and Yujin both!” She bustled back to her desk, retrieving a delicate box wrapped in soft gold tissue. With excitement twinkling in her eyes, she handed it to you. “Go on, open it!”

You peeled the paper with care, revealing a carved hairclip so intricate it stole your breath. Floral vines curled around its base, and tiny gemstones shimmered like dew.

"Professor, you didn’t have to!" you exclaimed, though your fingers curled around the gift instinctively. You held it close, heart fluttering.

She waved you off and moved behind you, already reaching for it. "Let me help you wear it, dear." Her fingers were nimble, parting your hair with delicate care. Your protests meekly faltered as her fingers threaded gently through your strands. Embarrassment bloomed under your skin, but you stayed still, feeling a little self-conscious that someone was putting such close attention on you.

“There,” she said brightly, stepping back to admire her work. "Aha! I knew you'd look lov—"

You heard her voice stop mid-sentence. Slowly, you turned to look at her. Her expression had shifted completely. The smile drained from her face, brows furrowed deeply, mouth parted with a question not yet formed.

“…Professor?” Your voice came small. “Is something wrong?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze remained fixed on you—or rather, behind you. Her eyes dropped to your nape. And then, she spoke, voice low with confusion. "Dear… how come your bond is still colourless?"

“My… what?” You blurted out. Your hand shot up to the back of your neck. “What bond?”

Professor Park’s expression shifted again—paler now, tinged with something akin to disbelief. "What bond—?" she echoed, then cut herself off. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, as if realizing too much at once. She took a sharp breath, stepping closer. "Where’s Soobin?"

You didn’t get to answer. The pain returned and it struck fast—sharp, burning—piercing through the base of your neck as if a needle had sunk through bone. Your breath staggered, eyes widening as your heart plummeted into your gut. And yet, that wasn’t what terrified you. It was the slow, merciless dawn of realization that scraped and tore as it surfaced.

“Professor Park…” you whispered, voice barely holding shape. “I don’t have a soulmate. There shouldn’t be any bond.”

But the words felt hollow in your mouth, like a script you’d read too many times, hoping it might stay that way forever. You weren’t telling her—you were begging yourself.

Professor Park took a moment before speaking again. Her movements gentler now, as she reached for her phone. "Would you like to see it? The tattoo, I mean. I can take a photo and show you, if that’s alright."

You hesitated, a hand still half-covering your nape, but you gave a slow nod. The air felt cooler against your skin this time, every second stretching. You heard the shutter of her phone camera, and then she walked back around, holding the screen out. The photo glowed between you, and in it bloomed the cruelest revelation you’d ever seen.

Your breath didn’t hitch—it collapsed. It wasn’t just any flower. It was the one whose petals you’d picked out of Soobin’s car days ago, believing those were from a bouquet. That’s what he told you, anyway—that they were Yeonjun’s. You hadn’t questioned it. Why would you have? You never questioned anything when it came to him.

But now, the same flower was etched into your skin, waiting to be filled with colour. And it had been blooming for a while, hadn’t it? The aches—the persistent pain at the base of your neck you chalked up to a chronic condition. You had appointments booked, ice packs pressed against it, painkillers tucked into every bag. None of it worked, because it wasn’t chronic. You get it now.

What if you end up being mine?

It was Soobin.

You saw it now—all of it. That night you dreamed of him standing in the middle of a field of daffodils, golden light slanting over his shoulders, petals swaying around him like a living tide. He stood there as if waiting, as if hoping, and you woke up with your heart aching for him, not knowing why.

He’d carried it alone. Carried the pain, the bloom, the bond—let it grow in silence while you lived on, blind and blissfully unaware. He never asked for your love. Never demanded your attention. He stayed beside you as a friend—as your best friend, shielding you all the time. You choked out a disbelieving laugh. Not from shock—no, this was grief. Pure, raw grief, spiraling into guilt that made your stomach lurch. You’d laughed with him, cried beside him, built a home of trust around his silences and never saw it. You’d looked into his eyes and missed the storm behind them.

And you had a terrible feeling you knew why he never told you.

The thought cracked open your chest. Tears clung to your lashes, hot and stinging. You weren’t even sure if you deserved to cry.

“Dear,” when Professor Park reached for you sitting down, it was with that same maternal gentleness she’d always carried—like the embrace of a warm shawl draped over shaking shoulders. “You’ve been hurting. Is there anything you wish to share with me?”

And that was the part you couldn’t say aloud. The words sat like glass in your throat. So instead, you turned away and stared at the carpeted floor, your voice turning inward. But when her cold and soft hands covered your trembling ones, her eyes shone with nothing but gentle encouragement, you broke.

How you’d spent days giddy after a boy claimed to be your soulmate in middle school, kept up the lie for a full week, weaving a story so convincingly. How you—young, naive, desperate to believe—had clung to his words like a lifeline. How, at the end of the week, he had laughed in your face in front of an audience—the humiliation and the heartbreak that followed, hardening in your chest like stone.

“I was so stupid,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I didn’t even know how the bond worked back then. I thought—I thought maybe he was right. Maybe if you accept it early, the symptoms don’t show up as much. I was just a kid. It was so easy for him to trick me.”

When you finally turned your head, Professor Park’s eyes were glossy and red. She reached for you, arms open, and pulled you in without hesitation. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, sniffling. You felt the press of her cheek against your hair. “You weren’t stupid. You were just a child and wanted to believe in something beautiful.”

Over the years you built your peace on denial. You tucked your hope away, convinced yourself it was safer not to believe in fate at all. And maybe it was. Maybe that lie gave you stability. But it also robbed you of the truth.

“After that it was my ignorance controlling me,” you confessed, voice rough. “All these years, I chose not to see. Because if I believed in it, I’d have to admit that I was still afraid, still hurting. I told myself I kept everything measured, nothing could hurt me. And that’s why I never let myself see him.”

You winced, burying your face in your hands as you could only imagine what Soobin had been through all these days. He had daffodils constricting his airways, and yet everytime you met him, he smiled at you and held you close. You've been making a grave mistake.

Professor Park took your hand in hers again, thumb rubbed gently against your knuckles. “You were protecting yourself. That’s not a sin.”

“But I hurt him,” you whispered. “He never said it, but I know I did.”

“He made a choice too,” she said. “To keep it from you. Maybe to give you space, maybe to shield you. It doesn’t make your love less real.”

You looked up slowly, vision blurred, throat thick. “I love him.”

It was the first time you said it out loud. The words didn’t tremble—they were waiting to leave your heart.

“I love Soobin,” you said again, never being so sure of anything before. “Not because of the bond. Not because of fate. Because of everything he is. Because he listens. Because he remembers the little things. Because he always made space for me, even when I didn’t ask.”

“Then go to him,” she said softly, her hand giving your shoulder a squeeze. “There’s still time to make things right.”

You wiped your face with the back of your hand, breath shuddering as you straightened. A part of you still felt raw, exposed—but another part surged with clarity like the last lock falling open. You promised yourself that you'd take back control of your life, didn’t you?

“I won’t tell you to stop being afraid overnight,” Professor Park said, continuing with a firm nod. “But don’t let one person’s cruelty steal your chance at something real. The bond doesn’t make you lovable or unlovable. You were always worthy of love, with or without it.”

You’d been wrong—blind to what mattered the most. But now that you truly saw it, you were going to make things right. You owed it to him, and to yourself.

“Come on, pick up.”

Your voice was breathless, almost a plea as you stood outside the courtyard. Each ring felt like a heartbeat lost. The line crackled and cut, again and again—busy, disconnected, unreachable. You stared at the screen, frustration curling in your chest as you tried one more time. Your fingers moved on instinct, pressing Soobin’s mother’s number. You let out a breath of relief when she picked up.

“Darling! It’s been so long since you called! How have you been?” Her cheery voice filled your ear like sunlight through fog.

You managed a breath. “I’m okay, just... I wanted to ask if Soobin’s around you?”

“Oh? No, no, he’s not here. He’s staying with a friend, I think? Some kind of trip to their hometown—don’t tell me he didn’t mention it?”

Your heart sank and you felt the dread like a tide you’d been bracing for. You weren’t really surprised. You figured out by now that he was up to something terrible. Distancing himself from you was probably his main goal, and it definitely had something to do with the bond.

“Oh—he did,” you lied with a short laugh. “Sorry, I’ve just been all over the place with exams.”

“Ah, those exams,” she sighed, “you poor thing. Take care of yourself, alright?”

“I will. Thank you.” You ended the call, your voice didn’t crack.

She hung up with another gentle laugh, and you were left staring at your phone, your reflection warped across the screen. Your thumb scrolled up on your last conversation with Soobin. A handful of photos—rolling green hills, a horizon stretched golden with sun, a few wind-swept trees—but no town signs, no buildings, nothing that told you where he’d gone. You tapped each photo, zooming in and scanning the edges, eyes darting like a hawk’s.

Desperation clawed through your chest. You opened Google Lens, dropped the images in, prayed for anything useful. The search pulled up tourist blogs, vague suggestions, countryside guesses. You closed the app and exhaled hard through your nose, biting the edge of your thumb. There was one more person who could tell you about his whereabouts.

You had barely found the name in your contact list when you felt a brush across your shoulder. Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned, almost stumbling back.

“Oh—sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!”

You blinked hard, heart still galloping. “Ari.”

She looked apologetic, shoulders tensed beneath her canvas tote strap. Her hair was a little windswept, cheeks slightly flushed like she’d hurried over. Ari had been your friend since middle school—one of the only ones who didn’t drift away. You were in the same university now, in different departments, but the history between you had never faded.

She cast a glance over her shoulder before stepping closer. "Do you have a minute?"

Your nerves were already worn thin, but you nodded. "What’s up?"

Her eyes darted once more, then settled on yours. “Doyun reached out to me.”

“What?” you asked, voice barely managing to come out. The name alone still made your stomach turn.

“Through socials,” she continued. “He asked if I could get him in touch with you.”

You stared, mouth falling open and closing like a gaping fish.

“I told him no,” she said quickly. “Told him to back off. That he had no right. But he kept begging. Said he just wanted to meet you once. He wanted to apologize.”

You blinked, head spinning. A scoff almost tore from your throat. Ari, without another word, pulled out her phone and showed you their conversation.

“I still hate him for what he did to you,” she said, slipping the device back into her coat. “I never forgave him. I never will. But I figured... I should tell you. Just in case he tries other ways to reach out.”

Your grip on your phone tightened. He had been gone for years and now, when everything inside you already felt like it was collapsing, he came crawling out from the past to apologize? Your gut twisted with indecision, the instinct to run curling in your bones like a deeply ingrained reflex. You had spent years putting this behind you, burying it under layers of apathy. Perhaps that was the problem. Maybe you had spent too long running. Every step you’d taken away from the pain had only kept you shackled to it.

You were in control now. Not Doyun. He wanted to talk? Fine. He could talk.

You hadn’t slept.

The night stretched on, hollow and endless, devouring every second until the hours blurred into something unrecognizable. Your eyes stung from exhaustion, but sleep had never come. It never even teased you with the possibility.

By dawn, your insides were already roiling. You barely made it to the bathroom before you were retching into the sink, body convulsing from the storm coiled deep in your gut. When it passed, there was no relief. Just the bitter taste in your mouth and the chill that soaked into your bones. The mirror offered no comfort either. Your reflection stared back like a stranger—eyes rimmed with shadows, cheeks hollow, strands of hair clinging to damp skin. You reached up, fingertips brushing the back of your neck. The pain was so bad that it almost became numb to you, forcing yourself to move around like a ragdoll.

You tried to sleep again, tossing and turning in your bed until the light shifted across the ceiling as the sun climbed high and painted everything in tired gold. You took a quick shower, and as you dried your hair, your phone buzzed, cutting through the haze.

You turned toward it with the slow caution of someone expecting bad news. But it wasn’t dread that bloomed when you saw the sender—just a strange hollowness that settled in your chest like ash. It didn’t make your pulse spike. It didn’t twist your stomach into knots. You were rather awfully calm, calm enough to willingly soothe out whatever nerves that tried climbing you.

You just stared at his name, one that used to have so much power over you just a few days ago. Because it was your conditions that dictated the meeting. You chose the place. You chose the time. He had no say. He was just answering to what you had already set in motion. And he would follow your terms.

This time, he would follow you.

Doyun sat across from you, his hands shaking as he gripped the ceramic cup in front of him, but he wasn’t drinking. He hadn’t taken a single sip. His eyes—ones that once carried nothing but arrogance—were now swollen, red-rimmed, heavy with something you didn’t know if you could call remorse.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he offered, a brittle chuckle escaping like it had been caught in his throat too long.

Your eyes, devoid of any emotion, pinned him on his seat. You were surprised how just a few years ago even hearing his name used to carve open panic in your chest, left you gasping through old nightmares—and how just a few days, seeing him made you fall apart exactly like how you did back then. Now you’re sitting in front of him feeling like an empty shell. You nodded in acknowledgement, bringing your cup of coffee to your lips.

His mouth opened again, as if he had planned to ramble, to fill the space with anything that wasn’t silence. “How have you—”

“That point, Doyun. Make it.”

Your tone cut like a blade. His words trailed off, severed mid-sentence. He stared at the table for a beat too long before sucking in a breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, cracking under the weight of his own guilt.

“I… I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he started, exhaling shakily. “I just—I needed to say it. I needed to tell you I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders stayed still, but inside, your chest had gone taut. For years, you had curated your rage like a collection. Kept it locked away in the attic of your mind, dusted it off whenever the pain clawed back in. You didn’t know who you were without it.

He shifted forward slightly, the movement awkward, uncertain. “I met my soulmate.”

Your eyes widened just a fraction, as if to show your bewilderment. He probably noticed it because he continued. “She—she loved me so much,” he whispered, voice trembling. “She carried the flowers in her. I've watched her suffer so much. But she still loved me through it all.” He let out a bitter laugh, one that carried the weight of years of regret. “And I bore the mark,” he said, holding his hand out. On top of his index finger, there sat a pretty periwinkle tattoo. Its colour vibrant against his pale skin. The colour meant they had accepted the bond.

Your grip on your cup tightened.

“When she was going through it,” his voice grew uneven, dragged down by memory, “I understood—the pain, the longing of your soulmate to accept the bond back. It’s suffocating. I—” his voice cracked, his fingers shaking, “—I couldn’t let her feel the pain any longer.”

The realization hit you slowly, creeping up on you before you could brace yourself for impact. Doyun had never known the weight of a soulmate bond until it was bestowed upon him. And in the end, he had been swallowed by the very thing he mocked.

He looked up to you then, eyes glossy, jaw clenched as if it physically pained him to look at you. “I regretted everything, especially what I did to you. When I found my own happiness, and when I felt how truly beautiful and cruel the bond can be, all I could think about was you. I didn’t think—” he exhaled shakily, shaking his head, “—I was young and stupid and cruel. I didn’t think about how it would affect you. But… I messed up badly, didn't I?"

You didn’t answer. Not because you wanted to give him the comfort of being heard. But because something in you needed this, too. Not closure—maybe acknowledgment. A name for the pain.

“I know I'm late. I’m really late but I couldn't let myself die in this lifetime without apologizing. I had to at least try to make things right.” His eyes shone with raw guilt. “I am sorry. Truly sorry. From the bottom of my heart.”

You sat there, absorbing his words. You had spent so long thinking he’d never feel an ounce of regret for what he did, that he’d walk through life untouched by the ruin he left behind. But he hadn’t. The bond had come for him too and it tested him, made him kneel. Maybe that was justice at its best form.

You let out a breath, long and quiet. The anger hadn’t disappeared, but it no longer burned as fiercely. This cycle of hurt—the inherited silence, the cruelty born from fear, the grief passed hand to hand like heirlooms—had worn on for too long. And for what? To prove that pain could be recycled endlessly? That if one person bled, everyone else had to as well?

Doyun had done something unforgivable, yes. But he had also been forced to face the truth he once mocked. He had come to understand what he took from you only when it was nearly too late. Through his own suffering, he came to respect the bond he once ridiculed. And in that, perhaps, there was a strange mercy.

If he could find love, if he can do it—then maybe you could too. You must allow yourself too.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you said, voice steady but quiet. “Not yet.”

Doyun’s lips parted slightly, as if he hadn’t expected anything but either absolution or rejection, like he wanted to say he understood—but you beat him to it.

“But I appreciate your honesty,” you continued. “It takes courage to own up to what you did, and I won’t pretend it doesn’t mean something. But forgiveness… that’s going to take time.”

His shoulders sagged, but there was a smile. “I understand,” he murmured.

The number you are trying to connect is busy now...

The line cut out again with a hollow beep, and you were left staring at your screen, the call log mocking you with its repeated attempts. Your phone sat loosely in your palm as your gaze drifted beyond it, past the blur of scattered students in the campus courtyard. Some were lounging on the grass, their laughter carried by the evening breeze. Others sat close on benches, fingers interlaced or heads resting on shoulders. You could tell, even without looking too closely, who had found their soulmate. There was something different in how they looked at each other—tethered by something deeper than affection.

The sun had dipped low enough to stain the sky in shades of bruised lavender and dusk rose. You let out a shaky breath, and rested your forehead against your folded arms. The metal bench had grown cool beneath you, the night air slipping under your sleeves and settling against your skin.

You wished—God, you wished Soobin were here.

With one storm passed and behind you, you were now met with another: the question of where to go from here. You had no plan, no trail to follow. You had been sitting on that bench longer than you meant to, your limbs sluggish with exhaustion, your heart weighted with dread. The pain didn’t help either—the dull throb at the base of your neck had sharpened into something more vicious. You winced as it burned again, your hand flying up to touch the back of your neck. The bond flared with a heat that made your stomach twist, nausea rolling in waves. You couldn’t breathe.

Because if you were in this much pain… Soobin—he must be suffocating.

You buried your face in your hands, elbows propped against your knees as the tears pressed hot behind your eyes. Panic clawed its way up your throat, waves of regret beginning to drown you. How long had he been suffering like this? Why hadn’t you seen it sooner? Why did things have to go like this?

A shadow broke across your shoes. You blinked past the blur of tears to see a pair of sneakers come to a stop in front of you. You slowly looked up. It was Beomgyu. His brows were faintly drawn, eyes scanning your face with concern that he didn’t bother to hide.

You forced a small smile, blinking hastily, and straightened up. "Hey," you said hoarsely. "Sorry I left so abruptly that night without saying goodbye."

He shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. "It’s fine. Really." He gestured to the space beside you. "Can I sit?"

You nodded, scooting slightly to make room.

Beomgyu didn’t waste time. He settled in with a deep breath and turned toward you, his voice low. "I won’t dance around it. That night, I overheard Soobin talking to Yeonjun. I, uh—may have heard a little too much."

Your spine went rigid. Soobin went back to the venue after dropping you off?

He hesitated, watching your expression carefully. "Soobin is planning to break the bond."

The words struck like a slap. Your pulse dropped. The blood in your veins felt like it had frozen solid. "What—"

"He is ready to sacrifice himself," Beomgyu continued. "I don’t think he ever meant for you to be unhappy. He just wanted you to be free. Even if it meant losing himself to make it happen."

Your breath stuttered out of you. Your head dropped with a resigned sigh, face buried back into your palms. "Choi Soobin, how can you be so—so reckless," you whispered, voice trembling with the effort to stay composed. The fury bubbled up fast, raw and cutting. You had suspected, yes, but hearing it aloud? It was unbearable.

Beomgyu placed a hand on your shoulder—not intrusive, just present—and offered a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "You know, I believe things happen for a reason. Everything leading you here—what you’ve gone through—it shaped you. You’re not the same person you were before. And maybe you had to lose yourself to find the version of you that’s ready for this."

"Beomgyu," you choked out. Your vision blurred again, and this time, the tears fell. "I don’t know what to do. I can’t find him. I don’t know where he is, and I think—I think I’m losing him. If I’m too late... if I’ve already lost him—"

"Hey." Beomgyu turned to face you fully now, his tone suddenly sharp, resolute. "Don’t talk like that. If two people truly love each other, nothing—not time, not distance, not even fate—can tear them apart. You and Soobin? That’s not the kind of love that breaks easily and believe me, I have been seeing you two. You may have been late, yeah. But you finally found yourself, haven't you? Now you just have to go get him. You won't lose him."

Your eyes drifted downward, catching sight of his wrist where the edge of his sleeve had ridden up slightly. There, nestled against the skin was his soulmate tattoo.

Rain lily.

You remembered his story, the one he'd once shared with a heart that had waited too long. How he'd waited and waited, only to find her when he least expected. How he fought, tooth and nail, against all odds—against time and fate and fear—just to be near her. Just to love her.

Your lips parted in a tearful, breathy laugh, trembling as a small smile broke through the ache. Beomgyu noticed your gaze lingering and glanced down at the tattoo. Slowly, his fingers lifted and brushed over the inked bloom, a touch so gentle it was almost reverent. His voice, when it came, sounded almost as if he was talking to himself. "Bonds that are willed by the people themselves are not easy to break."

“But I don’t know where to begin,” you breathed out, feeling the tears threaten to spill again. “I can’t get a hold of him.”

“And that’s where I come in!” Beomgyu smiled a little too enthusiastically, then finally, he said, "He’s at Yeonjun’s grandparents’ place."

You sat up straight. "What?"

"I heard it that night," he said, nodding. "Yeonjun didn’t want to agree at first but he gave in when..." He didn’t have to finish. You already understood.

Your mouth opened in shock. So close. So unbearably close, and yet you hadn’t even thought of it. How could you forget about Yeonjun? You were even supposed to try contacting him! He was the one person who would’ve known where Soobin went. You’d been too lost in the chaos to realize.

Beomgyu sighed, dramatically this time, leaning back with an exaggerated groan. "God, I sound like a morally grey character right now. Eavesdropping, betraying my friend’s privacy—but hey, I didn’t want to witness my friends suffer. So you better name your firstborn after me or something."

You laughed—really laughed—for the first time in days. It bubbled up shaky and uneven, but it was genuine.

He smiled wider. "Texted you the location. Go get him, okay? Save him. Save yourself. And when this is over, I better be getting a front-row seat at your wedding. With extra cake."

You looked at him with so much gratitude you couldn’t speak. Maybe everything did happen for a reason. Beomgyu’s appearance felt like a light at the end of a tunnel. You nodded, whispered a breathless thank-you, and stood up. You were running.

As your figure disappeared around the path, Beomgyu remained seated. He tilted his head back to stare up at the sky, stars blinking into view, one by one. The night had fallen fully now, and there was peace in the hush that followed.

"One of the greatest tragedies in life," he murmured to no one in particular, "is that you’ll always be loved more than you’ll ever know."

He gazed at the spot where you’d stood, the smile soft on his face.

You had wasted enough time.

You nearly stumbled through your front door, fingers trembling as they fought to unlock your phone. The screen flared to life, and with frantic, clumsy taps, you pulled up the booking site. It didn’t matter what it was—bus, train, flight. You didn’t care about the price. Didn’t care how long it would take. You just needed the next available ticket.

Your breath stuttered when you found one. The first available flight left in an hour and a half. You booked it without hesitation.

The next few minutes blurred into a frenzied scramble. You tore open your closet, yanked clothes from hangers, flung them into a bag with the kind of wild urgency usually reserved for disasters. Your hands shook so badly you could barely zip the bag. You tried to focus, tried to remember the essentials—wallet, charger, ID—but your mind kept short-circuiting, short-circuiting with his name. Soobin. Soobin. Soobin.

You hailed a cab and climbed in without registering the driver's face. The second the car moved, you felt time turn traitor, every red light and traffic jam a personal attack. Your legs bounced, your nails dug into your palms, and your eyes wouldn’t stop darting to the rearview mirror like you were being chased. The city rushed past you in fractured pieces—neon signs bleeding into the pavement, taillights pulsing like fevered heartbeats.

When the airport finally came into view, your heart kicked up like it had been shocked back to life. You threw cash at the driver and ran. The terminal lights were too bright, the air too cold, the noise a dull roar in your ears. You shouldered your bag and moved with single-minded desperation, feet pounding against tile, breath ragged as you navigated toward your gate.

The departure board flickered, every new update slicing through you. Every passing minute another stone tied to your ankle.

What if you were too late?

No. No. You couldn’t think like that.

You made it to the gate. The boarding call echoed through the speakers. Your chest twisted as you stepped onto the plane, every motion feeling too big and too small at once. Sitting down, you fumbled with the seatbelt, blinked hard against the burning in your eyes.

This wasn’t just about seeing him again. This wasn’t just about apologies, or closure, or trying to fix what was on the verge of being lost.

This was about everything you had refused to let yourself feel. Everything you had buried beneath fear and anger and grief. Every moment you had wasted pretending it didn’t matter—pretending he didn’t matter. You had spent so long telling yourself you didn’t believe in soulmates, in bonds, in love. But Soobin had always been there. Through every version of you. Quietly and steadily. Loving you in the spaces where you didn’t think you needed to be loved.

The engines hummed, then roared. The plane began to roll forward, faster, faster, until the earth slipped out from beneath you and the sky caught you in its arms. You stared out the window, your reflection faint in the glass, city lights winking below like dying stars.

You pressed your clasped hands to your chest, exhaling and feeling the tremor in your soul.

Please be okay.

Please don’t be scared anymore.

Because I’m coming.

“Just hold on a little longer.”

The lake stretched before them, its surface unnaturally still, a perfect mirror capturing the bruised gold of the sky. The breeze carried no sound, only the oppressive quiet of dusk. Yeonjun sat on the porch steps, arms resting on his knees, eyes drawn to the lone figure near the water.

Soobin was kneeling at the edge, his fingers curled into the damp earth like he was trying to anchor himself to it. His shoulders drooped, head bowed, the slope of his spine carved by exhaustion. There was something about the way he sat that unsettled Yeonjun—a kind of surrender that didn’t belong to someone like Soobin. His skin looked almost translucent under the dying light, lips chapped, breath ragged. The coughing hadn’t stopped since he’d left you behind. It had only grown worse, brutal and bone-deep, each fit wracking his fragile frame. Yeonjun had taken to force-feeding him the prescribed medicine, watching him weaken with every dose that didn’t seem to work fast enough.

“Do you want to eat something?” Yeonjun muttered, toeing a pebble near his boot. He tried to sound nonchalant, but even he could hear the strain in his voice.

“I’m fine,” Soobin said, voice brittle, barely audible over the soft lapping of the lake.

Yeonjun’s jaw tightened. He hated all of this—hated the part he’d played in it. Agreeing to Soobin’s plan had felt noble at first. Necessary, even. But watching his friend unravel like this made him question every decision he thought was right.

The distance was supposed to cut the tether cleanly, giving you both room to breathe. But instead of severing the bond, it had only left Soobin hollow. The connection had thinned, yes—but his love hadn’t. It clung to him, stubborn and raw, carving out pieces of him each day like grief given form. And love like that, Yeonjun realized, could destroy just as deeply as it could heal.

He rubbed his temples, a sigh dragging out of him. “I’m heading into town. Grandma needs a few things.”

Soobin didn’t answer. Just stared at the water like it might swallow him whole.

Yeonjun stood, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets as he walked away, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. The town greeted him with the same dull familiarity. He moved through it all like a ghost, ticking items off a list, exchanging crumpled bills, nodding at friendly faces without really seeing them. But his mind was elsewhere. Tangled in the mess that had become your story.

Would he have done the same if it had been his soulmate? Would he have left, convinced it was the only way to protect her? He thought of you—your broken past, the way you dimmed at the mention of soulmates, the wall you had built to protect your heart. And maybe, just maybe, he would’ve done the same. If the one he loved had looked at him the way you looked at the world—with fear braided into your ribs, with loss etched into your memory—then maybe he would’ve made the same impossible choice.

The sun had begun to dip behind the hills by the time he turned down the familiar dirt road, grocery bags rustling against his legs. The house stood quiet at the end, warm light glowing faintly from the porch. But he stopped short.

There was someone standing in front of the house.

His breath caught, fingers loosening around the handles. For a second, he couldn’t believe it. But then you turned—and the sight of you knocked the wind from his chest.

You were a mess of movement and emotion, your eyes scanning the trees, the porch, the path beyond. Your clothes were wrinkled from travel, your hair tousled, face flushed and shining with sweat. You looked like you hadn’t slept in days. But it was your eyes that struck him the hardest.

They blazed with a wildness that threatened to tear the sky apart.

Yeonjun barely had time to react before you spotted him. The moment your gaze locked onto his, something inside you snapped. You marched forward, fists clenched, and before he could say a single word, you grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down to your level with a force that startled even him.

“Where is he?” you hissed.

Yeonjun didn’t fight it. He didn’t back away. If anything, he deserved your anger. You had every right to be furious. You had come all this way. Which meant—you knew.

Yeonjun swallowed. “You—”

“Please,” your voice cracked this time. “Tell me where he is.”

Yeonjun realized it was time to step back. He had played his part unwillingly, and he regretted the choices he made he thought was right to help his friend. But now, standing in front of you—seeing the ruin of what they’d tried to fix—it was clear that love didn’t survive in isolation. It had to be met halfway.

He looked down, voice rough. “By the lake,” he said. “He’s by the lake.” Then softer, “Go save that idiot.”

The way your face crumpled nearly undid him.

You didn’t wait for another word. You turned and ran, feet slamming against the dirt path, heart pounding louder than your footsteps. The only thing that mattered was that he was close. That Soobin was finally near and still breathing.

You had crossed miles to reach him. Now all that stood between you and him were a few desperate seconds and a truth that refused to be buried any longer.

At first, you couldn’t believe your eyes.

Soobin sat on the bench beneath the towering oak, shoulders slumped forward, as if he could shrink small enough to disappear into the cracks of the earth beneath him. The breeze picked at the hem of his shirt, teased strands of his hair into motion—longer now than you remembered, more unruly. And for a moment, you stood frozen, but in the sliver of stillness that followed, the ache on the back of your neck burst into flame, the soulmate tattoo searing through skin and nerve like it had sensed him first. It pulsed through your spine, a visceral call, a scream beneath the surface of your skin.

"Soobin."

His name tore from your throat like glass shattering inside your chest. It sliced through the wind, through the impossible space that had stretched between you for far too long.

Every muscle in Soobin’s body recoiled as if the sound had struck him like lightning. His head jerked, hesitant, like he feared what he might see. But he turned and when his eyes met yours, the daffodil rooted in his chest clawed upward like it had tasted light for the first time. The stems twisted, coiling tighter around his ribs, merciless and cruel. It should have hurt more. It should have dropped him to his knees, but he couldn’t focus on any of it.

You found him.

Your eyes—puffy, rimmed with exhaustion and raw emotion—held him captive in a way nothing else ever had. He didn’t need to ask. He knew that you knew.

His lips parted, your name escaping in a sound closer to prayer than a word. He forced himself upright, each movement dragged through syrup, each muscle betraying him in its hesitation. His legs trembled beneath his weight, but they carried him forward. He moved as if caught in a current, pulled not by will but by a force that was telling him to close the distance.

You looked as if the world had crumbled beneath you. Like the cracks had spiderwebbed through your composure and you were standing in the ruins.

Soobin took a step. Then another. His knees buckled slightly from the effort. Still, you didn’t move, only stared at him with that same gut-wrenching look, like you didn’t know whether to scream at him or collapse into him.

His hand twitched at his side, fingers aching to touch you, to reach for your face, to wipe away the tears you hadn’t yet shed. But just as the space between you thinned, fear surged in his gut, reminding him why he got away from you in the first place. And so, instead of reaching out, he pivoted—tried to brush past, voice hoarse and broken. "Yeonjun—"

"Don’t walk past me like a stranger." Your voice cracked against the quiet, a whip of sound that brought him to a standstill.

Soobin flinched, eyes widening as your fingers clamped around his arm. Your grip was desperate, nails digging into his skin as if anchoring yourself to reality, to him.

"Don’t you dare." Your voice trembled at the end, searing. "Don’t you dare run from me again."

He tried to speak, mouth opening and closing like he was drowning. But you weren’t finished.

"You tried to stay away. You thought distance would save me from the pain. You thought leaving was the answer." You let out a sharp, breathless laugh, a sound that was anything but amusement. "But you were wrong, Soobin. You were so fucking wrong."

Your grip didn’t ease. Your words came faster, tumbling over the emotion in your chest.

"How am I supposed to live without you when I started living because of you?"

His knees nearly gave out. The breath he dragged into his lungs felt fractured, broken along the edges. Your words curled around him, sank their claws in deep at the sheer desperation laced within them.

"You don’t get to decide what’s best for me. You don’t get to rip yourself away and expect me to be fine. You don’t get to—" Your voice cracked, and you exhaled shakily, eyes brimming with everything you had held back. "You showed me what it meant to be seen, to be understood. You made me feel safe. You made me—" Your breath tremored. "And then you took it all away."

Soobin didn’t realize he was crying until the wind kissed the trails on his cheeks. The pain in his chest surged, brutal and consuming, but he swallowed it down. He forced sound into his throat.

"I didn’t want you to accept the bond when you were still hurting from your past," he said, voice splintering with every syllable. "I was scared that you’d turn me away because you weren’t ready. I never wanted to be the reason for your pain... but I guess I became one anyway."

You stared at him, brows drawn together in disbelief and heartbreak.

Soobin swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he clenched them at his sides. "You don’t have to accept this bond."

Your world tipped sideways. It staggered and reeled like you’d been struck across the face. Your lips parted in disbelief. "Soobin, don’t—" The word barely made it out.

Soobin continued, blinking against the haze of pain clouding his vision. "I don’t want to ever wonder if you were forced to love me under the pretext of this soulmate bond." He grit his teeth, his body shuddering as the flowers turned razor-sharp inside him. "I want to choose you. And for you to choose me. I need you to know—I would choose you even if we weren’t soulbound."

The breath left your lungs in a violent rush. A choked gasp scraped past your lips as your knees hit the ground, hard and graceless, catching Soobin’s collapsing form just in time. He crumpled into you, a storm of muscle and trembling breath, and you caught him—arms wound tight around his body like he might vanish again if you dared loosen your grip.

He shuddered beneath your hands. His skin burned cold, like frost seeping through flesh. His frame trembled violently, wracked by more than just pain—it was the toll of weeks spent shouldering agony alone. But still, he looked at you. Still, even on his knees, he found the strength to meet your gaze.

"You have no true obligation to anyone but yourself," he whispered. "I don’t ever want you to feel a single regret... I want you to have the freedom of choice."

He had imagined this moment a thousand different ways—each one cruel, each one ending in devastation—but never like this. Never with your hands trembling as they cradled him close, never with your eyes overflowing, tears sliding down your cheeks unchecked, heavy and gleaming in the fading light. The sight cleaved through him sharper than any thorn that had ever embedded itself in his lungs.

"You say you want me to have the freedom of choice," you choked out, full of grief and fury, "yet you pull a shit like this and get away from me." Your hand rose to cup his face, thumb brushed the curve of his cheek, and he flinched at the warmth, at the way your touch thawed the frozen hollows of him. Your whole body quaked, each breath a war against everything you’d buried, everything you’d never allowed yourself to say. "You foolish, foolish man."

You reached down and caught his hand—his cold, trembling hand—and brought it to your neck, placing it over the mark that burned like fire beneath your skin. His fingers hovered, twitching against you like they didn’t believe they were allowed to stay. But you held him there. Then your other hand pressed against his chest, right where the daffodils coiled tight and cruel. As if you could pull them free with your palm alone. As if your touch could will the pain out of him.

“I love you.”

The words crashed into the space between you like lightning splitting the sky. Three words. Small, but colossal. They surged through the air, breaking every last chain he’d wrapped around his heart. A bridge spanning across lifetimes, a key unlocking every door he had once slammed shut to keep himself from hoping. Soobin’s face crumbled, weeping relentlessly.

“Say it again,” he rasped. “Please—say it again.”

“I love you,” you said again, voice trembling, but loud. “And I have always loved you.” The confession fell from your lips like a flood, fierce and unrelenting, rich with regret and aching with truth. “I was a coward. I never recognized it. I never let myself recognize it. And for that, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry, Soobin.”

He sobbed, eyes pooling with tears. The disbelief in them was stark and fragile—like he was witnessing a dream too precious to survive daylight.

“It has always been you.”

You pulled him closer, your arms a vice around him now. The desperation in your grip was undeniable—you needed him to feel this, needed him to know, needed him to feel what words could never fully encapsulate. “I don’t care about fate or destiny or whether this is some divine intervention. Even if we weren’t soulmates, even if I had never woken up with your name written in my bones, I would still choose you.” Your voice cracked at the edges. “I would choose you in this life, in the next, in every existence beyond that. I would knit the thread of fate myself and spell your name into it.”

A sharp breath tore from Soobin’s lips, his entire frame trembling beneath the weight of your words, beneath the sheer force of your love. His eyes flickered an ounce of relief within, and before either of you could think, before he could drown in hesitation, he closed the distance between you and kissed you.

It was not soft nor was it hesitant. It was years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds of yearning poured into the space where your lips met his. It was an apology, a plea, a declaration all at once. It was his heart, bare and vulnerable, placed into your hands to do with as you pleased. And you—oh, you matched him. With shaking fingers buried in his hair and lips pressed back to his with a kind of desperation that bordered on fury, you answered him. You answered with all the love you had locked away. With every second you had spent convincing yourself you didn’t want him. With every dream that had curled around the shape of his name.

Soobin gasped against your mouth the moment he felt it—the recoil of pain, the slackening of those roots that had burrowed deep within his ribs for far too long. The agony that had once clawed at his lungs, that had stolen the air from his chest and made every breath a battle, began to unravel. He could breathe. He could truly breathe.

And in that moment, as the roots recoiled and faded, a matching daffodil tattoo emerged on his nape. The two daffodils then bloomed with the vibrant shade of yellow, the sign of the bond being accepted between two soulmates.

His hands trembled as they held you, as if grounding himself in the reality that you were here, that this moment wasn’t some cruel dream his mind had conjured in desperation.

When you finally pulled away, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, the first thing he saw was you. Not the blur of your form or the shine of tears, but you—eyes alight with something that hollowed him out and filled him in the same breath.

"You—" His voice caught on the jagged edge of emotion. "The bond—you saved me."

Your throat closed around the sadness that rose, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you turned your palm into his, your thumb brushing along the ridges of his knuckles.

“No,” you murmured. “We saved each other.”

A beat passed between you. His breath came uneven, his fingers flexing slightly against yours. Then he reached up with a hand that trembled like a leaf in the wind, cupping your cheek. His touch was barely there—not because he didn’t want to touch you, but because he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. If he was worthy of this mercy.

"Oh, God," he breathed, the syllables cracked with remorse. "I’m sorry for everything. I love you so much."

You lifted your hand to cover his, turning into the warmth of his palm, grounding him to you. And then he pulled you close, arms folding around your frame, crushing you to him like he meant to hold onto this moment and never let go. His heartbeat thundered against yours, two hearts beating in sync like they were supposed to.

"Let’s try again," you murmured, voice unsteady but whole. "This time, together."

His answer wasn’t immediate. He breathed you in. He memorized the cadence of your voice, the rhythm of your pulse, the surety in your eyes all over again and again and again.

Nodding, his grip tightened. "Together?"

You gave him your answer not just in words but in the way your hand found the back of his neck, the way your forehead leaned into his.

"Together."

He let his forehead drop against yours, eyes slipping shut. Everything was going to be okay. It was like walking into the sun being with you. It was like walking into the sun for the first time after a terribly long winter.

And somewhere in the distance, spring folded itself into summer. The season no longer took its dying breath; instead, it shared its warmth, its vibrancy, its life. And in that moment, Soobin learned what it meant to be alive—really, truly alive.

THE END.

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