#wc: 15k+ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kflixnet · 2 months ago

Text

New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Calli's fic!

LIGHTS OUT PT.2

pairing: f1driver!haechan x PRmanager!femreader

genre: fluff, angst, romance

description: Haechan, bold, aggressive and unrelenting, is back after a narrowly missed opportunity to become the world champion in 2024. This time, he's set his sight on making it all the way to the top. You, as his newly appointed PR representative, are assigned with the task of keeping up with a world of high stakes, unpredictable twists and well, him.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn, honestly quite f1 heavy

w/c: part 1 - 17.8k part 2 - 15.8k glossary a/n: the last part!! for any errors in descriptions of any of these places, reminder: i've never been there LOL. Writing Haechan in this threw him back into my bias list (very up high too) and it was so fun :)) this is the biggest fic i have ever written and i think that I'd like to be proud of it. I hope you all like it too! (If you do, i may or may not have a ferrari scoups fic in the working to make this into a series for all my caratzens 👀 so please be on the lookout for that as well!) This might have a few typos ngl...proofread this half late at night so excuse them 😔Please feel free to comment or send an ask about your thoughts on this. Feedback is always appreciated <3

COLOGNE, GERMANY

September 12th

You: Haechan you’ve been to Cologne before right? What was the name of that restaurant you said you really liked? In Alstadt. [12:47]

Lee Haechan (RB): Are you in Cologne rn? [12:47]

You: Yeah!!! My sister and I decided to go on a little girls trip since yk there’s a break. She has a college sem break now too so the timing was perfect haha Anyways, what's the name? [12:48]

Lee Haechan (RB): What the hell 😭 omg where are you exactly rn This is INSANE I’m ALSO here with my SISTER ??? [12:48}

You: NO WAY??? We’re walking back from the cathedral rn Old town’s like 2 mins away by walk where are YOU? [12:48]

Lee Haechan (RB): There’s this lock store thing nearby in old town My sister wanted to buy one for her and her boyfriend so we’re going to head there after lunch 🙄 We should eat togetherrrr ask your sister Mine’s fine with it. [12:48]

“Rina,” You call your sister to grab her attention. She hums as she turns one last time to take another photo of the cathedral looming in the distance, “Promise me you won’t freak out.”

She turns to look at you then, furrowing her brows, “Why?”

“So I asked the friend that I told you I’d be asking…” You grimace as she stares at you for a moment before it clicks.

“Ah! The guy you lowkey have a crush on but will not admit it. Yes, why?” She grins, looping her arm through yours as you begin to walk again.

“Shut up,” You roll your eyes, “Coincidentally, he’s here too and he’s wondering if we can catch lunch together. He’s with his sister too.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you can feel the excitement coursing through your sister, a small jump in her next step as her hand tightens around yours.

“Yes! Tell him we’ll come,” Rina giggles, “Oh, I can’t wait to meet this guy!”

You sigh again, regretting your decision already, “Please don’t embarrass me? And don’t say anything I wouldn’t want you to say, okay?”

She nods her head, lips stretching into a smile, “Go on, tell him!”

You pull your phone out of your coat pocket.

You: We’ll come!! Are you sure your sister is fine w it? [12:50]

To your surprise, your phone buzzes in your hands, Haechan’s profile pic flashing on your screen.

You quickly swipe to answer, your voice coming out a little more breathless than you intended. “Hello?”

“Hey,” his voice is casual, but you can hear the underlying excitement. “I figured it’d be easier to call. Are you in Alstadt now? My sister is really excited, by the way.”

You take a moment to look around the old town. It’s a charming sight, cobbled roads with colourful, narrow buildings leaning against each other. The air carries a faint scent of fresh pastries from cozy cafes nestled between quaint shops selling handcrafted trinkets and souvenirs. There’s a relaxed and calm energy in the air from the soft murmur of laughter and conversation drifting out of the many breweries in the area.

“Yep, where do we go?”

“Awesome. Okay, see the fountain in the middle of the square?” Haechan asks, his voice clear through the phone. “We’re at this brewery right behind it. It’s got these big wooden barrels outside and a green sign. You can’t miss it.”

You look up, spotting the fountain just ahead, surrounded by people taking photos and chatting. “Yeah, I see the fountain. We’re heading over now.”

“Cool,” Haechan replies, his voice light. “I’m standing outside so you can spot me.”

You can’t help but smile. “Alright, see you in a bit.”

“See ya,” he says, and the call stays connected, neither of you hanging up.

It’s strange how comfortable it feels, just having him on the other end of the line. You’re not sure if he’s waiting for you to hang up first or if he’s waiting to spot you. You don’t have the heart to hang up either.

Your sister, on the other hand, has no qualms about your situation. She pokes your shoulder, her voice loud enough for Haechan to probably hear. “Are we going or what?”

You snap out of your thoughts, feeling your face heat up. “Yeah, we’re going.”

The sun shines bright over the square, but there’s still a chill in the air. It’s pleasant and frankly it’s exactly the weather you love. As you pass the fountain, the sunlight glinting off the water, you promise Rina that you can take photos on your way out. Just beyond it, you spot the brewery Haechan described, the wooden barrels outside and the green sign hanging above the door. And there he is, leaning casually against the wall.

He’s wearing a slightly oversized beige knit sweater that looks warm and comfortable, the fabric soft and relaxed around his shoulders. It contrasts nicely against his black jeans. His hair falls messily over his forehead, tousled by the breeze, and he looks so put-together that it takes you a second to remember how to breathe.

I see you,” you say softly, your heart doing a little flip.

You see him perk up, his eyes searching the crowd before locking on you. A bright smile spreads across his face, and he waves.

You wave back, suddenly feeling shy before you cut the call.

“Is that him?” Rina whistles. Haechan stands a little awkwardly, hands tucked into his pockets as he waits for the two of you to come over. As you come closer though, Rina gasps.

“What the fuck? That’s Haechan.” She stops in her tracks, hand falling out from yours.

You nod sheepishly, scratching your neck, “Yeah…”

“You have a crush on Lee fucking Haechan, shut up.” Her mouth falls open. You grimace before pulling her along again.

“Please behave yourself.”

“Do you think I could ask for an autograph?” She pipes up, “I didn’t want to ask you till now cause I didn’t know if it would be appropriate but holy shit, you like him and by the looks of it, he does too so I think it would be fine.”

“Rina, stop.” You grit out, still smiling.

“Hey, you made it!” Haechan’s smile grows wider when you approach. Without thinking, he moves in closer, his arm slipping around your shoulders for a brief second, a quick, casual side hug as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s barely more than a brush, just enough for you to feel his warmth against your side, his fingers resting lightly on your shoulder before he pulls away just as quickly.

Rina grins at you, making you narrow your eyes as you turn back to Haechan.

“Haechan, meet Rina, my sister. Rina,” You point at him, “This is Haechan.”

He holds out his hand for her to shake, which she takes willingly.

“I don’t mean to make this awkward,” Rina begins, “And she’s probably going to kill me for saying it so soon, but I’m a big fan! You were really cool in Austria!”

Haechan laughs, eyes flitting over to you once, “Thank you. She’s really mean about it though, isn’t she? She never tells me that I do well.”

“I just don’t want to inflate your ego,” You roll your eyes defensively, “And hey! I do tell you sometimes.”

He nods, but you see the look he shoots your sister, making her giggle in agreement.

“Anyways, let’s go in, Dahyun’s already caught us a seat.”

—

The plates on the table are mostly empty, remnants of lunch scattered between glasses of half-full beer and water. The lively chatter coming from the other side of the table contrasts the comfortable silence between you and Haechan.

You lean back in your chair, eyes fixed on Rina, who’s explaining something to Dahyun, her hands moving wildly as she talks. Dahyun watches her with rapt attention, nodding along enthusiastically, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“They’ve really hit it off, huh?” Haechan’s voice is low and close, his shoulder just barely brushing yours as he leans in.

You smile, nodding. “Yeah. I didn’t expect them to get along so well.”

Haechan hums, “Dahyun’s usually shy around new people, so this is a nice surprise.”

You glance at him, taking in the soft, fond smile on his face, “She’s cute. I was honestly worried that Rina might be a bit too much. She’s—if it’s not obvious already—the extroverted one between the two of us.”

“You talk to a lot of new people, though,” Haechan turns to look at you, “Quite confidently, too.”

“It comes with the job,” You shrug.

“Speaking of, it’s nice to meet outside of work, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, you’re probably glad I’m not eating your ear off about saying the right things, no?” You joke, expecting him to laugh and retort. Instead, he looks slightly taken aback.

“No, I don’t mind it.” Haechan tells you, but when you shoot an unsure look, he continues, “I mean, at first it was a bit weird. You were all business, all the time. But then I got used to it... and now...” He trails off, his eyes flicking to yours before quickly looking away. “Now, I like having you around.”

Your pulse quickens, not expecting him to sound so serious. “Oh,” is all you manage to put out.

He seems to want to say something else when a burst of laughter from across the table catches your attention. Dahyun and Rina are completely lost in conversation, their heads bent close over Dahyun’s phone as they snicker at something.

“It’s kind of crazy how we’re both at the same place, if you think about it.” Haechan scoffs, smiling at them, “And crazy how they’re getting along. So random.”

“I’m pretty sure I overheard them exchanging numbers too.” You giggle, “Guess it was just meant to be.” You glance at him.

Haechan’s gaze is already on you, his eyes softening, “Yeah, maybe it was.”

You’re not sure who looks away first when the moment is broken by Dahyun.

“Oh! The love locks!” she exclaims, her eyes bright as she turns to Haechan. “We’re going after this, right?”

Haechan sighs, “Yeah, yeah.”

Dahyun beams, turning to Rina. “There’s this bridge nearby where couples put locks on the railings and throw the key into the river. It’s supposed to be, like, a forever thing. Isn’t that cute?”

Rina’s eyes widen with excitement. “That’s adorable! We should put one too,” She looks at you.

You laugh, “Hey, you can’t get rid of me. We’re already sisters forever, or whatever.”

“Still,” She insists.

“Oh my god,” Dahyun gasps, “We should all put one together! Like... as a memory of today!”

Her words hang in the air. All of you? Together? Your eyes flick to Haechan only to find him already looking at you. His expression is unreadable, his gaze lingering just a little too long before he looks away, a small smile playing on his lips.

Rina claps her hands excitedly. “That’s such a cute idea! And we can write the date on it too!” She turns to you, her eyes sparkling. “C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

You hesitate, feeling strangely shy. “I mean... yeah, I guess that could be cute.”

Haechan leans back in his chair, his arm resting casually on the back of yours. “You sure? Thought you’d think it's cheesy.”

You scoff but your lips curve up anyways.

It’s just a lock. It’s just a silly little tradition, you try convincing yourself.

But the thought won’t leave your mind. The image of writing on that lock, snapping it in place on the bridge... standing next to Haechan, side by side, surrounded by hundreds of other locks glinting in the sun. You can almost feel the warmth of his shoulder against yours, hear his soft laughter as you fumble with the key. It’s silly. Completely unrealistic. But the thought makes your chest flutter all the same.

“Okay!” Dahyun announces, breaking you out of your thoughts. “It’s settled then. We’re all getting one!”

She looks so excited that you can’t help but laugh. “Alright, alright. I’m in.”

“To be fair,” you turn to Haechan as you get up from your seat, slipping your arms into your coat, “This seems like the kind of thing you’d call cheesy too.”

He shrugs, helping you pull the sleeve as you struggle with your left arm, “Yeah, but it’s different if it’s with you.”

You freeze. His eyes are bright, reflecting the golden afternoon light. You don’t see the playful spark in them that’s present whenever he pulls pranks on his engineers and mechanics. Are you just imagining it, or does he look the most sincere you’ve ever seen him?

You tear your gaze away, clearing your throat, “What is that even supposed to mean?”

He laughs, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “C’mon, let’s catch up before they leave us behind.”

Without a second thought, he holds out his hand to you, palm open and waiting. You try not to stare, hesitating for a moment before slipping your hand into his.

Haechan’s fingers curl around yours, slowly, maybe a little unsure now that he’s already done it. You lose your breath at the way it feels so right.

For the first time, as he leads the two of you out, you stop trying to convince yourself that it doesn’t mean anything. Right now, it’s starting to feel like everything.

SINGAPORE, MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT

Thursday, Media day October 2nd

Haechan walks out of the meeting room with a lot more on his shoulders than he had walking into it an hour ago. There's a sense of finality, excitement in him as he peeps into the corridor, wondering where you are. At the same time, it feels like the biggest burden ever. Six years he's prepared for this, fought for this and now that the weekend is already here, he is overwhelmed beyond words. Even though he's known that it's been coming this entire season, even though he came close to it last year, Haechan realizes that no matter how many times it happens, he might never get used to it.

He sees you walking towards him, turning into the corridor he's in. Your eyes are stuck on your tablet, strides long and in a rush.

He realizes you're the first one he's going to tell. It's electrifying.

You come to a stop in front of him, beginning to greet him when he stops you by putting both his hands on your shoulders. His hand shakes a little and you notice it.

“Are you alright? Do you feel si-”

“They said I could win the championship this weekend.”

Haechan watches as you smile, like you already knew. Do you?

Your smile grows, “I know! I just got the news. The press will probably ask you about it.”

He leans against the wall, hand coming up to his heart, “I can't believe it, honestly.”

“You can do this!” You grin, “I'm so happy for you, genuinely. Finishing the championship with like 6 more races left is crazy and you're so close to it.”

“You think I can do it?” Usually Haechan asks such questions when he's completely confident and digging for compliments, but today you know he really means it.

“I believe in you, come on.” You drag him, “You will be fine. Right now, there's a press conference to get to.”

“You're going in with Seungcheol, Doyoung and Jeonghan.” You inform him as you leave the hospitality and head towards the FIA building. “They will definitely ask you about the drivers championship and since Choi is also there, there'll be questions about the constructors too. There's no need to make digs at anyone right now, so be careful.”

“What do I tell them if they ask about the drivers championship? Fuck, I really don't know what to say.” He sighs, shaking his head, “It feels kind of unreal.”

“It's better to play it safe right now. I'm sure that this weekend decides if you're going to be champion, not Jaehyun, right? So even if you don't win here you don't have to be too worried. Don't freak out so much. You only have to tell them that you're focusing on the race here. There's no need to commit to anything beyond that.” You bite your lip, “Honestly Haechan, you'll be fine. Say what comes to your mind, just don't sound overconfident, alright?”

He nods. You give him an encouraging pat on the shoulder as the two of you enter the conference room. You'll be sitting behind the reporters, right there. He has nothing to be worried about.

The moderator begins to speak as Haechan sits down next to Seungcheol, “Good afternoon everyone. Welcome to the FIA driver's press conference ahead of the Singapore Grand Prix. Joining us today, on my right we have Doyoung from Mercedes, Jeonghan from Williams, Seungcheol from Ferrari and Haechan from Red Bull.”

The first few questions from the moderator are directed towards the other three, with Jeonghan answering questions about how it's getting more competitive in the midfield right now, to Doyoung talking about the problems he's been facing with the car as of late. The next question, though, goes to Seungcheol.

“Seungcheol, Ferrari are in contention against Red Bull for both the Driver's and the Constructors’ Championship, and it seems the team’s focus has shifted more towards Jaehyun’s title fight. How are you balancing supporting the team’s goals with pursuing your own results this weekend?” The moderator asks.

Haechan can tell it ticks off the man beside him.

“The team’s goal is to secure the best possible result in the Constructors’ Championship, and I’m fully committed to contributing to that. Jaehyun’s in the title fight, and it makes sense for Ferrari to back him. But that doesn’t mean I’m just here to play support. I’m still a competitor, and I’m racing for myself too. My focus is on maximizing my own performance, and if that helps the team, then that’s a win-win.” Seungcheol asserts before setting his mic down.

“Thank you, Seungcheol. Moving on to our championship contender. Haechan, you have a chance to secure the driver's championship this weekend. How are you managing the pressure of that possibility, especially at a track as challenging as Singapore?”

Haechan clears his throat, “Yeah, I mean I'd be lying if I said there was no pressure. But it's a part of the job. I've learned that the moment you start thinking too ahead, you lose focus of what's in front of you right now. So I'm trying to take this entire weekend one step at a time. Singapore is a tough track, nothing's guaranteed. I'm going to approach it like any other race. Try to give my best. If it happens, it does. Otherwise we keep pushing.”

The moderator nods, “Well, all the very best to you. We'll now open the floor to questions from the media.”

A journalist in the first row stands up, “My question is for Haechan.”

“Hello,” Haechan smiles, earning polite laughter from the journalists.

“Both Seungcheol and Doyoung have been in your position before. Have you sought any advice from them on handling the pressure of a title decider?”

“I mean,” Haechan laughs a little, “Not really? I've seen first hand how they've handled it and that in itself has been sort of a lesson. But at the end of the day, all drivers experience things differently and deal with things differently. But who knows, maybe I should ask them.” He turns to look at the two world champions sitting near him.

Seungcheol throws a small smile, “You'd have to ask nicely.”

Haechan rolls his eyes at this, playfully poking the inside of his mouth with his tongue in mock irritation.

Doyoung laughs along with the rest of the room before speaking, “Honestly, with the way he's been driving this season, I wouldn't say he needs our advice.”

The next journalist stands up with a question for Seungcheol.

“There have been rumors going around since Monza that you might be in the talks of leaving Ferrari. Do you have anything to comment on about that?”

“Rumors are just that—rumors. Nothing is confirmed till you hear it from me. Right now, I'm focused on the constructors. Anything beyond that, we will talk when the time comes.” He says with an air of finality, giving the hint that he will not entertain more questions about this.

—

Lee Haechan (RB): Can you wait for me? I'm almost out of debriefing We're going to the same place anyways, I'll drive you [20:29]

You: stalker much? I'm in front of the Ferrari hospitality. [20:34]

Lee Haechan (RB): More like I saw you leaving in the morning Where are youuuu [20:36]

“Hey,” Haechan greets as he walks up to you.

You take his arrival as an excuse to leave, bidding farewell to Jaehyun's PR manager.

“God, you came at the right time, really.” You groan as the two of you walk into the parking lot.

“Why? She's that bad?”

“Don't even get me started,” You let out, exasperated, “I pity Jaehyun, honestly.”

Haechan lets out an offended noise as he opens the door of his car for you. You slip inside, too preoccupied with your thoughts to notice the gesture. When he gets into the driver's seat, he sighs.

“You can't pity my competitors, come on. Unless it's because of what's coming for them.” He jokes.

You sigh, swatting his arm, “No that's not it. She's weirdly really open with whatever is going on at their team. I think if we’d stayed a few more minutes she would’ve straight up started talking about the contract situations in Ferrari.”

“My first PR manager was like that too. And I think because I was a lot younger, he thought he could just control me and boss me around.” Haechan exhales as he drives out of the gates.

It makes you bristle. “I hate people like that, honestly. Like you’ve got one job, it’s really not that hard to stick to it while being a nice person too.”

Haechan hums, nodding his head.

“You know, thinking back on it, she was like that in college too. Never knew how to keep things to herself. She had this grand nickname— The Leaky Faucet.”

It makes him laugh. You can’t help but stare at him while he drives. He looks like he feels better than he did in the morning, his shoulders are more relaxed and his head gently moves to the beat of the song playing on the radio. The soft, dim glow of the dashboard makes his features look softer and more innocent.

You look away before he can catch you gazing. “Is the hotel far from the track? I didn’t really have the time to notice it in the morning.”

“Nah,” Haechan glances at you for a moment before focusing on the road again, “We’ll be there in like five minutes. Come to think of it, this is the first time you’re sitting in a car that I’m driving.”

You gasp, “Wow, it is! I’d give you a 4.8 rating out of 5.”

“Where did the 0.2 go?” He scoffs.

You sigh, sinking back into the seat, gazing outside the window at the Marina Bay Sands hotel outside, forever illuminated. “Nowhere. I need to keep your ego in check.”

“You wound me,” He says, making you laugh at the way it sounds so monotone, “By the way, I called my parents up today and they were so excited, I’m pretty sure they already booked tickets to fly in for tomorrow.”

You coo at that, unable to stop your lips from smiling, “That’s great! It’s insane honestly. I mean, you’ve probably heard it from so many people already, but I’m truly very excited for you.”

He pulls into the hotel entrance, shaking his head towards the valet to let him know that he’ll park the car himself. Looking back at you, he smiles. “Thanks pretty.”

If his words didn’t make your breath hitch, you’d be rolling your eyes right now, fighting the urge to pull him by the ears. Too bad you actually fucking like the stupid guy.

“Dahyun’s coming too, I think,” Haechan mumbles as he backs into a parking spot. He does it with only one hand, the other resting casually on the center console. He does it with so much ease that you have to blink a few times to snap out of your thoughts. The effortless way he controls the car, barely glancing at the mirrors, makes you wonder how many times he’s done this before. There’s something undeniably attractive about how relaxed and composed he is. You remind yourself that he’s a driver, for god sake. It would be concerning if he didn’t know how to park well.

“I honestly think she’s more excited to see you than see me win.” Haechan speaks again as he turns the ignition off, turning his body sideways to look at you.

Although you scoff, your heart warms at the thought of his sister liking you, “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Believe what you will,” He shrugs, “I’m telling the truth, though.”

You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you. For a second, you let yourself savour the idea of being more involved in his world.

“You’re exaggerating, Haechan. But do tell her I’ll be happy to see her as well.” You say, getting out of the car. He follows you, gently shutting the door before locking it behind him.

As the elevator doors close, Haechan speaks up again. “I'm glad you two like each other, honestly. Hope your sister doesn't mind me either.”

You're about to laugh it off and tell him that Rina would love him anyways when the first part of his sentence hits you. A part of you wants to ask him why, wants to put a name on this, wants everything cleared up. The other part wants to let everything die down before you address anything.

Tonight, you ask anyway, sure that you'll regret whatever answer you hear from him. Both your rooms are coincidentally on the 25th floor giving you plenty of time to talk if you must.

“Haechan,” You begin, carefully, “Really, what do you mean by that?”

He looks at you properly, turning his entire body towards you.

Haechan thinks you feel the same way that he does. Although you're professional most of the time, he's noticed the way you blush or look away when he throws something flirty at you. He's noticed the way you've become much more comfortable with him, the way you don't seem to mind how close you've become. The lines between coworkers and friends had been erased a while ago, but the line between friends and a little something more lies there in the space between you two, stretching long and thick. He wants to bend over it, hold your hand and jump onto your side to erase that too. He's just not sure if tonight is the night. So he makes himself, and hopefully you, a promise.

“Sunday,” He finally says, sounding a little short of breath but determined nonetheless, “I promise we’ll talk about this on Sunday, after the race.”

You nod. In a way you are relieved, but now that you know you're going to hear something from him, it keeps you on your toes.

When the two of you get off the elevator on the 25th floor, Haechan stops you by grabbing your hand. You glance at it for a second and it makes him take his hand off. You wish you could tell him that you would rather him not do that.

“I hope this doesn't make it awkward between us for the next few days.” Haechan admits, looking down as he shuffles from one foot onto the other.

“Of course not,” You furrow your eyebrows, “It won't, don't worry.”

Your rooms are on two different ends of the corridor, so he shyly bids you goodbye and promises to leave only after he sees you go inside. You can't help the butterflies that rise in your stomach as you turn on your heels to go back to your room. You don't dare to turn back. You don't know if you can control yourself if you do.

—

Saturday, qualifying October 4th

“Welcome back to a crucial qualifying session here under the bright lights of the Marina Bay Circuit! We’re in for a tense evening, and one of the biggest stories heading into this weekend is Lee Haechan’s grid penalty. After taking a fresh energy store, the Red Bull driver will drop ten places from wherever he qualifies today.”

“Yeah, and that’s a big blow for him. He’s got the chance to walk away with the driver’s championship this weekend, and on a track like Singapore, which is notoriously difficult on the drivers, that’s going to be a tough hill to climb on race day.”

Usually, you don’t sit through qualifying. There are more important things to do back at the hospitality. Articles to overview, media obligations to manage, last-minute preparations for whatever chaos might unfold post-session. But tonight is different. The Red Bull garage is packed, not just with the engineers and strategists and mechanics but with most of the crew that usually don’t attend. It’s an important qualifying that leads to an important day for not just Haechan but the entire team. The last time Red Bull had a world champion on their hands was a long time ago.

His family is here too, in one of the corners of the garage where there are normal televisions to watch the qualifying. You see Dahyun wave at you and smile in return. You can’t walk up to her right now, but you’d already met her earlier in the day when her mother and her had stopped by the hospitality to grab a coffee before heading down to the garage during FP3.

You turn your attention back to the screen when you see Haechan roll out of the garage for his first run. The RB21 glows under the artificial lights as he leaves the pitlane.

“Out lap now. Track conditions look stable. Let’s build into it.”

“Copy.” Haechan responds.

He’s worried.

This grid penalty just had to fall on the weekend that mattered the most and there’s nothing he can do to even protest against it because it’s the team’s decision, and because it was done to maximise his performance this weekend in the first place.

As Haechan begins his outlap, he pushes the penalty out of his mind. He needs to focus on getting pole. It’s the only way he can lessen the damage.

On the bright side, the car feels good under him. He approaches the corners confidently and the car is well balanced, taking the high speed straights well. Maybe the new energy stores were a good decision after all.

You watch as the first times come in. Doyoung sets the benchmark, a 1:35.982. Jeno follows, then Seungcheol. The screen flickers as sector times update, and you feel the tension build as Haechan’s name lights up purple in Sector 1.

He’s faster than Doyoung by a tenth in sector 1. As Haechan approaches Sector 2, you’re on edge. If he can stay ahead here, sector 3 won’t be too hard. The screen flickers, and there it is—another purple. Faster than Doyoung again.

"Yes!" someone mutters under their breath. You can’t help but feel a surge of pride, even though it’s far from over.

He hits the final stretch, and you watch as the seconds increase. The timing screens update, but this time, it's Haechan’s name that dominates. A 1:34.926. Purple across the board.

The garage erupts. The engineers shout in excitement, high-fiving each other. The team principal gives a nod of approval, but his focus is already on what’s next. Haechan’s provisional pole doesn’t guarantee anything yet, but it’s a damn good start.

The team radio crackles on Haechan’s side, “Mega job, Haechan. Mega. You can head in if you’d like.”

Haechan doesn’t have room to be satisfied with his performance. He will not, until he has a clear lead over the others. He wants to push, see how much more than a second he can go. Plus, Singapore is a track where the grip increases with more rubber lay-down.

“I’ll stay out.”

After a slow, recharge lap, the team watches as he winds up for another flying lap. It’s a gamble, his tires will have lost some of their peak performance, but if he nails the lap, it won’t matter.

“Alright, you’re clear,” his race engineer says. “Push now.”

Haechan’s first sector is clean and precise. He shaves off time where he can and maneuvers through the corners perfectly. Then comes sector 2. The garage watches as he approaches Turn 14, braking even later than before. The car responds sharply. The rear wobbles, side pods almost grazing the wall, so close that for a moment, everyone in the garage holds their breath. It’s the kind of moment where, if he gets it wrong, that’s the lap over.

But Haechan doesn’t lift. Doesn’t hesitate.

“That’s a purple sector 2. Doing good, push harder if possible.”

“I’m trying, man,” Haechan grits out. He’s already wringing every bit of performance out of the car.

He storms through sector 3, showing insane speed on the straights. You think that the people back at the factory who are most definitely watching right now, deserve to be really proud of themselves.

When Haechan crosses the line again, the times update.

1:34:582.

“What’s the gap?”

A beat of silence, then his engineer’s voice,“P1 by 1.4 seconds. You can box, box.”

And that is pole position occupied for the rest of quali, you think, unable to help the grin on your face as you watch his family celebrate.

The pitlane is still buzzing as the final cars complete their laps, but no one comes close. Haechan’s time remains untouchable. One by one, the names shuffle on the board, but his stays on top.

When the session ends, confirmation comes through. “Session over, P1 confirmed,” his engineer tells him. “We’ll start P10 tomorrow. Lots of work to do but good job, you did your best.”

Haechan knows it too. He climbs out of the car, removes his helmet, and though his face is calm, you know him well enough to see the flicker of frustration behind his eyes. Pole position means nothing when you have to give it up.

He barely has a moment to breathe before his family surrounds him, his mother pulling him into a tight hug before he can even react. He stumbles back a step, but his hands come up instinctively, resting on her back as she murmurs something only he can hear. Whatever frustration was lingering in his posture melts just slightly, replaced by something softer.

Dahyun grins beside them, waiting for their mother to let go before nudging Haechan in the ribs. “Fastest man on track,” she teases. “Shame you’re not starting there.”

Haechan rolls his eyes, but there’s the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he wants to be annoyed but can’t help himself. His father claps him on the shoulder, saying something about how he drove well regardless, and for a moment, the tension of the session is forgotten.

You hesitate a few steps away, watching the scene unfold. You don’t usually get involved in moments like these. They’re personal, belonging to the drivers and their families, not to you. You know when to blend into the background, to let them have their time. But you also know when to step in, because there’s still a job to do.

Still, approaching feels different this time.

Adjusting the collar of your team polo shirt, you take a breath before stepping forward.

“Haechan,” you say, voice level, “we need to head to the media pen soon.”

He turns at the sound of your voice, eyes flicking to you before he gestures for you to come closer. “Oh, right—Dad, Mom, this is my PR rep,” he says casually, “She makes sure I don’t say anything that’ll get me fined.”

His father chuckles, holding out his hand, “Well, that must be a full time job.”

You shake it firmly, offering a small smile, “Some weekends more than the others. But he’s fine.”

“We appreciate it,” his mother says warmly. “This one can be a handful.”

Haechan groans, throwing his head back as he sets his helmet on the table, “Come on, I’m really not that bad, she said it herself!”

He turns to you, “Can we please leave before they say something that would actually look like I’m a PR liability?”

You laugh at that, smiling and nodding at his family before you leave behind him.

The paddock is still alive and will be for a few more hours to come. Mechanics start packing up, Jeno’s side practices a pit-stop, engineers bent over their data. Haechan walks ahead, his pace unhurried. He doesn’t look particularly frustrated, but you can tell the result is still sitting with him.

“You’re quiet,” you say as you catch up.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Just thinking.”

“You drove well.”

He hums, “Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“It could’ve been worse,” You point out, “You’ve done all that you could have.”

He sighs softly. “Yeah. Still feels shit, though.”

You don’t have anything to say to that.

The media pen is bright and waiting. You can see the other drivers and their representatives and trainers hanging around the area, probably waiting for their turn or coming out after finishing. The journalists wait, cameras and mics ready.

Haechan breathes in deeply, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers catching briefly before falling back to his side. Then, with barely a pause, he steps forward, and you follow.

—

The hotel is quieter than expected when you walk in. It’s a little late, but you did expect to see at least a few people from the team in the lobby. You step into the elevator, pressing your floor number before leaning back against the wall, already half distracted by your phone.

The doors are just about to close when a hand slides in between them.

Haechan.

He steps inside, the doors shutting behind him. You blink, caught off guard. It’s late. Too late for him to just be getting back.

“You’re back now?” you ask, brows furrowing.

He leans against the railing on the glass back-wall, hands stuffed into his hoodie’s pockets, eyes trained on the floor. “Meetings went on forever. The debrief was long and there’s a lot to do tomorrow.”

You nod to yourself. Of course there is.

“What about you though?” Haechan looks up, “Why were you down so late?”

“I went to dinner with a friend,” You shrug.

“How was it?” He hums before looking up at the floor that the elevator stops on. 16. Someone gets on and you step behind, closer to him.

“It was fine,” You reply, a little softer, “Did you eat?”

Haechan nods.

“In your dressing room like a lonely little kid?”

“I didn’t feel like sitting with anyone. Everyone’s just going to talk about strategy and I felt like I was going to lose my mind.”

The person gets off on floor 19.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask softly. He can feel your stare on him, but it doesn’t feel harsh or expecting.

“It’s been a while since I’ve mentally dreaded a race this much.” Haechan sighs, looking at his shoes again, “It’s going to be really hard. Singapore always is, but with this championship hanging on the line, it’s going to be worse.”

You shift, leaning against the railing beside him. “Yeah,” you say, because what else is there? He already knows what tomorrow is. He doesn’t need you to tell him he’ll be fine, or that he can do it. He just needs to say it out loud.

He exhales, pressing his lips together. “I just don’t want to fuck it up.”

“If it makes any difference, I don’t think you will.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “You sound confident.”

“Someone has to be.”

That pulls a quiet laugh out of him. His fingers rake through his hair, messing it up worse than it already was. “I’m supposed to sleep properly tonight, but I don’t think I’ll be able to.”

The elevator dings, doors sliding open. You step out first, Haechan falling into step beside you. When he doesn’t say anything else, you pause, looking back at him. He’s still stuck in his own head.

Before you can think too much about it, you step forward and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down slightly.

You feel him tense for a second, like he wasn’t expecting it. Then, slowly, he exhales, his shoulders dropping as he leans into you. His hands come up hesitantly, resting against your back before wrapping around your waist.

He sighs when you gently rub your palms up and down his back and it sends a chill down your spine. Haechan is warm and soft and smells like fabric softener. His grip tightens, just slightly, like he doesn’t want to let go yet. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, and for a second, the weight he’s been carrying all weekend seems to melt away. His body molds easily against yours, the space between you completely gone, like this is exactly where he needed to be without realizing it.

“You’re good at this,” he mumbles, voice low and muffled against your shoulder.

You huff out a small laugh. “At what?”

He shifts, his chin grazing your shoulder. “Making things feel less bad.”

—

Sunday, Race Day October 5th

“Welcome to race day here in Singapore,” the commentary plays in the background. “Today, there’s more than just a race win at stake. For the first time in the track’s history, it may see a driver crowned world champion tonight. Red Bull’s Lee Haechan has a chance to clinch the 2025 World Championship at the Marina Bay Circuit.”

A slow pan across the grid shows the top ten, cars lined up in neat formation, waiting.

“But it won’t be easy,” the commentator continues. “After taking a grid penalty for a new energy store, Haechan starts tenth, meaning he’ll need to fight his way through the field if he wants to leave here as champion.”

“There’s more,” His co-commentator picks up. “He needs to finish in the top two, and Jaehyun who is still mathematically in the fight, must finish P4 or lower. If that happens, the title is his.”

The team is gathered around his car, making final adjustments. His race engineer says something to him, but Haechan only half listens, nodding out of habit. He already knows what he needs to do.

“And let’s not forget—his teammate, Jeno, starts from P3,” the broadcast continues. “He’s not in the championship fight, but he could be a major factor today, whether that’s helping Red Bull control strategy or playing a defensive role later in the race.”

Haechan exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders back as the national anthem begins. He stands among the other drivers, hands clasped in front of him, eyes fixed straight ahead. He barely hears the music. His mind is already in the race.

There’s no point overthinking now. He’s already run through every scenario, every risk, every move he needs to make. All that’s left is to drive.

As the anthem ends, the grid stirs back to life. Mechanics move around him, engineers making last-minute checks. He reaches for his balaclava, adjusting his gloves, but just before he pulls it on, his eyes flick toward the front row.

Jaehyun’s had a bad qualifying, so Haechan thinks that at least he had a little luck on his side as he watches the former get into his Ferrari standing at P6.

Jeno’s car sits in P3, just ahead of the chaos Haechan will have to navigate.

Jeno is already getting ready, helmet on, listening to his engineer. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to.

Haechan knows he’ll be there when it counts.

He exhales, pulling his helmet on. The engineer beside him pats his back.

"Let’s do this."

The grid clears. Engineers step back, mechanics rush off, the final checks are done. Haechan is in the car, helmet on, visor down. You put your earplugs back in as the roar of all twenty engines amplifies, getting ready for the formation lap.

You should be thinking about the media responsibilities that will come if he wins, if he loses, if something goes wrong. That’s your job. That’s what you always do.

But right now, none of that matters.

Right now, all you can think about is him.

Everything he’s worked for. The pressure he’s carried. The way he refuses to let himself enjoy the good moments because there’s always something more to chase. The way he overthinks, the way he drives like he’s got something to prove, the way he wants this more than anything.

Your fingers tighten, nails digging into your palm.

You want this for him. So badly it makes your chest ache.

Dahyun stands next to you, palms pressed together beneath her chin. She doesn’t talk. For all the teasing and affection she shows for her brother, she understands this moment isn’t one for words.

You glance at her briefly, catching the way her eyes stay locked on the screen, unblinking. There’s no joke poised on the tip of her tongue, no playful jab about how dramatic all of this feels. Just quiet, unspoken hope.

The two of you stand there, side by side, a little away from her parents, watching as the cars snake through the final sector. The pit wall is alive with movement, engineers murmuring into headsets, strategists making their final calculations. But none of it feels real. Not the voices murmuring in the garage, not the bustling of the mechanics as they settle down, just the car marked with the number 66, rolling into position on the grid.

Dahyun lets out a breath, barely audible. You don’t realize you’ve been holding yours until you exhale, too.

Haechan pulls into his slot. The rest of the field follows.

The engines rev louder than before. The first light flickers on.

Haechan’s grip on his wheel tightens. His hands stay still, his breathing steady.

Two.

The tension in your chest coils tighter. The grid is motionless, waiting, but the air feels electric, charged with everything that’s about to happen.

Three.

Haechan’s foot hovers over the throttle. The start will make or break his race.

Four.

Your palms feel sweaty. It feels like everything is balancing on the edge of a knife.

Five.

Make it count, Haechan thinks.

The lights hold. For a second, and then another.

Then, they go out.

Haechan gets a start so good it almost doesn’t seem real.

The second the lights go out, he’s moving—reaction time faster than most of the midfield teams, his car shooting forward while others hesitate for a split second too long. Before they even reach Turn 1, he’s already ahead of one, then another, slipping into the gaps before they close.

“He’s off to a flying start, already gaining places down the straight!”

The onboard feed flickers, his hands steady, engine roaring as he picks off another car before the braking zone. The midfield is tight, but he’s making space where there shouldn’t be any.

“He’s up to eighth already!”

The next car ahead is slower, leaving the inside open just enough. Haechan takes it without hesitation, braking later and edging forward as they go side by side through the corner. For a second, it looks like the Alpine will hold him off, but Haechan keeps his car planted, forcing him wide on exit.

“Nicely done! That’s seventh!”

The camera shifts, showing the cars funneling through the first corners, the Red Bull slicing through cleanly.

The field begins to stretch out as the front row cars start pulling away, but the midfield is still clustered together, the gaps tight. Haechan is right in the middle of it, eyes fixed ahead, mind already calculating the next move.

“He’s closing in,” commentary picks up. “He’s looking for another place.”

His Red Bull is practically glued to the car in front, catching on the straights, losing slightly in the slower corners. He needs to be patient. The driver ahead knows he’s there. One wrong move could ruin everything.

Haechan waits. The dirty air makes the car slide slightly through the high-speed turn, but he corrects it instinctively. It doesn’t shake him. He’s done this a hundred times before.

And then it happens. A small mistake, a hesitation on the throttle, a loss of momentum. Haechan doesn’t wait.

“He’s making a move! Down the inside!”

You barely realize you’ve shifted forward, hands pressed together, breath held. The car ahead squeezes him, forcing him tighter to the inside line, but he holds firm, braking just late enough to slip ahead.

“He’s through! That’s P6 for Haechan!”

The cars behind him start to grow smaller in his mirrors.

Haechan doesn’t need confirmation. He can feel it in the clean air stretching ahead. The midfield is behind him now. No more defending. No more fighting for scraps.

Now, he hunts.

His race engineer’s voice crackles through the radio. “Gap to P5, 3.8 seconds. We’re in a good window. Start pushing.”

“Pace is strong,” the engineer comes back. “You’re faster than the cars ahead.”

Good.

The numbers on his wheel flicker, confirming what he already knows. The gap is shrinking.

Another lap. Another sector. Another second gone.

The laps start blending together.

From Haechan’s perspective, the race has settled for now. No fights, no wheel-to-wheel battles, just the steady determination of closing a gap.

“Gap to P5, 1.6 seconds,” his race engineer updates. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”

Jaehyun is right there.

Haechan doesn’t need an engineer telling him the gap. He can see the Ferrari ahead, steady, controlled, the same way it’s been all season. The same team that spent last year pushing him to the limit, waiting for him to crack.

But not this time.

Mathematically, Jaehyun is still in it. He’s over a hundred points behind, but as long as the title isn’t clinched today, he still has a chance. He’s holding on, dragging this battle out for as long as he can.

But Haechan isn’t interested in waiting.

His grip on the wheel tightens, the tension settling deep in his chest. The car is working under him, the balance just right. He doesn’t have to overthink it. He just has to keep closing.

"Gap to Jaehyun, 1.4 seconds," his race engineer says.

In the garage, your hands are pressed together, fingers locked tight, knuckles stiff. You’re not praying, but it feels close to it.

The energy around you is suffocating. No one is talking, no one is moving. The mechanics are barely breathing, eyes fixed on the monitors. You can’t take your eyes off the screen. The energy is different now. This isn’t just about moving up the order anymore. This is the championship fight, laid out in front of you, two cars, two drivers, one of them about to take everything. He’s the last obstacle, the only thing keeping this title fight alive.

If Haechan doesn’t get past him, it all drags on. Another race. Another chance for Jaehyun to claw his way back.

Jaehyun isn’t making this easy.

Haechan knew he wouldn’t. Even with the championship slipping out of reach, Jaehyun isn’t the type to roll over. He’s still fighting, still defending, still forcing Haechan to work for every inch of track.

"Gap to Jaehyun, 0.8," his engineer calls. "You’re in DRS range."

Finally.

The Ferrari stays planted through the high-speed corners, Jaehyun’s placing the car exactly where it needs to be. No mistakes. No wasted movement. Haechan is faster, but faster isn’t enough.

He closes in on the straight, opens the rear wing, gains a few meters, but Jaehyun moves first, covering the inside, forcing Haechan to think twice.

You hold your breath as the onboard flickers on the screen. He’s close, but not close enough. Not yet.

Haechan tucks in behind him, barely lifting through the next corner, tires screaming for grip.

He waits.

Another straight. Another chance.

This time, he moves first.

A sharp flick to the outside, forcing Jaehyun to react and he does. Just a small shift, a split second of hesitation, enough for Haechan to dive back inside.

Side by side.

You can hear the mechanics shout out in encouragement, elbows on their knees as they bend forward in anticipation, the tension hanging heavy in the air.

They brake late, almost too late, tires locking, fighting for control. Jaehyun holds the line, refusing to back down, squeezing Haechan toward the curb but he doesn’t flinch.

He keeps his foot in. Holds his nerve.

For a second, they’re wheel to wheel, neither giving an inch.

Dahyun reaches out for your hand, her grip tight and lips muttering, “Please, please, please don’t touch.”

Then just before the next turn, Haechan edges ahead.

"He’s through! Haechan takes P5 ahead of the Ferrari! It’s an uphill battle now, to make it to P2 and make sure Jaehyun stays behind him.”

Dahyun jumps a little next to you, letting out a cry of relief. You let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding too. But it isn’t over yet. Not until Haechan sets a solid gap between him and Jaehyun.

Jaehyun is still there, still in his mirrors, still waiting for a mistake. And for a second, Haechan almost expects him to fight back immediately, to dive into the next braking zone and throw everything at it.

But he doesn’t.

The Ferrari stays close, but not aggressive. Not reckless. He guesses that this is the biggest difference between Jaehyun and his teammate.

The radio crackles. "Nice work. Let’s pull away now. Next car, 3.4 seconds ahead. How are the tyres feeling?"

Haechan exhales slowly, adjusting his grip on the wheel.

“Starting to wear, but I can hang on for a few more laps. Tell me when the Mercs and Ferrari pit.”

"Copy. We’ll keep you updated," his engineer responds.

Haechan doesn’t say anything after that, eyes locked on the road ahead. The Ferrari and Mercedes up front are still running strong, but their tires are wearing just as fast as his. The undercut is coming. He just doesn’t know when.

He settles into his rhythm, stretching the gap behind him little by little. Jaehyun is fading in his mirrors now, not close enough to be a threat but still there, lingering just out of reach.

The radio comes back a lap later. "Ferrari in the pits."

Haechan exhales sharply, eyes flicking toward the pit lane as Seungcheol peels off early. That’s aggressive. Too early for pure tire strategy.

"He’s playing the team game," his engineer confirms. "Seungcheol could be pitting now to put pressure on Jeno. Joshua might try to hold you up."

Not because Mercedes is helping Ferrari, but because Joshua is racing for himself.

Haechan tightens his grip on the wheel. That’s a problem.

Joshua isn’t just going to let him through. And if he stays out too long, Haechan will get stuck behind him, wasting his tires while Seungcheol gains time on fresh rubber. If Red Bull reacts too late, Haechan could come out of the pits behind both of them.

No. That’s not happening.

"Stay out. We’ll extend and cover the overcut," his engineer tells him. "Let’s push now."

Fine. He can push.

Joshua is just up the road, P3 still in his grasp, but the Mercedes is holding position, taking defensive lines. He knows Haechan is coming. And he’s not going to make it easy.

Haechan exhales slowly. So this is how it’s going to be?

Ahead, Jeno still holds P2 and Doyoung leads the race. The fight up front hasn’t started yet, but the midfield is already shifting. One mistimed stop, one second lost, and everything could flip.

The radio crackles again. "Seungcheol is on hards. Jaehyun’s pit right after him. Jeno and Doyoung are still out."

And every lap spent behind Joshua is a lap lost to Seungcheol.

"Gap to Seungcheol, 19.3 seconds," the engineer calls. "They’re warming up the hards, let’s get past Joshua now."

Yeah. He knows.

The next straight is coming up. He tucks in behind, inching closer, feeling the slipstream pull him forward. DRS open. The Mercedes shifts slightly left, not a full move, just enough to discourage a late lunge.

Haechan lifts. Backs off.

Not yet.

In the garage, you feel the frustration creeping in. He’s fast enough to take the position. But every attempt costs time, and the gap behind is closing.

"Seungcheol is matching our pace," the engineer updates.

You feel a little sick.

Haechan has to go now.

He knows it, too. The moment he brakes into the next corner, his mind is already on the next opportunity. Joshua is covering the inside. Fine.

Haechan sets up wide and gets a better exit. If Joshua wants to defend, he’ll have to do it twice.

The next straight comes up fast.

This time, he doesn’t wait.

A sharp flick to the right, making it look like he’s going for the outside. Joshua shifts, just slightly, just enough—

And Haechan dives left instead.

Inside line. No time to react.

They’re side by side.

Joshua holds his ground, braking as late as he dares, keeping the nose of the Mercedes alongside but Haechan is already there, already committed, tires squealing as he forces the car through the corner.

There’s barely any space, but it’s enough.

Joshua tries to hang on, but the exit is compromised. Haechan is already ahead before the next turn.

"He’s through! Haechan into P3!"

The mechanics start falling into position, wheeling out the tyres.

"Box, box," the engineer calls immediately. "We cover the undercut now. Let’s go."

It takes Haechan a split second to process it, his hands already moving.

"Understood."

Haechan dives into the pit lane, the speed limiter kicking in as he barrels toward his box.

The Red Bull crew is already waiting. The stop is fast. Clean. The car drops, the mechanics move and Haechan launches back out onto the track.

"Good stop. You’re rejoining P7, ahead of Jaehyun."

He exhales, gripping the wheel tighter. That was the first hurdle. But Jaehyun is still there, still a threat. If he gets caught behind traffic now, that gap could disappear in seconds.

Back in the garage, the tension is barely contained.

The screens flicker, cameras shifting between pit exits and live timing. You don’t blink, don’t move, don’t realize how shallow your breathing has become until your chest starts to ache.

By the time the pit cycle is completed, the cars ahead disappearing into the pits to get fresher tyres on, Haechan is back to P3.

“Jeno is pitting ahead of you, that is P2. He’s been told to stay back, so he will not chase you.” His engineer informs him.

Haechan barely acknowledges the call. He sees the Red Bull peeling off to the right, diving into the pit lane just as he flies past, officially taking P2.

But he doesn’t feel any relief.

The heat is suffocating.

His race suit clings to his skin, drenched in sweat. His gloves feel heavier, his grip on the wheel tighter than it should be. His mouth is dry, but drinking won’t help—the liquid in his drink packet is already warm because of the heat of the engine. He presses the drink button anyways, cringing once the warm water hits his tongue.

He blinks hard, forcing himself to focus.

"Jeno is rejoining now… P3, just ahead of Joshua."

Good. That’s good. Jeno held out just long enough to help, but not long enough to ruin his own race.

But Haechan can’t think about that right now.

His breathing is heavier, his body dragging against the weight of the car. His shoulders burn from holding the wheel steady through every turn and his entire body hurts. So much. The exhaustion from all the pushing he’s done until now hits him as he finally comes up to a safe position.

“Where is Jaehyun?” he asks, voice rough, eyes flicking to the lap board.

Lap 61.

Two more. Just two more and it’s done.

The radio crackles back. “P6. He’s not a threat.”

He exhales sharply, but it doesn’t feel like relief. Not yet.

In the garage, no one talks. No one moves. The only sound is the low hum of the monitors, the voices over the team radios, the distant roar of the cars.

Your nails dig into your palms, but you don’t even feel it anymore. Lap 61. Two more to go.

You glance sideways at Dahyun. Her hands are clasped so tightly together that her knuckles are white. She hasn’t spoken since the last pit stops, her usual excitement replaced with something quieter, more anxious.

She exhales sharply, almost a laugh, but it’s breathless. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

You don’t answer. Because so do you.

Over the course of the race, Haechan’s parents have come to stand near you two. His mother holds onto his dad. You think she’s praying.

The camera flickers to Haechan’s onboard. His hands are stiff on the wheel, no wasted movement, but you can see it now—the exhaustion. The way his shoulders don’t sit as steady. The way his breathing is heavier through the radio.

The commentators pick up on it, too.

"He’s done everything right today, but you can see the toll it’s taking now. The heat, the intensity, the pressure, it’s all hitting at once."

Dahyun shifts beside you, biting her lip. "Come on, Haechan," she mutters under her breath.

Lap 62. The last one

He’s almost there.

The moment the lap board flashes past, Haechan’s breathing quickens.

One more. Just one more.

Everything hurts. His arms feel leaden, his fingers ache from gripping the wheel too tightly, his head is pounding.

But the finish line is right there, only one lap away.

“Final lap, Haechan,” his engineer says, voice measured, but he knows they feel it too.

He barely acknowledges it, eyes locked on the road ahead. Doyoung is too far ahead to catch, and Jeno is holding P3. The positions won’t change. It’s just him and the track now.

The crowd is deafening, even through his helmet. He can see the lights flashing from the grandstands, the energy building as he weaves through the final corners.

In the garage, you can’t breathe.

He hasn’t crossed the line yet, but the mechanics are already getting up from their seats to run to the pitwall. There’s not much to go wrong here.

The numbers on the screens blur together, and everything else—the people around you, the cameras, the noise—fades into the background. It’s just him on the monitor, his car flying through the final sector, the realization slowly, finally sinking in.

Dahyun has stopped fidgeting, but her hands are still clasped so tightly together that it looks painful.

He’s almost there.

The final corners. The final turns.

You remember the moment you were told that you’d be his PR rep for this season. It wasn’t meant to be anything special. Just another job, another person to manage, another year of handling media schedules and press conferences. You weren’t supposed to care.

But then the season started.

And you watched him race. You watched the way he carried himself, the way he fought for every position like it was the only thing that mattered, the way he never let himself get too comfortable, the way he refused to believe it was his until the numbers made it undeniable.

You’ve seen him exhausted, frustrated, drowning under the pressure. You’ve heard him at his most bitter, his most doubtful, when he let the weight of it all slip through the cracks.

And you’ve watched him get back in the car every single time.

Now, he’s almost done it. World Champion.

You don’t even realize your fingers are trembling until the moment his car crosses the line.

“He’s done it! Haechan finishes second with Jaehyun at P5, and with that— Lee Haechan is the 2025 World Champion!” The commentator exclaims.

The garage erupts.

Mechanics leap into each other’s arms, engineers cheering into headsets, the pit wall exploding into celebration. Somewhere behind you, someone is yelling, but all you can do is stare at the monitor, at the car with number 66 rolling past the checkered flag.

Dahyun lets out something between a laugh and a sob, hands flying to her mouth before she hugs you tightly. You swallow hard as you hug her back, unable to hold back the grin on your face. It’s an overwhelming kind of relief, not sharp, not explosive, just deep, sinking into your bones, settling in the way you hadn’t let yourself feel until now.

The crowd outside is deafening.

The cheers flood through Haechan’s radio. His engineer’s voice cracks with emotion. Someone from the pit wall is already yelling his name.

But all Haechan does is exhale.

His hands are still locked on the wheel. His arms are trembling, his body aching in ways he doesn’t have the energy to acknowledge yet.

It’s over.

And all he can think about is how long it’s taken.

Every year, every setback, every time he thought he was close only to watch it slip away. Every grueling season where it felt like no matter how hard he tried, it was never enough.

But this time, it was.

His vision blurs—not from exhaustion, not from sweat—just pure, overwhelming relief.

He breathes in. Breathes out.

Sees the World Champion board where there should’ve been a P2 in parc fermé.

When he parks, he finally lets go of the steering wheel, slumping into his seat.

Jeno is the first to walk over, patting his helmet, his voice muffled but warm. Haechan barely processes it, only catching fragments—"Proud of you, man." Doyoung bends down next, saying something he can’t quite comprehend. The words don’t matter. He knows what they mean.

He nods, hands shaking as he reaches up, pulling off his gloves, his helmet, his balaclava. The rush of cooler air hitting his face is almost dizzying.

The moment he’s free of it, his eyes lift toward the barrier.

His team is there. All of them.

The mechanics, the engineers, the people who have been with him through every season, every late-night debrief, every painful loss. His mother, standing close to his father, hands pressed together as if she can barely believe it. His sister, bouncing on her heels, already reaching over the barrier.

And you.

Haechan doesn’t think. Doesn’t stop.

He moves on instinct, throwing himself out of the cockpit, barely registering his own exhaustion as his legs hit the ground.

And then, he runs.

Straight to them.

The second he reaches the barrier, the arms are already there, grabbing, pulling, holding. Someone ruffles his hair, someone yells his name, but he barely registers who is who. He just knows that this is his team, his people, and they’re all here.

Dahyun is the first to properly reach him, throwing her arms around him, squeezing tight. His mother is next, her hand cradling the side of his face for half a second before she pulls him in. His father’s grip is firm when he hugs him, yelling into his ears that he is proud, so proud.

He barely has time to think before another set of arms wrap around him, yours.

His breath catches for just a second. He can feel how tightly you’re holding on, how solid you feel against him despite how hard everything is still hitting him.

He shuts his eyes for just a moment.

It’s real. It’s over.

And he’s really won.

—

Monday, Post Race October 6th

12:05 AM

The dressing room is quiet.

For the first time in hours, there’s no noise, no cameras, no voices in his ear. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the distant sound of his team still celebrating downstairs.

Haechan sits on the small bench, head tilted back against the lockers, eyes shut. His whole body aches, the exhaustion hitting now that the adrenaline has fully worn off.

His damp hair sticks to his forehead and he can still smell the champagne on his race suit that he’s abandoned in a corner of the room. The shower did make him feel better, washing away the litres of champagne that he’d been doused in. His clothes, a normal t-shirt and sweats, feel so much lighter on him after hours of being in the sweat-soaked, heavy race suit.

The door creaks open.

He knows it’s you before you say anything.

You step inside, letting the door click shut behind you.

“You’re here,” he murmurs after a moment, voice rough with exhaustion.

“Your parents are waiting downstairs,” you say softly. “I told them I’d check on you first.”

His lips twitch slightly, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Checking to see if I passed out in here?”

“Something like that.”

You cross the room without hesitating, sinking down beside him. He doesn’t move, but when you lift a hand and press it gently against his back, you feel him lean into your touch, his shoulders losing the last bit of tension he’d been holding onto.

For a moment, you just sit there, your hand tracing slow, absentminded circles between his shoulder blades. The weight of the day still lingers in the air, but this moment feels different. Quieter, softer, just the two of you.

You let out a small breath, glancing at him. “You did it.”

His eyes flutter open, meeting yours.

“I did,” he says, barely above a whisper, like he hasn’t fully let himself believe it yet.

A small smile tugs at your lips as your hand moves up to the nape of his neck, raking through his hair. He hasn’t cut it since the first day you met him.

“I’m proud of you, you know.”

He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“Sunday,” He finally answers. You hum, a little confused.

“I told you we’ll talk on Sunday.”

You still. It had been the last thing on your mind during the race, so you’re a tiny bit surprised when he brings it up. You breathe in deeply before meeting his eyes and letting out a small laugh.

“Well, World Champion, I don’t know if you know, but it’s Monday now.”

Haechan shakes his head, turning his body to face you. “No, I know. But—” He cuts off, throwing his head back before he reaches out for your hands, “Hold on, I’ve kind of rehearsed this, but I’ve never done this before so give me a moment.”

You blink, a laugh escaping you as he stumbles over his words. “Rehearsed it? Haechan, what are you—”

“I just…” He takes a breath, looking at you with a sort of quiet, soft determination. “Okay, here goes.” He squeezes your hands lightly, his fingers warm against yours. “I’m not good with words, you know that. But I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and I��I just need you to know…” He hesitates, and for a split second, his confidence falters.

You watch him, waiting. Despite knowing what’s coming, you can’t help the way your heart races. You feel breathless for a moment.

“I like you,” he says finally, his voice steady despite the nervousness in his eyes. “I like you more than I ever meant to. More than I’ve ever let myself admit.”

The simplicity of his confession knocks the breath out of you. He’s not asking for anything, not trying to pressure you, but it’s clear he’s laying everything out there, raw and open.

“I didn’t expect this. Didn’t think it would be this important, but it is. And I need you to know that,” he adds softly, his grip tightening just a little on your hands as though he’s grounding himself in the moment.

He waits for you to say something, but the words get stuck. Your mind races, and all you can do is stare at him.

Haechan’s brow furrows slightly, unsure of your silence. “You don’t have to—”

“No,” you interrupt, your voice soft but steady as you squeeze his hand. “I’m just… surprised. I mean- I’m not, because you’re not very subtle about it. I just didn’t expect you to say it today, you know, after all that’s happened. But I—” You swallow, the truth coming to your lips before you can think. “I like you too.”

You can see the relief flood his face, his shoulders relaxing as though he's been holding his breath. But then, a playful grin tugs at the corner of his lips. “Well, I think I knew too,” he jokes, the tension in his voice lifting with the teasing. “I mean, it wasn’t exactly hard to tell…”

You blink, surprised by the shift in his tone. “You’re a little full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Just a little,” he grins back, his eyes lighting up with that familiar spark as he shifts closer to you. “You know back there, after I got out of the car, I thought you’d go all WAG mode and kiss me on my helmet or something.”

You roll your eyes, pulling your hands away from him, making him laugh, “Oh, so I’m a WAG now? You know I'm really professional. So I’d never do that. In public too? Forget it.”

“I mean, I’m not complaining ‘cause I wouldn’t mind,” Haechan shrugs, “You should do it sometimes.”

You give him an exaggerated look of disbelief, but the warmth spreading through you makes it harder to stay serious. “You really think I would?”

“I’m just saying, it’d be a really nice surprise,” he says, his voice lowering, the teasing fading into something more sincere.

You hesitate for a moment, the playfulness still hanging in the air. And then, before you even fully process it, you lean forward, your hand finding the back of his neck. Haechan’s eyes widen slightly, but before he can react, you close the gap between you, pressing your lips to his softly, with a tenderness that’s more than just a playful kiss.

You can feel the warmth of him, his body moving ever so slightly toward yours, his hand sliding to your waist, fingers gently curling around you, anchoring you to him. The world outside this little bubble of yours fades into the background. Haechan’s lips slot perfectly between yours. He still tastes like champagne. You’re not particularly fond of it, but for him, you think you could make an exception.

His hand slides up to your cheek, fingers brushing against the soft skin there as he tilts his head just slightly, deepening the kiss. You feel his pulse against yours, a rhythm that matches the way your heart begins to race, each beat a little faster, a little louder.

When you finally pull away, your lips still humming from the closeness, Haechan’s forehead rests against yours, his breath a little quicker than before, as though he’s still coming back to reality. You can’t help but smile softly, feeling something in you settle, like a weight being lifted.

“Was that surprising enough for you?” you murmur, your voice just above a whisper.

His smile stretches slowly, like he’s trying to still comprehend. “Definitely.”

The two of you stay silent for a moment, processing and acknowledging whatever just happened when Haechan speaks up again, “But… just for the surprise to hit harder you could do it again.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head, but before you can even think of a reply, he tugs you just a little closer, his lips brushing against yours again—lighter this time, but just as sure.

WINTER BREAK

December 21st

You hadn’t meant to spill the news to your mother this soon. It had just sort of… happened.

You had been on the phone with her one evening, catching up like you always did when you were both too busy to visit in person. She had been asking about work, about life, about whether you were eating properly, when she had casually slipped in, “So, are you seeing anyone?”

And because you hadn’t really been thinking, half-focused on something on your laptop, you had answered honestly.

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence. Then a distinct shift in her tone, lighter, curious. “Oh?”

Your stomach had flipped. There had been no taking it back now.

“Yeah,” you had said again, slower this time, as if easing yourself into the reality of this conversation.

“Since when?”

You had hesitated, glancing at the calendar on your desk. “A little while now.”

“And when were you planning on telling me?”

You had exhaled through your nose, already hearing the teasing smile in her voice. “Eventually?”

She laughed. “Eventually. Right.” A pause, then, “Well? Who is he?”

You had bitten your lip, then said, “Haechan.”

Silence.

Then, after a few seconds, a sharp inhale. “As in your Haechan?”

You had winced. “Yeah.”

“As in the same Haechan I see on TV? The same one you’ve been working with this season?”

“Yeah.”

She had let out an incredulous laugh, clearly caught off guard. “And when exactly did this happen?”

You had hesitated, because when had it happened, really? There had been no defining moment, no grand realization, just a steady shift, an unshakable pull toward something you had probably always known was there.

“It wasn’t all at once,” you had admitted. “It just… made sense.”

Your mom had hummed like she was turning that over in her mind. “Well,” she had said eventually, “if it’s serious enough for you to tell me, you should bring him home for dinner.”

Your breath had hitched. “What?”

She had repeated it like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Bring him home. If you care about him, we’d like to meet him properly.”

You had swallowed. You hadn’t thought this far ahead, hadn’t considered when or how you’d introduce him to your family. Not because you hadn’t been sure about him—you had, you really had—but because the idea of sitting at that table with him, of merging two parts of your life that had always been separate, had made everything feel so real.

But… wasn’t that the point?

You had let out a slow breath. “I’ll ask him.”

Your mom had chuckled knowingly. “Good. Let me know when.”

You don’t bring it up right away.

It’s not that you’re nervous about his reaction—you know he’ll say yes. But when you finally mention it, just a casual, “My mom wants you to come over for dinner,” he still pauses for half a second longer than usual.

Then he blinks. “Dinner? Like, ‘sit at the table, be on my best behavior, answer your dad’s questions’ dinner?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Haechan leans back, tilting his head at you. “So, just to clarify, there’s no ‘pretend you don’t know me and let me sneak out the back’ option?”

“Nope.”

He exhales dramatically, rubbing his hands over his face. “Alright, then. What do I call them? Should I be formal? Or do I go straight to ‘Mom and Dad’ to establish dominance?”

You snort. “If you do that, my dad might actually kick you out.”

“Got it. Saving that for the second dinner.”

You shake your head, watching as he stretches his arms over his head before finally settling back against the cushions. For all his joking, you can tell he’s actually thinking about it. He’s always been quick to roll with things, but this feels like something he’s mentally preparing himself for.

After a beat, he glances at you again, quieter now. “You want me there?”

“Yeah,” you say, just as soft. “I do.”

He holds your gaze for a second before nodding, more certain now. “Alright.”

—

Dinner passes in a comfortable blur.

Haechan is nervous at first. You can tell by the way he sits up a little too straight, the way his fingers drum lightly against his thigh as if he’s reminding himself to stay composed. But as the meal goes on, the warmth of your home eases him in. Your mom fusses over his plate, your dad throws in the occasional dry joke, and Rina’s teasing keeps him engaged. By the time the table is cleared and your mom waves you both off with a “Go relax, I’ve got this,” Haechan follows you upstairs looking much more at ease.

Your childhood room is just as you left it. Familiar, unchanging, a space to return to whenever you visit. You can hear Rina’s Frank Sinatra album playing through the walls. You remember when Rina was still small enough to curl up beside you on lazy afternoons, insisting you play music for her. You remember the way she’d hum along, her voice soft and uncertain, trying to match the notes, how she’d giggle whenever she stumbled over the lyrics. It takes you back to being seventeen, to the quiet comfort of these walls, the long stretches of time where it felt like nothing would ever really change.

But then your eyes land on Haechan as he steps inside, and the memory settles into something different. Not quite distant, but no longer the world you live in.

Seventeen was a lifetime ago. Before flights and paddocks, before conferences and championship fights. Before Haechan.

And yet, here he is, standing in the middle of it all like he belongs. Like there’s room for him here, too.

Because there is, You think fondly.

You watch as his eyes scan the space, gaze moving from the overstuffed bookshelf to the small collection of stuffed animals still tucked into the corner of your bed. He lingers on the little trinkets lining your desk, a few old keychains, a white dreamcatcher from a school trip years ago, a cup of dried-out gel pens you never threw away. It’s a time capsule, a version of you he never got to know.

But it’s the photos on your wall that really draw him in.

He moves closer, his fingers hovering near them but never quite touching. There’s one of you at five, or six maybe, in a navy blue sweatshirt with your hands cupping your cheeks as you smile so wide your eyes disappear.

Haechan lets out a quiet laugh, turning towards your figure, flopped on your bed. “Oh, this is ridiculous,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You were actually the cutest kid alive.”

You grin. “It’s one of my favourite pictures of me too, honestly.”

He nods, but instead of moving on, he lifts his phone and takes a picture. You don’t notice, too lost in the comfort of your bed, the warmth of the moment.

Haechan doesn’t say anything either. Just tucks his phone away and keeps looking, his gaze flicking over another photo from a class trip, where you and your friends are grinning wildly, arms slung around each other. A few graduation photos, one with your parents standing proudly on either side of you, another with Rina making a face behind your shoulder.

You watch as Haechan’s gaze lingers on the framed family photo that sits on your desk, his fingers hovering over the glass like he’s memorizing every detail. There’s something unreadable in his expression, not quite wistful, not quite sad, but thoughtful in a way that makes you want to say something before he gets lost in it.

“That was taken after dinner at my grandma’s house,” you tell him, shifting so you can see it from where you’re sprawled on the bed. “We almost didn’t get a picture because Rina kept running off to play. My dad had to bribe her with extra dessert to get her to stay still.”

Haechan huffs out a quiet laugh at that, his lips quirking up slightly. “I should’ve guessed.”

You nod toward the frame. “It’s one of my favorites too.”

He tilts his head, still staring at it. “I get why.” Then, after a beat, he exhales and glances at you, hesitating for just a second before saying, “This might be a little forward, but… I kind of wish we knew each other before. Like, what if I could’ve been one of those people in your class photos, or—”

“You would have driven me insane,” you interrupt, glancing at him.

Haechan lets out a laugh, tilting his head. “Oh, really?”

You nod, leaning back against your bed. “Absolutely. You would’ve been the kid who never sat still, who found new ways to annoy me every day, who somehow convinced me to break all the rules.”

He smirks, nudging your knee with his. “Sounds like we would’ve had fun.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe.”

Haechan hums, studying your expression for a moment before murmuring, “Still wish I was there.”

The words settle between you, soft but heavy.

You’d never really thought about before. About how your life would have looked if he had been there earlier.

But now, as he sits beside you, fingers tracing the edge of an old photograph, you can’t help but picture it.

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years old. Would he have been the boy who stole your notes in class? The one who passed you secret messages during exams just to make you roll your eyes? The one who always found a way to drag you into trouble, just so he could laugh at how flustered you got?

You exhale, suddenly aware of how fast your heart is beating.

Would you have fallen for him faster?

You sit up properly now, meeting his gaze, searching for something in it that you already know is there.

“I think you would’ve fit right in,” you say quietly.

Haechan’s lips curve into a small, almost shy smile, and he nods once, like he’s tucking the thought away for later. He looks back at the photo as he sits next to you. You take his hand in yours, gently rubbing the back of his palm with your thumb.

“Maybe next time, I’ll get to be in one.”

You squeeze his hand, “You will be.”

The two of you settle into an almost comfortable silence when the music from Rina’s room catches your attention.

"There is nothing for me but to love you… and the way you look tonight."

Haechan’s head tilts slightly, a slow, knowing grin creeping onto his lips as he turns to you. “Well, that’s convenient.”

You groan, already feeling the warmth rising to your cheeks. “Oh, come on. Don’t.”

His grin widens. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

He shrugs, leaning just a little closer. “I mean… if the music insists.”

You smack his arm, but he only laughs before resting his head on your shoulder.

—

December 23rd

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Haechan pauses, one hand still adjusting a silver bauble on the tree. He turns to you with an incredulous look. “How can I possibly be doing it wrong?”

“You’re clustering all the ornaments in one spot,” you say, pointing at the lopsided section he’s been working on. “It’s all too heavy on that side.”

He scoffs. “Excuse me for trying to create a focal point.”

“It’s not a gallery wall, it’s a Christmas tree.”

“Same concept.”

You roll your eyes and get up from his couch, stumbling a little over all the boxes on the floor. He flinches, rushing forward to catch you. You don’t fall, but you end up in his arms anyway. You reach to move one of the ornaments, but he swats your hand away. “Nope, decoration rights revoked,” he declares.

You stare at him in disbelief, eyes falling on the hand that swatted you away before moving to the one around your waist. “Hello? You can’t do that.”

“I absolutely can. My tree, my artistic vision.”

You give him a deadpan look. “I was the one who convinced you to get a tree in the first place. Otherwise, your house would just be sad and lifeless. I chose the tree too!” rolling your eyes, you continue, “Besides, your artistic vision looks like it got tired halfway through and took a nap.”

Haechan gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve personally offended him. “Okay, that was uncalled for.”

You bite back a grin as you place a red bauble exactly where he had just moved it from, making him groan in protest.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “I let you into my house, I let you touch my Christmas tree, and this is how you treat me?”

“You’re all bark, no bite,” You narrow your eyes at him, “Get your hands off me then!”

Haechan doesn’t even hesitate. “No.” He smirks, fingers curling a little tighter around your waist. “I won’t. What are you gonna do about it?”

You open your mouth, then close it, then sigh in defeat. “Nothing,” you mutter.

“That’s what I thought.” He grins, rocking you both slightly where you stand. The Christmas lights cast a warm glow over his face, and for a moment, neither of you move. He’s looking at you, not in the teasing, smug way he usually does, but in that softer, quieter way that always makes your chest feel too full.

Then you sigh, glancing at the half-decorated tree. “We’re decorating way too late.”

Haechan groans in agreement. “I know. If we started earlier, this wouldn’t be so stressful.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Well, whose fault is that?”

He blinks at you. “Not mine? I won both championships before December. It’s not my fault they don’t let us go until all the races are over. Blame the F1 calendar instead!”

You sigh, relenting. “Okay, fine. It’s the calendar’s fault.”

“Thank you.” He grins, rocking back on his heels. “Finally, some sense.”

You shake your head with a laugh, nudging his shoulder before turning back to the tree. “Still, if we started earlier, we wouldn’t be scrambling to finish before Christmas.”

Haechan hums in agreement, reaching for another ornament. “Guess we just have to get better at this whole off-season thing.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “We?”

Haechan nods, his gaze flickering to you for a moment before he looks back at the tree. “Yeah,” he says simply, looping an ornament onto a branch. “We. We are quite good during the season, don't you think?”

He hooks another ornament onto a branch, “Oh, by the way, there’s fruitcake on the kitchen counter.”

You pause, your hand holding an ornament in mid-air and turn to look at him. “Oh?”

He nods, adjusting a light on the tree. “Yeah.”

You frown slightly. “But… you don’t like fruitcake.”

Haechan shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah, but you do.”

You frown slightly, touched by the gesture, “How do you know that?”

Haechan glances at you, lips curving up. “You’re not as mysterious as you think you are.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Oh, please. When have I ever mentioned liking fruitcake?”

He hums, stepping back to take a look at the tree, “I think it was in Budapest. Jeno was talking about how he got sick from eating fruitcake off season.”

You laugh, pleasantly surprised that he remembered that.

“As much as I love fruitcake, it’s definitely not the best thing to have in any month other than December,” You admit, “Also, you really have to get the right ones. Some are loaded with too many spices, some are too greasy… I’d never complain about having too many nuts or fruit but I guess people wouldn’t like that either.”

His laughter is light as he lets his forehead rest against yours, his hands slipping to your waist. The tree lights flicker in the corner of your vision, a warm golden colour. They remind you of Haechan.

“This is kind of the last thing I expected getting into this year,” he murmurs after a beat.

You blink, the playfulness between you both settling into something more serious and heartfelt. “What? Decorating a tree with me?”

His fingers drum lightly against your hip. “More like all of this. Us.”

You exhale, nudging your nose against his. “Yeah,” you admit. “Me too.”

Haechan hums, thoughtful. “I mean, if you told me at the start of the season that I’d win both championships and have you here at the end of it, I would’ve laughed in your face.”

You tilt your head. “Oh? What part was more unbelievable?”

“The championships, obviously.” He grins, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “You? I think at one point it just became obvious that you were inevitable.”

Your stomach flips, but before you can even think of a response, he reaches past you, placing the star in your hands.

“Go on, then.”

You eye him suspiciously. “No catch?”

He shakes his head. “Never.”

You glance at him again, making sure before standing on your tiptoes to place the star at the top. As you adjust it, Haechan’s hands settle at your waist again, steadying you without a word.

Once you step back, the tree finally completed, he lets out a satisfied hum. “Not bad.”

You turn around to look at him.

He looks back at you, tilting his head, a smile playing on his lips before he leans down

The first time you met Haechan, he barely spared you more than a glance, too caught up in the frustration of strategies and a season that hadn’t even begun.

Now, Haechan kisses you like it’s second nature, like he’s done it a hundred times before and will do it a hundred times more.

His lips move against yours with a quiet sort of certainty, like he’s memorized exactly how to kiss you. Not rushed, not hesitant, just sure. His hands slide up, fingertips pressing into your back to bring you closer, and when you splay your fingers across the fabric of his sweater, you feel the way his heartbeat kicks up under your touch.

He exhales softly against your lips before kissing you again, deeper this time, slower. The world narrows down to the quiet press of his mouth, the steady warmth of his touch, the faint scent of pine and cinnamon lingering between you. You can feel it in the way he holds you that this isn't something that will slip away.

And then, just for a second, it’s like standing on the grid, the air electric, the whole world holding its breath.

Just before the countdown. Before lights out.

tagging: @yukisroom97 @awktwurtle

#g: 13+#g: fluff #g: angst #g: driver au #type: slowburn #g: romance #warnings: swearing #warnings: stress #warnings: description of car crashes #type: fic #wc: 15k+#a: hhaechansmoless #member: calli #artist: nct #m: haechan

368 notes · View notes

nameification · 1 year ago

Text

may talk abt some new ocs in the upcoming days. who knows

#viv.txt #certainly not me #camp nano and i started like. two days late but my goal is 15k and my current wc is 1800!!#is for the story the new ocs are in. btw

2 notes · View notes

seedling-spark · 5 months ago

Text

man this fic is getting long

#finally writing the fic i've wanted to for ages #and i'm just going through writing out bullet points for the story that i can flesh out later #and i'm at 5k words #my wc normally triples when i flesh the stuff out later #so this is looking at 15k so far #and i'm not even halfway through the fic outline #this is going to be a longer fic than i though #but i'm really liking it so far #which is the important part

0 notes

contritecactite · 1 year ago

Text

I am here to announce three new fics today that I dropped all at once at a ridiculous hour the other day. They are gifts written for the Good Omens Song and Poetry Exchange (@gospexchange)! You can find the whole collection here (ratings and topics vary wildly!!)—everyone worked so hard and made some really wonderful gifts.

I got a little carried away (shout-out to some amazing sprint buddies who kept me moving) and so we ended up with:

1. enough to keep it together

T - 1.5k - post-second coming - link

The table makes a gulf between them now instead of a last thin barrier of propriety. They’re sitting farther apart than they would have been. Crowley hasn’t touched his wine and hasn’t asked about the quality of the food, which is just as well because Aziraphale hasn’t quite talked himself into digging in.

It’s a celebratory lunch, but it might as well be a wake—and not one of the rowdy ones.

(After the Second Coming is dealt with, Aziraphale and Crowley take the first step toward dealing with... everything else. Written for the first Good Omens Song and Poetry Exchange and inspired by The Libertines' "Can't Stand Me Now.")

2. Competitive Inhibition

M - 15k - through the ages - link

In biochemistry: a phenomenon in which a molecule is blocked from binding to an enzyme by another molecule with a similar structure—like a demon preventing an angel from binding completely to Heaven or, more to the point, doubt and fear keeping an angel from wholly welcoming a bond with a demon.

Or: The ups and downs of sharing 6000 years of life on Earth with an angel who wants desperately to be doing Good. Written for the first Good Omens Song and Poetry Exchange and inspired by The Libertines' "Can't Stand Me Now" and Fisherman's Friends' "Union of Different Kinds."

3. All Dreams That Bloom

T - 3k - post-canon (book) - link

And it’s not so bad, maybe, being on the outside of things. So long as you aren’t alone. So long as someone stands on the high and distant wall beside you and keeps you safe and dry.

(The world doesn't end. Crowley and Aziraphale quietly retire only to be dragged back to Tadfield for a special occasion. It turns out that even among friends—or something close to it—they don't quite belong. Written for the first Good Omens Song and Poetry Exchange and inspired by Fisherman's Friends' "Union of Different Kinds.")

#loved this so much and I am honestly having trouble getting my brain to move on from writing CI!#good omens #my fic #rating: t #rating: m #wc: 1.5k #wc: 3k #wc: 15k #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic

4 notes · View notes

madamechrissy · 2 months ago

Text

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ Satoru Gojo Long Fics ˚୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

All of my Satoru Gojo fics over 20k

Time after Time- Finished- Wc: 103k- (Ao3) CEO Gojo x fem assistant reader, you're his lead assistant and you put in your two weeks notice, because your boss is a grade A ASS- so Satoru Gojo pulls out ALL the stops to keep you. Is he who you thought he was, or more? Smutty/fun/sweet - my first Gojo fic

Take Me Home Tonight - Finished-Wc: 136k- law professor Gojo/x law student (A03) you hook up with a sexy white haired man at a club after passing your bar, only to be in his class two months later!?!? How can you handle falling in love with your professor, and can you both keep this a secret? Very witty/lots of banter, law setting-smutty and sweet

Fractured Desires - Finished- explicit- wc 95k (angsty/ toxic/smutfest) Ao3 You're Suguru Geto's girlfriend, and he decides to 'share you'- which becomes a fkn MESS, when you find out that Satoru has wanted you all along, and Suguru isn't who you think he is. (Starts off as Sugu/reader- Extremely explicit-yandere asf, Evil suguru, psycho Gojo)

Silent Serenades - Finished- wc 152k - You are promised to marry the handsome Duke Gojo, you're the diamond of the season, after all. Only thing is, he HATES you, and has no intention of being faithful. Now you're stuck in a loveless marriage that eats you from within, but you won't let him break you down. Angsty arranged marriage AU, love triangle, toxic- set in the 1800s- cruel Duke Gojo- AO3

Healing Hearts -Dr. Gojo/intern-ongoing- 64k You're an exhausted intern, living with your three friends, Maki, Toge and Yuuta, and you just so happen to be Dr. Gojo's intern. - or as you soon call him 'Dr. Hojo' he seems perfect, but he's hiding a dark secret. The two of you couldn't be more different, is there any hope? Hospital setting - angsty Ao3

Baby You're a Star - you meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, the two of you hit it off, but he is the top pornstar there is. You don't sleep around, soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!?- explicit, super fkn angsty- shy/Demi reader w/Pornstar Satoru- it's gonna be a long oneee- explicit- ongoing 46k Ao3

Just Friends!? - Nerdjo x popular reader- based on the movie 'Just Friends'- Satoru left his old life behind, leaving town, moving to the big city of LA- Everything about him is different, aside from those pretty blue eyes and the sweet grin, but is he still your sweet best friend deep down?- lots of angst and feels, friends to nothing to lovers- ongoing- 29k Ao3

Mini Series

Losing Control Now- Mafia AU, notorious mobster Satoru Gojo becomes obsessed with you, the pretty bartender at his favorite club- but he finds you have your own secrets, threats to your life, and plans to save you at all costs. Lots of smut, Satoru being obsessed, mafia themes - sweet Gojo- explicit - ongoing-31k Ao3

Took You Like a Shot - You and Satoru Gojo (fratboy/fuckboi Gojo) have been rivals for all of college, right up until the last day of school, where you end up under him and... pregnant somehow!? shit. But have you two actually hated each other, or are you both lying to yourselves? Can a party boy raise a kid? Fluffy, fun, has a lot of humor/pregnant reader- FINISHED - WC- 42k - Ao3

Would you come with me? -You have been Satoru's best friend forever, and one day he asks you a really big favor- marry him. But have you been in love all along!? Three parts, fluffy and hella smutty, friends to lovers- Finished- three parts 22k Ao3

Escort Gojo Mini Series- FINISHED! - You're a rich CEO who hires a handsome escort, with a five star rating, who has one rule- no kissing. But will he break this rule? cute/sweet and light angst. WC- 15k

୨୧˚ Satoru Gojo Oneshots ˚୨୧

୨୧˚ Satoru Gojo Drabbles/ Headcanons ˚୨୧

#satoru gojo smut #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #divider by cafekitsune #gojo x reader #jjk smut #gojo smut #jjk x reader #satoru x reader #jjk masterlist #gojo masterlist #satoru LONG fics #finished gojo fics #jujustu kaisen #jjk gojo

8K notes · View notes

nephynes · 11 days ago

Text

You’re broke, exhausted, and desperate enough to take a cleaning job no one else will touch. The client lives alone in a silent penthouse, hidden from the world by rumor and choice. You weren’t supposed to know his name—just clean and leave. But when your journal goes missing and comes back with his handwriting in the margins, everything changes.

• minors do not interact

• pairing: schizophrenic concert pianist!heeseung x afab reader

• wc: 28k

• content tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mental health themes, depictions of schizophrenia, poverty, class disparity, emotional repression, slow burn, journal entries, forbidden closeness, soft smut, loneliness, poetic prose, mentions of blood, trauma, caretaker dynamics, emotionally intense, non-idol au, heeseung x reader, reader-insert.

WARNINGS: mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of blood, emotional breakdowns, poverty, food insecurity, toxic living environment, isolation, possible dissociation, references to past trauma, depersonalization, implied neglect, emotionally heavy content, not a fluff centric story. okay maybe there’s a little fluff.

• a/n: this was meant to be a 15k word fic (don’t ask me what happened) i would still die for recluse heeseung.

• nsfw tags under the cut

SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, bloodplay implications, sex during dissociation, power imbalance, emotional dependency, mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm, trauma, possessive behavior, emotionally intense dynamic, obsession themes. (lmk if i missed any) not proofread!

══════════════════════════

You're running. Again. The strap of your tote bag digs into your shoulder as your shoes slap the sidewalk, water splashing up your ankles with each desperate step. Rain mist clings to your skin like sweat—except sweat would be warm. This is just cold and inconvenient. Your Literature lecture ran ten minutes over because, of course, your professor finally decided to acknowledge your existence the one time you needed to leave early. He asked for your thoughts on postmodern fragmentation in the age of digital alienation while you sat there wondering if postmodern fragmentation was what your GPA would look like this semester.

By the time you made it outside, the bus was already pulling up. You waved frantically, almost twisting your ankle as you darted across the crosswalk—nearly colliding with a cyclist. He swerved. You screamed. He cursed. It was poetic, in a tragicomedy kind of way. Now, you're clinging to the pole in the bus's center aisle, damp hair clinging to your cheeks as it rocks around corners, your phone buzzing with the time—12:46 PM.

Mrs. Do expects you at 12:30. Sharp, always sharp but today you're going to disappoint her, again and it makes you nervous cause this isn't your first fuck up. Getting off at the bus stop in Mrs. Do's neighborhood is like stepping into another world. Wide sidewalks, trimmed hedges. Every driveway is the kind of polished grey stone that seems to repel dirt on principle. The kind of neighborhood that smells like generational wealth and imported jasmine diffusers.

The sky's already sour when you round the corner onto the cobblestone lane. Gray and sullen, like it knows something you don't. Your thighs ache from sprinting across campus, your spine's slick with sweat under your too-thin hoodie, and your fingers are still raw from gripping the metal pole on the bus. You hadn't even realized how tightly you were holding on—like the bus was the only thing standing between you and collapse. You're fifteen minutes late, sixteen, actually.

The house looms before you like a museum exhibit—grand, sterile, and quiet enough to make you feel like you've already done something wrong just by being there. All tall glass windows and trimmed hedges, with a front door so glossy you can see your own desperation reflected in it. You ring the bell, sucking in a breath and she opens it almost immediately. Mrs. Do doesn't need to speak to make her opinion known. Her eyes flick down your frame—hoodie, faded jeans, dirt-smudged sneakers—and her mouth flattens like she's biting back something acidic. Her nose twitches once.

"You're late."

"I'm so sorry," you say, voice thin. "My class ran over and I missed my bus, and—" She rolls her eyes, cutting you off, "You people always have an excuse". You people. "I've already called your manager," she says coolly, stepping back just enough to make room for your shame to enter. "This is unacceptable. I hired help, not excuses."

Help. You step inside anyway because she hasn't technically slammed the door in your face yet. The floor gleams beneath your feet and you're careful not to drip on the marble. "I can still clean," you try, gripping the handle of your tote tighter. "I—I'll stay longer if you need. P—Please don't fire me." She turns slowly, folding her arms like she's posing for a luxury handbag ad. "You'll leave," she says. "And next time, be honest with yourself about what you're capable of."

That's it. No raised voice, no chance to plead. Just ice in human form and the creak of the front door swinging back open like a guillotine. You stand there a second too long—long enough for it to become pathetic—then you turn and walk back out with your head down and your heart thudding where your confidence used to be. It starts to drizzle as soon as you step off her perfect property. Of course it does.You jog down to the bus stop at the end of the street, ignoring the way your socks squelch in your shoes. Your bag knocks awkwardly against your side. You still have half a bottle of disinfectant in there, you could drink it and cleanse the humiliation right out of your system.

The bus pulls up late. You board with the same dread you imagine people feel before surgery—knowing it's necessary, knowing it's going to hurt. Inside, it's packed. You stand, gripping the pole, body swaying with every uneven turn. The lights flicker overhead. A kid is screaming two seats over. A man is coughing into his hand and not covering his mouth. You catch your reflection in the window—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, eyes dull, lips chapped from chewing them in nervous spirals. This is your life, this bus ride, this moment, is unfortunately your life. The route winds through the city, away from the clean sidewalks and polished gates, deeper into the cracked edges of town where the concrete is more gum than stone and the streetlights work in pairs—if at all. You get off at the corner near the faded liquor store, shoulders hunched under the growing weight of your day.

Your apartment building is a boxy, red-brick rectangle with iron balconies rusting at the corners. The woman who lives two floors up is yelling at her boyfriend again. You can hear every word, you wonder why they're still together seeing as they're fighting every other day. You climb the stairs slowly, dragging your legs like anchors. The third floor always smells like someone burned toast and sprayed perfume to hide it. Your door sticks and it takes three tries to get it open. The TV is already blaring, some british reality dating show, laughter, the pop of a beer can. Minjae is sprawled across the couch, shirtless, remote in one hand and a bowl in the other.

Your bowl. "Yo," he greets, mouth full. "You look like death."

"Thanks." You kick off your shoes and look around in the apartment that's in pure chaos—shoes everywhere, makeup on the kitchen counter, someone's bra dangling from the dining chair. Probably Jiyoon's. The dishes in the sink are starting grow by numbers. She appears in the hallway, barefoot and probably wine-drunk, wearing one of her boyfriend's shirts.

"Hey," she slurs. "How was the bitch?" You stare at her. "I got fired." "Again?" she groans, flopping dramatically onto the peeling loveseat. "Ugh. I told you to lie and say your grandma died. It works every time." You don't respond, heading to the kitchen to open the fridge, the light flickers when you open it. There's nothing inside except a carton of milk that expired last week and someone's half-eaten burger. You close it and lean against the counter, pressing your forehead to the cabinet above.

This can't be your life. This can't keep being your life.

Your socks are still wet when you drag yourself down the narrow hall toward the shared bathroom. You don't even bother turning on the light at first—just reach blindly into the shower caddy for your body wash, hoping a hot rinse will wash off the day, or at least the last of Mrs. Do's perfume that still clings to your sleeves like a curse. Your hand closes around the bottle.

Empty.

You blink, now flipping on the harsh fluorescent light. The bottle is sitting there—your expensive one, the only thing you splurged on in months, lavender and eucalyptus, bought during a panic attack at the drugstore like a promise to yourself that things would get better but now it's squeezed dry. You stand there, frozen. Cold water dripping off your hood. Your knuckles whitening around the neck of the bottle. "Jiyoon!" your voice cracks down the hallway like a whip.

A pause. "What?" she calls back, annoyed, like you're interrupting something important—like Love Island. You storm back into the living room, brandishing the empty bottle like evidence at a trial. Minjae doesn't even glance up from the couch, he's playing something on his phone now, earbuds in, cereal bowl at his feet. Your fucking bowl.

"Tell me this wasn't him." Jiyoon sits up, scowling at your tone. "What are you talking about?" "This." You shake the bottle. "My body wash. The one you 'borrowed' last week. It's gone. Empty. And I know you don't like the smell—so unless I'm hallucinating, your leech of a boyfriend used the last of it."

She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, it's not that deep. It's body wash." "No, it's my body wash. The only nice thing I own. And he used it, again, after eating the rest of my leftovers and leaving dirty socks in the sink and never ever paying rent!"

Minjae finally glances up, one earbud still in. "Damn. You need a Xanax or something?"

Your mouth goes dry.

Jiyoon frowns. "Okay, first of all, don't talk to her like that—"

"No, don't defend me now," you cut in, voice shaking. "You let him live here for free. You make excuses for him while I scrape together every last cent to keep a roof over our heads. I work two jobs, Jiyoon. I eat scraps. I got fired today and came home in the rain to this—and now I can't even take a damn shower without discovering he's drained the last thing I own that smells like something other than despair."

She shifts, uncomfortable. "You could've said something nicer."

"And you could've picked someone who showers in his own place instead of mine!"

Silence.

You don't cry and you won't. Not in front of him. Not even here. You don't wait for an apology that'll never come. You retreat to your room, slam the door, and lock it behind you—not because you're afraid, but because you're done.

You strip off your hoodie, throw it in the corner, and climb into bed fully damp and exhausted. The blanket clings to your legs. You curl around your pillow and let the tension tremble out of your fingertips like static electricity.

You curl up in bed fully clothed, hoodie damp and clinging to your skin, fingers still aching from scrubbing tile three days ago. The blanket smells faintly like bleach. Jiyoon is laughing in the next room, voice high and bright and grating. You close your eyes.

*•*•*

You wake up to the clink of glassware and Minjae's laugh from the kitchen, that smug, high-pitched snort that always sets your teeth on edge. There's no time to be angry—not this morning. You're already late. Again.

You roll out of bed and throw on the first vaguely clean outfit you can find, dragging a brush through your tangled hair and pinning it up like your life depends on it. Your backpack's already half-packed from the night before. You stuff in your worn-out copy of Beloved, a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbles and half-finished poems, and race out the door without breakfast.

It's colder today. The kind of cold that bites under your clothes and leaves your fingers raw. You catch the bus by sheer miracle—sprinting half a block and nearly losing a shoe in the process—and squeeze into the back seat between a teenage couple whispering too loud and a man who keeps humming to himself.

You reach campus with two minutes to spare. The lecture hall smells like chalk dust and old books. It's one of your favorite smells in the world. You slide into the third row, clutching your notebook to your chest, and feel a quiet sort of calm settle over you. This is your safe place. Literature. Language. Storytelling.

The professor enters with her usual elegance, a tall woman with soft curls and a warm smile that doesn't waver even when her students barely look up. She doesn't need to raise her voice to command the room. She carries presence the way some people carry perfume—effortlessly.

"Today," she begins, "we talk about longing." You feel your chest tighten in the most bittersweet way.

She reads a passage aloud—something from a contemporary poet you love but couldn't afford to buy the full collection of—and for a while, you forget the bruising ache in your back from yesterday, or the hollowness in your stomach. You forget Minjae. You forget Mrs. Do.

After class, you linger longer than usual, pretending to organize your papers while most students file out. Professor Cha doesn't seem surprised when you approach her desk.

"I loved what you read today," you say, voice still soft from reverence. "The way it ached."

Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. "That's a good word. A poem should ache. And yours always do."

You blink. "You read my last submission?"

"I did." She smiles, more maternal than academic now. "You write like you've lived ten lives. There's heartbreak in your syntax, but also something... resilient. It's beautiful. Raw."

The compliment hits deeper than she probably intends. You swallow. "Thank you. I... needed to hear that."

She tilts her head. "You've looked tired lately."

"I got fired," you confess, voice breaking a little at the edges. "From one of my jobs." She doesn't blink or pity you, she nods instead. "Then the world made space for something better. Keep showing up. Your stories matter even if no one pays you for them yet."

It's not much but it's enough to lift your spine straighter as you thank her and walk out the door.

The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.

You're halfway down the campus stairs, still thinking about her words, when your phone rings. A number you don't recognize, but one you know instinctively not to ignore.

You answer.

"About damn time," a gravelly voice snaps through the line. "Did you turn off your phone all day or do you just enjoy making my blood pressure spike?"

You wince. "Sorry, Cee. I was in class—"

"I don't care if you were in confession with the Pope," he growls. "You missed your shift yesterday and you got us fired from the Do account." You open your mouth to explain, but he keeps going.

"Lucky for you," he says, as if the words are knives between his teeth, "no one else wants this new job and I'm too tired to argue. Penthouse gig. Rich recluse. We charge double, client pays in advance, and no one wants to take it because apparently the guy's a freak."

You frown. "A freak?"

"Unstable. Hermit. Been on the news, but who the hell keeps track? Listen, I don't care if he's a lizard in a human suit—he's paying. You're taking it."

Your throat dries.

"How many days?"

"Three a week. Big place. Clean what you can, don't snoop. I'll send the address. Be early." and then, just before he hangs up, his tone softens—barely. "Don't mess this up, kid. You need it."

You really, really do.

You stare at the phone screen even after the call ends, the manager's words still ringing in your ears. Freak. Hermit. Don't mess this up.

The ache in your calves from walking half a mile after the bus dropped you off doesn't compare to the slow sinking in your stomach as you lift your head to take in the building before you.

It's not just big—it's obscene. The kind of place you'd see in a glossy magazine left behind in a waiting room. Black glass, white stone, gold accents on the automatic double doors. No peeling paint, no squeaky hinges, no smell of cheap weed in the lobby. You shift your backpack higher on your shoulder and wipe your palms on your pants, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you look.

The doorman gives you a glance that says you're not the usual type, but he opens the door for you anyway. Inside, the lobby is quiet. Too quiet. Your footsteps echo on the marble like you're trespassing.

You check the note your manager texted again: Penthouse, 45th floor. Don't use the front elevator. Service lift in the back.

Figures.

You find the service lift through a hallway no guest would ever wander down—a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of lemon polish and secrecy. The kind of place you get swallowed in. You step inside the narrow elevator, the floor humming under your boots.

The doors slide shut with a groan. You breathe out. The kind of breath that's supposed to steady you but doesn't.

Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.

Cee: Don't fuck this up. Get there exactly at 10, leave exactly at 4. Even if you finish early, you stay. No exceptions. And whatever you do, NEVER go upstairs. He has rules. Don't test them.

You stare at the screen.

What kind of house has an upstairs in a penthouse? you think, and the second the thought passes, the elevator dings.

The doors creak open onto a hallway draped in shadow. No welcome mat, no noise or signs of life. Just a wide, heavy door that looks more like it belongs on a bank vault than a home.

You step out.

Your boots sound stupidly loud on the marble tile, and you hesitate before raising your hand to knock. But there's no need. The moment your knuckles reach the wood, the door clicks open on its own.

Unlocked.

The place is massive. The ceilings stretch too high, the walls too white, everything too pristine. There's barely any furniture. Just space and silence and air so still it feels like it hasn't been disturbed in years. You don't call out cause your manager said he wouldn't speak to you and that he likely wouldn't even show himself.

Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.

You hold your breath and step inside.

The air smells like cedar and something colder, like snow, if snow could haunt. You set your backpack down, find the gloves and cleaning supplies neatly packed inside, and glance around for somewhere to begin. The living room stretches out in an open floor plan—windows from floor to ceiling, giving a panoramic view of the city that glitters like it belongs to someone else.

You move quietly, gently, like the house might shatter if you're not careful, there's a faint creak above you that makes you freeze.

Somewhere beyond the mezzanine level—a second floor, tucked behind shadows and sleek black railings—you hear slow footsteps. Nothing fast, just the sound of pacing but then it stops and you don't look up.

You don't have to but you can feel the weight of someone above you. Maybe it's just the paranoia settling in or maybe it's the echo of your manager's warning.

Don't go upstairs.

You lower your gaze and start cleaning the untouched coffee table. You don't see a single cup stain or a single fingerprint. You think of the journal in your bag—the one you always carry, the one you use to write about your clients. He'll be in there by tonight, nameless, faceless. The man who lives upstairs like a ghost in the penthouse he knows.

For now, you work. Quiet and invisible. There's a fine layer of dust on everything. Not filth—just time, settled air and neglect. No signs of life, no spilled coffee mugs or kicked-off shoes. Just clean lines, cold surfaces, and untouched space.

You start in the living room, wiping down the windowsills and working your way around the low furniture. The couch looks barely used, the cushions still stiff. You sweep, mop, vacuum, moving silently through the rooms that all look the same—stunning, sterile, too expensive to feel real.

In the hallway near the back, there's a closet.

You pause in front of it.

It's nothing special—just a tall, sleek black door flush against the wall like all the others. But your fingers hesitate on the handle. Something about it makes your stomach twist. A soft wrongness that makes you not open it, that makes you turn around and just keep cleaning.

By 2:30, you've gone through the whole first floor. Kitchen wiped down. Bathroom gleaming. Trash collected and everything you were paid to do—done.

But Cee's voice rings in your head; Even if you finish early—stay. No exceptions.

So you sit.

You settle into one of the chairs by the window, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass lulling you into something between boredom and thoughtfulness. You reach into your bag and pull out your journal—worn leather, pages soft at the edges.

You click your pen open and start writing.

Day one at the penthouse. It smells like dust and something else I can't quite name. The kind of clean that doesn't feel lived in. I didn't open the black closet near the back. It felt like something in a horror film but I'll pretend it's just full of broken umbrellas.

Got fired from the Do account. Still bitter. She had a face like a lemon and a heart to match. Professor was a much-needed balm in comparison—thank God for her and her endless belief in me.

New job might be decent money if I don't screw it up. Cee says the guy who lives here is a recluse. Said he hasn't left the penthouse in two years. But I don't know. Maybe he's just lonely.

You pause there, tapping the pen against the paper. The upper floor is quiet. Still. You underline the word lonely and draw a small star beside it.

At exactly 4:00, you pack up your supplies, double-check every corner, and sling your bag over your shoulder and slide your journal right back into the side pocket of your bag, safe and sound.

You take the service elevator down, your own reflection warping in the mirrored steel walls, and step out into the cool evening air. The sun is already dipping lower, the clouds streaked in gold and gray.

The bus ride home is slower than usual. You sit in the back corner, forehead pressed to the rattling glass, zoning out to the lull of traffic and tired bodies. The city outside blurs past in tired shades.

As your apartment door creaks open, you start praying no one hears or sees you. But it's already too late.

Minjae's voice rings out sharp and annoyed. "I told you I'm looking, Jiyoon. What do you want me to do, lie on a fucking application?"

Jiyoon fires back just as quickly. "No, I want you to try! I'm covering your half of the rent again this month—what do you think I am, an ATM?!"

You freeze in the doorway, trying to shrink into your coat. If you're quiet enough, maybe you can just slip past—

"Hey," Jiyoon says suddenly, spotting you over Minjae's shoulder. Her tone shifts fast—softer now, almost guilty. "You just get in?"

You nod, shrugging your bag higher. "Yeah." "How's the nut house?"

You drop your bag by the door and stare at her. "The what?"

"The place you're cleaning. You know, that recluse guy who's like—off his rocker? Isn't that what your boss said?"

You toe off your shoes and mutter, "It's just a job."

Minjae grins walking away from Jiyoon's presence like the change in topic is suddenly the end of their argument. "I bet he's got some freaky shit there. Hidden cameras. Severed heads. Weird old dude stuff."

"I don't even know if he's old," you say, voice low. "And you don't know anything about him."

Minjae snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

You turn back to Jiyoon, your constant irritation for her boyfriend crawling up your neck. "It's... weird," you admit. "But clean. Quiet. Better than getting yelled at by lemon-faced socialites, I guess."

Jiyoon gives you a weak smile. "Well, if anyone can survive a haunted tower or whatever that place is, it's you."

You hum, tired beyond belief, and slip down the hall toward your room without waiting for more, maybe more will come in the morning.

And when morning does come, it hits like a slow bruise. No alarm, just the muted scrape of a garbage truck outside and the sound of Jiyoon's laughter echoing down the hall, already too loud for the hour. You blink up at the water-stained ceiling, let the ache in your jaw settle, and for a few seconds, you don't move. The blanket's twisted around your leg like it's trying to keep you here. You wish it would.

But you're broke. So you move

You don't eat breakfast. There's no time, and besides, Jiyoon's boyfriend used the last of your cereal. You found the empty box in the sink this morning, soggy and limp with leftover milk, like a personal fuck-you from the universe.

Outside, the streets are still wet from last night's rain, the air sharp and cold enough to crack your lips. You tug your coat tighter around yourself and walk fast, half-hoping your legs will just carry you somewhere else. But the route to the campus library is too familiar, too automatic. You take the side street behind the deli, cutting through the alley behind the 24-hour laundromat where the machines always sound like they're choking. There's graffiti on the brick wall now—someone's drawn a woman with eyes for hands.

The library is warm in that stale, overused way that makes you sleepy, but you know the quiet corner where the heater rattles just enough to keep you awake. You sit with your laptop and your headphones, the cushion on the chair still warm from the last desperate student who used it.

This is job number two.

You click play on the next transcription project; an audiobook manuscript from some retired executive who thinks the world needs to hear about his rise to glory. The audio crackles. His voice is deep, smug, like he's narrating his own documentary.

"It all began with a vision. I was just a boy, standing in my father's study, realizing the empire I'd one day build..." You try not to roll your eyes. Your fingers find the rhythm. You transcribe as fast as he talks, catching every word, every pretentious pause.

"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some, like me, are greatness incarnate."

Jesus.

You pause the audio and lean back, pressing your fingers into your temples. He's unbearable. Still—you need the money, so you press play again. But somewhere in the haze of his bravado, your mind drifts, not too far, just up.

Up to the penthouse you cleaned yesterday. The thick silence, untouched surfaces and the staircase you weren't allowed to climb. It all made something you couldn't name press down on the air.

You wonder what he sounds like.

The man who lives there, the one Cee called a shut-in, a recluse. Heeseung. You only know the name because of the envelope on the front table. You weren't supposed to look, but you did. Of course you did.

You imagine his voice now, layered under the pompous narration. Not loud or self-important. Just... quiet. Measured. Maybe hoarse from disuse. You imagine what it would feel like to hear it. To be the reason it breaks the silence. Your fingers falter. The word "greatness" stutters across the screen three times in a row.

You stop typing.

And for a second, you just sit there, headphones still on, the man's voice buzzing in your ears like a mosquito trapped in a jar, and you wonder if loneliness has a sound. And if maybe you've already heard it.

You leave the library when your laptop battery dies, the sky already smudged with dusk. Your ears still ring faintly from the droning of Mr. Greatness Incarnate. You swing your bag over your shoulder, scarf loose around your neck, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets. The wind cuts sharper than it did this morning. You're too tired to fight it.

By the time you reach your apartment building, you dread the climb to the third floor, not knowing what's behind your door—and your key sticks like always when you jam it into the lock but when the door finally swings open, you freeze.

The apartment is clean. Spotless even.

No laundry tossed across the couch, no cereal bowls fossilized with milk crust sitting on the coffee table. The garbage isn't overflowing. There's even a faint citrus scent in the air, like someone opened a window and let the idea of cleanliness drift in.

And Jiyoon's on the couch. Calm. Legs tucked under her, hair braided down one side, munching on a bag of shrimp chips like this is just... normal. Like this is how things have always been.

You drop your keys into the chipped bowl by the door. "What happened?" She glances at you, shrugs. "I cleaned." You blink. "No, I mean... what happened happened. Did the landlord threaten an inspection or—"

"I broke up with Minjae," she says, and pops another chip into her mouth like she didn't just detonate an-eighteen-month-long catastrophe with five words. "Told him to pack his shit and go."

You stare. "You what?"

Her eyes don't even flicker from the TV. "He was a leech. I hate leeches."

You're still frozen in the hallway, bag slipping down your arm, unsure what dimension you walked into. The silence feels wrong. Too still. Too empty. But... not bad.

Just different.

Eventually, your feet remember what to do, and you drift to your room, slowly, almost cautiously, like something might jump out at you. You twist your doorknob, push it open—and stop again cause there's a gift bag sitting on your bed.

Brown paper, neatly folded at the top, a little gold sticker sealing the tissue paper closed. You don't touch it right away, you just stare at it like it might explode.

Then you sit, gently, fingers trembling a little now. but peel the sticker away anyway, opening the bag.

Two bottles. Your favorite body wash. The same kind Minjae used up without asking. Double this time, still sealed and tucked between them, a note—scrawled in Jiyoon's quick, sharp handwriting on a sticky note she probably pulled from her planner.

"I'm sorry."

It doesn't say anything else. Doesn't have to.

You let out this huff of a sound, half a laugh, half a sob—and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You weren't ready for this, especially not after today, not after everything you've been through this week. You sniff, smile through the sting behind your eyes, and whisper, "What the hell is going on?"

For the first time in a long time, no one answers and it doesn't feel like a threat. Just... peace. Quiet, a rare kind.

And the bathroom is yours again.

*•*•*

The next morning wakes you gently.

Not with screaming or slamming doors or the unmistakable sound of Minjae trying to justify why rent is a social construct—but with the smell of bacon.

You lie there for a moment, still curled in your sheets, nose twitching like it can't quite believe it. Bacon. And eggs. The sizzle, the clink of a pan. There's sunlight bleeding between the slats of your blinds, the kind of sleepy, golden light that feels warm just by looking at it.

You slip out of bed in your socks, shuffle into the kitchen, and there's Jiyoon—hair still messy from sleep, an oversized shirt hanging off one of her shoulders, poking a spatula at a pan like she does this every day, like this isn't a wildly new domestic era you've entered.

"Are you dying?" you ask, voice still rasped with sleep.

She smirks. "Sit your broke ass down. We're having breakfast." You do, blinking dumbly as she plates eggs and bacon and toast like some sitcom mom. The kind of meal that costs too much time and too many groceries for the world you live in. But it's real. It's on your plate. It's hot.

And it tastes like actual heaven.

"Okay," Jiyoon says through a bite, "you're not allowed to cry over eggs." "I'm not," you lie, chewing around the lump in your throat. "Shut up."

It's quiet for a beat, just the sounds of cutlery and your lives slowly stitching back together. Then she speaks, softer this time.

"I missed this."

You glance up.

"I mean—us," she says quickly. "It got weird. And Minjae was—he j—just made everything about him. And I let it happen." You nod, eyes falling to your plate. "I missed you too."

And that's all it takes. The two of you just... fall back into it. Like nothing ever cracked. Like the gap never grew wide enough to drown you.

You're halfway through your second cup of coffee when your phone buzzes. A bank notification lights up the screen.

Deposit: $400.00 — From: H.C.A. CLEANING INC.

Your breath catches and your stomach flips but you don't even have enough time to process it before a follow-up text comes in from your manager.

Cee: Well done. Keep it up.

You stare at your phone, stunned. Your fork hangs mid-air. "What?" Jiyoon leans over, eyes narrowing, trying to look at your screen. "What is it? What's that look?"

You show her the screen.

She lets out a whistle, snatching the phone out of your hand. "Four hundred dollars?! For one day?"

You nod slowly. "It's... the penthouse."

Jiyoon's eyes go wide. "Girl. Are you sure this isn't a sex dungeon?"

"It's not—!"

"I'm just saying!" she laughs, waving the phone in your face. "Do they need two cleaners? Cause I got two hands and a back that only mildly hurts."

You snort.

"No, seriously," she grins, handing your phone back. "Keep this up, and you're gonna sugar mama us out of this hellhole."

"Us?"

"Obviously. I've already picked out my new bedroom. It has a balcony."

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter today. There's food in your stomach, laughter in your lungs, and a number in your bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn't drowning, maybe someone who could start swimming soon.

You rinse your plate in the sink, tie your boots, and throw on your coat with renewed resilience. There's something weird in your chest—not bad weird. Just... fluttery. A quiet excitement you can't explain, maybe it's the money. $1200 a week is enough to make a broke girl like you feel fluttery.

The penthouse is a mystery. The man inside, even more so and something about it tugs at you. You leave the apartment with a full stomach and something flickering under your ribs that almost feels like hope.

The security guard barely glances up when you pass through the front lobby, your shoes echoing across the cold marble. You know the route now—the elevator on the far end, the one with the gilded trim and the keycard scanner that flickers green the second you swipe the little laminated badge clipped to your bag.

Penthouse access. Floor 45.

You ride up alone, the hum of the elevator filling your ears, your stomach still fluttering for some godforsaken reason. It's ridiculous, really. It's just cleaning. A job. A space.

Still—there's something about this building, this job, this man—something you don't have a name for yet. Something a little strange.

When the elevator dings open at the top floor, you step out and blink at the sheer silence. It always feels a little too still up here, like the air's holding its breath. You cross the short hallway toward the penthouse door, adjusting your bag over your shoulder, then pause.

A man is walking out.

Tall. Black coat. Black hair. He doesn't look up as he pulls the door behind him and lets it click shut. There's a thick folder of papers in his hand—some printed, some handwritten—and he's flipping through them like he's on a mission. Brows furrowed as though he's deep in thought. You shift slightly to the side, give a small, polite "Good morning," but he doesn't respond, he doesn't even glance at you.

Okay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, a little unsettled, but before your brain can start drawing conclusions, you catch something else. From behind the door.

Movement. Light.

A quiet creak, then a faint thump from the floor above. Right—he's upstairs. He hasn't come down, just like your manager said he wouldn't.

So, not Heeseung.

You shake it off, and push open the door to the penthouse. It's the same as last time. Too clean to feel lived in, a place more structure than soul. The marble kitchen glints under the soft daylight that pours in through those floor-to-ceiling windows, and the air smells faintly sterile. Like eucalyptus and untouched laundry.

You drop your bag by the door, change into your inside shoes, and head for the linen closet to start where you left off last time.

There's a note.

You spot it taped neatly to the inside of the closet door, white paper against the cool gray shelves. Typed in black ink, neatly, not handwritten.

You folded the towels wrong.

Beneath it, stapled neatly, is a printed diagram. A diagram with steps and numbered illustrations. You blink. It's absurd. It's pedantic. It's—

You laugh, quietly, to yourself. "What a nutjob," you mutter under your breath, echoing Jiyoon's words.

And then you catch yourself.

He's paying you. Four hundred dollars. For one day. To clean and to follow instructions. Folding towels properly is not asking too much—not for this kind of money, not for the kind of life you're trying to claw your way toward.

You shake your head, shoulders straightening, and refold every towel in the linen closet with the care of a military cadet. Corners aligned, fold sharp, just the way the diagram instructs.

Once you've checked them twice, you move on. The floors—again. There's always a thin veil of dust on the hardwood, like no one has lived here in years. The glass in the shower, the streaks on the chrome fixtures. You find a guest room with a window cracked just slightly, letting in the city noise below, and you seal it shut.

It's all the same movements as last time. Your body goes through the checklist while your mind wanders, as it always does. Little fragments of poetry rise up behind your eyes. A line about silence that weighs too much, about towels that speak louder than people. You file them away for later.

And like last time, you finish early.

3:26.

You double-check the space. Everything in order. Then you drift toward the single chair by the massive window that overlooks the skyline. The same chair you sat in last time. You pull out your journal, and you start writing.

He left a note about the towels. Said I did it wrong. I guess... he's not what I imagined. There's something almost neurotic about him, but not messy. Not in a Minjae way. It's all too deliberate. He's exacting. Controlled. Still not a trace of him anywhere—not a pair of shoes, not a book out of place. It's like he's trying to erase his presence even though it's so obviously here, breathing under everything.

Your pen hovers, you almost scratch it all out, but you don't.

A soft thud interrupts you. Distant. Upstairs. You freeze, eyes lifting from the page.

Another sound. A voice—muffled. A man's voice, low and smooth, bleeding through the ceiling like the floorboards are too thin to keep him contained.

You can't make out the words, but you hear the timbre. The rhythm.

You write until your hand cramps and the ink starts to skip. At 3:52, you check the time and shut the journal slowly, your gaze drifting out the window for a long moment.

But then... it happens again.

Your eyes flick to the closet door.

Same as last time. Same quiet weight pressing against your chest when you look at it. You don't know what it is about it—just a regular black door, no lock, no sign, nothing particularly ominous—but it nags at you. And before you know it, your legs are moving.

Soft steps across the hardwood. You don't even really make the decision—you just find yourself there, hand on the doorknob, heart ticking unevenly.

It's probably something stupid. Creepy. Like a skeleton, or jars of teeth. A body. It's always the ones who care too much about towel folding who hide people in their walls.

You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.

The door creaks open.

It's dim, a strip of light spilling in over your feet—and then your eyes adjust.

Not bodies. Not bones.

Photos.

Hundreds of them. Pinned to corkboard walls, stacked in boxes, frames leaning against shelves. Posters rolled into rubber-banded scrolls. A trophy case sits in the corner, glass clean, the metal plaques catching the light like little knives.

You blink, stepping in cautiously.

There are certificates. Paper yellowed with age. Borletti-Buitoni Trust Award. First Place—2022. Van Cliburn International Piano Competition 2021. Tchaikovsky Conservatory Excellence Award 2023. All in English, some in Korean, some in French.

You walk along the wall, fingertips brushing the edge of a matte photo. A group picture. A symphony ensemble, maybe. Then another, a candid shot of a teenage boy at a grand piano, his hands hovering above the keys, his brow furrowed like the music is something physical he's trying to catch.

And then another. A close-up this time. His face.

Heeseung.

Your breath catches.

He's younger in these—baby-faced almost—but you want to believe it's him. There's something about his posture, his expression, that quiet intensity even the camera couldn't wash out.

You crouch beside a crate of rolled-up posters and untangle one gently. The paper's dusty, brittle near the corners. When you unroll it, it flutters open across your lap.

A concert poster. The image glossy and faded with time: a sleek black grand piano under a single spotlight. A man sits at it, back straight, head bowed. His name sprawls across the top in elegant serif font:

LEE HEESEUNG

It's signed at the bottom, right across the curve of the piano. —With love, always, LH.

You stare at it for a long moment.

And then... the pieces begin to arrange themselves.

The penthouse. The silence. The exactness. The distance. And now—this.

He must've been a concert pianist.

You blink again, stunned that you'd never heard of him. Someone who'd clearly been celebrated, decorated, known. At some point, at least.

You tuck the poster back carefully and ease the door shut behind you. But the quiet feels different now. Not empty.

The whole bus ride home, your brain won't stop flipping through those images—trophies, posters, photos, that signature on the rolled-up poster. With love, always, LH. You hold it all in your head like puzzle pieces that almost fit, just not quite yet. But there's no mistaking it—the man in the penthouse was someone once.

The apartment smells like garlic and soy sauce when you walk in. You blink at the strange scent, automatically bracing for another fight—but it's quiet. Peaceful, even. The living room light is on, and Jiyoon's perched on the couch still in her stiff black skirt and her knock-off kitten heels, hair pinned up and eyeliner smudged.

"Hey," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Dinner's in the microwave. I made bulgogi."

You pause in the doorway, still blinking, confused. "You cooked?"

She shrugs. "Had a day. Needed to stir something before I murdered someone."

You heat up your plate and sink into the couch beside her, pulling your knees up and balancing the food on top. The meat is tender, warm and sweet, and the rice is just sticky enough.

"So?" she mumbles, mouth full of chips. "How's the nutjob in the tower?"

You laugh, almost choking on rice. "He's not a nutjob."

"Old man, then."

You glance at her. "He's not old."

She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? And how do you know that?"

You chew slowly, smirking to yourself. "I did his laundry today."

"Oh?" She sits up straighter, grinning. "And what? The briefs don't lie?"

You laugh, snorting, and try to wave her off, cheeks hot. "No, just—his clothes. They weren't... old man clothes."

She gives you the most exaggerated eyebrow wiggle you've ever seen. "Ohhhh. So they were hot man clothes."

"Shut up."

"You want to see what he looks like," she accuses, pointing a chip at you.

You mumble something under your breath, something you don't even realize you've said aloud until she gasps.

"What was that?" she demands. "Tell me. Tell me right now."

You set your plate aside and sink into the couch cushions, eyes on the ceiling. "Okay. Fine. I opened some weird closet in his hallway today"

Her jaw drops.

"And?"

You tell her everything. The photos. The awards. The posters and the certificates. The name. The signature. The signed poster. You recite the words, LEE HEESEUNG.

She blinks. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You mean the dude you clean for is famous?"

"Was," you say softly. "I think he was famous. He was a concert pianist."

There's a beat of silence then she's snatching up her laptop. "What are we doing just sitting here? Let's Google him."

You shift beside her as she types in his name watching it autofill halfway through. She scrolls.

First result: a blurry photo of a younger Heeseung at a concert, fingers splayed on the keys.

Second result: Top 10 Rising Stars of the Classical World.

Third: The Golden Boy of the Grand Piano—Why Lee Heeseung Was Next.

There are photos—clean, posed ones, then live shots of him in motion, bent over the keys, expression contorted like the music is tearing out of him.

"Damn," Jiyoon whispers. "He was hot."

You smack her arm. "Focus."

She scrolls again—and then pauses.

You feel her go still beside you.

Her thumb hovers over the next headline.

Concert Pianist Lee Heeseung Suffers On-Stage Mental Breakdown During Performance.

Your stomach drops. It's dated 2 years ago.

"Holy shit," she whispers.

There's a thumbnail image of the article and beneath it, a video. Your fingers are trembling but you press play anyway.

The video opens on a massive concert hall. Heeseung sits alone at a grand piano under a soft blue spotlight. There's silence—and then music. Soaring, masterful, all-consuming. His fingers move like they're made of air.

He plays so beautifully that you find yourself immersed but then, something shifts.

His hands slow. His face tenses. He mutters something under his breath, eyes wide like he's seeing something the rest of the room can't. Then—

A violent slam of the keys.

The audience flinches.

He starts playing again, erratically, pounding the piano with discordant noise. His head jerks to the side. He mutters again, louder this time. Words you can't make out. Security rushes the stage. The video ends in chaos, with the camera shaking, audience gasping.

You stare at the screen long after it's gone black.

"That's why," you whisper.

Jiyoon nods slowly. "That's why he lives like that now."

Neither of you speak for a long time. There's just the hum of the microwave clock ticking forward, the faint buzz of the fridge, the afterimage of that video burned into your mind.

Heeseung isn't just a recluse. He's a man who was once made of music—and then unraveled by it.

The video plays again in your head when the screen's long since gone black.

Heeseung's face in that last shot—wild and glassy-eyed, haunted—lingers like smoke. Even with the dinner gone and the dishes rinsed, even with the taste of bulgogi faded from your tongue, it clings to your ribs.

Jiyoon breaks the silence first. She sets her laptop down with a sigh and rubs her forehead like she's trying to will away her own stress.

"Anyway," she mutters, "my manager's still a raging bitch."

The shift in topic feels abrupt, like someone slammed the door on something unfinished. You blink and turn your head, trying to meet her halfway.

"She moved my report to a different folder this morning and then cc'd her manager asking where mine was," Jiyoon grumbles, tossing a chip in her mouth. "Like she didn't just put it there herself. I swear she's trying to build a case to get me fired."

You hum a vague sound of sympathy, but your eyes are unfocused. Your thoughts are half in that concert hall, half in that penthouse closet, all tangled up with things that don't make sense yet.

Jiyoon squints at you, crunching slowly. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, blinking hard. "Sorry. I just..."

"You look tired," she says gently. "Like tired-tired. Go to bed."

You nod. "I will. Just—gonna change first."

She lets you go, and you disappear into your room, clicking the door shut behind you.

The quiet hits fast.

You peel off your jacket, your jeans. Change into your sleep shirt. The light on your desk is soft and yellow, and you go to your tote bag by instinct, unzipping it without thinking.

You freeze.

Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.

You check again.

Then again.

Your journal's not there.

You turn the bag upside down—shake it, even though you know how pointless it is—and the only thing that falls out is a used lip balm, your wallet and your bus pass.

You drop to your knees beside the desk, rifling through the bag's compartments. Check under your bed. In your drawers. You dig through the laundry pile.

Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.

A whole year and a half. That's how long you've been writing in that journal. Every scattered thought, every tiny win, every loss, every panic attack, every private daydream. It's not just a notebook—it's you. You wrote yourself into those pages, over and over and you can think is; it's gone.

You dart back into the living room, voice already strained. "Jiyoon—have you seen my journal? The brown one?"

She looks up from her phone, blinking. "Journal? No. Did you leave it at the library?"

You shake your head too fast. "No—I had it with me. I know I had it with me. I wrote in it today, I always put it in the tote after, I—I—"

She sits up straighter. "Okay, hey. Don't panic. Maybe it slipped out on the bus?"

You clutch your arms, stomach turning. The thought of it sitting there in some grimy bus seat, left behind, already flipped through by strangers, your handwriting exposed—your insides exposed—makes you sick.

Your throat tightens.

"Hey," Jiyoon says, getting up now, her voice softer. "It's okay. We'll retrace your steps tomorrow, alright?"

But you're already crying. Not big sobs—just quiet, stunned tears, the kind that sting as they fall, the kind you can't stop once they start.

You laugh bitterly through it, pressing your palm to your mouth. "It's stupid," you mumble. "It's just a journal."

"It's not stupid," Jiyoon says, crossing the room and pulling you into a hug.

You close your eyes. Her office clothes smell like starch and soy sauce and the bad perfume her coworker probably wears, but her arms are warm and solid around you.

Still, your heart aches like something's gone missing.

And somewhere—somewhere else—those pages are no longer just yours.

*•*•*

You don't even realize how much weight you've been dragging until it starts to leave marks—under your eyes, behind your ribs, along your spine.

It's been a whole day without it. Twenty-four hours without your journal and you're already unraveling. Not crying anymore—just dulled out. The kind of sadness that makes everything taste like paper, feel like static.

Jiyoon tried her best. She really did. She even called in sick that morning just to help look. Said her manager could go chew on gravel, she didn't care. She pulled you out of bed, made you drink an iced coffee, and walked with you back to every single place you'd been.

You retraced your steps with her hand on your shoulder the entire time—gentle, like you'd break.

Back to the library. Back to the plaza where you sat for five minutes waiting on the bus. You even got on the same damn route, asked the driver if he'd seen a brown journal with an elastic band and too many taped-in receipts.

Nothing.

Just a kind smile from a man who said he was sorry and wished you luck.

So when Friday comes around—when you have to drag yourself out of bed again for the penthouse job—you feel heavy. Disconnected. You brush your teeth with your eyes half-closed. Tie your laces without bothering to double knot them. You're not crying, not even angry, just—

Faded.

You leave the house a little past nine. Jiyoon waves from the couch but doesn't try to stop you. She knows money talks, even when you're too tired to listen.

You arrive at ten sharp like always. Same hallway, same elevator ding, same code punched into the keypad.

The door opens.

And the stillness inside hits you harder than usual. Not just quiet—vacant. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

You don't bother kicking off your shoes this time.

You walk in and turn toward the kitchen to get the supplies—straight to the cabinets under the sink—and that's when you freeze.

There.

On the counter.

Your journal.

You stand still for so long the air starts to pulse in your ears cause it's open. Pages parted like a secret mid-sentence. And the breath that's been caged in your lungs for a whole day catches halfway up your throat.

You move closer. Like if you blink too hard it'll vanish.

It's turned to that entry. The one you wrote after cleaning here the first time—where you wrote about the towels and the light and the strange emptiness of a life lived up high and alone. The part where you called him lonely.

Your eyes track the handwriting in the margin. Small. Neat. Slightly angled.

An arrow is drawn from the word lonely and next to it, in ink that definitely isn't yours:

you have no idea.

Your throat goes dry.

You run your fingertips over the words—his words—like touching them will make them make sense. But they don't. Not really. They just buzz in your chest like something secret and sad and suddenly real.

He read it. He read it.

And not just read it—responded.

You sink into the nearest stool, heart hammering, holding the journal like it might slip away again.

This man—this ghost of a man, the one who hides behind silence and rules and perfectly folded towels—he read you. And then he left this like it wasn't a confession. Like it wasn't a crack in the wall you didn't think you'd ever see.

"You have no idea."

You don't.

But for the first time, you think you want to so you tear a sheet from the back of your journal. The lines are faint blue, the edge ragged where it rips. You stare at it longer than necessary—like the paper's going to change its mind about letting you say what you need to.

Your hand shakes as you write it, "I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest."

You don't sign it.

You fold it in half once, then again. Then you slide it under the coaster on the marble coffee table—tucked, but not hidden. If he wants to find it, he will.

And then you're out the door. Before 4, for the the first time not caring about the rule.

*•*•*

When you get home, Jiyoon's door is locked. You knock once, then try the handle. Still locked. "Jiyoon," you call. "Let me in." Nothing, so you knock harder. When she finally opens it, her hair is a mess and her cheeks are a deep, guilty pink. She looks like she just sprinted a mile and saw God somewhere in the middle of it.

You know what she was doing but you don't care, you just brush right past her and drop your journal on her bed like it's a live grenade.

"He read my fucking journal," you hiss, turning on your heel. "He wrote in it." "What!?" Jiyoon gasps, not even trying to play it cool. "That's where you left it?!"

"I didn't mean to!" "Wait—he wrote in it? Like, wrote wrote? Pen to page?" You nod, pacing like your bones are electric. "He responded to a line I wrote about him being lonely. Just—drew an arrow to it and wrote 'you have no idea.' Like what the fuck is that even supposed to mean!?" "That's—" She stops. Blinks. Then starts again, because of course she has to. "That's kind of hot," she says, lips twitching.

"Jiyoon!" "Okay, okay! It's fucked up, but it's also..." She trails off, thoughtful. "It's kind of giving tortured artist. Haunted tower. Piano-playing ghost with emotional constipation." You flop onto her bed, face buried in your hands. "I feel violated. But also like...I violated him first? Is that weird? I feel like we both got naked and didn't mean to."

"That is the weirdest metaphor you've ever said," Jiyoon mutters, but there's affection under it and you're about to respond but then your phone rings. Shrill and loud against the padded silence of Jiyoon's room. You check the screen and it's Cee. You answer it with a sigh. "Hello?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He barks immediately. "Did you leave before 4?" Your stomach drops. "Yes, I did, but—"

"You had clear fucking instructions! You don't leave before 4. Ever."

"I had to. I was done, I—" "I don't give a shit," he snaps. "From now on? You clean for him every day. That's what he wants." You blink. "Every day?"

"Every. Fucking. Day. Starting tomorrow." The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly and Jiyoon's looking at you like you just told her you're moving to Mars. "You're cleaning for him every day?" You nod, feeling numb. She whistles. "Guess you better start folding towels in your dreams."

You flop back on her bed again, journal beside you, limbs heavy and brain scrambled, because somehow this man has read your secrets, insulted your towel folding, haunted your thoughts and gotten you trapped in a daily cleaning contract. You stare at the ceiling, heart a mess of beats. You truly have no idea what the hell you've gotten yourself into, just like Heeseung wrote.

*•*•*

You hate today. Not in the throwaway I-hate-Mondays kind of way, but in that deep, simmering, "I'd rather get hit by a bus than scrub your already-clean floors for six hours" kind of way. It's Saturday. Saturday. And you're supposed to be doing anything else. Sleeping in. Going to the corner store with Jiyoon in your pajamas. Sitting in silence and mourning the part of yourself that used to be a free woman.

Instead, you're here. The penthouse again. Cold and looming and weirdly beautiful in a way you hate to admit. It's only 9:30. You're early and you could wait. You should wait. But something reckless and slightly unhinged is buzzing in your blood—maybe it's the journal thing, or the fact that he read every single thing you've ever written about yourself. You don't know.

You just know that this time, you're not waiting. You take the elevator up. No code. No warning. Just your footsteps, soft and slow, echoing across the marble as you step into the penthouse and then—you stop. Dead.

Because there's someone already down here, in fact two someones. One of them, you recognize as the man you saw leaving that day—now unmistakably a doctor of some sort, clipboard in hand, every movement clinical and restrained. He's sitting next to another man. A man who's— Oh fuck.

Shirtless.

Barefoot. Wearing only a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips like they're barely there at all. Lee Heeseung, the one on all the pictures and posters in the haunting closet, the one from the articles you saw.He's not a ghost or a shadow upstairs. He's definitely real and he's here, laughing at something he just said, a low warm sound that breaks the silence—and then cuts off the second he sees you.They both stare and you can't help but stare back cause your brain short-circuits because not only is he real—he's gorgeous. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that feels cruel. Sharp jaw, dark hair a mess, skin golden and soft in the morning light and then the audacity of the amused curl of his mouth as he takes you in.

The doctor doesn't laugh at Heeseung's joke, he just closes his clipboard with a hard snap, locks the files into a black case with practiced hands, mutters something clipped to Heeseung, and walks past you like you're air. You don't move, not because you don't want to but because you can't. And now Heeseung just stands there, right in front of you, 6 feet away. Shirtless.

As if this is all some sort of routine, where he expected you to show up early to catch him sitting there. Then he speaks. Voice low, smooth, maddeningly calm. "You're early."

You blink, stunned mute. He cocks his head slightly. Barely.

"Is this how you always barge into my home?" You open your mouth but you have to close it again because no words will come out.Because all you can think is holy shit. Not only is he not old, like Jiyoon said, not only is he not some weird piano hermit ghost—he is breathtaking. And apparently, deeply unbothered by the fact that you've just witnessed whatever strange intimate evaluation that was.

"I—sorry," you finally manage, voice rough to the point of shame. "I didn't think—there was someone—upstairs, usually—" Heeseung raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You didn't think as I didn't think you'd be here before ten, hmm?" You bristle, flustered and mortified and somewhere under all that, burning. "I'm just here to clean." He smiles at that and it's not kind, it's not mocking either. Just... knowing, he's got that look—the kind that says he's already pages ahead in your journal entry for tonight, already memorized the lines, already knows exactly how this ends.

"Good," he says. "Then clean." And he walks past you—slow, easy, barefoot steps—disappearing back up the stairs without another word. Leaving you there, alone with your rage, your humiliation, and your heart pounding so loud in your chest it echoes in the silence. What do you do now? You clean. Of course you do. That's what you're here for, and you already showed up thirty minutes earlier than you were supposed to, so now you're finishing faster than usual—dusting the shelves with extra care just to stall, organizing the rows of books he never touches, wiping down the marble countertops even though they don't look like they've been used in days.

And all the while your brain won't stop looping back to your journal on his kitchen counter, to the handwriting in the margins that isn't yours, to the arrow pointing right to the word lonely and the quiet weight of you have no idea written beneath it.

It's unfair, you think, the way he's just living in his architectural digest penthouse, barefoot and cryptic, while you're pacing through his living room, trying not to wonder how much of your life he's read. You almost forget the weight of it—almost—until he's suddenly back.

You hear him before you see him, the soft sound of his footsteps against the dark wood floor, and when you turn, there he is.

Coming down the stairs like a fucking problem you can't afford to have, still barefoot, still in those jeans that hang too low on his hips, but now in a loose linen shirt that he didn't even bother to button all the way.

It's distracting, infuriatingly so. You don't even want to think about how hot he is—because it's wrong, and messy, and also, you're still mad.

He sees you before you can pretend you weren't watching him descend like some kind of fallen angel with unresolved trauma, and for a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there at the bottom of the stairs, head tilted slightly, his eyes unreadably deep, like he's trying to pin you to the spot with silence alone.

Then he turns, walks toward the closet in the hallway—the one with the photographs and trophies and that signed, rolled-up poster of his own damn face—and you stare after him without meaning to, without even trying to be subtle. There's something about the way he moves, like someone who hasn't had to explain himself in years, like someone who only speaks when the silence becomes too loud to tolerate.

You don't expect him to come back out and walk straight toward you and you definitely don't expect him to stop right in front of you to speak.

"Do you always sit in my chair when you psychoanalyze me in your journal?" His voice is even, smooth, and just sharp enough to make your jaw clench. There's something teasing in it, mocking maybe, or maybe just observant, but either way—it makes your chest tighten.

You straighten where you sit, looking up at him without flinching. "You had no right to read my journal."

He doesn't flinch either.

"You wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?"

And that's what throws you—how casual he says it, how unbothered he is by the violation, like it was never that serious to begin with.

In your head, you're screaming. Not because you're scared, but because it's almost worse that he read it without hesitation. Because that journal was yours, it was everything. A year and a half of pain and boredom and loneliness and softness and tiny bursts of joy that you didn't know where else to put. Little poems about love you've never felt. Sentences that barely made sense to you at the time. Half-finished stories and full-bodied grief. And now he knows. Maybe not all of it—but enough.

You bite your tongue before your mouth runs wild, but your thoughts are already racing.

He read it. He read all of it, probably. God, did he see the poem you wrote about the boy who only existed in your dreams? Did he read the list of things you want to do before you die? Did he see the part about wanting someone to ask you how your day was, without needing a reason?

You want to be mad. You are mad. But under that is the hot sting of embarrassment, the helplessness of being seen without warning, without consent.

He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.

You blink hard. "It wasn't for you."

"I figured."

You exhale sharply through your nose. "Then why did you—"

He cuts you off without cutting you off. His voice is softer this time. "I found your note."

That makes your stomach turn.

You remember the note. I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest.

You didn't even think when you left it. You just wrote it and ran. And now he's standing here, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, chest half-exposed, staring at you like your truth didn't scare him off at all.

"I don't think you're invasive," he says. "You were just... honest, like you said."

That word again.

And suddenly you're not sure what this is anymore—what he is. Because he's not yelling. He's not smug. You don't even think he's trying to humiliate you, he's just standing there, calm, casual—as if this is routine, as if your journal wasn't a goddamn blueprint of everything you never said out loud. As if he didn't drag his pen under the word lonely and scrawl you have no idea in the margins, careless, cruel, and so absurdly calm about it.

You really don't know what to say but you guess your silence must say enough, because his eyes soften just enough to sting.

"People don't usually stay when I'm honest," He says it like it's already written in stone, something that happened, not something he's choosing.

You just sit there, unsure if you're still furious or if your heart just broke a little for a man you don't understand at all.

You really want to ask him why he wrote in your journal, why he felt comfortable enough to reply to it like you were in some kind of conversation. You should get up and walk out, slam the door for good measure, remind him you're the help and he's a man who's too comfortable living above the rest of the world, shirtless and half-smiling at things that should have been private. But instead, you're still sitting there.

And instead of leaving, you ask, "What's with the whole coming at ten and leaving at four thing?"

He blinks.

It's not the question he expected, maybe not the one you expected either, but it's already out in the air now and hanging between you like mist.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly as he leans a hip against the back of the chair across from you. You watch the movement—too closely—and hate how your eyes keep catching on the little things: the curve of his collarbone, the faint line of a vein down his forearm, the way he smells faintly like vanilla and clean linen. You force your gaze back up to his face.

He doesn't answer right away.

Then, after a moment, he says, "I just thought six hours was enough time for you to do what you needed."

It's almost clipped, controlled.

"And..." He pauses, eyes flicking to the side, as if choosing his next words carefully. "It's better for you if you follow it."

You blink. "What do you mean better for me?"

He shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant but not exactly casual. "You walked in on something you weren't supposed to see this morning."

Your mind flashes back to that moment—the doctor, the manilla folders, the way Heeseung was sitting on the chair laughing to himself with no shirt on and then suddenly not laughing at all.

Your throat feels a little dry.

"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.

He nods once. "Yeah." Then, quieter, "There are... things I deal with. Things I don't need anyone witnessing."

It's not quite a warning. Not quite a confession either. It floats in the space between.

You shift in your seat, uncertain. "So the schedule is more for... your privacy?"

He lets out a sound that's almost a laugh but not quite, low and humorless. "Sure. Let's go with that."

There's something in the way he says it that tells you he doesn't really mean it—not entirely. Like there's more he could say if he wanted to, but he doesn't.

Still, you nod slowly, even though you don't really understand. Even though the idea of spending six hours in a place that holds your most personal words hostage is suffocating.

Even though his presence is starting to feel... electric in the worst and best way.

And then, after a beat, you ask softly, "And what happens if I don't follow it?"

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And for a second, something shifts. The air between you turns thicker, heavier. You can feel his eyes like heat on your skin.

"I don't think you'd want to find out," he says, voice low and quiet, but not threatening. Just true.

And you believe him.

Not because you think he'd hurt you. But because there are some parts of him—some stories, some shadows—you haven't earned the right to touch yet.

You don't answer.

You just hold his gaze until it feels like it burns and then drop your eyes to your hands and stand up to walk away, walk towards the door

He straightens then, subtly, pushing off from the chair like the moment's passed. You don't know if you're relieved or disappointed.

"Of course a person as beautiful as you would write so heartbreakingly beautiful." It's low. Almost to himself. Like he didn't mean to say it aloud.

But you hear it.

And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.

You turn—just slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He's not even watching you. He's looking down at the floor, one hand resting loosely on the back of the chair like he hadn't just broken you open and left you bleeding all over his expensive floors.

"What did you ju—" you almost ask but he's already cutting you off. "You're done for the day, right?"

You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.

"Then you should go."

You turn around and walk slowly, legs a little stiff, journal heavy in your bag, chest heavier still.

And as you move past him, toward the front door, he doesn't say anything else.

He just watches you go.

You walk home like your body isn't yours, it feels like your bones are made of sound, the way you hear everything but can't feel a single step. Your bag is even heavier than it should be for some reason.

The door to your apartment creaks as you open it. Warmth hits you in the face. Jiyoon's music is loud—some upbeat synth-pop song she always plays when she's cooking—and the smell of garlic and oil and something spicy wraps around you like a familiar blanket. But you don't step in right away. You stand in the doorway a little too long, still wearing your shoes, still holding your keys in one hand like you forgot what they're for.

Then she turns. She sees you.

And she freezes.

The music doesn't. But she grabs her phone and hits pause mid-chorus, eyebrows already pulled together in the way they do when she's bracing herself for gossip. "You look... feral."

You blink. "What?"

"Your face," she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you. "It's giving war-torn romantic heroine. What happened?"

You close the door behind you. You walk inside. You don't know where to begin.

So you say the first thing that spills from your mouth.

"I saw him."

She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"

You nod.

"Lee Heeseung?"

You nod again.

She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.

You don't laugh. You can't.

"He was shirtless," you add quietly, like it's something illegal.

Jiyoon makes a noise so high-pitched only the dead could hear it.

"No. No. No," she says, rushing over and grabbing both your arms like she's checking for a pulse. "You have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Did he talk to you? Did he breathe near you? Did he smell good? Does he look weird? Did you black out? Are you still alive? Blink twice if you need CPR."

You let out a long breath, barely a laugh. "He was laughing with some man. A doctor, I think. He was barefoot. Just jeans, low. He didn't even look at me at first. Just kind of... existed."

You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles start to ache.

"Then he did see me later when he came back down, I was sitting. In that chair I said I always journal in. And he just... stared. Then he disappeared into that hallway closet with all the photos and came back out without something, and I watched him the whole time like a creep." Jiyoon looks winded. "This is already the best thing I've ever heard."

"He asked me if I always sit in his chair when I psychoanalyze him in my journal." Her eyes explode. "No."

You nod. "Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I told him he had no right to read it."

"Did he deny it?" You shake your head slowly. "He said—and I quote—'you wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?'" Jiyoon puts her whole body on the counter, like gravity's too much. "This is sick. This is sick. I can't believe you're living out the plot of the exact kind of emotionally unstable literature you always say you hate." You let your head fall next to hers. "I'm going to have to switch some of my classes."

She lifts her face, blinking. "Wait, what?"

"I can't keep going in the mornings. Not if I'm cleaning for him every day. The only opening left in my schedule is evening sections and some online ones, and I'll probably miss my favorite professors class."

"You love that class."

"I know."

"I don't know if you can tell but you're kind of acting like it's worth it"

*•*•*

You wake up feeling weirdly... eager. Which is insane in your opinion. It's cleaning. You're going to clean for six hours in a house where the walls are silent and the air feels kind of tight, and maybe—maybe—he'll come down again. Maybe he won't. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You dress in your usual oversized tee and leggings, but you switch your sneakers for the cleaner pair, the ones without scuff marks. You spend longer on your face than necessary. Just moisturizer, a little concealer—nothing obvious. Just in case. You tell yourself it's just habit. You tell yourself a lot of things.

You get there at 9:57. By 10:02, your coat is hung up and the cleaning supplies are laid out in their usual corners. The house is quiet—same as always—but now it's a different kind of quiet. Now you know who it's holding and it makes you all irrationally aware of everything.

You start with the mirrors.

Not because they're dirty. They're not.

But because they reflect the hallway, and every time you glance up, you can see the top of the stairs.

By 11:17, you've vacuumed every rug on the main floor. Nothing.

By 12:04, you've re-organized the kitchen drawers. Again. Not that he'd notice. You don't even know if he uses them.

By 12:58, you're dusting frames that don't need dusting, glancing at the ceiling like footsteps might fall out of it.

By 1:45, you've convinced yourself he's not coming down. That yesterday was a one-off. That he's upstairs doing whatever rich, complicated people do—brooding maybe, like some Austenian shut-in. You try to laugh at yourself for even caring but it sits low in your chest. He's just a man, you only even met him once.

So why does it feel this weird? You're so distracted you almost forget to check the pantry. You always check the pantry. And when you finally do, you find it's already been stocked. Someone else did it.

Maybe him.

Your stomach turns and don't know why. By 3:50, you're packing your things, fingers slow on the zipper of your bag. By 3:56, you're glancing around the room like it might give you a reason to stay longer. By 3:58, you hear it.

Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.

Heeseung. Descending the stairs like it's nothing. Like he didn't make you wait all day without knowing you were waiting. He's wearing another linen shirt—this one in charcoal—and it's loose over his frame, the top two buttons undone. His hair is a little messy, like he's been lying down or pulling his fingers through it and, he's barefoot again. He smiles.

"Hey," he says, voice warm in that slow, easy way. "You're still here." You swallow. "Not for long."

He steps down the last stair. "How was your day?" You blink at him. It takes a second for your voice to catch up. "I spent it here. You tell me." His brows lift a little. Not offended—more amused. He shifts his weight and leans against the banister.

"I missed my favorite class."

"You're a student? And you missed a class? Because of this?" You glance down at your hands. They're still a little red from scrubbing tile. "Yeah."

He's quiet for a second. "Have you had dinner?" You start to say no—but your stomach betrays you before your mouth can lie. It growls. Audibly. Your eyes go wide and he laughs at your expression. "Sit," he says, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."

You blink. "What? No, that's not—" He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Sit." And there's something in the way he says it that has you obeying, hesitantly still. The counter's cool beneath your palms as you lower yourself into the chair, eyes tracking his every movement. He moves so naturally in the kitchen—opens the fridge with one hand, pulls down a skillet with the other, all casual familiarity and soft clattering sounds. It smells like garlic again. Butter. Something fresh.

"What are you making?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."

Heeseung's cutting vegetables like he's done it a thousand times. He slices a tomato without looking down, throws it into a pan, then adds something else from a jar. The sizzle is instant.

You lean forward. "Do you cook for all your maids?"

He pauses, halfway to the sink. Then he glances at you, a slow grin spreading across his mouth. "You're barely a maid."

"Excuse me?"

He shrugs again, that same lazy charm. "Have you seen the state of the guest bathroom?"

You laugh—actually laugh, the sound startling even to you but you catch yourself wondering why you're not offended he just insulted your cleaning skills. You watch his smile grow wider and somehow, in the scent of sautéing herbs and low music playing from the speaker he must've turned on when you weren't looking, it feels normal. Almost. Except not at all. Because when he sets the plate down in front of you, you look up to thank him—and he's already watching you. Eyes soft and focused.

And for the first time all day, your chest doesn't feel so tight.

You dig in and it's stupidly delicious, making your eyes go wide again, mouth still full. "Okay.

That's insane."

Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.

You point your fork at him. "You made this? Just now?"

He nods, watching you intently. It doesn't take long before the plates are empty—yours cleaned down to the sauce, his barely touched—and there's music playing from somewhere in the house, something soft and unfamiliar, all instrumentals and quiet piano.

You're both still sitting at the counter, opposite ends, your elbows propped up, legs curled beneath the stool. He's lounging with his long body twisted toward you, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a wine glass he hasn't taken a sip from yet.

The conversation has slowed into something looser now—easier. He asked what books you've been reading lately. You asked if he's always this good at cooking. He pretended to be modest and then very much wasn't.

And then you ask, "Why every day?"

He looks at you. "Why did you suddenly want me to come clean every day?" There's a beat of silence. Heeseung's gaze drops to the rim of his glass, the edge of his thumb skimming around it once, twice.

"When I saw your note," he says finally, voice lower now, "I didn't know what to do with it." He lifts his eyes, meets yours.

"I knew you weren't going to come again until the day after next. And it made me... restless. Waiting for a reply. Not being able to ask."

You inhale, slow and careful.

"And then I read your journal."

You stiffen a little, but he doesn't apologize. He doesn't even flinch.

"I didn't read all of it," he adds, leaning forward, closer. "I swear. Just some pages. A few entries. And one poem."

You stare at him.

He sets the glass down. Both elbows on the counter now. His fingers lace together.

"I read this line—" he begins, eyes on yours, "Your silence filled the house louder than your voice ever did."

You're stunned like your brain can't comprehend he's reciting your poem word for word.

He doesn't even blink. "I memorized the gaps in your sentences like scripture. I waited for the ending, but all you left was air."

Your mouth opens—just barely—but you can't speak.

"There's still a teacup on the windowsill. There's still a sweater on the hook. There's still a ghost in the shape of you that lives in the room where you never said goodbye."

You whisper the final two lines without thinking.

"And I still set the table for two, like a fool. Like you might remember that you left me starving."

His lips part—just slightly. Your voice had gone soft at the end, cracking a little, like it didn't want to be said out loud. And maybe it didn't. Maybe it never was.

You didn't even think it was that good. You wrote it half-asleep. You'd forgotten you even. "I needed to know," he says, not looking away, "who could write something like that."

You're quiet for a long time. "You shouldn't have read it."

"I know."

"I didn't write it for anyone to—"

"I know," he says again, voice quiet now. "But I couldn't help it. I wanted to meet the person behind it. I wanted to see if you'd look at me the way your words did."

The room is suddenly very still.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if there's even language for the way your body is reacting. There's heat in your throat, under your skin, behind your ribs. You should leave. You really should but instead you ask, "Do I?"

His brow creases. "Do you what?"

"Do I look at you that way?"

He doesn't answer your question, not with words anyway. Just studies you with that same unreadable stare, something flickering behind his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

And then, as if someone's pressed fast-forward on the moment, he shifts his weight back and clears his throat softly. "Do you play any instruments?" he asks, voice casual, like he didn't just memorize one of the most vulnerable things you've ever written.

You blink. "What?"

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the counter. "You write. I assumed you like music."

"I do," you say carefully. "I like listening more than anything. I used to sing."

He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"

You sigh, deflecting. "It's different when people are watching. When you're older. The recorder was more forgiving."

That gets a real laugh out of him. He tilts his head, grinning. "The recorder?"

"Yes, and I was a prodigy. First chair in third grade." You press a hand to your chest dramatically. "The youngest to ever play Hot Cross Buns with such emotional depth."

He snorts and leans closer like he's about to say something else, but the next thing you know, he's not across the counter anymore—he's beside you.

You don't know exactly when he moved, maybe it was when he stood up from the stool to put the plates in the sink, still laughing about the recorder joke.

His elbow brushes yours. His shoulder is an inch from yours. You feel his presence like heat—radiating and dangerous in the best possible way.

And somehow, you're still laughing. You're still talking about childhood instruments and music you like and whether jazz is romantic or just sad in a pretty way. He teases you for not knowing any Miles Davis and you tease him back for quoting poetry like a teenage girl with a Tumblr account.

It's light. Easy. It's so different from the static in the air earlier this week, from the careful distance you both tried to maintain. But now...

Now his hand brushes the counter beside yours. And your breathing changes. And the silence feels like a held breath.

You don't look at each other—you're still talking, kind of. But your voices are softer now. Lower. A little slower.

And then it happens.

Your eyes meet.

His face tilts just slightly toward yours, making your breath catch.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you and doesn't. His eyes drop to your lips. He leans in, just a little—just enough that the space between you crackles—and you feel yourself tilting too, breath hitching, mouth parting.

And then he pulls back, all too quick and

sudden. He clears his throat, looks away, stepping back so abruptly he almost knocks over the stool that was next to you.

You flinch at the sound.

"I—" he starts, then shakes his head, jaw tight. "You should go."

Your stomach drops.

"I didn't mean to—" he breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to come tomorrow. Go to your class. I'll tell your manager."

You stay frozen for a second, eyes wide, lips still tingling with something that didn't happen.

And then you nod, slow. Trying not to show how much you're shaking. "Okay."

He doesn't say anything else.

You leave quietly.

But your pulse pounds in your ears all the way home and in the haze of it all you don't take the bus home.

You don't want the rush of it—the closed windows and stale air and elbows brushing yours. You want air, real air, the kind that cools your skin and cuts through the confusion curling heavy in your chest. The heels of your sneakers hit the sidewalk harder than usual. You don't notice until your toes ache.

You can still feel it. The almost of his mouth on yours. His voice whispering poetry that used to belong to no one but you. The way he looked at you right before he pulled back—like he could drown and not care.

You don't realize how far you've walked until your phone rings, sharp in the quiet. You check the screen and it's Cee. You sigh, thumb swiping across the glass.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Where are you right now?"

You blink. "Uh... on my way home. I finished cleaning—he told me not to come tomorrow, so—"

"Yeah, well, change of plans," he cuts in, voice tight, clipped. "He called. Wants you in tomorrow."

You stop walking. "What?"

"That's what I said. Twenty minutes ago, he told me you weren't coming. Five minutes ago, he said make sure you do."

Your grip tightens around your phone. You glance down at the pavement, cracked and worn, your shadow stretched long in the streetlight. "That... doesn't make sense."

"Welcome to my fucking week."

You don't know what to say. You try to remember exactly how he said it. You don't have to come tomorrow. You can take your class.

He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.

Or maybe—maybe it was a trick. A test. Maybe you failed.

The line is quiet for a moment. Then, softer—softer than you're used to from him, like he has to chew it first before he can let it out—your manager says:

"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"

Your breath catches.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." A pause. "He hasn't done anything weird, right? Or tried something? You'd tell me, yeah?"

You blink again, hard. It feels like stepping off a curb you didn't see. Your lips part, your heart kicks—because no, he hasn't. But he almost did and you're starting to think maybe it would've been fine if he did. Maybe it would've been more than fine.

"No," you say quickly. "Nothing like that. He's... he's not like that."

"You sure?"

"Yes." You don't hesitate. "I don't want to quit."

There's silence on the line. You can hear him exhale.

"Alright," he says finally. "You're there again at ten. Don't be late."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Okay."

He hangs up.

You just stand there. A low breeze rustles through the trees, brushes cool fingers against your neck.

He asked for you. After almost kissing you and pulling away—after telling you not to come tomorrow—he called and asked for you. Your pulse flickers hot beneath your skin as your mind raced with questions.

Was he testing you?

Did he think you wouldn't come back?

You suddenly realize your mouth is dry, your throat tight. The stars feel too bright above you. Your phone buzzes in your palm, a silent reminder that something has shifted, again.

And for better or worse, you'll be seeing him tomorrow.

You don't even bother to take your shoes off when you get in the door.

The front door slams behind you harder than you mean it to, and Jiyoon—sweet, perceptive, too-curious Jiyoon—is immediately shouting from the kitchen, "Is that you? Are you okay? You've been gone forever, I was about to—"

"I'm fine!" you yell back, already halfway down the hall. Your voice cracks halfway through the word. You don't even try to fix it.

"Wait—" Jiyoon appears around the corner, wooden spoon still in hand, some ridiculous song playing from the speaker behind her. "Wait, wait, what happened? Did you see him again?"

You keep walking.

"Did he—?"

"I'm fine," you repeat, softer this time but not gentler. "He said I don't have to come in tomorrow, so I'll probably go to my class."

"Oh my god, what does that mean?" she laughs, stepping after you. "Did you finally tell him off or did he—?"

"I'm tired, Jiyoon," you mumble, hand on your doorknob. "So tired."

She crosses her arms. "You look like you just made out with someone in a Jane Austen novel."

Your face goes hot.

"I love you," you say, deadpan. "But I need to be alone right now."

She gasps dramatically, "You're hiding something! You always say I love you when you're hiding something—"

You shut the door in her face.

Lock it.

Lean back against it.

Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.

You sink down to the floor, journal already in your hands before you even realize you've moved. Your fingers tremble when you unscrew the cap of your pen. You press it to the page.

And for a moment, you just sit there, not even writing.

Just breathing.

You write, He said I write beautifully.

Then, slower, He said he felt restless about not getting a response.

And then, He pulled away.

The ink smudges beneath your fingers. You don't wipe it away. You just keep writing, your handwriting more frantic than usual, trailing across the page in swooping spirals and crooked curves. You write about the way he looked at you—so real and intense it felt like it burned. About how close he was, how you could feel the heat of him.

About the poem.

How he remembered every word.

How you finished it together.

And when you're done, you stare at the page—like maybe it'll give you answers. Like maybe it'll tell you what it means when a man like Heeseung tells you not to come, then calls your manager like he can't bear not seeing you.

You close your journal.

And press it to your chest.

You crawl into bed, still in your jeans, feet hanging off the edge, journal clutched to your chest like a heartbeat you don't trust to stay steady on its own.

It takes everything in you to peel yourself away, toss the journal aside, and dig out your laptop from where it's tangled in yesterday's laundry on the floor. You log into your evening class with exactly thirty seconds to spare, camera off, mic muted, chin propped against the heel of your palm.

The professor's voice starts droning through your headphones—soft, monotone, familiar—and for a second you think maybe you can do this.

And then your eyelids get heavy.

You blink hard.

You scribble your name into the attendance chat and pretend like you're absorbing something, anything, while your mind floats right back to—

That linen shirt hanging open just enough to see his collarbones. His voice, low and steady, reciting your words back to you like scripture. The smell of garlic and rosemary from his cooking still clinging to your hair. The way he moved closer without you even realizing. The moment before the kiss that never happened—the way your heart caught on the edge of it.

You shake your head violently, try to refocus. The slide on your screen says something about semiotic theory. You don't know what that means. You don't care what that means.

You're so screwed.

Your professor's voice fades into a low buzz, and you press your palm to your cheek harder, like maybe pressure can keep you conscious. It can't.

The laptop screen glares into your face. The chat scrolls with questions you don't have the energy to fake-read. You close your eyes just for a second.

You tell yourself it's only for a second.

Just one.

Just—

You jolt awake six minutes later to your professor asking, "And how might this apply to authorial intent, Y/N?"

You blink, brain empty.

You type in the chat: Sorry, my mic's not working.

And you thank every god that ever existed for mute buttons.

*•*•*

You find yourself hovering just outside the penthouse door, hesitating.

Your fingers are curled in a loose fist, suspended midair like they've forgotten how to move. You've stood in this exact spot every day for about a week now, but this time—this time you're unsure. The same polished floor under your shoes, the same towering door with its sleek gold handle and silent weight, but something about today feels different. You feel different.

You almost turn around.

Almost.

But then—voices. Muffled, low but distinct, curling around the edges of the thick door.

You lean in without meaning to, breath held as if your body knows this is a moment you're not meant to be part of. You recognize his voice first, Heeseung's—light, teasing, a tone you've come to know well, though it still unsettles you how easily it affects you. The other voice is lower, older maybe, with clipped words and a sternness that makes your stomach tighten. It must be the doctor from the other day.

"No," the doctor says, firm and quiet. "Now isn't the time to have a new person around every day. You know that."

There's a pause. You hear something creak—maybe a chair.

"It's fine," Heeseung replies, far too casually. "Nothing's happened. She's just cleaning. It's fine."

"She's not just cleaning."

There's silence. A long one. And then—Heeseung's voice again, softer. "Maybe she's good for me."

You freeze. You don't know what they're talking about exactly, not in full, but the heat that rushes to your face is impossible to fight. Good for him? What the hell does that mean? And why does it make your chest feel like it's caving in? Before you can hear anything else, the door swings open, making you stumble back just in time, blinking up at the man who steps through—tall, with sharp eyes that land on you and skim over every inch of your body like you're being scanned. He doesn't say hello, he doesn't smile just like last time. Instead, he mutters something—so low you barely catch it but the edge is there, sharp enough to wound. Something about "distractions" and "too young" and "another mistake."

You step aside without responding, your mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He walks past you with a slight shake of his head and a long sigh, like your very existence is a burden.

And then—

"Didn't think you'd come."

You turn back around.

Heeseung's standing in the doorway, barefoot again, hair still damp like he just showered, dressed in a loose gray shirt and soft black pants that cling to his hips in a way that makes your head fog. He's smiling—nothing too wide, just soft, like a secret meant only for you. Like he's genuinely happy to see you.

You open your mouth to say something, anything—but he's already speaking again.

"About yesterday," he says, stepping aside so you can walk in. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."

And the whiplash? It's instant. Because wasn't he the one who told you not to come today? All quiet and serious and guilt-stricken after nearly kissing you in his kitchen? Now he's soft again, familiar again, and it throws you completely off.

"You don't need to apologize," you say quickly, almost defensively, as you walk inside.

"I do," he says, just as fast. "I really—"

"No, Heeseung." You stop and turn to face him, heart in your throat. "You really don't need to apologize."

He opens his mouth again, brows furrowing, about to insist—but your voice cuts through the air before you can stop yourself.

Quiet. Barely a whisper.

"You didn't have to stop either."

Silence, all heavy and immediate. Heeseung just stares at you. Still and looking stunned. His lips parted like he wants to speak but the words haven't caught up to his brain. His eyes search your face slowly, like he's not sure if he heard you right—or if you meant to say it out loud.

And maybe you didn't.

But you did.

And there's no taking it back.

The door clicks shut behind you before you can even remember stepping inside.

Heeseung doesn't move at first. Just stares at you like he's not entirely sure you're real. Like maybe he conjured you up somehow. His eyes stay on your mouth a little too long, and you try not to notice the way his chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, as if he's reminding himself how to breathe.

Then you say it again. Softer this time.

"You didn't have to stop."

It hangs in the air between you. Heavy, reckless and unapologetic.

Heeseung blinks once. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shutters. He exhales through his nose—shaky—and drags a hand through his hair, the curls still slightly messy from sleep or stress or something in between.

"That's inappropriate," he says, not unkindly. More like he's trying to draw a boundary he doesn't even believe in.

And the words sting. Maybe more than they should. Maybe because you were just beginning to feel something real stirring between the two of you—something outside of your job, your journal, your blurring lines. You freeze. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first, and it's too late anyway. He's already turning from you.

The confused hurt in your eyes stops him in his tracks, but only for a second. He looks back at you—and really looks. Something passes behind his eyes, quiet and aching. Regret maybe or worse, restraint. You watch his jaw flex, as if he's chewing on something bitter, swallowing all the things he'll never allow himself to say.

Then he's stepping away. A slow, deliberate retreat. His footsteps are soft against the stairs as he disappears up them without another word.

And just like that, you're alone. Again.

The silence is incredibly deafening.

Your hands are still trembling.

They have been ever since you left his place. You could barely wipe the kitchen counters without your fingers missing the edge. The dishes were spotless before you even realized you'd scrubbed them twice. Your head was everywhere but here, rerunning that moment—that look in his eyes, the cold withdrawal of his body after your quiet, desperate confession.

And he never came back down.

You didn't know what you expected, but it wasn't this.

The day drags, and when the clock finally blinks 4:00, you practically flee. Your phone's already to your ear by the time you hit the elevator.

"I can't do this anymore," you say as soon as Cee picks up.

He sounds startled. "Do what? Are you—what happened? Are you okay?"

"Nothing happened. I just—" You press your fingers to your temple. The weight of everything suddenly lands all at once. "I don't want to clean for him anymore."

He's quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Did he do something?"

"No. I just..." You sigh. "It's better this way."

And you think that's the end of it.

But the second you step into the building's reception, the front desk clerk—neatly pressed shirt, neutral expression, his name tag slightly askew—glances up from his computer. "Miss," he says, "Mr. Lee is asking for you upstairs."

You freeze.

Your mouth goes dry. "I—I was just up there."

He nods once, polite. "He asked me to let you know."

You hesitate.

Everything inside you says don't go. That this is how it always begins—with soft invitations and good intentions and doors that don't close fast enough behind you.

But your feet are already moving.

The elevator ride is silent, save the rush of your pulse in your ears. And when you push the door open, Heeseung is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Waiting.

You can't read his expression.

"I figured you'd quit," he says. Not accusing. Not even upset. Just matter-of-fact, like he'd already prepared for it.

"I am," you say. "I think it's for the best."

There's a beat.

"I don't want that."

You scoff before you can help it, stepping inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft hiss. "I'm not even sure you know what you want."

You don't even realize you're walking until you're standing in front of him, so close you could count the lashes framing his eyes if you weren't too scared to look directly into them. There's something in his face—some falter in his composure—that makes your chest feel too tight.

He doesn't move.

So you do.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your heart hammers, and then—you're kissing him.

It's a mess of a thing. Sudden. Brash. Tipped forward on hope and recklessness. Your lips crash into his like a question you don't want answered and—

Nothing.

He doesn't move.

Your lips are on his, but he's frozen. Unresponsive.

The rejection burns so fast it chokes you, and you start to pull back, humiliated—but something in you makes you whisper to him, "Please," you almost sound broken. "Please kiss me back, Heeseung."

That's all it takes.

The air leaves his lungs like he's been sucker-punched. His hands are on your face instantly, his mouth catching yours like he's been starving for it. Like the moment he tasted you, he remembered how badly he wanted.

And this time, he answers the question

His mouth is on yours like he's finally allowed himself to breathe. You're not sure who moves first after that—him or you—but the space between you disappears completely. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like he needs the reminder that you're real and here and kissing him back just as desperately.

And when he pulls away to look at you—face flushed, eyes dark and confused—you whisper again, barely audible, "Heeseung..."

That does it for him because you can swear you see the moment something in him breaks. Suddenly he's not hesitating anymore, like the sound of your voice cracked through whatever restraint he'd been clinging to, and now it was all unraveling.

He's swallowing the soft sounds you make, capturing every gasp, every whimper, like he needs to devour them, and his mouth is hot and insistent as it trails down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin like he's trying to mark the moment there.

You gasp when he lifts you without warning, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It's erratic—wild—matching yours nearly beat for beat.

He sets you down on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, the cool marble biting at the backs of your thighs through your jeans. His lips return to yours before they begin their descent again, brushing over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest. His fingers find the hem of your top and pause, glancing up, breath hitching.

You nod.

That's all he needs.

He peels it off gently—too gently for the look in his eyes—and when your bra joins the growing pile of fabric, he's silent for a second. Just watching you. Then he exhales something like a curse and leans in, pressing slow, reverent kisses down your sternum, the curve of your breasts, dragging his teeth lightly, sucking your nipple into his mouth, making you shiver and arch into him.

Every time you whimper, he presses closer.

Every time you moan, he groans softly against your skin, like your sounds undo him.

And just when you think your legs might give out from how tightly your body is wound, he lifts you again. Not onto the floor—but down, off the counter, and turns you gently, pressing you forward. You gasp softly as your hands meet the marble again, your heart stuttering.

Your jeans are tugged down with unhurried hands. Your underwear follows. You're so exposed. Breathless. And behind you, Heeseung lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a prayer.

One of his hands smooths over your lower back. The other grips your hip. "God forgive me," he whispers.

You don't know how to stay quiet—not when his mouth is trailing behind you, kissing the backs of your thighs, the curve of you, everywhere—and when he finally leans in, when you feel the first sweep of his tongue, your entire body jolts forward like he's short-circuited something deep inside you.

"Heeseung—" It leaves your mouth like a sob.

He groans in response, tightening his grip around your thighs, but his pace doesn't falter.

And all you can do is press your cheek against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut, biting down on your own hand as he ruins you slowly.

Intimately.

He watches you unravel with so much intensity from beneath you, it's like he's trying to imprint every detail into memory. His tongue maps out every inch of you, teasing and tasting places you never realized could make you feel this way—until he finds your clit again. Instinct takes over; your hips roll down against his mouth, and he responds with a low hum, gripping your thighs to hold them open just enough to tilt his head and drag his tongue lower once more. "Spread your legs for me baby" He whispers it in a way that has you thinking you'll do anything he says, as long as he says it in that voice.

Suddenly and surprisingly, he shoves his tongue deep inside you while using his fingers to rub tight circles against your clit. "Hee—Ah!" You're moaning and whimpering so uncontrollably, the whole thing has your legs trembling where you're stood. You're convinced if he wasn't holding you up himself you'll collapse from the pleasure and pressure of it all.

His tongue is incredibly relentless, slurping you up, not even caring that he's drooling down his chin with your essence, "Wait! W-Wait!" You cry out suddenly.

"What? What? What's wrong? Did I hu—" His words cut through to you as he gets up off his knees where he was, but you're cutting him off and pulling him for another deep kiss, hopping yourself up on the counter again. Heeseung kisses you back like he's starving—like you're the first thing he's ever been allowed to want.

Your hands are in motion before you can think. Clumsy, eager, pulling his shirt halfway out from where it's tucked into his sweats, feeling the heat of his stomach beneath your palms. You moan into his mouth and his hands squeeze your thighs in response, hard enough to leave a mark.

He doesn't stop you when your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. If anything, he kisses you harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it—owns you—and you're letting him. Begging for more.

Your hands are shaking when you fumble at the button of his slacks, but you manage to get it undone, your fingers brushing the trail of skin that dips below the waistband. Heeseung lets out a sharp, broken sound against your mouth—fuck—his head tipping forward, forehead resting against yours as you palm him through the fabric.

You weren't ready for how hard and heavy he would be in your hand. It was like the length of him just went on and on.

You feel the twitch beneath your palm and gasp, and his breath stutters like he's seconds from losing it.

"Jesus—" heeseung grits, his voice deep and wrecked. His head tips back, neck exposed, throat bobbing, you've never seen someone come undone like this.

He's panting now, hips shifting forward like he needs the friction, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him.

"Is this okay?" you whisper, breathless, your voice barely steady as you trace him again, bolder this time.

His eyes find yours, blown wide and unreadable, lips parted. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, but he nods. "Don't stop. Please take it out, please."

Your hand moves again, more confidently now, doing as he says, and his mouth crashes into yours mid-moan—swallowing it whole, like he can't bear the sound of his own unraveling.

And when he groans into you, deep and guttural and feral, you feel it between your legs—hot and pulsing and near unbearable.

He grips your hips like he's trying to anchor himself—like you're the only thing holding him together. He's dragging you to the edge of the counter and pinning your hand behind you, it has you feeling dizzy—the way he has you pinned there, at his mercy.

Before you can pull away to look down at where you have your hand wrapped around him, he's picking you up off the counter yet again, carrying you and setting you down on the couch, ever so gently.

Heeseung is panting into your mouth, your bodies pressed flush—his chest against yours, your legs wrapped around his waist. The fabric between you is suffocating. His sweats are halfway down his hips, your jeans are already abandoned on the kitchen floor, along with your panties, your composure, and any shred of dignity you once clung to when it came to him.

He's got you caged between his body and the couch. One arm braced beside your head, the other skimming down your side until his fingers are slipping between your legs again. You jolt, gasping against his lips, forehead pressed to his as his fingers slide through the mess he's made of you.

"Fuck—" you whisper, clutching at the back of his neck.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice nothing but gravel and smoke, his thumb teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your spine curl. "You're perfect like this...I knew you'd come back."

You moan again, louder, desperate, rocking against his hand—your whole body begging for him.

His mouth finds yours again, kisses sloppier now, and then he's gripping himself, lining up with your entrance, breath hot and uneven against your cheek.

And then—

"Rina," he breathes.

You freeze for half a second.

It's soft—tender as a whispered prayer, effortless as a breath, a name escaping his lips before he even realizes it.

But your brain doesn't quite catch it—not fully. You're too far gone. Too overwhelmed by the stretch of him nudging at your entrance, by the unbearable heat of his body, the quiet, feral groan rumbling from his chest.

You blink, dazed. "What...?"

But the next second, he's pushing in.

And everything else disappears.

Your body arches, mouth falling open around a choked cry as he fills you in one slow, devastating thrust.

The stretch burns in the best way, and Heeseung moans something guttural, animalistic, like the moment he's inside you he's forgotten his own name too.

"So tight," he groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. "Fucking heaven."

Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth finding the shell of his ear.

"Heeseung—move. Please—"

He pulls back, just enough to slam into you again, and you swear the stars tilt. His rhythm is brutal, relentless, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, and you're sobbing now—moaning into his mouth like you've lost your mind. Maybe you have.

Maybe he has.

Because he's whispering things you can't quite understand—fragmented pieces of something almost sweet, almost unhinged.

"My perfect girl... only mine... waited so long—so long—Rina..."

You hear it again. Clearer now, but you're too gone to stop. Too full of him to question it. Your body writhes beneath his like it's what it was made for—like he's been carved into your DNA.

And you don't know what he means but something about the way he's holding you—possessive, reverent, frantic like he'll die without you—sends a chill up your spine even as you're unraveling around him.

Where they meet—the madness and the need—you don't know where you end and he begins. But you're already lifting your hips to meet his just to chase your high. You're pretty sure you're drooling now and by the way he looks down at you a smiles you know he likes what he seeing "You're so beautiful" "So tight wrapped aroun—" He keeps silencing himself with strangled moans, pulling back and sitting up, too overwhelmed to even remember he hasn't apologized for already being on the edge.

"I'm gonna c—" "Oh fuck fuck fuuuuckkk" He drawls on and on, you can feel your release coming too, in fact it almost feel like you're going to pee. "Don't stop! Heeseung! Fuck!" You moan loudly, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss before pushing his hips back, his cock slipping wet and twitching from your cunt. Without pause, your fingers find your clit, working it in savage, relentless circles, each one followed by a sharp slap that makes your thighs jolt. "Fuck—shit!" you cry out, body arching as a hot stream shoots from you, splattering across his stomach and chest.

His breath catches—eyes blown wide, chest heaving—watching you lose control all over him "You're so sexy". You haven't even caught your breath when he suddenly takes over again, letting the mess spill from you as if your trembling doesn't matter, pushing you down and driving himself deep into the pulsing aftermath still rippling through your body.

"Cum on my cock again, please" "Need you to, Rina—Fuck! I'm so close!" He's mumbling half incoherent half desperate and your overstimulated self doesn't seem to hear the alarm bells ringing in your head at the name he just called you again. You're already on the brink again, trembling and aching for it, and when it finally crashes through you, it's because Heeseung drags it out with no mercy. He pulls out, cock dripping, and fists it furiously as he paints your stomach—but he doesn't let your cunt stay empty. Two fingers slam back into your soaked hole, curling deep and fast, forcing you to squirt all over his wrist as he talks you through it with a low, filthy grin.

You're both trembling.

Sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Harsh breathing. The deep, ragged quiet of two people who forgot where they were, who they were, what any of this even meant. He slumps forward, collapsing into you with a half-groan, half-laugh, and you let your fingers drift up his spine, your body humming with aftershocks.

You don't say anything and neither does he, not for a long, long moment.

Then he pushes up, slowly, gently—his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifts you off the couch. You whimper softly from the sensitivity, clinging to his shoulders.

"Come on," he says, voice raw and low. "Shower."

Your limbs feel like water, but you nod, letting him carry you. He walks the both of you to the massive bathroom like you weigh nothing—like you're still something precious in his arms—and sets you down on the warm tile floor. The shower clicks on, hot water spraying against his hand as he checks the temperature, then guides you under it with him.

The moment the water hits you, you shiver—more from the way he's looking at you than the heat. His gaze doesn't drop once. Not when he's rubbing gentle soap over your skin, not when he's rinsing between your legs with careful fingers, not when he presses a kiss to your shoulder like an apology he's too afraid to say aloud.

He doesn't speak until you're both out, towel-wrapped and damp.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, toweling off your hair with surprising tenderness.

You nod. And you don't stop him when he pulls one of his T-shirts over your head—soft and oversized, falling to your mid-thigh. You don't stop him when he pulls on a pair of boxers for you either, or when he leads you to the guest bedroom, the sheets cool and clean beneath your bare legs as you crawl under them.

He climbs in next to you, his body warm beside yours, and without a word, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's muscle memory.

There's no more heat. No more tension. Just his heartbeat against your back, his breath slow and steady in your ear and you fall asleep like that, in his clothes, in his bed, in his arms. Not thining about the name he whispered.

*•*•*

You wake up before Heeseung does.

There's no buzzing alarm, no sunlight breaking through the blackout curtains, but your body jolts upright anyway—like your soul remembered what your mind didn't.

Panic grips you first.

Jiyoon. She's definitely called. Probably texted. Maybe even filed a missing person's report.

You twist in the sheets, trying not to disturb the weight draped over your waist. Heeseung's arm. Heavy, possessive, warm. His hand is splayed over your hip like it belongs there.

You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.

What did I do?

Your heart's racing as you carefully, carefully peel his arm off of you, shimmying toward the edge of the bed. You manage to get one leg off, then another, tiptoeing like a thief in the early morning hush—

"Why are you sneaking out?"

You squeak.

Spinning around, your hands instinctively fly to your chest, but you're still wearing his shirt. You breathe a little but then freeze again when you see him. Heeseung is propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. His voice is low and scratchy—one of those voices that somehow sounds like velvet and gravel all at once.

You stare. And then it hits you—like a freight train right between the ribs. Everything he did to you. Every moan he pulled from your lips. The way he tasted. The way he touched you like you were something sacred and sinful at the same time. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth like you can trap the memory there.

His brow lifts just slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, flipping back onto the bed with a sigh, one arm flung over his eyes. "You're trouble."

"I have to go," you say quickly, eyes darting to the door. "My friend is probably freaking out, she didn't know where I was—"

"Okay," he murmurs, voice muffled beneath his forearm. "But can I get a kiss?" You blink, feeling your heart stutter. Then, slowly, you cross the room again, padding back to the side of the bed. His arm lowers just enough to watch you. When you lean down, brushing your lips to his, he hums—like he's been waiting for that exact moment.

But just as you try to pull away, he grabs you. You yelp, landing on top of him with a soft thud as his hands anchor you by the hips. "Heeseung—" He kisses you again and t's not a chaste goodbye kiss this time. It's deeper, hotter—his lips moving slow and sure against yours, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you melt against him without thinking, your fingers clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt over his chest.

You whine into his mouth. "I have to go..." He nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to breathe. "Come back," he whispers. "Tonight. Seven o'clock."

You're blinking at him, breathless. "To... clean?" He shakes his head once, lips twitching. "No. I'll cook." You can't help it. You smile. It's shy and warm and completely helpless. "Okay," you whisper.

He lets you go then, but not before placing one last kiss on your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Don't be late."

You close the door to the guest bedroom behind you, twisting the handle slowly so it doesn't make a sound, like he might stir just from the click, not that he could even be asleep again. Your heart's still thudding, though softer now, your body still warm from how he held you—not just last night, but moments ago. You feel him on your skin. Between your thighs. In your mouth, even. You pad into the hallway, feet silent against the floor, and the penthouse feels even bigger in the morning, stretching out wide and echoey. Sunlight slips in through the tall windows of the living room, golden and faint, catching dust in the air.

Your clothes are everywhere. A trail—your bra laying on the kitchen floor with your jeans close by, your shirt hanging from the edge of a barstool like some kind of white flag.

You sigh.

You gather them quickly, cradling the bundle to your chest. But when you unfold your shirt—well, what's left of it—you remember the exact moment he took it off, how he looked at you like you were some forbidden fruit he'd gone too long without, you hadn't even realized he had ripped it. It's unsalvageable.

So you just... don't put it on. You slip your bra back on, then shrug his black shirt over it. It swallows you, soft and warm from sleep. You wiggle into your jeans next, the ones he peeled off of you. Your hands tremble as you do the button up.

Last thing—your phone. You search the couch. Nothing. Under the cushions. Still nothing. You check the kitchen counter, the bar, even crouch down to peek under the sofa. "Come on, come on..." Then finally, mercifully, you spot it near the edge of the carpet, half-tucked under the dining chair. You dive for it like it's oxygen and fumble to unlock it.

Ten missed calls. Three voicemails. Twenty-two messages.

All from one name. You don't even get a word out when you hit call—Jiyoon answers on the first ring. "You bitch." You wince. "Oh my god," she cackles. "You bitch. Where were you? Don't tell me—no, no actually, tell me everything right now."

"Ji—"

"You slept with him, didn't you? You fucking whore. You got that psycho dick, didn't you?! Tell me. Was it good? Was it crazy?!"

You cover your face with your hand, crouching down behind the kitchen island like you're trying to hide from the embarrassment sinking into your bones. "I'm coming home," you say weakly, voice still raspy from sleep and... everything else.

"Oh," Jiyoon says, tone shifting slightly. "I'm not home right now. I'm covering a shift for my lazy coworker. But I'll be back later—wait, wait, is he still there? Are you still there? What's he doing?"

"Jiyoon."

"What?"

"Bye."

You hang up.

Still pink-faced and hot, you shove your phone in your pocket, tug on your sneakers, and walk to the elevator with your head ducked low—like the doors might open and the walls themselves would whisper what happened between them. You're not sure how to feel. Still floating. Still wrecked. But you know you'll be back by 7.

*•*•*

You unlock the door to your apartment with shaking fingers, pushing it open slowly like you might find the night before still waiting for you on the other side. But it's empty, cause there's no Heeseung here. No soft piano notes echoing from hidden corners. No whispered "be back by seven." Just your little apartment, lived-in and warm and smelling faintly of vanilla from the candle Jiyoon must've lit last night. You step inside, close the door behind you, and lean back against it for a second. Just to breathe. Your body aches so deliciously and shamefully. Your lips are sore. Your thighs. Your heart.

You change into something soft and oversized before dropping onto your desk chair and logging into your online class, the kind of class that requires so much effort to focus on even when you haven't just had... whatever that was. The screen lights up. A professor you don't care about is already talking, already droning on about something you're not registering. You blink at the slides. The bullet points. You try. Really, you do. But your brain?

It's busy. Because it won't stop showing you his face in the dark. The way he hovered over you, lips parted, skin burning hot against yours. The way he touched you like you were something he needed to know. Memorize.

The way he whispered—low and wrecked—"Rina." You flinch.

It hits you all at once. You'd been so caught up in the moment, too far gone to process it then. But now? Now it loops. The way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Rina.

Who the hell is Rina? You shift in your seat, open a new tab, and hesitate. Your heart is racing again—not the good kind this time, as your hands tremble over the keyboard. Then you type it in regardless,

Lee Heeseung Rina

The search bar blinks at you. You hit enter. And there it is.

The very first result is a glossy thumbnail from three years ago. Heeseung in an interview, seated on a sleek navy couch, wearing black slacks and a gray button up sweater and a white shirt beneath it. He's smiling. That breathtaking smile you've only seen a few times up close, so effortless and disarming. You click the video.

The host laughs and leans forward. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone wants to know. Who's Rina?" Heeseung chuckles, mouth tugging up at one side. You sit a little straighter.

"She's my first love," he says. "And probably the only one I'll ever love like that." The crowd awwws and your heart cracks like glass under pressure, you have pause the video. So she was real. A real woman.Someone he loved so deeply he admitted it on camera—publicly, permanently. Your throat closes up. Your chest tightens. He called you that name. Did he think of her while he was—. You don't even finish the thought. Instead, you search harder. Scroll deeper. You need to know what she looks like. If you look like her. If this is some messed up ghost-of-an-ex situation.

Another video pops up—this one titled "Behind the Scenes | Seoul Symphony Ensemble (ft. Lee Heeseung)"

You click it. The footage is candid, grainy. Heeseung's younger here, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, still too beautiful for it to be fair. The camera follows him backstage as he leads a film crew through the dim corridors of a concert hall. Then he stops, turns to the camera. "Come here," he says with a quiet laugh, gesturing to the next room. "You have to meet her." The camera jostles slightly as they follow. Heeseung walks up to a sleek, glossy black grand piano and runs his fingers across the keys. "This is Rina," he says, like he's introducing a person. His voice is reverent. Almost loving. "She's been with me since I was thirteen. She's...kind of everything to me."

You freeze.

The camera zooms in slightly. Heeseung brushes dust from the piano's surface with his sleeve, smiling at it so softly it hurts. "She's my first love." You sit there, staring, mind blank and full all at once.

Rina's not a person.

Rina's a piano.

A fucking piano. A part of you wants to laugh at your delusion but you don't, instead you just sit there. Eyes glued to the screen. To him. To the way he's speaking—not to the camera, not even to the crew—but to the piano, like it's something alive. Like it's someone he's missed. Someone he still longs for in the softest, most ruined parts of himself. And that name—Rina—sits different now in your head. Not like a rival. Not like someone he's still in love with. But like... a memory. A feeling. Something that made him whole when the world couldn't.

Rina is his piano.

You let the video run, sound turned low, just watching him—barely twenty two, still beautiful, still broken. The way he presses one key gently and listens. How he says, she's been with me since I was thirteen. How he adds, she's my first love like it's a secret and a confession all at once. Your heart folds in on itself. Because in a way it makes sense now. The way he said your name last night, the way he whispered Rina instead—like he couldn't tell the difference. Like in his mind, in that haze of need and obsession and closeness, you had become something sacred. Something he hadn't let himself love in years. Something he used to play like music. And he'd touched you the same way—with reverence and hunger, as if trying to figure out where you end and he begins. You press your palm to your chest, like maybe you can settle your heartbeat if you hold it hard enough.

He doesn't see you as a replacement. You're not her. But in that moment, you think he felt something he hadn't in a long time. Something pure. Something familiar. Something maybe even terrifying. Heeseung, in his fractured, beautiful, obsessive mind, didn't just mistake you for his piano, he associated the moment—you—with what he once felt when he played Rina. And maybe he's so far gone he doesn't even realize he did it. And maybe you should be scared, but all you feel is this deep, warm ache in your ribs that won't go away. You close the laptop, completely forgetting about your class, and press your fingers to your lips. They still tingle from kissing him and you feel your stomach turn with excitement for the night to come.

*•*•*

You hear it before you see her. The clatter of her keys on the counter. The heavy sigh. And then, sharp—like a bullet of disbelief, "YOU BITCH." "OH MY GOD." You don't even turn. Just let your eyes flutter shut and mentally brace for it. "You absolute filthy little minx," Jiyoon hisses, storming into the hallway in her work flats and crumpled apron, "Don't even try to deny it—I know you did it." "I'm not denying anything," you mumble, turning slowly to face her. She's halfway through unzipping her jacket, eyes wide, expression scandalized.

Your entire face bursts into flames. "Jiyoon—" "Oh my God, you did sleep with him." She points at you like she's witnessing a war crime. "You have sex hair. You're literally glowing. What the hell is that shirt? Wait—don't tell me." She takes a dramatic step back. "Is that his shirt?" You tug the hem instinctively. "It's just... something I had to wear. Mine got—um. Ripped." She stares at you. Blinks once. Twice. Then screams. "Oh my GOD. He ripped your clothes off? That's—like—that's premium movie-level sexy violence."

You bury your face in your hands. "Please lower your voice." "You didn't even text me last night!" she cries. "Do you know how worried I was? I thought he locked you in a cage or something!"

"I was busy," you say, voice strangled. "You were BUSY getting ravenously destroyed," she says, flopping onto the couch like the dramatics are too heavy for her legs. "Okay. Tell me everything. Don't leave out any of the details. Did he talk? Was it intense? Slow burn? Did he like—say your name all rough and gravelly or was he like, all quiet and crazy about it?" You hesitate.

You want to tell her and you almost do, but something about that moment—about everything that happened last night, the hazy weight of his body pressed against yours, his breath in your ear, how he held you like you were a prayer and a ghost all at once—feels too delicate. Too personal. You can't even begin to explain the shift you felt inside yourself, let alone the strange ache in your chest when he said that name. You swallow, keeping your voice light. "It was... really good."

Jiyoon lifts a brow. "That's it? Good?" You shoot her a look. "I'm not giving you a full play-by-play." She gasps. "So it was insane." "I'm gonna be late," you deflect, brushing past her to grab your phone. "I told him I'd be there at seven." "Ugh. Seven is such a romantic time."

"What does that even mean?" "Like. Not too early, not too late. Right in the middle. Candlelight o'clock." She wiggles her eyebrows. "You gonna let him feed you and then fuck you again?""Jiyoon."

"You are. Oh my God. Are you shaving again or are we doing stubble and surrender tonight?" You groan. "I can't talk to you about this." "Yes, you can," she says, pulling her hair into a bun. "We signed a roommate agreement, remember? Emotional nudity clause." You smile despite yourself. "Just wish me luck, okay?" She softens then, eyes scanning your face. "You like him." You hesitate, fingers pausing on your necklace clasp. "I don't know what I feel," you say truthfully. "It's... fast. Messy." "You don't do messy."

"Exactly." Jiyoon walks over, squeezes your shoulder. "That shirt looks hot on you, by the way. Like dangerously I-was-just-fucked-by-a-mentally-ill-man hot." "Thanks, I think."

"Be safe. Don't let him tie you to anything unless there's a safe word. Call me if he tries to perform an exorcism." You laugh, heading for the bathroom door. "You're gonna fall for him," she calls behind you. "You already are, huh?" But you don't answer, because you don't know that yet, and if you do, you're not ready to say it out loud.

You check the time again when it's 6:38 PM. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at you—doe-eyed, glossed lips parted slightly, a tiny knot of nerves cinched beneath your ribs. You smooth your hands down your dress for the fifth time, whispering to yourself under your breath like it might change something. "Okay," you murmur. "Just dinner. It's just... dinner." With Heeseung. At his penthouse. In a dress you specifically picked to walk the very fine line between I wanted to look nice for you and I definitely didn't spend two hours trying on everything I own. A dress that clings at your waist and floats at your knees and makes you feel pretty but also exposed. Not in a bad way, just... in a way that makes your skin feel watched. Known.

You hesitate in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the stairs. And then you groan. "Nope. No way I'm taking the bus." You can already see it—you standing sandwiched between strangers, one arm clutching the overhead bar, the other yanking at your skirt, trying not to breathe too loud. You can feel the wrinkles forming just thinking about it. You'd show up looking like a disheveled little sandwich and Heeseung—Heeseung with his white linen shirts and leather watchbands—would tilt his head and maybe smile and maybe not say anything, but you'd know. You open your phone and call a cab.

It feels ridiculous. Extravagant even. But the moment you sink into the backseat, cool leather beneath your thighs and the city lights blinking past your window like slow breaths, something quiet settles inside you. You take a long, shaky inhale. Heeseung's face comes to mind. The way he looked last night—flushed and breathless and so terribly hungry for you, like you were the first and last thing he'd ever wanted. The way he whispered your name. Except—it wasn't your name. Not the first time. Your fingers tighten slightly on your bag and you push the thought away. You already made peace with it—told yourself it didn't mean anything. Not really. You'd seen the videos. You know what Rina is. And in some strange, abstract way, you think maybe you understand what happened better than you should.

Maybe he sees things in fragments—maybe he feels things in them too. Maybe last night, you reminded him of something he loved once so deeply he carved a home for it in his bones. And maybe tonight, you want him to start carving space for you instead. You glance atthe time on your phone, 6:53. Your stomach flutters. Are you nervous?

God—yes. Your knees won't stop bouncing, and your fingers keep picking at the edge of your dress. But you're also... excited.You don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this ride—don't know if dinner will be awkward or sweet or laced with something heavier—but it feels like something real. Something different. And that terrifies you. Because you've never been looked at the way he looked at you last night. Not like you were music.

The cab pulls up to the building. You pay with shaky hands, thank the driver too softly, and walk inside. The elevator ride is a blur of breath-holding. The ding at the top floor even sends a jolt through your chest. And then you're standing in front of his penthouse door, your hand hovering, not sure whether to knock or just—. It's not locked. The knob turns and you step inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, and you're met with... silence. You take one hesitant step forward into the quiet space. It's too quiet. The air feels still in a way it didn't the last time you were here—when it was thick with the scent of his skin, his hands, your gasps and moans echoing off the walls like confessions. Now it's like the space is holding its breath again.

"Heeseung?" you call, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance at the clock on the wall, 7:01. You chew on your lip, glancing around. The kitchen looks untouched. There's no trace of movement, no clatter of pans or scent of dinner in the air. There's a single light on in the far corner by the bookshelves, casting golden shadows across the couch where he held you just hours ago, his mouth in your hair and his arms locked around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. You exhale softly. "Heeseung?" you try again, louder this time, taking cautious steps farther in. Still nothing.

And then it hits you—you don't even have his number. You came here like some wide-eyed idiot with your heart between your teeth, expecting him to just be there, waiting, arms outstretched. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not hear the door, or might be upstairs, or might have changed his mind entirely.

God. You sink down onto the arm of the couch and try not to panic. You won't text Jiyoon—not yet. She'd tease you mercilessly and then probably tell you to go snoop in case he was sleeping with other people or something absurd. You don't want to snoop. You just want to see him. You shift in your seat, smoothing your dress again, tugging at the edge of it and check the time again, 7:06. You blink, already feeling defeated and ready to leave but then a sharp loud sound echoes from upstairs that has you snapping your head towards the stairs. There's another thud—louder this time—followed by a crash that sends a sharp jolt through your chest. Something shattered. And then, unmistakably, screaming. Blood-curdling. Ragged. Like pain clawing itself out of a throat too raw to hold it anymore.

Your breath snags. Your heart kicks into high gear. Your body's moving before your mind can catch up, instinct overriding hesitation as you bolt through the living room, past the grand piano, toward the stairs. Breaking every rule you were given when you first started working here, but that's the last thing on your mind.

He's upstairs. That's him—him screaming.You take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, fingers scrambling against the banister. When you reach the top, there's only one door that makes sense—tall and black, you sprint to it, chest heaving, and try the handle.

Locked.

Your fist slams against it before you can think. "Heeseung?!" There's no response—just another crash, something metallic this time, like a stand being thrown, maybe a chair. Your knuckles are pulsing against the wood. "Heeseung, open the door! Please!" Still no answer. Just a chorus of garbled words—frenzied, nonsensical, frantic.

"They changed the notes—don't you hear it? It's all wrong, out of key, they're inside the piano! Stop watching me! The rhythm's bleeding, I can't—" Another crash. "It's too loud in here, too loud in my head, make it stop!" Your blood runs cold. Something primal flickers inside you—panic morphing into something sharper, braver. You back up, brace your shoulder against the frame, and throw yourself forward.

Once. Twice—

CRACK.

The door flies open, and you stumble into the absolute chaos, the first thing you see is the floor, and at the center of it all; a piano or what's left of one. Splintered wood. Torn wires. Ivory keys cracked like teeth knocked from a skull. You recognize it instantly. Rina.

There more glass and splintered wood than floor beneath her. Crumpled sheet music. A chair lying on its side. Blood. Blood like paint streaked across the wooden floor, thin trails leading to—

Him. Heeseung.

Standing in the center of it all like a broken monument. There's a deep gash across his forearm, blood still dripping sluggishly onto his hand and down his knuckles. His chest rises and falls too fast, ribs pushing sharply beneath skin that gleams with sweat. His hair sticks to his face. His eyes—wide, unseeing, glazed with something far away and chaotic and terrifying—don't register you at first. He's breathing like he's drowning.

You try to speak, to talk to him, but your throat won't open. He moves before you can. Quick, jerky. Like his body's not entirely his own. He spins, stares at the wall like it's speaking to him, fingers twitching at his sides. "They changed the notes," he mutters. "They changed the fucking notes." His voice is shredded. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours. Maybe he has. You take one step closer, and your heel lands on a snapped piano key. It clicks beneath your foot like a trigger. He whips around, eyes on you now, all wild, unhinged and unfocused. "Who are you?" he rasps.

You freeze. The question slices clean through you. Your mouth opens, but your voice won't come. Heeseung stares, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. His hands curl and uncurl like he's not sure if he wants to reach for you or strangle you. "Who are you?" he repeats. "Why are you watching me? Are you one of them?"

Them? Your heart stutters. "Heeseung..." you whisper, finally finding your voice. "It's me." But he flinches like you've struck him. You take another step and watch as he instinctively steps back. "No," he whispers. "No—Rina? I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You were perfect and I ruined you. My perfect girl. Please forgive me." Your breath catches.

"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know where it comes from. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the way his voice cracks like the word is a wound. "I forgive you," you say, voice steadier this time. "I came back for you." His mouth parts and his whole body stills. You can see the thought slotting into place behind his eyes, crooked and trembling and fragile. But it settles. "...Rina?" You nod. "I'm here."

He walks toward you slowly. So slow. Like every step might set him off again. And still, you don't move. His bloodied hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek—his touch clumsy and too hard at first, like he doesn't remember how to be gentle. But then it softens. His palm cups your jaw, and he leans in so close his breath skates across your lips. "I knew you'd come back," he murmurs. Your throat tightens and swallow around the ache, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. "I'm here now."

"Don't leave," he breathes. "Please don't leave me again. The music stops when you're gone. It stops and I can't breathe, I can't—"

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper. He leans back just enough to look at you. The way he's looking now—it breaks you, because there's no rage or wildness. Just pure, shivering exhaustion. He's unraveling at the seams, and you're the only thread keeping him together. "I want to play," he says softly. "Let me play you."

You nod. And when he tugs you toward the mangled piano, you follow. It's barely standing. The legs are cracked. One pedal's missing. The keys are uneven—some bloodied, some broken. It shouldn't work. It shouldn't sound. But he sits on the shattered bench, breath hitching, and gently pulls you onto his lap.

You settle there, straddling him, your dress bunching slightly against the rough edge of the wood. Your hands brace on his shoulders. His arms wrap around you, drawing you closer. And then—fingers trembling—Heeseung presses his hands to the keys. The sound is... haunting. Off. Warped. But he plays anyway. A melody, jagged and soft. A lullaby with broken bones. The piano cries beneath his touch, but he keeps playing. For you, because of you, it all makes your chest ache for him, you even feel your eyes sting. And all you can do is hold him, let him pour whatever's left of himself into the broken body of his piano—into you.

Because right now, in this room thick with blood and chaos and ghosts, you're the only thing anchoring him to earth. The music tumbles out of him in discordant bursts, crooked and aching like his mind, like his body—like whatever this is between you. And you swear, you'd let him play you forever. But then his fingers slip, not from the broken keys, but because your breath stutters against his jaw. He stills, drifting one hand away from the piano to find your waist instead, the other continues to play, the curve of your back—and then he's holding you so tight you feel the blood from his arm soak warm through your dress.

You don't flinch.

He tilts his face up, searching yours. Your lips part, not for words, but for the way his mouth captures yours the second you breathe in. It's so so desperate. A kiss that tastes like iron and sweat and the kind of madness that wants to be known, wants to be seen.

You whimper into him, clutching at the front of his shirt, and his hands are already moving—shaky, hurried, needing—grabbing at your dress, dragging it up your thighs as if he doesn't care it's stained now, doesn't care it's soft and new and something you wore for him.The keys beneath you clatter with each shift of your hips, and his fingers fumble at the zipper on your side like it's fighting him. He groans low in his throat, kissing you harder, tongue sliding hot against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside of you—trying to disappear there, to lose the noise in his head.

"You came back," he gasps against your mouth. "You really came back—" You nod, breathless, eyes wet, thighs tightening around his waist. "I told you I would." He tugs the dress down your shoulders, hands smeared with red, smearing it onto you, painting you with it. It sticks to your collarbones, your arms, a fever-warm trail of devotion and ruin, but you don't stop him.

He's kissing you like he needs this to survive, like he'll lose his mind all over again if you pull away. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans at the way you pull, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—biting, tasting his blood smeared there, claiming. You tremble. And then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through your panties, a low, reverent moan tearing from his chest when he feels the heat there. "For me," he mutters, delirious. "You're like this for me."

"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips into his hand, nails clawing at his back through his shirt. "Only for you." He groans again, like the words unmake him.

Your dress is halfway down your body, straps hanging off your arms, and you're so tangled together that it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose. He continues kissing you then like a vow. Like salvation. And everything else—the broken piano, the screaming from earlier, the sharp pain in your back from the cracked lid—fades to nothing. The music stutters beneath you—sharp, erratic keystrokes like a hymn being pulled apart at the seams.

But he doesn't stop playing. Even as his bloody fingers slip over the ivories, even as his other hand bunches your dress up around your hips, even as you gasp into his mouth and his teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You're still straddling him, thighs trembling on either side of his lap, and he's shifting beneath you like he can't get close enough, like the distance between your bodies is an insult to the devotion he's shaking with.

"Heeseung," you whisper, breath hitching as his hand slides between your legs, the fabric of your panties clinging to you wet and ruined. "Please—" "Shh," he hushes, mouth dragging down your neck, blood and spit slick on your skin. "It's okay, it's okay—I got you, baby, I got you—" His fingers tremble as he pushes the fabric aside, clumsy and rushed, and you flinch when his knuckles brush over you. He groans against your throat, hand gripping your hip like he might break it, like it's the only anchor he has.

"Fuck, you're so warm—" he pants, "—I missed you so much, I missed you—" You don't know if he's talking to you or to her, to Rina, to whatever memory he's tangled you up with—but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's freeing himself beneath you with frantic hands, moaning under his breath as he fumbles himself through his sweats, panting into your collarbone like he's on the verge of falling apart. And then he's there. Thick, flushed, already so hard it makes your head spin. He grips your thighs, pulling you up just enough—just enough to align—and then sinks you down onto him in one ragged, choking breath.

You cry out, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Heeseung's head snaps back, a guttural sound ripping from his throat, and his hands clamp down on your hips like he's afraid you'll vanish again. "Oh my God—" he gasps, "—move, baby, please, come on—come on—"

He's twitching inside you already, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he's begging for more. Encouraging you, pushing up into you while his hands guide your hips, while his fingers—still stained with his blood—return to the keys beneath him, pressing out that same broken melody. You try to move—hips rising, sinking—but it's messy. Desperate. Your thighs burn, your breath hitches, and your forehead presses to his as he whispers, "Just like that, just like that—don't stop—don't stop—" The piano groans beneath you both. His legs tremble. Your panties are barely hanging on, twisted and soaked, caught somewhere between you, and still—still—he keeps playing.

Keeps playing through the rise and fall of your bodies, through the wet slap of your hips, through the breathless moans and the ache and the madness. He's shaking beneath you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sobs, blood smearing from his wrist to your waist as he holds you tighter—deeper—closer.

"I knew you'd come back," he whispers, forehead to yours. "You always come back to me." You can't answer. You can only cry out his name, again and again, as the notes beneath you unravel into chaos and crescendo Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you rock against him, pace faltering with every thick thrust. The bench groans beneath your bodies, protesting under the weight of it all, but you don't stop. Neither of you could if you tried.

His hands are all over you—up your back, into your hair, clawing at your waist like he doesn't know where to hold, just that he has to hold somewhere.

The piano is completely forgotten now. The keys he was so desperate to press—abandoned mid-chord, half-played notes frozen under bloodied fingertips. But Heeseung's mouth is moving and he's moaning something. At first it's a whisper, hoarse and uneven, barely above the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again. But then—clearer, louder— "Y/N... oh my god, Y/N—" You halt for a second. Barely. Just long enough to catch your breath. To hear him. Your name—your name, not his pianos—spilling from his lips like prayer, like apology, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Heeseung's head drops to your shoulder, and he's panting your name again, so sweet and unguarded it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. "Y/N," he gasps, "you feel so good, baby—fuck—so good—" It's like he sees you now. Really sees you. And his hands are softer now, less frantic, still trembling but reverent in how they hold you—his thumb brushing your waist, his other hand cradling your jaw as he lifts your face to his.

Your noses bump. His eyes search yours like he's never seen anything more precious. "It's you," he whispers, almost awed. "It's really you..."He leans in, kissing you like the world's finally slowed down, like he's finally returned to it. To you. And when you move again—hips grinding, slow now, deeper—he moans your name into your mouth, over and over like it's his undoing. Each syllable spills from him shakily, soaked with disbelief and want and something that almost sounds like worship.

Your hands find his cheeks, thumbs stroking where the dried tears have clung to his skin, and when you whisper his name back, soft and breathless, he shudders. Heeseung's forehead presses to yours. You feel him twitch inside you, thighs clenching around him as you both near that terrible, beautiful edge again, and he breathes your name one last time— "Y/N, I'm—fuck—I'm gonna cum, baby, please—stay with me—stay—" Your hips stutter. His hands seize. And then everything splinters—. Your name tears from his throat in a ragged moan, your own lips parted in soundless release as your body collapses forward, curling into his chest like instinct.

Heeseung's arms close around you immediately. One low on your spine, the other twisted into your hair, as if he can press you into him hard enough to keep you there forever. Your pulse throbs everywhere. Between your legs, in your throat, under your tongue. Heeseung is trembling beneath you, arms loose but shaking, chest heaving like he's run for miles and only now stopped to breathe.

He's still inside you. Still in you, cradled and connected and caught in the softness of what just happened. No piano. No ghosts. Just this.You shift slightly, just to catch your breath, and he shudders around you with a hoarse gasp. His head drops to your shoulder, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stay there a while. No words. No need. Just the sound of the wind against the high windows, the echo of your breathing, and the quiet creak of a broken piano bench holding two too-lost people.

Eventually, his fingers twitch against your waist. "Y/N," he breathes, voice scratchy and soft. You hum, stroking the sweaty strands of hair back from his temple. Your touch is gentle, slow, grounding. He lifts his head—eyes glassy, wide and wet around the edges. You watch them drop down, settle on the stains between you, the faint blood still smudged across his hands and chest. He catches your wrist.Brings your fingers—still trembling—to the mess of red streaked across his ribs. The open cuts from earlier have mostly clotted, but the wounds are still fresh, angry-looking, like they're still listening to the madness that tore them open. He presses your palm there, over his heart.

"This body..." he whispers, eyes still downcast. "It belongs to too many ghosts." Your chest tightens, but you don't pull away. Instead, your fingers spread gently over the damp skin of his chest, pressing softly, reverently. You guide his gaze up to meet yours. "It belongs to me tonight," you murmur, voice quiet but sure. "It's okay, Heeseung. I've got you."

He blinks hard and for a second, something in him flickers. Something soft. Almost boyish and safe. Then his forehead presses against yours again. He leans into the cradle of your hands like he's never been touched this way before—like he doesn't know what to do with it. "...Don't let go yet," he whispers. "I won't," you promise. "Not tonight." Heeseung's head is resting against yours, your hand still pressed to his chest, when he whispers it. So faint, it's nearly lost in your breathing.

"...Call her." You pull back a little, brushing your nose against his cheek. "Hm?" He blinks slowly, like the exhaustion is hitting him all at once. "Phone's somewhere here, on the shelf by the metronome. Just—tell her it's bad, she'll come." You stare back into his eyes cluelessly,

"My nurse".

You nod, slipping gently off his lap. He groans softly at the loss of you but doesn't stop you. Doesn't move at all, really—just tilts his head back against the edge of the bench, hair damp with blood sweat and tears. You find the phone where he said it would be, swipe up, and call the nurse. She picks up after one ring. You tell her to come and you don't have to say much more—she must be used to these calls by now. And as you're hanging up, you hear him say it behind you, low and soft, "Thanks... for coming upstairs."

You turn, heart squeezing. He's still sitting there, shirtless and smeared in blood, legs parted like he couldn't stand if he tried. But he's looking at you—really looking—and something about it makes your breath catch in your throat.

You walk over. Kiss his forehead. Then slip into the bathroom for towels, water, and cleaner. By the time the nurse arrives, you're back upstairs, on your knees by the piano, gently gathering the shattered ivory keys and splintered wood into a pile. You've scrubbed some of the blood from the floor, though the stains are stubborn. The piano looks gutted—her insides exposed, wires torn and twisted like veins. Your heart aches again. Not for the piano. But for him.

Heeseung, who stayed downstairs. Who let someone else tend to him while you tried to do what you could for the mess he left behind. You hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then his voice—calmer now, hoarse, but steady. "Leave it." You glance over your shoulder. He's standing there, freshly bandaged, a clean shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose on his frame. The nurse must have left quietly.

"I'm still your cleaner, remember?" you say lightly, trying to ease the air. "Let me do my job." His lips twitch. But there's something softer in his eyes now—something closer to sorrow than amusement.

"You're more than that." You pause and look down at the broken keys in your hands. "I know."

And he comes to you—sinks down beside you on the floor, still moving slowly like he's holding his bones together by sheer will—and rests his forehead to yours again. Neither of you says anything else, you just sit in the wreckage of something beautiful. Together.

*•*•*

It's hard to say how much time has passed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The kind that blur together, quiet and golden at the edges, like light filtered through gauze. The scar on Heeseung's arm is healing well—just a thin red seam now, barely visible when he rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.

You're downstairs today. The sun is dipping low and warm across the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air. The piano stands rebuilt, restored—not the same one from upstairs, but something new. Something you picked out together.

You're sitting beside him on the bench, your knees touching. Heeseung's hands are guiding yours across the keys with quiet patience.

"No, baby, focus" he murmurs, laughing when you hit the wrong note again. "That's an A, not a G."

"I am focused," you argue, shoulders tensing in mock defense. "I just—I forgot which finger goes where." He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple. "The one I showed you. Your third finger. C'mon. Try again." You exhale, pouting a little as you reposition your hands. Heeseung watches you with a softness that folds itself into the corners of his smile.

You press the keys again. It's still wrong. You groan dramatically. "Ugh, why is this so hard?" And he can't help it—he grabs your chin and kisses you mid-pout. Quick and warm. The kind of kiss that says you're the most precious thing I've ever ruined myself for.

Your lips curve into a grin beneath his. He chuckles. "You know what I think?"

"Hm?"

"I think you just like messing up so I'll kiss you."

You nudge him with your shoulder. "Maybe." Heeseung leans in again. A little slower this time. A little deeper. Then his hands return to the keys. And so do yours.

You sit like that a while—two shadows against the shine of the piano, laughter and missed notes echoing softly in the room. And if someone were to peek in just then, they might think it's a simple thing. A boy and a girl, and a piano between them. But it's not. It's an anchor. A promise. A world rebuilt from ash and ghosts and broken music.

And maybe you never learned to play perfectly, but he never stopped telling you you were the most beautiful song he'd ever heard.

══════════════════════════

•taglist-

@immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @inawonderfulworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @starry-eyed-bimbo @strayy-kidz @mheretoreadff @bloomiize @xoenhalover @mamuljji

#enhypen fics #enhypen fic #enhypen angst #enhypen smut #enhypen fanfiction #heeseung #heeseung fic #heeseung smut #heeseung angst #enhypen x reader #enha smut #enha x reader #lee heeseung #heeseung x reader #lee heeseung x reader

2K notes · View notes

sunsburns · 24 days ago

Text

track 10 — mark grayson (invincible) !

⟢ synopsis. you totally don't have a thing for mark, that would be crazy ... unless

⟢ contains. 18+, mark grayson x fem!reader, nsfw, oral (m & f receiving), cunnilingus. mark is kinda subby, friends with benefits but they like each other, reader is so down bad it's embarassing, and mark isn't any better, gets a little nasty when it comes to cum, mark is a proud moaner, mentions of porn, both mark and reader are lowkey pervs.

⟢ wc: 15k+

⟢ author’s note. mark is an eater, sue me. there's stupid jokes thrown in here, just a long written work of me pushing the casual sex with mark idea. i also like the idea of having an alien boyfriend and making mark more alien than human. a lot of it was inspired by this work from ao3!

You’re such a pervert.

At least, that’s what Mark and William would call you if they saw the way your eyes trailed, lingered, on the way fingers slipped into the holes of bowling balls, your gaze locked on the flex of forearm muscle tightening beneath warm, sandy skin. Veins rising just under the surface. The smooth way wrists rolled as they brought the ball up, perfectly casual, totally unaware.

You exhaled slowly through your nose. The warmth in your stomach was beginning to simmer into something heavier, something you refused to name in the middle of a public bowling alley, under neon lights and the scent of cheap nachos.

Mark would turn scarlet if he caught you. You knew the exact look—eyebrows shooting up, eyes wide and blinking, stammering over his own breath like a shy bastard. And William? God, he’d never let you live it down. He’d smirk like the devil himself, a wicked grin twisting on his face as he realized you’re not so different from him, seconds away from pointing across the lane with an audible gasp like he’s scandalized.

You huffed and slouched deeper into the worn leather seat, folding your arms across your chest like it might shield you from the shame of your own libido. Or at least from the sight of Mark, now lining up his shot.

Why did you even agree to this again?

Third-wheeling William and Rick’s bowling date for the millionth time had officially become the sad little cherry on top of your tragic sundae. You were no longer just the single friend. You were the perpetually single friend. The “don’t worry, you’ll find someone eventually” friend. It made you want to tear your hair out of your head.

Worse still was when Amber and her new boyfriend showed up. You’d run out of excuses not to come by then—tried “midterms,” “period,” even “funeral” once, which William did not find funny. (You still do.)

Maybe that was an exaggeration because you know how competitive William and Amber get so there wouldn’t be much love to go around if the game was close, but still!

And maybe it wasn’t always like this. Maybe they didn’t completely leave you out. They included you in the group cheers, the trash talk, and even the occasional victory dance when one of you got a lucky strike. You weren’t invisible. Just… orbiting. A little too aware of the way everyone else had someone to orbit with.

But tonight was different.

Because Mark Grayson was here.

You hadn’t expected it—had already accepted your fate as the designated third wheel, again—but when William pulled up and you opened the car door, there he was. Sitting in the back seat. Tugging at the sleeves of his sweater. That stupid, kinda cute grin on his face when he saw the shock on yours.

Mark Grayson. The best friend turned part-time cryptid. A guy you maybe saw once every other week if the planets aligned and there wasn’t a kaiju climbing out of Lake Michigan. These days, he showed up in the group chat typing out things like “Sorry I’ve been MIA, was in space lol” or “brb gotta swim in a volcano for endurance training :(” like it was completely normal and not the kind of thing that made you feel a weird cocktail of secondhand stress and... butterflies.

He was still the same guy who sent you videos of raccoons screaming into bird feeders at 2 a.m. Still remembered to say “hi” to your mom over text. Still promised you he wasn’t dead every now and then. But sitting beside him in the car—seeing his knee bouncing, his jaw shifting with a soft grin like nothing had changed—it hit you just how much had.

He looked… older. And maybe you looked older too but it was like he’d seen things and hadn’t told anyone. His eyes had that faraway shine he got when he was lost in thought, and even with the quiet hum of William and Rick’s shitty playlist and the greasy scent of drive-thru fries between you all, you could feel the shift in the air. A little quieter. A little heavier.

You had to play it cool. Pretend your entire body hadn’t immediately started sparking like faulty wiring the second he said your name and nudged your knee with his. You had to stop smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt.

You had to act like this was any other night. Like he wasn’t the reason your stomach had butterflies and your thighs had opinions.

You leaned your head against the window, hiding your face, hoping the dark would swallow the flush climbing your neck. You muttered something sarcastic about “the prodigal son returning,” and Mark just chuckled, that same warm, dorky sound that always made your stomach twist.

He said, “You act like I’ve been gone for five years. It’s only been, like, two weeks.”

You gave him a flat look. “You missed two birthdays, Mark.”

He winced. “Okay, technically I was there for William’s. You just couldn’t see me.”

“Yeah,” William piped up from the front seat, smirking. “Because you were in orbit.”

Mark shrugged with a guilty laugh and you were smiling the whole car ride.

Not because he was saying anything particularly funny—though he did, at one point, launch into a truly terrible pun about black holes and bowling balls—but just because he was there. And you wouldn’t have to sit alone all night, nursing a soda while Rick and William played footsie over the ball return.

By the time you all reached the bowling alley, cheap neon lights flickering overhead, you were already white-knuckling it through the evening. The floors stuck just a little to your soles, gum-slick and soda-stained, the way only old alleys could be. It felt like someone turned the heater up to just uncomfortable, and you were nearly sweating through your shirt despite the chill of your drink between your hands.

You’re trying your best not to blare your teeth because neither Rick nor Mark would understand how badly you need to sink them into something. And the last thing you need is William playing Cupid again. If he catches even a whiff of this (and he will, the man could sniff out sexual frustration like a fucking bloodhound) you’ll spend the rest of the night dodging his attempts to set you up with someone’s cousin. Or sibling. Or roommate. Or ex.

So instead, you cross your legs, pressing your thighs together like a lifeline, grateful for the thick fabric of your jeans creating friction, if nothing else. You chew furiously on the nachos Rick ordered for the table, salt and fake cheese mixing with the lingering taste of your own desperation, pretending to be invested in the score.

You tried to have a little shame with the way you were staring—really, you tried. But your casual glances across the lanes kept narrowing, funnelling, zeroing in on one person. And the way Mark moved tonight was ridiculous.

You were practically biting your fist, hating how much you loved the way his shoulders shifted under that stupid sweater—the very same one he used to wear in high school. Still threadbare in places. Still soft-looking. Still familiar. Except now, it clung a little tighter to the broader frame he’d grown into, hugging his chest and upper arms like a secret he hadn’t meant to keep from you.

You don’t even think that yellow button-up he used to pair it with would fit anymore. Not unless he wanted to pop a few buttons and really give you something to talk about in therapy.

Mark had filled out in ways you didn’t quite expect—broader shoulders, a thicker chest, and maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten taller too. It was subtle at first, the kind of change that didn’t register until he handed you his old, beloved Seance Dog t-shirt one afternoon like it was nothing. You remembered how the sleeves used to sag on him, how the shirt had always hung a little loose, and yet it had fit obscenely tight the last time he wore it. The fabric had clung to his torso like a second skin, sleeves straining around his biceps, the hem inching up every time he moved, flashing bare slivers of skin that had no right being that distracting.

You still kept that shirt. Obviously. You told yourself it was sentimental value.

But he looked good tonight. Unfairly so. Maybe he’d always looked good and you were just blind before. Or maybe being away from him for so long had cracked something wide open. Or, worst-case scenario: your hormones were finally staging a mutiny.

Mark kept adjusting the sleeves of his sweater, rolling them up to his elbows like he didn’t know what he was doing. As if the sight of his forearms—tan and veined, the muscles shifting under his skin—wasn’t actively short-circuiting your brain.

You tried to be normal about the way you watched him walk over to the ball return, fingers ghosting across the slick surfaces like he was reading them in braille. You watched his hand pause on the biggest ball available, the one no one else bothered with, and he lifted it like it was made of foam. You felt your pulse stutter at the way his fingers—pointer, middle, thumb—slid into the holes like they belonged there, like they knew what they were doing. His forearm flexed, slow and subtle, and something deep in your stomach clenched in a way that made you feel both ashamed and violently alive.

His skin barely shifted from the strain. Just a soft pull. A ripple. The gentlest whisper of effort. But you admired it all the same. The slight dip of muscle at his elbow. The veins running up his arm. The quiet strength of his grip.

You tried not to imagine Mark’s hands on your hips. Or in your hair. Or in your mouth. Or worse—inside you. You tried not to think about what kind of sounds he might make. Was he a moaner or does he just groan? Would he whimper? Would he say your name like it meant something?

Would Amber tell you if you asked her?

She probably would. She’d smirk, hand you a drink, and tell you to stop being a pussy and go find out yourself.

You shift in your seat again, squeezing your thighs tighter, desperate for relief, for control, for anything other than this maddening ache.

Mark throws the ball. It gutters. Again.

He looks back at you immediately, face scrunching like he’s trying to play it off, but you catch the flicker of embarrassment behind it. You give him two exaggerated thumbs up, all supportive sarcasm. He returns the gesture with just as much sass, which makes you laugh, which makes your heart thump, which makes everything worse.

God, he really does hate bowling. He’s terrible at it. And somehow that only makes you want him more.

If you had a dick, you’re sure you’d be dealing with a painfully obvious hard-on by now. Instead, you’re left to wonder how wet your jeans are getting and whether the people around you will just assume your nipples are hard from the cold. (You wore a bra tonight. Thank God for small mercies.)

You shouldn't be thinking about one of your friends like this. Not someone you barely get to see anymore. You don’t want to ruin this with whatever’s going on in your head. But it’s too late, isn’t it? You’re already undressing him in your mind, mouth full of nachos, pupils blown wide.

You take another bite, chewing mindlessly, trying to remember when exactly this started. When Mark became more than just your high school buddy. When the sight of him made your lungs forget how to work. When you stopped seeing him as just Mark—and started seeing him as something else. Someone else. Someone you wanted.

“I suck.”

You hear Mark huff as he comes back from the floor. His frown is apologetic and self-deprecating as he drags his feet.

“And blow.” William snickers, rising from his spot next to Rick for his turn. His teasing tone is sharp and playful, drawing laughter from you and Rick alike.

“Fuck off,” Mark retorts, his irritation softening the moment—and then, like it’s nothing, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Mark makes his way to you. And it’s stupid, the way your breath stills just a little. Just a second.

His face shifts when he gets close, softer now. “Hey,” he says, with that quiet little smile of his.

“Hi.” You try not to sound breathless.

“I suck at bowling,” he says again, collapsing into the seat beside you.

Now, being close enough to catch even the faintest trace of his cologne—the familiar scent that you and Debbie painstakingly chose for his birthday last year. You remember that bottle, both of you debating over what “smelled like Mark.” This one had lingered on your coat for days after he hugged you once. Reminds you that some parts of him have not changed at all.

Mark reaches for the biggest nacho on the plate, of course, he does, and he ignores your reminder that the centre nacho was meant to be saved for last.

“Too late,” he says, crunching into it, unbothered.

Your eyes dart over to the flickering scoreboard. There, Mid-game Mark is branded with a lowly score of twenty-five—a number so absurd it makes you laugh at his expense.

“Jesus,” you snort, trying to hide your smile behind your hand. “How does that even happen? I thought you had powers or something.”

“Doesn’t matter if I do. William knows I’m shit at bowling.”

That makes you smile, and you tease, “And you’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?” Mark shrugs, his tone light, but then he adds, “Besides, I’ve missed you.”

Your stomach does a sharp little flip.

“Have you?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he says, without hesitation. His eyes don’t leave yours.

Then Rick laughs at something William shouts from the lane, and Mark seems to remember where he is. The spell breaks. He coughs, awkwardly. “I mean—I’ve missed all of you guys. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echo, smiling despite yourself.

And god, maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe it’s also everything. Like the way he always used to wait for you to catch up in the hallways. Like how he still texts you song lyrics when he can’t sleep. Like how he sat next to you without even asking.

To try to muster up all your courage, hoping you do not sound like a loser.

“If you’ve missed me so much,” you tease, bumping your knee against his, “we could’ve just gone out ourselves, you know. I wouldn’t make you suffer like this.”

Mark looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“Are you free tomorrow by any chance?”

Your heart stutters. You pretend not to notice. “I don’t know.”

His face falls, just a bit. The corners of his mouth twitch like maybe he’s bracing for a punch. “Seriously?”

You shrug with a stupid grin that threatens to betray every thought swirling beneath the surface, and you almost feel bad—but not really. “I might have to move a few things around. Very demanding schedule, you know.”

“Right,” he says, eyes flicking upward in that way you remember so well, a glint of playful hope that sends your stomach into a flip. “If you push doom scrolling till after seven, do you think we could get lunch and boba? There’s a new store that opened up near my place.”

You pretend to think, tapping your chin. “That might work.”

“My treat.”

“Would you look at that,” you breathe, smiling so wide it aches. “My entire day just cleared up.”

He grins, “Uh-huh. Cheap ass.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Mark says with a shrug that’s far too casual to be innocent, looking anywhere but at you. “Must’ve been the wind.”

It takes everything in you not to laugh. God, you’re hopeless. Every time he looks at you like that—like there’s some inside joke only the two of you share—it hits something soft and dangerous inside your chest. It shouldn’t feel this personal. He’s always like this with you. Right?

Before you can fire back something smug or clever, William calls your name like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt. You roll your eyes but the irritation’s fake—your bark never really had any bite when it came to Mark, not when he looks at you like that. Not when he smells like that. Not when you’re sitting so close, you’re painfully aware of just how wet your panties are from… from what? A smile? A little eye contact? Pathetic.

Still, you’re smiling like an idiot when you hop off the bench and head to the lane. The energy in your chest is all fizzy and too much, too fast, but you try to channel it into something, anything else.

You take the ball and accidentally hit a strike. A perfect one.

You blink. “Holy shit.”

Laughter and chaos erupt behind you, and Mark shouts, “You fucking cheated!”

────────────

You don’t have a crush on Mark. You really don’t.

Because if you did, you probably would’ve told Amber not to go out with him after she asked if you were cool with it.

If you had a thing for Mark, you definitely would’ve wallowed in self-pity with your sad Spotify playlist and your arms elbow-deep in a bag of chips that one night he posted a photo with Eve in the middle of the jungle or wherever.

If you liked Mark—even a little bit—you probably would've pulled your hair out strand by strand when you found out he started dating Eve for real.

But that didn’t happen. So. You don’t have a crush on him. Obviously.

Totally.

And whatever weird, fluttery, buzzy feeling that’s dancing through your chest and your stomach right now? It’s definitely just the boba. Or something they put in the syrup. Maybe the taro’s gone off. Definitely not the way Mark’s eyes crinkle when he’s smiling at you. Not the way he showed up to your little lunch date(?) wearing that stupid shirt you always teased him for owning five of. Or how he paid without even asking, the casual kind of chivalry that makes your heart thud and your brain scream (even if he already told you it was his treat).

Your relationship with Mark has never been anything extraordinary. It’s… simple.

As simple as being friends with a half-alien can be.

You’ve always loved Mark’s company, though. You love the way he talks about all the dorky, nerdy shit that made him a bit of a loner in high school—the same stuff he still brings up now with zero shame. You like listening to him talk about it, even when you don’t understand half the words. Even when you know you’ll never, ever watch that weird Super Dog cartoon he keeps insisting would change your life. Not until he finally watches that limited-run K-drama you’ve been begging him to get through since last summer, anyway.

But anyway, you enjoy those moments you get with Mark—even if they’re rare. You enjoy spending time with him, catching up, listening to his stories, and then trying to make your own mundane ones sound even half as cool. You know you’ll never top the time he went to Mars. That story lives in a league of its own. But you still love the way his voice softens when he talks about spending a quiet afternoon with his mom, or the way he lights up when Oliver does something new—like picking up skateboarding or learning a dumb trick that’s only impressive because he’s small and determined.

Mark tends to set the bar pretty high without even trying.

And not just with stories. With everything. With how he lives, how he treats people. Without ever meaning to, Mark’s somehow managed to ruin dating for you. He’s set your standards insanely high. You’ve caught yourself comparing people to him—his kindness, his loyalty, his dumb sense of humour. You still wince when you remember William’s reaction to the last guy you matched with on Tinder.

“He’s like… a whiter version of Mark.”

You haven’t opened Tinder since.

“You okay?”

Mark’s voice cuts through your spiral, pulling you back. You blink like you’ve just come up for air.

“Sorry, yeah,” you say too quickly, shifting in your seat like that might shake the embarrassment off. You meet his eye for just a second—he’s already looking at you, head tilted, brows pulled together in quiet concern.

Your fingers tighten around your cup, the condensation beading under your skin. It’s cold. Which is helpful. Because you’re warm. Too warm. For no good reason. Definitely not because of how intently he’s looking at you, like he’s trying to read between your pauses.

You clear your throat. “Wait—so Cecil had you training on the moon?”

There’s a tiny hitch in his rhythm, just for a beat. You think he might’ve been expecting you to actually answer him, to say what’s on your mind. But Mark lets it slide. He shifts in his seat a little and starts talking again, picking up the thread of his story like it’s no big deal.

And you try to listen. You do.

You don’t get many chances like this—just you and him, no one else around. No William. No supervillain attack halfway through a sentence. Just… a booth, a couple of half-finished drinks, and him.

You want to soak up every second. But he makes it so damn hard for you.

You catch bits of the story—something about the new suit being way more annoying to get on, something else about Oliver cracking the concrete trying to ollie down the front steps—but you’re barely keeping up. Your brain is foggy and not in a cute, dreamy way. You’re kind of just… watching him.

The way he talks with his hands. The way he smiles halfway through a sentence, like he already knows the punchline’s only funny to him but he’s gonna say it anyway. The way he leans in a little when he’s excited, like he’s trying to make you feel the moment with him.

You laugh when he laughs, even if you miss the joke.

Because as long as he keeps talking, you don’t have to say anything.

You just get to sit there. And pretend like this is enough.

The thing was, Mark has always technically been an attractive guy. Tall, kind of annoyingly fit, with that sharp jawline that only got better with age. Charming in a way he didn’t even realize. At least you’d always known it. But you never thought you’d live to see the day (or the week… okay, the past few months—maybe even the year) where you’d start to see him that way.

Like, really see him. In that oh no kind of way.

You’d brushed it off for a while—blamed it on nostalgia, on hormones, on whatever. But bowling last night had been a bit of a breaking point. Something about the sleeves pushed up his forearms, the way he leaned over to aim, that boyish little grin when he finally knocked a pin down—it undid you. And you hadn’t exactly been subtle about the way you were gawking.

Still, it didn’t really hit you until this morning. When you woke up a little dazed, sheets tangled between your legs, and the ghost of a dream clinging to your skin. His voice had echoed in your head, low and warm and familiar. His touch—blurry, but undeniably his—lingered along your shoulder, your back. Your neck.

You’d jolted up like someone caught you.

So. Yeah. Maybe you had the hots for your best friend. Maybe your body wanted something more than side hugs and occasional shoulder touches and the familiar comfort of leaning into him during movies. But that didn’t mean you had a crush or anything. Right?

…Right.

So what if you’d taken a little longer getting ready today? Or if you picked a nicer perfume—the one you usually saved for special occasions—and spritzed a little extra behind your ears, just in case. Not because of him. Just… because. And if you fixed your hair in the mirror three separate times before leaving? Totally normal.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

Except it’s really hard to hold onto that thought when he’s sitting across from you looking like that.

His hair’s messier than usual, the curls a little looser like he ran his fingers through it instead of brushing it out. His light blue shirt clings in all the right places and you’re seriously starting to wonder if any of his clothes still fit him properly or if he just enjoys tormenting you. His biceps look like they’re threatening the seams and you hate how aware of it you are.

He's rambling about something now—probably a mission, or a weird encounter with a reporter who keeps calling him the “hot one.” He laughs, wide and open-mouthed, and you try to focus on his words but you’re too busy watching how his lips move. How easily that laugh bubbles out of him. How pretty his eyes are when they squint at you like this, catching you staring.

You should say something. Anything.

“You’re, uh—” you blurt out, then immediately regret it. He glances up, curious. You clear your throat and gesture vaguely at him. “You look nice. That’s a good shirt on you.”

He blinks. “Oh. Thanks,” he says, smiling like it’s no big deal, but his ears go pink. “Didn’t even realize—kind of just threw it on this morning.”

Of course he did. Of course he looks like this with zero effort. Meanwhile, you were practically putting on war paint to get your eyeliner even.

“It’s a good colour on you,” you add, a little quieter. Your fingers pick at the sleeve of your own jacket, trying to act like you’re not slowly disintegrating under the weight of your own thoughts.

There’s a beat. You feel his gaze again—steadier this time. Like he’s trying to see through the cracks.

“You got all dressed up too,” he says casually, elbow on the table, chin resting on his palm. “Special occasion?”

You scoff. “What, like I can’t look decent unless it’s for something?”

“I mean,” he teases, lips twitching, “you’re usually in sweats when we hang out.”

“That’s because you’ve seen me in every stage of human degeneration. There’s no mystery left.”

Mark laughs, deep and genuine. “There’s still a little mystery.”

You’re not going to ask what he means. You’re not.

Instead, you take a sip of your drink to hide the flush in your cheeks. You focus on the way the cold clings to your fingers, grounding you. Because if you let yourself keep staring, you’re going to do something stupid. Like, ask him if he wants to come back to yours. Or kiss him right here across the table.

You sneak another glance at him. He’s already looking at you. Again.

You want him so bad it’s physically painful.

And yeah, sure—maybe you’ve imagined what it’d be like if you were just a little bit closer. Not just physically. Closer in a way that means good morning kisses and bad jokes whispered into collarbones and brushing your teeth side by side, sleep-crinkled eyes and soft Sunday smiles. All those tiny, stupid, quiet things that make you feel like you belong to someone.

And if you let yourself feel it for just one second longer—you know exactly who you want to belong to.

You hope that whoever glances your way in this too-cute, hipster boba café thinks you’re on a date. God, you hope so. The way the two of you are sitting, drinks in hand, talking in that soft, familiar rhythm of long-time friends—it has to read as a date. Right?

Some unhinged voice in the back of your head keeps whispering that it is one, even if you never officially said it. Even if you didn’t dare call it that aloud.

You tried to drown that thought out while getting ready. Told yourself over and over—it’s just lunch. Just boba. With Mark. Your friend. One of your best friends. Who you’ve known since middle school. Who’s saved your life and seen you ugly cry at three in the morning. Who also happens to be alarmingly hot and stupidly nice and smiles at you like you’re some secret he’s been keeping warm in his pocket.

And who, to your absolute horror, you’ve recently started thinking about in ways you should not think about Mark Grayson.

He was already seated by the window when you got there. The sunlight poured in softly, and his forearms rested on the table. He was already sipping something dark with brown sugar pearls stuck to the side of the cup and scrolling on his phone, brow furrowed just a little.

You cringed remembering the way you froze at the entrance. Really froze. Long enough for a group of teenagers behind you to shuffle awkwardly around and brush past with a few muttered “excuse me”s and half-laughs. Embarrassing.

When you finally slid into the booth in front of him, Mark looked up and smiled, “Hey.”

And damn it if that stupid word didn’t do something to you.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound normal. “You beat me here.”

“I was excited,” he said, with that casual, open honesty that always got you. “Sue me.”

He then pushed a drink toward you. You hadn’t even realized he ordered for you—but it was your usual.

“Thanks. You remembered?”

“Course I did.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “Not that hard to remember the most annoying boba order in existence.”

You kicked him under the table. “Bitch.”

He grinned, totally unfazed. “Affectionately.”

You bring your forearms up to rest on the table, leaning in just slightly. The move feels natural—too natural—and you let your head tilt as you look at him, willing yourself to snap out of the storm in your head and focus. Present moment, please. Now would be nice.

The sunlight through the window catches the edge of his jaw, carving golden light into soft angles. His lashes cast shadows. His fingers tap lightly against his cup, unhurried. Your own drink is already gone—sucked down while you tried not to have a crisis about whether or not this felt like a date. Because it does. It really, really does. It feels like one in the quietest, scariest, most electric kind of way.

You’re trying not to jump across the table. God, what the fuck is wrong with you?

You’re insane, that voice in your head shrieks. Clinically. Emotionally. Hormonally.

Your eyes fall—again, helplessly—to his lips. And it hits you that this might be the first time you’ve ever really stared at them, but it also feels like you’ve always known them. You could probably sketch the shape from memory: the soft dip of his top lip, the way the corners twitch up just before he smiles, the slightly darker flush of colour when he bites down to keep from laughing.

You know them the way you know your favourite songs—effortlessly, intimately, over and over.

And it’s only then, maybe a little too late, that you realize his mouth isn’t moving.

Shit. What was the last thing he said?

You snap back to his eyes, expecting to find a look of confusion, maybe amusement. Maybe even irritation. You’d deserve it. You’ve been undressing him with your eyes the entire afternoon.

But you’re surprised when you find a peculiar, absent look on his face.

Mark’s face is distant. Still. His brown eyes are half-focused like he’s listening to something very far away. His hand continues tapping slowly on the side of his cup, but he’s not drinking it. Hasn’t drank from it in a while, actually. Probably because he’s been talking this whole time and you’ve been too busy losing your mind to pay attention.

“Mark?” you say, softly.

He doesn’t react.

Which is strange. Because you know how sharp his senses are, superhearing and all, he could probably hear a raindrop land five cities over if he tried. But right now, he’s staring so intently, so deliberately, that for a split second, you actually worry something might be wrong.

Until you shift. Just a little. Barely an inch.

And his gaze follows the movement, dragging downward like it’s magnetized.

You glance down.

Oh.

Right. The neckline. You forgot you picked this shirt. Or at least, you forgot what it might look like sitting across from someone like Mark.

Your stomach twists with something that’s equal parts heat and embarrassment. You want to roll your eyes—of course this is what’s got him so distracted. For all his superhero nonsense, you’re still friends with a guy.

“Mark,” you say again, this time with a little more bite, trying not to smile.

His eyes flick up from your chest, blinking rapidly. His mouth opens in a small “oh,” a hum catching in the back of his throat as he scrambles to respond, but doesn’t quite manage it in time. A second later, the realization hits, and his entire face ignites. His cheeks go so red you almost feel bad for him. But you find it sort of adorable.

He coughs, clearly trying to recover. His hand rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” He says, smiling meekly at you. His hand drops back to the table. “You just— I mean, I— You look really... goob. I mean boob. Good. I mean good. You look good.”

A shy grin splits your face open as your skin starts to warm. “Thanks. You look goob, too.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, groaning, biting down on his straw. “Fuck off. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no,” you say, waving him off with a laugh. “I’ll allow it. That was... actually kinda sweet.”

He smiles at you, all shy and embarrassed. A little crooked. Like he knows what he just did and has no idea what to do with himself now. You’re pretty sure your heart is about to explode into a thousand glittering pieces right there on the table.

You sit there, breath caught somewhere between your ribs, watching him as he ducks his head, and chews on the boba pearls like they hold the secret to surviving this moment. And all you can think—loud, panicked, impossibly clear—is:

You want to kiss him.

And not just kiss him. You want him in a way that’s full-bodied and reckless. You want him with the force of every stupid dream you’ve ever had. You want him in that dizzy, hands-in-hair, clothes-on-the-floor kind of way. You want to ruin this whole perfectly lovely friendship in the worst possible way.

And maybe it’s the way he’s still not meeting your eyes. Or maybe it’s how warm your skin feels. Or how the sunlight is pouring in too golden and soft and romantic and cruel.

“Mark,” you say.

He looks up at you, eyes wide and mouth disgustingly full. “Yeah?”

“I think we should fuck.”

He chokes. Immediately. You watch in real-time as he sucks his drink the wrong way and practically launches into a coughing fit. A splash of tapioca pearls and brown sugar milk flies out of his nose and hits the table.

“Oh my god—” you mutter, reaching across to grab a stack of napkins.

Mark is flailing. Coughing, sputtering, waving a hand like he’s trying to say something but also very much trying not to die. His face is bright red. He’s laughing and coughing at the same time. It’s a mess. A scene. People are staring.

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, between hacks. “I’m—you—what?”

You try to smile, a little nervous. “I said I want to have sex with you.”

Mark goes absolutely still.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, stunned into silence. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You watch his gaze dip—just barely. Lower. Lips. Throat. Chest. Then back up again.

“You—what—where is this coming from?” he finally blurts.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, fingers playing with your straw wrapper. “It just sort of... fell out of me.”

“Fell out of you?” he repeats, completely scandalized.

“I... I've been thinking about it for a while now...” You're starting to feel dread sink into your stomach, thick and slow like honey, but bitter like poison... or puke. What the fuck have you just done?

Your words hang there, dangling over the edge of a cliff you just shoved both of you off of. You can’t look at him. Not properly. Not when your face is on fire and your chest is tight and the booth feels too small. Not when the air feels heavier with every second he doesn’t say anything.

You’re seconds away from bolting. Or vomiting. Or both.

“It's been driving me crazy, believe me,” you manage, voice thinner now. “But uh, if you want to say no, say no."

“Oh my god. You’re serious.”

“...Yeah.”

“Like you want—”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Mark, you.”

He leans back slightly in the booth, and he looks away for a split second—at the window, the floor, anywhere that isn’t your face—but it doesn’t last. His eyes are back on you before you can even blink. “I just...” he starts but then trails off again.

“Can you just... like, reject me?” you finally puff out, cheeks burning. It comes out too quickly like you’re trying to outrun the silence. Your voice is too casual to be convincing, but you try anyway, like saying it first makes it sting less.

“Reject you?”

“I’m... I’m sorry I just threw this on you. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You want me to reject you?” His voice is quiet now, but not confused. There’s something else in it.

“So I can like, move on. Change my name. Move to a different state, maybe.”

The joke lands like a dying leaf. Your laugh is brittle. Empty. It’s all just armour at this point.

But Mark huffs a soft laugh of his own,

“I’m not... I’m. not gonna reject you.”

"You're not?"

He shakes his head slowly like he's still trying to believe this is real. His eyes meet yours, and this time he holds it. Locked in. No flinching. No looking away. All that stunned awkwardness melts into something steadier, something careful. Measured. Wanting. Like he’s finally letting himself consider what it would mean to say yes.

“No,” he says. “That would be stupid. And William would never let me live it down.”

The tension cracks just slightly, pulling a small, breathy laugh from you—something trembling and alive. Your pulse spikes. Your throat’s dry. You're still not sure you're breathing right.

“So... you want to—?”

“Yeah,” he says. Quick. Blunt. No room for misinterpretation.

Then again, softer. Like he’s scared of how much he means it.

“Yeah.”

Internally, you’re both reeling—because that “yeah” didn’t sound like a joke. It didn’t sound like some impulsive sure why not. It sounded like he meant it. All of it.

Mark glances down at his hands like he needs something to look at besides you. “I’ve been thinking about it too. Just didn’t think you were—y’know, thinking about it.”

“Well, I was. I am,” you admit, heart pounding. “And it was... getting really hard to just not say anything.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice lower now. This is no longer a conversation for public ears.

“So what... we just do this?” he asks.

“We could... just try it. See if it works.”

His eyes flick to your mouth again, and it makes your stomach flip.

“Like, casual?” he asks, but there’s a quiet tension under the word. Like he’s testing it out on his tongue and it doesn’t quite fit.

“Sure. Casual. For now.” It comes out a little breathless.

Mark smiles, but it’s not a smug one. It’s nervous. Small. “Right. For now just friends. Who, uh... sleep together.”

You nod, mirroring that same small, nervous grin. “Exactly.”

“But we’re still friends,” he says.

“Of course.”

“And more if we like it.”

“Definitely.”

“So I can take you on a real date if all goes well?”

“Please, do.”

He nods. “So, for now, we can still hang out. And do stupid shit. And eat takeout and talk about movies and—”

“—and maybe also make out sometimes,” you add, trying for lightness, though your voice wavers with the weight of wanting.

Mark pauses. “And definitely do more than make out.”

You blink. “You’re getting bold all of a sudden.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are glued to you now. “I just... don’t want to mess this up. But I also really don’t want to go home without kissing you.”

You inhale sharply.

“Well,” you say, grabbing your drink as an excuse to hide your grin, “your place is closer than mine.”

His expression flickers—first surprise, then realization. “Oh, so like... now? We’re doing this right now?”

You nod, trying to act like it’s nothing, like your insides aren’t vibrating with panic and anticipation. He stands before you do, waiting like he’s afraid you might change your mind if he moves too fast.

When you join him, you don’t touch—but your whole body is practically leaning toward him, every nerve tuned into his orbit. You leave the shop like that: side by side, hearts hammering, skin buzzing, still pretending this isn’t happening. But it is. Oh, it is.

The short walk to your car is deceptively casual on the outside, but inside, you’re spiralling. Spiralling and floating all at once. You’re aware of every breath, every step. A storm of want and nerves and what-ifs spinning in your stomach.

By the time you’re seated behind the wheel, your hands are trembling slightly on your thighs. You try to be subtle about it. Meanwhile, Mark slides into the passenger seat with a blush high on his cheeks—bashful, like he’s already guilty of something. Like the thought alone is enough to make him flustered.

He fiddles with his phone, plugging it in like it’s the most important task of the century. He scrolls through songs like his life depends on picking just the right vibe, and maybe it does. You pretend not to watch him, even though you feel like you're burning a hole through the corner of your eye. He’s acting like everything’s totally normal, like the two of you didn’t just agree—very plainly—to have sex. And god, that boyish fake-casual routine of his is so unfair.

Your breath hitches when the music finally starts. Some song you barely recognize filters through the speakers, but you barely process it. Your fingers twitch around the wheel.

You’d started the engine but never shifted into gear.

Mark glances at you.

Fuck.

That’s it. That’s your last straw.

Because he’s looking at you like he’s waiting. Like he’s curious and soft and a little bit shy, and it cracks something open in your chest. You’ve seen this man punch meteors. You’ve seen him dent walls and bleed for people he loves. And right now, he looks like he’d melt if you so much as leaned in a little closer.

So you do.

You lean (jump, really) across the center console, breath shallow, no hesitation left in you, and press your mouth to his—hot, urgent, not the least bit gentle (you could’ve broken your nose against his steel skin).

He lets out a muffled, surprised sound that you feel more than hear. But he kisses you back immediately, like his body was already on the edge, just waiting for the signal to move. His hands come up to your sides, cradling your ribs so carefully it hurts, like he thinks he’ll crush if he squeezes too hard (he can).

He leans into it fast. His nose bumps yours, and there’s a soft gasp when your lips part. It’s messy. Desperate. Hungry. You sigh into his mouth, tilting your head, and his fingers twitch against your waist. Then his lips part wider, and that’s your cue—your tongue finds the seam of his mouth, dragging across his lower lip before slipping in.

He groans.

Low, breathy, and real.

One of his hands slides lower, skimming the hem of your shirt, the very edge of his pinky brushing against the exposed skin of your side. It makes you tremble. He’s so gentle, like he doesn’t quite trust himself with you yet. Like he’s holding something precious.

You don’t know how long it goes on—seconds, minutes. But the car rocks faintly when he shifts in his seat, and that’s when you start to pull away. Slowly. Breathlessly.

You look at him—his lips parted, eyes still shut, like he’s chasing the kiss even as it slips from him. And god, you’ve seen that look before, but you never let yourself believe it was real. Now you can’t deny it.

Mark blinks at you. Once. Twice.

Then he leans in and kisses you again.

It’s different this time. Short. Sweet. A soft press of lips. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence you’ve both been trying to say for months. It tastes like sugar and burns fire.

He leans back into his seat, finally, hands settling awkwardly over his lap. You notice the way his fingers twitch—nervous, restrained. You could scream. From the heat in your blood. From relief. From how right it all feels.

“Sorry,” you say, even though you’re not. Not at all. You’re still tasting him on your lips. Still humming with the knowledge that he wants you—wants you—the same way you want him.

The way your voice lilts upward, a little smug, is what makes him scoff, eyes rolling.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles, shifting in his seat. “Just couldn’t wait, could you?”

You roll your eyes right back at him, grinning as you finally pull the car out of the parking lot. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you. You said you didn’t want to go home without kissing me, so—I did you a favour.”

“Oh, did you?” he fires back, all sass, and the way he says it makes your stomach flutter.

You scoff, but it’s affectionate. And even though you’re driving now, even though the moment has passed, you can still feel it, thick in the air between you—the tension, the promise, the want.

“Yeah,” you say again, quieter now. A little breathless. “Yeah, I did.”

You park in front of his house and kill the engine.

Neither of you move.

“…So,” Mark says, finally.

“So.”

His head tilts toward you, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Race you inside.”

“What?”

You don’t get the chance to say more before he’s already yanking open the door, half-tripping over himself in his rush to get out. You watch him scramble up the walkway, basically vaulting over the three porch steps. You just blink, mildly stunned—and vaguely reminded that he could’ve flown the two of you back to his house if he hadn’t insisted on you driving. Your car sits quietly behind you, utterly abandoned, as you step out and lock it with a flat expression.

He’s waiting for you at the front door, breathless and smug.

“I win.”

“You cheated,” you mutter, strolling up behind him.

“Nuh-uh.”

His hands fumble with the keys, like he’s suddenly forgotten how locks work. You wait behind him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his back, the way his shoulders tense slightly when you’re that near. It makes something in your chest squeeze, soft and wild.

The lock finally clicks. He pushes the door open and steps aside dramatically, gesturing for you to go in. “Milady.”

You roll your eyes but smile as you pass him.

Inside, it’s quiet. Familiar. You’ve been here a million times. Your gaze flicks around automatically. Debbie must’ve gotten a new carpet recently—soft beige with delicate lines you don’t remember from the last time you came over. You hum softly under your breath, grounding yourself in the domestic detail. Always a little surprised, somehow, by the size of this place. It’s modern and clean, tastefully decorated. It smells like laundry detergent and something faintly citrusy. It smells like him.

You turn around and he’s right there. Looking at you like you hung the stars and accidentally knocked one loose when you kissed him in the car.

And then he kisses you again.

No hesitation this time. Just Mark, pulling you in by the waist, cupping your face and his mouth finds yours with a kind of aching slowness—soft, cautious, almost reverent.

You melt into him instantly. Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt, knuckles brushing his chest as you pull him closer, grounding yourself in the warmth of him. He lets out a sound—a mix between a sigh and a groan—and it sinks low into your belly, heat blooming there with terrifying ease. He kisses you deeper, more sure now, like he’s already memorized the shape of your mouth.

His hands slide down your back, warm and soothing.

“Mom’s out with Oliver,” Mark murmurs against your lips like he knows you were about to ask. His voice is low, rough from disuse and want. “Won’t be back for a while.”

“Lucky us,” you mumble, and you barely finish the words before he kisses you again, harder this time, lips parting yours with such gentle insistence that your knees almost give.

He makes this delightful little sound, hands shifting to cradle your head gently, fingers threading through your hair like he’s been waiting a lifetime for the chance.

“So lucky,” He agrees, regretfully breaking away when your body tenses in a silent request for air. You’re disappointed too. Who needs breathing, anyway?

“Did you wanna watch a movie first?”

He’s not even out of breath.

“Not really,” you reply with a breathless laugh, cheeks already sore from grinning so much. Your hands are still resting against his chest, fingertips twitching with the need to keep touching him. He grins back, nodding once, and starts guiding you backwards through the house.

He’s careful with you. You’re walking blind, caught in the middle of another kiss when he gently redirects you away from a stray shoe, his hand tightening briefly around your waist to steer you around Oliver’s skateboard left smack in the middle of the foyer. You barely notice it. All you can focus on is his mouth, trailing kisses to the curve of your neck, the press of his lips to the slope of your shoulder. You shiver when his teeth graze your skin.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re pressed up against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, both of you panting between kisses that grow hotter, messier. His hands bracket your hips, thumbs stroking small circles that send sparks crawling up your spine. He groans when your hips roll forward again his, instinctive, your body reacting before your brain can catch up.

You think you hear him whisper your name.

You’re tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel more skin, and when your fingers slide beneath it and skim along his stomach, he freezes. Not with fear—but like he’s overwhelmed. Like he’s trying not to fall apart from something as simple as your touch.

And then, in a breathless pause, he pulls back just enough to speak. His forehead leans into yours, eyes fluttering closed as he exhales shakily.

“I imagined this being sweeter,” he pants. “I’m sorry.”

You nearly melt on the spot.

Because the way he says it—it’s not embarrassed. It’s earnest. Vulnerable. It takes everything in you not to scream with joy.

God, if he knew how often you’d imagined this too—how many nights you’d curled up thinking of how it might feel to kiss him, touch him, have him like this—he’d probably panic and fly halfway across the city.

Instead, all you manage is a broken little whimper as your fingers twist in his shirt, dragging him closer. “God, Mark, that’s so hot.”

His eyes blink open, stunned. “It is?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathless.

And that’s all it takes.

You don’t even remember deciding to move, but suddenly you’re being rushed up the stairs, feet stumbling as Mark pulls you with him. Your shoes get kicked off somewhere mid-way, lost in the blur of hands and mouths and shared laughter.

He’s hovering, quite literally gliding over the ground, but he seems to barely notice. His feet skim the steps, weightless with something that appears like joy.

Mark fumbles the doorknob twice before finally swinging the door open. Since he’s still kissing you, still pushing you gently forward, you almost tumble inside. He catches you easily, a strong arm firm around your waist, the other bracing himself against the doorframe.

He doesn’t even seem like he notices all that much, floating upwards for a moment before he’s kissing you silly all over again. It’s hot and wet and when he opens his mouth slightly, you follow, your lips parting just enough for your tongues to meet.

Your body fits against his like it was made for it, warm and pliant, your cheek brushing against his as he angles his head and deepens the kiss. You think you never want to stop kissing him. It’s addicting. He’s a drug and you’re hooked, irrevocably.

You think you might be trembling, just a little.

You decide, boldly, to shove him backwards.

He lets you.

He trips over something in the mess of his room—could be a book, a shoe, or a part of his suit. You don’t get the chance to look. He stumbles until his back hits the wall beside his closet, half-collapsing against the old Seance Dog poster, and you swear he grins against your mouth.

You pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him. Mark’s lips are kiss-swollen and flushed pink, cheeks dusted a deep red. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils botched wide with want. He chases your mouth again, barely containing a whine when you press your hands a little harder against his chest to keep him in place.

“Oh, Mark,” you murmur, lips brushing the corner of his mouth before trailing down to his jaw, then his throat. You press a hot, open-mouthed kiss beneath his ear and feel him shiver. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

“I—” The breath he exhales is ragged, shaky. You feel the way his pulse jumps strangely beneath your tongue as you mouth at the delicate skin of his neck. The slight scrape of your teeth draws out a sound you could get drunk on.

The afternoon sun floods into the room in slats, casting golden stripes across his skin. Everything smells like him. The colour of his t-shirt matches his walls, and the thought makes you smile stupidly as you glance up at him again. He’s smiling too. It’s infectious.

You can still feel the strength of the heat rolling off of his skin. “No one’s ever called me pretty before,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You pull back, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not…”

A frown tugs at your lips as your hands drop to the hem of his shirt with a wordless plea. He pulls it off obediently, albeit somewhat distractedly. “That’s fucking criminal.”

Where it lands doesn’t even matter—your eyes are fixed on his chest. His bare chest that you’ve been given permission to properly ogle at. You swear you feel your mouth salivate a bit.

“I feel like I should’ve known sooner,” he teases, breathless.

You blink up at him. “Known what?”

“That you liked me. I mean—look at you.” He gestures toward your face with a sheepish grin. “You’re drooling.”

“I’m not drooling,” you huff, making a face even though your cheeks are warm. “I’m admiring. Big difference.”

Mark quirks an eyebrow at you.

“And yeah,” you say, fingers dancing along the waistband of his jeans now, just teasing. “You’re pretty stupid for not knowing sooner.”

He scoffs, but the look in his eyes is warm and soft and maybe a little reverent. You don’t let him say anything else.

“Stupidly pretty,” you murmur, crashing back into him, pressing your mouth to his again with more heat than before. You lick into his mouth, then drag your lips along the column of his throat, down to that same aching spot on his neck. You feel his hands tighten on your waist, and he exhales a shaky, desperate breath like it’s the first one he’s had in minutes.

Your hands roam more freely now, gliding across the newly exposed skin like you’ve earned the right. You’ve seen Mark shirtless before—countless times, actually—but never like this. Not with your breath catching in your throat and your hands trembling just slightly with want. Not with your mouth practically watering as you finally get to touch him like you’ve always wanted to.

Well… unless that one time you helped him put sunscreen on his back last summer counts.

Because this is different.

This time, he’s letting you feel. Explore. He lets you be a little mean and even tug at the trail of hair leading under his pants.

He’s warm in the way fresh sunlight is; comforting, radiant, and magnetic. Your fingers trail down the groove between his pecs, slowly. You knew his body is obviously muscled since his Invincible suit doesn’t leave too much to the imagination, but it’s different feeling warm, sculpted skin than the cool spandex (or whatever it’s made out of.) You trace the faint outline of each muscle, letting your hands dip lower until you reach the ridges of his abs.

And just beneath them—your hand pauses.

You feel it. A soft, rhythmic thrum under your palm. Not quite a heartbeat. Not quite human. It’s steadier than a pulse, more like a hum—like something alive and electric and ancient ticking in the hollow of his chest. It makes your breath hitch.

How alien is he? You wonder.

But the thought doesn’t scare you. If anything, it makes your stomach swoop. You press your hand flat against the faint, vibrating sensation, mesmerized.

Mark watches you, breathing a little heavier now. His hands are wandering too—palms gliding down your sides with more confidence than before. You gasp when he gropes your ass, hard, the pressure unexpected and firm. He pulls you flush against him, and you yelp, catching yourself on his chest with a small, surprised laugh.

His chuckle is low, rumbling beneath your cheek as you bury your face in his skin. It’s so warm. You want to wrap yourself in it.

Then his lips are back—just behind your ear, kissing that soft spot that makes your thoughts short-circuit. You feel yourself sway forward, dizzy with heat and hunger.

Your mind flickers between two options: Pull your shirt off or pull him to the bed.

Instead, your knees hit the carpet before your brain can stop you.

His hands dart forward to pull you back up, brows furrowed with concern, but you’re already reaching for his belt.

“Oh,” he sighs, startled and wide-eyed. “You don’t have to—”

“I wanna,” you murmur, voice dripping with intention as your hand palms him over his jeans. “Please let me.”

You press your cheek against the bulge, coddling it like it’s already yours, your breath catching as you drag your nose slowly along its length. You mouth at the fabric, teasing him with slow, open kisses, and then you look up, eyes wide and sparkling and pleading.

“Please, Mark.”

His knees nearly buckle.

“Yeah,” he exhales, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

He looks stunned, dazed, like he’s dreaming something too good to be real. His hands cradle your face so gently it makes your stomach flip, thumbs brushing your jaw.

He’s like a furnace, radiating heat in waves. Like a lantern in the dark. Bright and alive and everything in you aches to touch him more.

You kiss his clothed cock again, slower this time, almost reverent, and he shudders. You can hear the faint rasp in his breath, the catch in his throat as your fingers finally undo his belt and tug his jeans down.

He steps out of them awkwardly, kicking them to the side—and that’s when you notice the blur of colours on his boxers. You blink. Then squint.

And laugh.

“Is that…” You grin, tugging the elastic waistband back with a finger to get a better look. “Seance Dog?”

Tiny cartoon super dogs dance across the fabric, all in different poses—one in a wizard hat, a few riding on yellow stars. You let the waistband snap back against his skin with a cheeky pop.

Mark’s ears go red.

“It was laundry day,” he mumbles, flustered and pink.

“I think it’s cute,” you giggle, ducking forward and pressing a kiss right above the stupid little dogs. “So stupidly cute.”

He tries to say something in return, but you’re giggling all over his very real, very hard dick, kissing at the shape of it, and whatever excuse he was about to make dies a quick death.

“Whatever,” he mutters under his breath, trying and failing to glare at you.

You flash him an innocent look, resting your chin on his hip. “I swear, it’s cute.”

“You’re just saying that because you have me half-naked.”

“Maybe,” you smirk, batting your lashes. Then: “Are you gonna let me suck your dick, or…?”

He groans. His hand flies to his face to hide the actual whimper that comes out, and when he peeks between his fingers at you—grinning like you’re the devil—he can’t help but laugh. A breathless, half-embarrassed noise that melts into the warm air between you.

“Are you gonna stop teasing me, or what?”

You decide to be nice. Because honestly, you're not sure if you'll ever get the chance to be here again. A jagged breath escapes Mark’s lips when you finally tug his boxers down and free his cock from the cotton confines. He’s flushed deep and aching, and the heat low in your stomach tightens at the sight of him. He basically springs out, and you actually flinch a little as it bounces against his stomach. Hard, red, and glistening at the tip with precum.

You blink. Wow.

Okay. Wow.

He's pretty everywhere, but this is... a lot. In the best way. Surpasses all of your expectations. 10/10.

It twitches in front of your face and you feel the warmth radiating off him like a space heater turned up too high. Your hand hovers—hesitant for just a second—before you wrap your palm around him, slowly, carefully, like you’re holding something precious.

He twitches again.

The muscles in his stomach tense, flexing like a ripple under his skin, and you can’t help it—you smirk. Have you mentioned how insanely good he looks right now? That gorgeous, pink-tinged flush creeping down his chest, all the way to the tip of his cock?

Your brain short-circuits. Just pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty boy playing on repeat in your head like a broken record.

Mark exhales a shuddering sigh, and it punches straight through you. “Warm…�� he whispers, dazed, eyes hazy and half-lidded. He looks drunk off you already.

“William wasn't kidding,” you mutter, half to yourself as you breathe again.

Mark blinks. “What?”

“He said you had a big dick.”

Mark chokes. “William—he’s never—what?”

“Said you guys used to stand side by side and measure them.”

“Fuck off—he did not say that—”

“Is it true you used them as lightsabers?”

“Oh my god—” Mark groans. He sounds like he’s dying. You don’t know if it’s the secondhand embarrassment or the way your thumb brushes right across his tip.

Maybe both.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” he mutters, playfully pushing at your face. You bite your lip, triumphant.

Without thinking, you tighten your grip. Just a little. Just enough to make him keen.

His laugh dissolves into a broken sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and the hand that had pushed your face away now finds a new home buried in your hair.

You lean in and press a soft, teasing kiss to the flushed tip. His cock twitches again.

Mark’s breath catches in his throat.

Your hand never stops moving, a slow up-and-down that has him trembling. You kiss him again, right on the slit, and feel the heat pulsing against your lips. You run your tongue up the underside of his cock, tracing that thick vein from base to tip, and Mark makes a strangled, broken sound—like he’s holding on for dear life.

You push back his foreskin with your thumb and swirl your tongue in a lazy circle around the head. A droplet of precum smears across your lips and you hum against him, taking your time.

You glance up at Mark, checking back in.

“That’s good,” He affirms, voice breathy. “That’s really fucking good.”

Every sound he makes engraves itself into your brain.

You trail kisses down his shaft, your tongue learning every ridge, every pulse, every twitch like you’re memorizing him. Your pace is slow and calculated, and Mark is panting now, legs tense, body twitching under your every touch. You glance up—and fuck—he’s flushed all the way to his ears, lips parted, eyes glassy.

You wrap your lips around the head and sink down.

“Fuuuck,” he whispers, throwing his head back, and staring at the ceiling. His hips jolt upward, pushing deeper into your mouth. It’s a messy rhythm at first, but you welcome it, the way he shivers and gasps when he hits the back of your throat.

You work what you can with your mouth and use your hand on the rest, pumping steadily in time with the bob of your head. Your spit slicks his cock as you move faster, drool dripping down your chin and his shaft.

His thighs are shaking, abs tensing with every gasp. You can feel his restraint fraying—see it in the way his fists clutch the cushions, how his hips start jerking forward, chasing more of the heat and wetness of your mouth.

His cock pulses, thick and hot on your tongue, and he’s babbling now—words half-formed and strangled:

“F-fuck- shit, shit, shit—I’m gonna—ah, fuck me, yeah, f-fuck, I’m— wait shit—”

He pulls your head off at the last second, the hand in your hair tugging, gentle but frantic. You let him, breath caught in your throat, barely registering it until he’s panting and his cock twitches one more time before he cums.

Hot, white ropes spill across your face.

The first hits your cheek, thick and warm. Another lands across your nose, streaking upward toward your brow. It catches on your lip—your open mouth still parted. You blink in surprise but stay still, a little stunned by how hot your skin suddenly feels under each drop.

His moans taper off into little whines, his breath catching in his throat as he watches—eyes wide, pupils blown out wider and darker than you’ve ever seen eyes do before. It’s a strange feeling when you’re reminded that Mark isn’t fully human, even though he mostly looks like it.

You watch his pupils shrink back to normal size and he shakes his head like he’s trying to focus. And his voice cracks. His thumb brushes along your jaw, then dips lower, gently dragging through the mess he left on your chin like he's trying to process the sight of you. Like he can’t believe what he’s done to you.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, blinking down at you. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve warned you—sorry.”

You look up at him, breathless, heart thudding loud in your ears. A grin starts to creep onto your face before you can stop it. You try to fight it—you should be playing it cool—but you can’t help it. Your smile is slow and sweet and so telling. You fucking freak.

“That was…”

“Gross. I know. I’m sorry.” he interrupts, still flushed red and clearly panicking a little.

“I was gonna say hot,” you murmur.

Mark exhales hard, something unsteady and relieved loosening in his shoulders as he leans down to pull you up. You don’t complain when your knees sting, don’t comment on the ache blooming in your thighs. You barely notice it.

His hand comes to cradle your face, and you brace for a kiss—maybe something soft and grateful. Instead, Mark kisses you like he’s starving. Tongue sliding against yours, mouth open and frantic, tasting you, tasting himself. He licks your teeth, then your lips—wet and shining—and then your cheek, dragging his tongue through his own cum, whimpering into your mouth when he tastes it again.

Get a load of this fucking freak, Jesus Christ.

He doesn’t stop. Licks across your skin with deliberate, dirty reverence. Over your chin, your cheekbone, even the curve of your nose—slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring it. His cum. Your skin. You.

He whimpers. Literally whimpers. God. And then he moans. Loud.

You just laugh, soft and dreamy, trying to stay grounded even as every nerve ending in your body feels like it’s sparking to life, flames consuming you. You’re still dressed, and yet you’ve never felt more bare. More downed.

Mark steps out of his boxers and pants, bunched around his ankles. His skin is slick with sweat, flushed with exertion, and glowing with something golden. You’ve never seen anyone look more gorgeous in your life. You realize, with a quiet sort of devastation, that you’d do anything to stay in this moment.

He leans in again, kissing you hard, both of you ignoring the sticky trail still clinging to your face. Your mouth, your skin—it’s all his. And he kisses like he knows it.

You kiss him back like you need him to know it’s mutual.

The ache between your thighs throbs now, sharp and insistent, but you almost forget it when Mark groans—a deep, low sound that vibrates in your chest. He cradles your jaw in both hands, pulling back just far enough to whisper, “Keep kissing me. Don’t ever stop.”

You nod, dazed, breathless. “I won’t.”

You kiss him again. His lips. His cheek. His nose. His forehead. He shivers under each one. You want to kiss him until your lips go numb, until time forgets the two of you ever existed as anything other than this.

And then—without warning—Mark starts to float again.

You feel it before you see it: the weightlessness, the subtle lift of his frame. His hands never leave your face, but his body hovers, high enough that you have to crane your neck to meet his lips. He laughs breathlessly, as though he forgot he could even do this, and he takes you with him—gently, almost reverently.

Your back hits the bed seconds later, soft and warm, and you sprawl out beneath him. Mark hovers above, eyes shining with something deep and giddy and overwhelming. His smile is wide and blinding.

Your heart thrums beneath your ribs, loud and full and dizzy, and you grin back up at him, dazed, knowing he can hear it.

You reach down, fumbling with the button on your jeans. Your fingers are clumsy, adrenaline and nerves making them tremble, and you curse under your breath. Mark dips down to help, but he’s no better—his hands fumble too, and the both of you dissolve into breathless, giggling laughter. His body presses into yours as he tries again, lips brushing yours between chuckles, and eventually, together, you manage to get them off.

He tosses them behind him with a careless flick—there’s a loud crash as something topples off your nightstand. You both flinch, wide-eyed.

You glance toward the sound but don’t move. “What was that?”

Mark snorts against your lips. “Lamp. Maybe.”

Neither of you moves to check. Not when his weight settles over you again. Not when his hands find your waist and slide beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and certain. His touch is steady now, smoothing up your sides, slipping along the curves of your ribs like he’s mapping out every part of you.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, a funny-looking grin on his face as he watches his hands ruck up your shirt gently. When he lifts the top higher, the fabric bunching at your ribs, you raise your arms to help, and for one breathless second, your hands meet midair—yours and his, tangled in the cotton.

Mark yanks it off with a breathless little laugh and lets it fall off the edge of the bed.

His gaze drops. His smile fades.

There’s a beat of stillness where he just looks at you. Really looks. His eyes drag over your chest—mismatched bra and all—and he blinks slow, like he’s committing it to memory. You swear he stops breathing.

His thumb lifts, brushing along the strap of your bra where it sits on your shoulder. He plucks at it gently, eyes fixed on the way the fabric moves beneath his touch. He does it again, slower this time, dragging the pad of his thumb over the edge of the cup. The way he stares—it’s not even lust, not exactly. It’s something softer.

The intensity of his gaze makes you want to shy away for just a second. You sit up and jab his side.

He jerks with a yelp, eyes flying back to yours.

You raise a brow, fighting your smug grin. “Who’s drooling now?”

Mark rolls his eyes, mock offended, but the flush on his cheeks betrays him. He opens his mouth to respond, and you swipe your thumb across the corner of his lips like you’re wiping something away. Annoyed, he groans loudly.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

He catches your fingers in his hand. Brings them to his mouth. Nips at them playfully. You squeal, and then he kisses your knuckles so soft it makes your stomach swoop.

And suddenly, the teasing slips out of you like air from a balloon.

You lie back without thinking. Just melt into the bed. Mark follows you down, still holding your hand. He kneels between your legs, gaze pinned to you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. When he finally lets go of your hand, it’s only to cradle your face in one palm, thumb brushing along your cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“You’re so beautiful.”

The words are quiet. Like a secret. Like he doesn’t even mean to say them aloud.

You flush hard, suddenly self-conscious in your bra and underwear—the colours don’t match, the cut’s nothing special, there might be a stain if he looks hard enough—but Mark’s eyes don’t so much as flinch.

You swallow, trying to think of something to say. “Says you,” you manage, reaching up to tug him down. “You were wearing Seance Dog boxers not five minutes ago. And I still almost cried from how good you look.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, forehead bumping yours.

And then you kiss him sweetly. His lips press to yours like he’s trying to say something through it, like he’s trying to give you all the things he doesn’t have words for. One of his hands roams lower, down your side, curving around the bend of your thigh. He hooks your knee up and around his waist like it’s instinct, fingers digging into the plush skin just beneath your ass, and pulls you closer so he can grope your ass and do some other decidedly not-so-sweet things.

He discovers you’re wet under his palm through the rough fabric of your panties. No surprise there for you, you’ve been wet for a while now, but a deep sound tear from the back of his throat, so far that it almost sounds like a growl. It’s hard to separate your thoughts from him. Kissing him, sweet and warm, blazing and getting hotter.

You barely have time to think of anything else but your beautiful friend who happens to be an alien superhero. Your head’s too full of him to do anything but gasp when he moves again.

A ghost of a touch—just one finger dragging down the centre of your panties, light enough to drive you insane—pulls a small, breathy sound from your lips. And then he’s doing it again, tracing over your clit, featherlight and teasing. You’re not sure if your face simmers from embarrassment or sheer eagerness, but it’s hot either way. Your breath stutters. Your hips twitch, helplessly.

“Y’like that?” Mark mutters against your mouth, voice thick and a little rough, and you nod against his lips without hesitation, a soft whimper slipping past them.

“Good,” he breathes. “Good… lemme know if I’m doing this wrong.”

The words hit you like sunlight breaking through clouds—so warm and sweet it makes your chest ache like a cavity. That twist of pleasure low in your stomach tightens a little more, and you have to resist the instinct to roll your hips against his hand. He’s being so careful, and it just makes you want him even more.

“I don’t think there’s anything you could do wrong, Mark,” you sigh, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue brushing yours in a way that makes your toes curl.

You pull away on a light, breathless hum, licking your kiss-swollen lips as you blink up at him. There’s the tiniest flicker of disappointment on his face, quickly replaced when your hands slide up to the straps of your bra.

“Take this off?” Phrased like a question, secretly a plea, a demand wrapped in velvet and you’re verging on begging. Mark huffs, pretty lips curving upwards.

His hand slips away from between your thighs, trailing heat across your skin as he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. The second the strap loosens, he watches you slide it off, his gaze dropping like gravity’s pulling it down.

His pupils dilate in that weird, telltale alien way they do as he takes in the sight of your tits.

A warm palm comes up to cup one breast, his touch tender, adoring—and then he leans in and bites. Not hard, just enough to make you hiss and gasp, the shock of it sparking in your chest. Your nipples peak to attention. His mouth is everywhere all at once, licking, sucking... marking you. You barely recognize the sounds leaving your throat, broken and wanting.

You’d caught a glimpse of yourself in his mirror earlier—faint love bites trailing across your neck, purpling and pretty—and now you can feel him adding more. You wonder idly if he’ll wear the ones you gave him too, or if his body will heal them away before sunset.

Mark drifts lower, slow and steady. You sink your fingers into his hair, threading through soft, inky black strands, and he rewards you with a kiss pressed just beneath your breast. Then your ribs. Then the centre of your belly, nose bumping your navel as he licks slow, warm stripes up and down your skin, teasing just along the underside of your boobs again.

It’s almost too much. You’re breathless from how soft he’s being. From how much he clearly wants you. From how he’s taking his time.

You look down at him, chest rising and falling. He’s already looking at you—of course he is. You follow the line of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the soft arch of his eyebrows. There’s this little furrow at the corners of his eyes you know is from years of smiling, and your heart just about splits open at the sight of him.

You have it so bad for him that your hips jerk up instinctively, needing more contact—needing him—just because his eyes catch yours and hold.

Mark presses a soft, sweet kiss to your knee. “I’m so excited I think I might pass out,” he mumbles, voice thick and a little shaky, the words dragging warmly over your skin. The tip of his nose nudges along the inside of your leg, tracing a slow, lazy path downward—knee to thigh—his breath fanning across sensitive skin.

Then his mouth finds you.

One gentle kiss through the thin fabric of your panties, right against your cunt. You twitch, a sweet noise pushing past your lips.

He follows with a slow lick, dragging his tongue in a teasing stripe over you, the wet, thin barrier of your underwear doing nothing to dull the pressure. You huff breathlessly, your brows drawing together as he hums low against your clit.

The duvet crinkles beneath you as you sigh and sink into it. There’s a low throb curling deep in your gut, spreading like wildfire.

“Mark,” you sigh his name like it’s a prayer.

He hums again, this time lower, rougher. His fingers dip beneath the elastic of your panties, warm and tentative, but he doesn’t pull them down just yet. His mouth moves lower, nose pressing in just right, and it steals the air from your lungs, your exhale lilted with a moan.

“I feel like we should have music playing,” he murmurs.

“Music?” you echo, half-dazed, raising an eyebrow you’re pretty sure he can’t see. His only answer is the smirk you feel more than see, pressed right into your skin.

And then he moves the gusset of your panties aside.

He groans—an actual, full-bodied moan—like the sight of you just knocked the breath out of him. He dips a finger into his mouth, wetting it, and mutters something under his breath about giving you a heads-up, that he’s not exactly an expert and most of it comes from the porn he watches (those homemade ones, the amateur videos couples post on Twitter which he swears are genuine clips of what sex is like).

You almost laugh—almost. You're about to tell him not to worry, that you probably know even less—but then his finger presses against you, tentative but eager, and slowly, carefully, he sinks in and you can’t help the soft groan that burns through you.

“Fuck, Mark,” you gasp, the words catching somewhere in your throat. He withdraws immediately, eyes flicking up to yours in question, and sucks his newly wet digit finger into his mouth.

“Good?” he asks.

You nod frantically. “S’good. So good.”

“Fuck—can I?” He asks, and you nod. You don’t know why he’s asking, you gave him a green light ages ago, but your hips lift to help him anyway as he hooks his fingers in your panties and pulls them down. “Y’taste so good,”

Mark leans down and puts his mouth on your hot cunt again. Every slow, willful stroke of his is timed perfectly to the beat pulsing through you. His hands hook under your thighs and pull your legs apart wider, his mouth slanting over you in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.

Your hand tangles in his dark, inky hair and tightens reflexively when he finds your clit again. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow, even when you tug. His tongue moves with growing confidence, and the velvet heat of his mouth spreads slick across you, every pass making you ache harder.

A breeze from the window flutters the curtains, the only sign the outside world still exists. But in here, everything is warm and golden and humming—all soft sheets and quiet gasps, all Mark Grayson.

If the tug hurts, Mark doesn’t show it. He hums again, deep and greedy, and your hips rock helplessly against the slope of his nose. Your fingers tighten, your eyes squeeze shut.

“Oh god,” You whine prettily. “That’s— uh— fuck, that’s really good.”

Between your thighs, you hear and feel the moan Mark gives back. Your thighs twitch, caught in that impossible pull whether to close around his head and warm his ears or keep them open just to feel more. Your hips continue to move instinctively, helpless rolls up into his face. And he takes it appreciatively.

His tongue drags down your folds, and he sucks and slurps, slow and purposeful before flicking at your fluttering entrance. It makes you squeal, a sound you barely recognize as yours.

“Fuck,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His voice is hoarse, soaked in arousal. “You’re so wet.”

You can only blink, dazed, caught somewhere between disbelief and bliss. Mark sounds like he’s in heaven, like this is as good for him as it is for you—maybe even better. And god, if he keeps talking like that, you’ll never recover.

His chin and lips are slick, shining in the low light. You don’t know if he’s been talking to you the whole time, but you can’t dwell. Not when he’s back on you, plush lips locking around your clit and lavishing across the length of your slit. He moans into you, tongue dipping deep, greedy and soft and insistent.

The pressure in your core coils tighter, the pleasure winding up like a string pulled taut. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow breaths. Your voice dissolves into a string of high, breathy little “yes, yes, yes,”s and Mark’s name, over and over, like a mantra.

He mutters something again, something messy and mumbled into your cunt. It takes you a second to realize he’s tapping at your hand where it’s buried in his hair. You lace your fingers with his, and he sighs like you just gave him oxygen.

“Please,” he says into your skin, almost frantically, “please cum on my face. Please, please, s’only fair.”

Your mouth parts, breath catching. He’s so beautiful—messy hair, flushed cheeks, his lips swollen and wet, eyes dark and heavy with lust. He glances up at you, and for a second, his eyes meet yours. But then his lids flutter shut, a shiver rolling down his spine as he moans again into your pussy.

“Fuck,” you swear.

“Yeah?” Mark hums before slowly sinking a finger inside you again. It’s slow, precise. Intentional Pumping the digit in and out of you with ease.

“Yeah, yeah,” you whisper.

“On my face?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Fuck yes, Mark,” you snap, voice rising. “I’ll cum on your fucking face—shut up!”

You see it then—that look on his face. A smug, delighted one. The same one he wore last night at the bowling alley when he finally knocked down a pin after guttering every ball. But now, it’s laced with morale, more self-satisfied, delighted, proud. Like he knew what you’d say. Like this was always going to happen.

And he just wanted to piss you off.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

Mark chuckles, wicked and low—and then he adds a second finger.

A pressure builds low in your belly—slow at first, like a ripple pulling tight across your core, until it's urgent, searing, and impossible to ignore. Every movement Mark makes intensifies it, the flick of his tongue, the curl of his fingers inside you, the way his mouth works your clit. It’s not subtle anymore. It’s all-consuming. Flickers of starlight burst behind your closed eyelids, and you feel like you’re floating—no, caught, tethered to the sheets by his arm locked firmly over your hips.

“…Just like that,” you whisper, breath hitching. The words spill out instinctively, barely more than air. But they light him up—you can feel the way he doubles down, how he hones in on every sweet spot with sharper focus. “Keep going. ‘M close… so close, Mark. Please, don’t stop. Please just—”

Your mouth drops open. Not a sound escapes. Not even air. You go still, caught in that heart-stopping moment where everything tightens—every nerve pulled taut.

Then it rocks through you like lightning—white-hot and blinding. Your whole body jerks, legs trembling as the orgasm washes over you with no restraint. A whimper bursts from your throat, then another, and then it’s just breathless moans and helpless groans as you claw for something—anything. One foot presses into Mark’s back, anchoring you. Your fingers tangle in his hair again, desperate. The sheets twist beneath your spine,

Mark moans into you, a sound that hums right through your bones. He doesn’t let up—he licks you through it with soft, steady strokes, like he knows exactly what your body needs. Gentle. Sure. So fucking sweet.

When you finally manage to push him away, trembling and spent, he pulls back slowly—like he hates to leave you. He drags his fingers out of you, and plants a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen clit. A farewell, like he’s grateful for it. When he lifts his head, his face is shining with slick, lips pink, eyes dark and dazed.

His grin is crooked, eyes sparkling. “I think I did good.”

“Could be better...”

He rolls his eyes and leans in slow, almost shy. Like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. You don’t. You kiss him back eagerly, tasting yourself on his lips.

“You should sit on my face and suck me off next time,” he says, his voice low and serious. “After our date. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

The idea of a date and a possible next time sends a thrill right through you, low and giddy and a little unhinged.

“I wanna fuck you first,” you murmur, your breath still uneven, chest rising and falling against his. The words come out raw and honest, no hesitation, and it sends a shiver down Mark’s spine. You feel it, the way he literally trembles.

He groans softly, tucking himself into your side, arms curling around your waist like it’s the most normal thing to do. “Maybe next time,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck. His eyes are shut tight, and he clings to you like your words rewired something inside him.

“You need a minute?” you ask, fingers stroking along his back.

“Just a minute… You?”

“…Yeah.”

“Okay, good. I don’t have condoms anyway.”

You snort, eyelids heavy as you nuzzle into him. “When’s your mom getting home?”

“Probably not for another couple hours.”

You glance at him, still breathless, still kind of high off him. “Wanna fly to the store and get some? Pick up takeout on the way?”

He groans dramatically. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin. “We can plan out our date after, too. I’ll even read an issue of Seance Dog.”

Mark grins back, a lazy, cocky tilt to his mouth. “Fuck yes. Can I pick the takeout?”

“Sure, you’re paying anyways.”

#mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut #invincible x reader #invincible smut #faye’s writing ⭑.ᐟ #mark’s empire

2K notes · View notes

moo-reads · 1 year ago

Text

Jeon Jungkook (WC: <20k)

bold + italics = top fave!

NEED TO READ

FAVORITES!

jungkook | strictly platonic by @jeonqkooks - [19.4k]

jungkook | proposals by @pjxmin - [18.1k]

jungkook | cat got your tongue? by @jessikahathaway - [18.1k]

jungkook | set on you by @bymoodchild - [18.1k]

jungkook | lonely hearts club by @joonbird - [18k]

jungkook | 1999 by @tattookoo - [17.9k]

jungkook | scattered stars by @taegularities - [17.9k]

jungkook | one way or another (two parts) by @explicit-tae - [16.9k]

↳ genuinely and truly speechless… i felt like i was watching a movie the whole time. JAW DROPPING.

↳ update: upon further review, this is currently my favorite story that i’ve ever read. that’s all.

jungkook | paint me naked by @gimmethatagustd - [16k]

jungkook | lemon sherbet by @extravaguk - [15k]

jungkook | the reaper by @deepdarkdelights - [14.6k]

jungkook | watermelon sugar by @shuadotcom - [14.2k]

jungkook | starboy by @sugaxjpg - [14.2k]

jungkook | close the distance by @hearts4joon - [13.5k]

jungkook | denial by @girlygguk - [12.5k]

jungkook | sweet serial killer (two parts) by @explicit-tae - [12.2k]

jungkook | the spins by @here2bbtstrash - [10.3k]

jungkook | blush by @jhsbrat - [9.8k]

jungkook | play pretend by @seokoloqy - [8.6k]

jungkook | anpanman by @honeymoonjin - [6.6k]

jungkook | best friends! by @trivia-yandere - [6.1k]

last updated: 12/26/23 ✿

11K notes · View notes

hellfire--cult · 4 months ago

Text

Actor!Steve Harrington x BFF!Fem!Reader

wc: 15k

Summary: Your best friend asks for a huge favor when an extra calls out a day before filming a scene. A kiss scene. You have never been in front of a camera, unlike him, so you ask if you could practice... and also test the waters because you never kissed your best friend. The man you've been in love with for the past years.

+18, friends to lovers, idiots in love, steve is not that famous yet, lots of friendly banter, reader is a bit self conscious, kissing, smut, p in v (protected), 69, handjob, fingering, a little bit of dirty talking

a/n: this wip has been in my docs for months. I recently got back to it and finished it in just days. It was supposed to just be the smut, but as always, your girl can't help herself. Thank you @andvys and @ghost-proofbaby for proofreading, god knows that if i do that myself i would just delete it all.

Please reblog. Be kind.

NOT JUST AN EXTRA

“Absolutely fucking NOT!”

Steve knew you would react like that, it wasn’t a small favor, he also knew that. Your eyes were wide, bewildered, looking at him as if he had grown a second head or a palm tree at the top of it with a monkey dangling from a leaf. He could only sigh as he shook his head at you.

“Come on, you’re gonna get paid, and we’re tight on time to do an audition for this. It’s just a few seconds, ten tops!” You gritted your teeth together as you crossed your arms over your chest. He winced, knowing you were about to increase the tone of your voice. He knows you too well, you aren’t his best friend for nothing.

“Ten seconds! Ten seconds of me being on the big screen for the first time!” You yelled and he closed his eyes and nodded.

“I know, I know–” He opened his eyes to look into yours, pleading, begging. “I– It’s just that small scene. Small, tiny, and we can do it fast.”

He could see how your eyes showed how you wanted to blow him off, but also the tenderness of caring for your best friend. Eyes he always appreciated. Eyes he adored. Eyes he loved with all of his heart. You rubbed your forehead in thought as you looked down at the floor.

“I– Are you sure you can’t get someone else?” You asked and he sighed, shaking his head. Steve’s hope started rising as you deliberated until you finally looked up at him and nodded. “Okay… Okay… Fine.”

He smiled and wrapped his arms around your frame, squishing you and lifting you up to twirl you around. You squealed, a giggle escaping your lips, a shenanigan he never stopped doing everytime you did something he was happy about. Since middle school, he twirls you around whenever he is proud, delighted, or you help him with stuff.

You’re put back on your feet, shaking your head as you take a step away from him, a smile on your face, but you notice a nervous chuckle come out of his lips. You frowned because wasn’t he happy? He cleared his throat and nodded once more, looking down at you.

“Alright– I will talk to James to tell him you’ll do it–” And something was not right. He was nervous, you noticed it, so you squinted at him.

“Steve… What’s the scene about?”

He let a choked laughter out, a fake one, rubbing the back of his head. You felt a certain anger growing inside of you as you looked at how he was reacting. You tilted your head, waiting for him to stop being stupid for a second.

“Um… Well, you see… It’s just– It’s just this small scene–” You glared at your best friend as he kept rambling. You know that when Steve is nervous he rambles… or when he is about to ask for a big, big, HUGE, favor… One you might not like.

“And what is my part in this scene?” You pressed on as he cleared his throat and looked down as he mumbled something under his breath that you couldn’t hear, making you frown. “What did you say?”

“It’s… and well…” You still couldn’t hear him, your irritation only growing each second as you started tapping your foot on the floor.

“Speak clearly Steve, stop mumbling, or I swear to god–”

“We have to kiss while you pretend to ride me.”

And your mouth dropped at that as Steve saw how your confused frown turned into one of shock and your whole body froze on the spot. He gulped as he waited for your response, but you were still looking at him as if he had just told you the most shocking news there is to exist.

He took a deep breath as he looked away for a second, still waiting. He knows he is asking too much. He knows it, he is not stupid, and he knows this was selfish. He is very much aware of how selfish he is, asking you to play this part but–

Steve just wants to kiss you at least once in his life.

While you’re still in front of him, mouth agape, you fail to notice just like you did all these years, how much the man you call your best friend loves you. You have failed to notice. How he looks at you, how he worships you, how he is willing to kill and die for you. How jealous he is of anyone that looks your way, how jealous he was of all the lovers you took, your ex.

And he knows you have failed to see his feelings, and he assumes that you have been unable to see them because you have never seen him in the same light he sees you. So, for once in his life he will take something he always wanted from you. A kiss. A simple kiss. Of course he wanted to do so many other things with you, but a kiss already means the world for Steve.

“I have to do what?” You asked as you stared at him and he took a sharp intake of breath and nodded, wincing as he talked.

“Yeah… That’s why I’m asking you because– It’s kind of an intimate scene, and I don’t really want to kiss a stranger they had to hire at the last minute…” He lied. He did many times before, but he needed the excuse, he just hopes you don’t see through the lie.

You could only stare at him for a few times as you felt your heart wanting to burst out of your chest. You would kiss your best friend. Intimately. Even if fake, you would still kiss him. After all these years of friendship, of shared moments… and after all these years of harboring this burning love and desire you feel for him.

Feelings you had buried, feelings you were managing to leave behind the closer he got to stardom. Knowing you would see him less, that he would start dating another celebrity sooner or later, that he would forget about you and that would give you the freedom to move on, despite feeling completely destroyed.

But you would have been free.

And now, he is giving you this chance. An opportunity you don’t want to miss, but it might just break you. Ruin you for anything and anyone that might come after him. A ten-second kiss, maybe twenty seconds if a second take is required. Perhaps you could fail the scene many times… get him for a whole full minute…

It’s risky. Your heart is at stake, your feelings are going to be crushed after it, knowing you will never taste his lips again, or have him as close as you did. You shouldn’t. You really fucking shouldn’t but you won’t ever have this chance again.

“Fine.” Your voice was small yet his eyes lit up the moment you agreed. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, almost choking him up but he kept a poker face as best as he could. He forced a smile on his lips as he appeared relieved at your response, but that’s why Steve became an actor.

It’s a smile of happiness yet filled with sadness because Steve Harrington promised himself something if you agreed on this little favor of his—something that would rip a part of him, who he is and has been his whole life.

He would let go of you.

It was time to let this love for you die.

—-----------------------------------------------

You could feel yourself sweating as you scanned the document in your hand. The script. It was just one stupid action line, no words in between, just the description of what was happening in the scene.

Kristoff passionately kisses a random girl at a motel, and she is rubbing herself on him while they sit on the bed. He gets a call and the kiss gets interrupted. He excuses himself and leaves promptly.

“Seriously… random girl. That’s my name.” You scoffed as you threw the script on the bed while Steve sat cross-legged, at the feet of the bed. He looked at you over his glasses and he put down his own papers as he sighed.

“Well, it is just a random scene to reveal my character’s personality at the beginning of the movie.” He softly replies to you and you sigh, leaning against the headboard behind your head. You were at his loft in New York City—one that gladly remains hidden from the fans, and paparazzi.

“So your character is a playboy.” You smile at him and he huffs, shaking his head at you with a smile on his face.

“Yes, but then it is revealed–”

“Yeah, the trauma, the unloved boy, blah blah blah–” Your voice became muffled with an ‘oof’ as your face was squashed by a pillow being thrown at your face. You groaned as you pulled it off only to see Steve chuckling at you, biting his bottom lip that only made you gulp the nerves you didn’t know you were holding in your throat.

“Shut up. I mean… Mouse, this could be it. The one movie that will… skyrocket me to higher opportunities.” His smile faded slightly as your face softened… and your heart slowly broke. You knew this movie was going to be good, and you knew this was going to be the chance for his career to take off.

Your time with him now is limited. Once this movie is out, you know the internet will go crazy over him. Fans will increase, paparazzis will be more insufferable, more interviews, more articles, more shows– And where do you fit in all that?

“I know… And it will be a hit, I just know it.” Your eyes went back to the script and you got hold of it again, pretending to scan over the words just so you wouldn’t look at him, just so you wouldn’t feel like you’re already losing him. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he licked his lips and tilted his head.

“How do you know?” He asked and you didn’t look up at him as you shrugged, letting your heart speak your truth. He was still your best friend, and the love you feel for him is still unconditional, and the words you say are honest.

“Because it’s you Steve. You are really good at what you do, and I know you will nail this role and all the ones that will be presented to you.” If only you would have raised your head, you would have noticed how his eyes were looking at you.

Devoted. Whipped. Destroyed.

He gulped once more as he scanned you, and then he looked at the clock. It was getting late, but the scene was the next day and he doesn’t know if he should ask but–

“Hey, mouse–” But you interrupted him as realization struck you. Nerves ran all over your body, creating goosebumps, and then– fear.

“Steve… How do you kiss in movies?” He blinked a few times, and he shook his head a bit to center again as he grew confused at your question.

“Huh?” You felt your whole body beating, not only your heart. You never did this, not even on a stage. You never faked kissing before, you never acted it out.

“You heard me! I mean, is it just lips? Pecks? Tongue? Do you fake the tongue? Do you not? Do you move a lot, or just a little? How do you know if you are overdoing it? Or what if you are not doing it naturally?” His eyes were wide as he listened to your outburst. You looked nervous, flushed, jittery… cute.

“Mouse, you need to calm down–”

“Calm–? Calm down!? You have kissed thousands of times on screen, this is my first time Steve!” His heart softened as he heard you, noticing your distress and how you scanned the line on the script over and over. His heart started picking up a pace as he felt the anticipation for what he was going to propose.

“Well… the basic theory is to know what the scene is about… This one in particular, since it’s just the foreplay for sex, it can be just– lips moving rapidly, and maybe some tongue… It just comes naturally.” Your mouth fell agape as you stared at your best friend. He was being too casual about it, but of course he would be, this is his job and for you, it’s a world-shattering event.

“You say it as if it were the simplest of things Steve. I– Fuck, I shouldn’t have agreed, I’m gonna be so fucking awkward–” You put the script down, running your hands through your hair and Steve bit his bottom lip, not knowing if what he will say next would give him away, or if you are going to run off.

“We… I mean…” He stuttered, once again. Mumbling because of nervousness. You sighed and looked at him as he looked at his hands, playing with the ring that he still holds onto on his left index finger. One you bought for him when he graduated high school, while he gifted the matching one that resides on your right index finger.

“What?” You asked and he cleared his throat, looking up at you over his glasses, a nervous cough coming out of his lips as he tried to sound professional and not desperate.

“We can always practice.” Your eyes were looking at him as if he was the craziest man alive, but it was just because you were in shock. This means you would have two opportunities to kiss him. Today, and tomorrow when in front of the cameras. But– You can’t accept too quickly, even if you are excited, and giddy, and want to answer yes immediately–

“Practice? Like– Kissing?” He took a deep breath and nodded, hoping you would accept, hoping you would let him kiss you twice in his life, and he knew that he might be a little pathetic in his way of getting a kiss from you, but he didn’t want to lose you completely by confessing to you. He wanted to keep you in his life, even if you were his demise.

“Yeah. I can tell you when it is overdoing it and when it’s not.” He felt his mouth go dry as you looked away towards the sunset that was shining through his window. He inspected your profile, your beautiful profile. Your lips puckering out in thought, the expanse of your neck, your collarbone that peeked out of the V-collar of your T-Shirt.

His heart was punching his chest open as his eyes kept moving, not being able to contain himself. Not being able to contain his thoughts from running wild at the thought of touching your lips for the first time. What it could be, what it could lead to… and it was probably just you scrunching your nose at the thought of kissing him.

“You… Don’t mind kissing me?” You still weren’t looking at him, not daring to look at his eyes, getting ready for when he tells you that it’s just work and that it means nothing. Not the way it does to you.

“Mouse, you are fucking beautiful. Of course I don’t mind.” And you didn’t expect that from him at all, and in all honesty, he didn’t even process the words coming out of his mouth just now, but they weren’t any less true. Your eyes slowly found his as your head turned to face him. The orange hues of the sunset hit his irises just right, making his brown eyes turn hazel, clear, and honey-like.

His freckles are basically sparkling at you right now, contrasting with the light, and his short stubble shining as well. He looks so beautiful. Just like that summer all those years ago, the summer you realized you were in love with him. He had only offered you some ice cream, and the sun was just like the one shining through the window right now. He was smiling, younger, and boyish.

And now, he is a man. Your best friend is a man.

“I’m happy to know you won’t vomit on my face the moment you kiss me then.” You giggled, trying to loosen the tension, to loosen your nerves a little bit as you tried to act as his best friend, the way you’ve always been. Maybe you should become an actress as well. He scoffed at you with a shake of his head and then he looked down at his hands, those big hands that grew from one day to another in your freshman year.

“And what about you? You gonna vomit on my face?” His voice was lower than before, and you licked your lips as you felt your body flushing. You suddenly felt smaller, and girlier, and you didn’t know why.

“N-No. I’ll try to not repeat what happened when we were twelve.” He laughed at your words and you couldn’t help but smile at the memory, even if it was disgusting. He was spinning you around after you beat him in a hot dog-eating competition. He was happy you won, but he didn’t believe you when you told him you were feeling sick.

“That was on me. I deserved that.” His eyes found yours again and his smile faded slightly as he scanned your face. “So? Should we–”

“A peck.” You quickly responded and you wanted to curse at yourself. He tilted his head, confused and you cleared your throat, lifting yourself from the headboard to sit straighter, copying him as you crossed your legs underneath your body. “We um… should start with a peck. I mean… it’s like… uncharted territory. Kissing your best friend and all…”

He felt his body sweat as he thought of just grazing your lips and he knew you were being cautious. If it’s too weird for you, you’re going to back out, that’s why you are asking for this. Trial and error. He always wanted to kiss you, even imagined you in the most obscene of positions, but– you haven’t with him. You were still looking at your best friend, the twelve-year-old boy who threw a slug over your head.

“Yeah. Let’s try that.” He moved the script away as he scooted closer to you. You straightened up the moment his knees hit yours, both of you still cross legged, just like you two always sat when telling eachother stuff, or gossip. Your heart felt like it was about to burst, but you had to act as if this meant nothing. As if this didn’t phase every single cell of your body.

You licked your lips in anticipation as you rested your palms on top of your knees. His hands slowly pressed on top of yours as he looked at you over his glasses. Your eyes gazed at his lips momentarily and his eyes did the same with yours. Years of oblivious pining over one another, and you two didn’t know it, didn’t notice it, because you’re two idiots.

Belittling yourselves, thinking you two aren’t right for eachother, not good enough, or not even eachother’s types. You didn’t see what everyone else saw. How everyone bet behind your backs to see when you two would get together. When Steve would succumb and drop to one knee, or when you would simply profess your love for him.

Yes, two oblivious idiots.

He leaned in, squeezing your hands for you to do the exact same, as if reassuring you it was alright. You followed his pace, leaning forward to meet him in the middle. You closed your eyes but he didn’t, wanting to burn the image to memory. He wanted to remember your eyelashes, the moment they fluttered shut, your breath hitting his lips, and then finally, his lips clashing with yours.

He closed his eyes then, so he could focus on the kiss. You knew your heart stopped in this second, in this small yet eternal second. Or two. Maybe three. You felt as if you were being lifted off the ground, clouds gathering around you, and you felt lightweight. A cold sweat invaded his body, or was it warm? He didn’t know, he just felt as if water washed all over him.

He tried to calm down, knowing his blush would show if he didn’t. He pulled away from the kiss and opened his eyes again. You blinked a few times, zoned out, and you straightened up as you realized you were acting nervous, or, rather the opposite. You were happy, or floaty. You gulped as you cleared your throat, trying to sound normal, or as normal as one could.

“That… wasn’t as weird as I thought it might be.” And he was relieved to hear that, yet also disappointed by the fact you thought it would be weird at all. He didn’t know it was just you playing the part. You wanted to lick your lips to see if you could taste him even further, but you knew that was to come now.

“Yeah, it wasn’t.” His voice was lower than before, and there was a certain shift you felt in the air. Something that unconsciously was making your pulse go faster. He said it with… a certain tone that you couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. He cleared his throat and tilted his head at you. “Ready to experience my amazing, expert, professional lips?”

You giggled, yes, out of nervousness, and trying to mask the fear, or the excitement. You shook your head as you looked at him.

“Oh please, we both know I kiss better.” You smirk proudly at him and he rolled his eyes at you.

“Eddie’s not the best to judge it.” You scoffed at that, squinting your eyes at him. You remember that night, Steve, you, Eddie, Robin, and Argyle drank in Robin’s room, and Eddie wanted to know who was the best kisser out of all of you. Robin didn’t indulge, but out of the three Eddie got to kiss, he said you were the best kisser. He said you were ‘tender’.

“You can’t keep saying that it’s because he likes women better than men, he is going out with Billy now, so my point still stands.” You sat there proudly, not noticing his fingers were slowly intertwining with yours over your knees. He huffed and then laughed, his head tilting to the side as his voice became low in a whisper, and he slowly leaned in.

“I’ll be the judge of that now Mouse.” It didn’t sound like your best friend talking just now. It sounded like a man talking to a girl he really wanted to kiss. Maybe your imagination is running a little too wild. You need to tell your hope to squash down just a tiny bit, or you will get hurt.

And now came the nerves. What if you overdid it now? What if you did it too roughly or too desperate? You have to calm down and let him lead. You will just follow, that’s all you have to do. You swallowed harshly, your eyes closing as his breath hit your lips, your hands tightening around his.

He could smell your perfume, and he was so nervous. He is nervous about being obvious, because, how does he stop the kiss from becoming real? How does he do it? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t. But he won’t stop even if a gun is pointed at his head right now.

His lips came in contact with yours once again, softly. You held in your breath as he exhaled when you kissed him back, your head pressing forward as well. His lips then smacked against yours as they moved once. You followed his movements, slow, and enticing, and you felt your body heat up instantly as your heart threatened to kill you at any second.

You were touching the stars and Steve was on the moon. He couldn’t believe he was kissing you, even if it was ‘fake’, he couldn’t believe it. You weren’t pulling away in disgust, and that for him is already a win. His lips started moving with more determination, kissing your bottom lip as you kissed his top lip.

The smacking of lips bounced on every wall in the room, and Steve felt the temperature rise inside of him. He could feel your fingers intertwining with his over your knees and all he wanted to do was to slide his hands upwards, slide them beneath the hem of your shorts, touch your skin, grip you, and mark you with his fingernails.

With every tilt of head you both did in between the kiss, your mind kept sending images of what you wanted to do to him. How you wanted to push him onto the bed and kiss his neck, his freckles, his biceps, the scar on his belly from the time he protected you against a cat that for some reason wanted to kill you. Then you wanted to take him into your mouth, show him how much you grew up. How much of a woman you are. How a woman like yourself could please a man like him.

But your imagination is cut off when you feel him pull away and you open your eyes to see him looking at you already. His pupils were dilated, and he hoped you wouldn’t see them because of his glasses, which were a bit foggy because your nose bumped into them everytime you turned your head to kiss him.

The tension was palpable around you two, and you wanted more, you needed more. Your breath was a bit quick, and you had to calm down before you gave yourself away. You straightened up once again, clearing your throat. His lips were plumped because of the kiss, and you wanted to kiss them again, but you just raised your eyebrows in question.

“Well?” You asked and Steve was kicked out of his daydreaming as your voice rushed through his ears. He chuckled nervously and nodded, biting his bottom lip in order to keep tasting you.

“Can’t believe Munson was right. You do kiss well.” You were about to give a triumphant ‘Ha’ but he stopped you by raising a hand towards you to shut you up with a smirk to his lips. “But I never kissed myself, so I don’t know if you are a better kisser than me.”

Your mouth fell open at that, but he was right. You huffed afterwards, and you looked down, seeing your fingers intertwined with his over your knees. You felt your blood rushing through your ears and wanted to keep going. Would you sound desperate if you proposed to keep practicing? Would it give you away?

You pulled your hands away from him and he felt his heart plummet into his stomach. Maybe he overdid it himself? Maybe you did get weirded out? Maybe it wasn’t something you enjoyed at all? Your hands grabbed the script again and he tilted his head, opening his mouth to ask what you were doing but you interrupted him first.

“Um… can we practice with the actual scene?” Oh, your words just sent him to heaven. You would sit on top of his lap. You would be kissing him and rubbing yourself against him– Oh fuck, you would rub yourself against him… or maybe you didn’t? But shit, he was already half hard from the stupid pecks on the lips and the innocent kissing, how is he going to be able to handle this?

And you didn’t have a hard-on to show it off, but you weren’t any less horny than he was. You knew that if you put the least bit of friction on the seam of your shorts and onto your clit, your wetness would sip through. He might notice, but maybe you just pretend to rub yourself? Maybe you just don’t press down?

He felt his veins pulsing, specifically the ones that coursed through his wrists. His fingertips were burning with the idea of being able to hold you the way he’d always wanted to do. His eyes traveled over your body until you looked up at him when you received no answer to your question. He gathered himself and nodded with a shrug.

“Sure…” He gulped as he threw the script to the floor and moved on the bed, his shirt riding up as he crawled and sat next to you. He pressed his back against the headboard and straightened his legs to lay flat on the bed. He patted his lap with an innocent smile on his lips which only made your heart stop. “Hop on.”

You pretended to be annoyed by him, rolling your eyes, pretending you weren’t about to pass out right then and there. You uncrossed your legs and moved to throw one knee over his lap, landing next to his hip. Your eyes connected with his as you hovered over him, not wanting to press down.

“Um… should I…–” Your words were small, not really knowing what to do with your posture. His hands hesitantly grabbed your hips and guided you to sit on his thighs, avoiding his crotch. He hissed inwardly when you brushed over it for a split second, cursing at himself for how sensitive he was right now.

“There. Tomorrow they will ask us to do crotch to crotch though. The camera angle will move from the hips, towards our profiles.” You could feel your face catch on fire at the mere thought of rubbing yourself against Steve. He smiled reassuringly at you, his hands moving to your waist. “It’ll be fine. I’m a professional, you know that.”

“That does nothing to calm my nerves.” You rolled your eyes and he squeezed you slightly as you adjusted yourself on his thighs. You cursed inwardly when the seam of your shorts rubbed on you by accident, right on your clit. “What if you pop a boner for me, huh?”

“And what if you get dripping wet for me Mouse? I can’t see it but it can happen.” His words were out of his mouth before he could stop them and he felt himself combust. He felt as if he were on literal fire. Your eyes locked with his over his glasses and you didn’t know how to react to it. He was right, but– is this something normal best friends say to eachother? You broke the tension by clearing your throat.

“You are too sure of yourself.” You saw how his tongue darted out to lick his lips for a second and you took a deep breath in as he pointed to the floor next to the bed.

“It will move from here–” and he moved his hand, passing over the end of the bed, over your thighs, both of your hips and then up towards your profiles, his fingers wiggling on the side of your face, “– to here.”

“Got it… So…”

“Follow my lead, mouse.” You gulped the lump you were holding back as the butterflies in your stomach exploded, burst into flames, or they set an atomic bomb in there as he leaned close. His hands squeezed your hips as yours grabbed his shoulders. His nerves were a definite match with yours, completely out of control, berserk, but he was the professional here, he could pretend, even if it would leave a bad aftertaste.

His lips found yours again, making your breath hitch slightly, but you kissed back just like you have before. The seam on your shorts was pressing against you and now you really wondered if your wetness would sip through. What if it did and he felt it? You were far from his pelvic area, and you didn’t want to be obvious in looking down at it to check if he was as afflicted as you were.

Your lips moved together, your heart jumping in your chest while he was already bungee jumping off the empire state building. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, making him hum in the kiss and slowly pull away, making you open your eyes to look at what you had done wrong. He was smiling softly at you, his eyes darting to his right shoulder for a second.

“If you grab at me like that, your nervousness will show. Let your hands roam. Wrap your arms, or your hands can go through my hair.” He was being straightforward, but he was desperate for you to relax. He was desperate to feel as if this were real, to feel you close once and for all, to feel you against him and for your nails to rake into his hair.

You slowly nodded, trying not to feel your entire body burning at the prospect of messing your best friend’s hair with your fingers. You took a deep breath in as you stretched your fingers over his shoulders and gave him a nod. His eyes darted to your lips again before leaning back in, kissing you once more.

You let your hands rub his shoulders, and you thought that, if this had to be as natural as possible, then you should just kiss him the way you always wanted to. If it is too much, you can just play it out that this is how you normally kiss. Giving yourself one last push of encouragement, you moved your lips against him, your hands moving to the back of his neck and then up into his hair. You have played with Steve’s hair many times before, but never in this manner. You want to pull on it, you want to rub yourself on him, but you have to keep yourself in check before you give your true intentions away too easily.

Steve on the other hand, he was being way too cautious and you were driving him fucking insane. He doesn’t know how he is capable of holding himself back but he is trying, and finding himself slowly failing at each scratch you do on his head. It was more than he bargained for, and now he is paying the consequences of it. He could smell your perfume, taste the cherry flavored chapstick you were wearing, the feel of your bare thighs under his hands as he rubbed on them, slowly, pretending this is how he is going to move for the shot of the next day.

Was it okay for him to have some hope by the way you were kissing him? Was it okay for him to just fuck this game and kiss you for real? Was it okay for him to think you felt affected as he was? For a while? All this time?

So maybe he just needs to take this chance. If you pull away, he can pretend he is used to doing his kisses a bit harsher, or something, he can do it, but he needs you. He fucking needs to feel your tongue on his. He turned his head and poked your bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. Your body flinched but he felt your body roll slightly against him, sending him into a mess of nerves and excitement when you opened your mouth for him.

And when you felt his tongue going into your mouth to dance with yours, you knew you were gone. You are going to do what you always wanted to do, and for some reason, and it might be the temperature of the room or maybe his own body heat, but you think Steve might be feeling the same way you are doing right now. You could feel it in the way you have his hand running up towards your hips, the tips of his fingers going under the hem of your shirt, just a little bit.

So, you take the leap as well.

You wiggled a little closer to his crotch, pretending to move to sit more comfortably, and that’s when you felt him. He groaned into the kiss the moment you rubbed yourself, slightly, over him. You weren’t fully seated on him, but you knew he was hard and was that a sign that this was okay? That this was something you both wanted?

His tongue moved against yours, both of your heads turning as you kept kissing, rubbing, touching, not even noticing that minutes had passed, when the scene was only going to be ten seconds. Then, he suddenly pulled away, breathless, and you feared for the most until he spoke in a hoarse voice.

“Closer.” And you only nodded, his hands helping you move to fully sit on him, your chest against his, and you couldn’t even gasp that his lips were on yours again the moment his bulge came in full contact between your legs.

He was letting himself be guided by his lust and his love for you. He couldn’t let you go, not when you are giving him all the green lights there are. You could have questioned him just now, told him no, that it was too much, but you just nodded and followed with nothing to say. He hoped he wasn’t misunderstanding anything, but fuck, you were rubbing against him. You could fully feel his hard on and instead of shying away, or jumping up in disgust, you were rubbing yourself even more against him.

His hands travelled upwards, going underneath the hem of your shirt, his fingers touching your bare waist, sending shivers down your spine, the butterflies multiplying in your belly as the heat he radiates from his fingertips travels into your body. You could smell his cologne, the distinctive scent he’s been carrying for years now, one you detect the minute he crosses a door and into a room.

Your breaths are heavy against eachother as you keep kissing, desperately, eating one another like you’ve always wanted to do to one another. His glasses hit you every once in a while at each turn of head, and the more you sway your hips against him, the more you forget the fact that this was supposed to be practice. He wasn’t supposed to be into it the way he is, and maybe…

You slowly pull away from him, noses still touching, lips still brushing, breaths mingling with one another’s and you manage a small whisper towards him.

“Are we still practicing, Steve?” And that made him open his eyes to find yours. Their eyes, clouded with lust, desire, love, tenderness, and pent-up feelings, met. Feelings that can be talked and discussed later on. He pulled his head back and with a swift movement, you were now facing the ceiling as he got on top of you, settling between your legs. He ripped the glasses off his face and threw them god knows where as he planted his hands on each side of your body and leaned down, his eyes dark and determined, something you never thought would be directed your way.

“Like hell we are.” And you burst in happiness as his lips crashed with yours again. He could be just thinking of where to stick his dick in right now, but you’ll take it. This is being done rationally, sober, with complete consciousness. Your tongues met again, your hips clashed, and he began rutting into you, his bulge hitting your clit perfectly now at every thrust.

You let yourself moan into his mouth as your hands ran through his hair, your legs spreading even more for him to rut harder and he touched heaven the moment he heard your sweet voice react to him like that. You were accepting him, encouraging him and he couldn’t be more grateful to whatever god has heard him. He groaned into your mouth as a particular thrust sent a wave of heat all over his body, feeling himself twitch in his pants, and he knew his boxers were already stained with precum.

He wasn’t going to last, and if he keeps rutting himself into you, he is going to blow his load in three minutes or less. He has been waiting for this moment for far too long, just as much as you have. Your belly was already burning with his dry humping, and it was becoming harder to hold your noises back.

He moved to rest on his elbows so he could move his right hand downwards, underneath the hem of your shirt. You sucked in a sharp breath when you felt his fingertips grace your belly, and then went upwards, touching the soft cotton of your plain bra. You weren’t expecting anything today, and now you were wondering if he would think you are too common for him. Not extravagant enough. Yet all doubts were thrown out the window when he pulled away, his lips pressing to the side of your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw, and his voice mumbled into the skin of your neck before he started kissing it.

“You’re so beautiful, fuck– Tell me you want this Mouse, that you wanted this as much as I have…” Your breathing was jagged as he started sucking, licking, kissing your neck. You gasped when he hit your pulse point and pressed his tongue on it, making you press your hips upwards and into him. He just confessed to you he wanted you. He has wanted you for a while from what you could decipher, but questions could come later.

“Yes– God, Stevie, yes–” No turning back now. The friendship was ruined, passed onto a better life. He hummed in delight into your skin, finally daring to move his hand to cup your breast. He couldn’t believe how dumb and blind he was. You wanted him. How did he not see it? Maybe he wasn’t the only actor between the two of you.

Your back arched against him as you felt him grope your breast, rub on it with his big hands. Hands you couldn’t stop staring at everytime he took notes down on his scripts or on his agenda. You had mentioned to him before his hands were ridiculously large, which only made him joke to you about how he never got any complaints about them. You have touched yourself to thoughts of those hands on you and now you get to live it.

He sucked onto your skin, ready to mark you up finally, make you his. You were not pushing him away from it, or denying him from doing so, so that was a great sign for him. Your mouth was open as one hand was still tangled in his hair, the other dragging your nails on his back. You were letting out small sounds, little huffs, but then you felt his fingers go underneath the elastic of your bra, finally cupping your breast completely bare. He moaned into your skin when he felt your nipple perk up against his palm, and he immediately got it in between his fingers and pinched.

You let out your first loud moan of the night and that made him thrust into you quite desperately. He was going to cum in his pants. He can’t have that. He pulled away from your neck, sitting up and ripping his hand away from you, making you pout slightly. He smirked at how fucked you looked already, and all thanks to him. He crossed his arms in front of him and grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it off in one movement, his hair now more disheveled than what your fingers had done to it.

You were flushed all over as you looked at him, his arms, his chest, his abdomen… his fucking chest hair. That chest hair that sprouted out of nowhere from one summer to the other and it completely made your hormones go a little crazy.

“Am I going to be the only one getting undressed here?” He asked as a joke, yet not entirely. It was one last chance for you to step out. For you to go back to what you two were minutes before. You licked your lips as you sat up, taking your shirt off in front of him and throwing it away just like he did. He was still kneeling up in between your legs, staring down at you as if you had hung the stars for him. And that you did.

“Don’t be a crybaby.” Your voice was teasing and small, showing how nervous you were. You couldn’t help it. Steve had other experiences now, and you wondered if you could really compare at all. He gulped as his eyes ran over your chest, and he has seen you in your bra before. But those times cannot compare to what this means right now, because that bra will be taken off in, what he hopes, a few seconds.

He ran a hand through his hair as your hands ran over his chest, inspecting him, experiencing him. He moved his free hand to hold your cheek and make you look up at him. Your eyes were glossed over and he couldn’t stop himself that he was already leaning to take your lips with his as his other hand went to your back and touched the clasp of your bra, which made you jump slightly. He immediately pulled away, looking at you, his nose still bumping into yours.

“You okay?” How do you explain that you jumped because of your excitement and happiness? Of how sensitive you were because all your senses were heightened up because of him. How do you not sound in love?

“Yeah, just got surprised, that’s all…” You gave him a peck of reassurance and he hummed into your lips, his hand moving to the clasp of your bra once again and in one swift movement of fingers, it snapped open. A pang of jealousy and anger hit you for just a few seconds until he pulled away from you, his hands grabbing both straps of your bra, his eyes glued to your breasts as he sat back, taking your bra with him.

And, well, Steve is staring. His breathing ragged as you saw how he dropped the bra on the bed, his eyes going left and right, not knowing in which one to focus on. He never saw your bare breasts before and now that he does–

“They’re so fucking perfect Mouse… You’re so perfect for me, jesus christ–” You couldn’t even process his words that he was making you lay back on the bed again, his body over yours and his mouth came in contact with your collarbone as his left hand held the back of your neck and the other your waist.

You sighed in pleasure when his kisses started moving downwards towards your chest, then moving to the right. The left hand moved from the back of your neck to rest on your right breast, nipple immediately fitting between his fingers. You were about to arch your back at the feeling, only for another sensation to override it. His lips on your left nipple.

“Steve–” You gasped as your back arched towards him, your hands flying to his head, running your fingers through his hair to pull him even more into you. He loved his name on your mouth like this… And he wanted to hear you scream it. Cry it. Breaking through your vocal cords as he made you come undone.

His lips moved on your right nipple, sucking on it as he pinched the left one. He looked upwards to see you, his hair blocking his view a bit, but he saw how your head was thrown back on the pillow, mouth open as little breaths left it. He hummed into your breast and then he got the nipple between his teeth, and softly pulled on it, inflicting a bit on pain on you to taste the waters and–

This moan was your loudest yet.

“Oh, you didn’t lie when you said you might be a masochist.” And he remembers that conversation. A drunken night where he almost kissed you. You two talked about your sex lives but never in detail, that is, until you asked him if you were a masochist because you liked being spanked and choked, to which his response was, ‘yes’. Since that night, he had very graphic dreams that had you as their protagonist. The dreams were sweet and domestic before, and then, after that… they were pure filth.

“You remember that?” You ask breathlessly, smiling a bit as you feel him nod as he sucks on your right nipple. “I was embarrassed after saying that… my drunk brain thought it would catch your attention and blurted it out…”

“It did more than catch my fucking attention.” And with that confession, he rubbed his hips against you once more, proving his point as you felt his hard bulge still intact, if not, harder than before. You moaned as he tugged on your nipple one last time before changing places, giving the same attention to the left one as his hand kept grabbing your breast there.

“Oh, does it mean you’ve been having some dirty thoughts about me, Stevie?”

“Thoughts?” He chuckled against your skin, sending shivers down your spine as he pulled away to look at you after giving a bite to the round of your breast. “Try dreams. Lots of them.”

The confessions kept pouring out, realizing this was more than just attraction. Both of you now know this goes beyond physical. Beyond wanting to try it out with your best friend. Beyond trying a new experience.

“What did I do in those dreams?” And you saw his face flush, leaving him speechless finally as you looked up at him. You bit your bottom lip as you placed your hands on his shoulders and pushed him to the side, rolling on top of him as soon as his back hit the bed. Your legs now straddled him, hips pressing against him, provoking a groan out of his lips.

“You were like this in one of those, certainly.” Your ears couldn’t be happier to hear that. You couldn’t contain the smile that spread on your lips as you imagined Steve waking up sweaty to a fantasy he dreamt where you were the main lead.

“Hmm…” And your eyes went down, looking at his belt. You gave yourself a mental pat on the shoulder for encouragement as you decided you wanted to engrave yourself into his memory. “What about this?”

His eyebrows met in the middle as you moved from his pelvic area to rest on his thighs. Only then his eyes widened, when your fingers unbuckled his belt, then undid the button of his jeans and pulled the zipper down. He twitched only by the grace of your fingers over the expanse of his bulge. Oh, fuck.

You were biting your bottom lip with need as your fingers hooked in the hem of his pants and boxers. You were going to do it. You were going to cross the line. A line you were terrified of since the moment you discovered you felt physically attracted to him. One thing is to be only feeling something emotional over someone, but once you start having physical attraction to them, you know a line is suddenly drawn between the two of you.

His breathing hitched in his throat as you started pulling his clothes down. He raises his hips up in order to help you, the nerves flying all over his body, a bit of self consciousness running through his veins as he looks at the ceiling, wondering if you would think it’s weird, or too much, or too little. He never received any complaints but, who knows? This was you. He had to be perfect for you.

But he couldn’t be more wrong. The moment he came out from his boxers, his shaft slapping on his belly as it bounced out, and your mouth fell open. You– You knew Steve could be big. You’ve ogled him, multiple times. In his gym shorts, in his swimming trunks, in his underwear whenever he was getting ready in front of you, and you caught sight of it having a little hard on just very few times. Your imagination gave it no justice.

“What the hell Steve…”

“What– What’s wrong?” His eyes found your face which was locked on his cock, and worry filled his brain as he thought you were looking at him in disgust or something. But, actually, your mouth was salivating. You were put in automatic pilot as you shuffled downwards, your thighs now straddling his shins.

Your hands rubbed on his inner thighs, making him choke on his breath, and you saw how his shaft twitched at your touch. You clenched around nothing as you anticipated how he would sound with your lips wrapped around him. Fantasies of him moaning your name as you showed him just how much you wanted him, now, about to become a reality.

Your upper body bent down, his eyes widening when he saw you let a blob of spit fall from your lips and onto the tip of his cock. He saw how it dribbled down his shaft and before he could stop you, your hand wrapped around him. He sighed instantly, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he gripped the sheets beneath him. Fuck– Fuck, how can he stop you now?

“You’re so big…” Your voice was sultry, low, filled with pure lust and he noticed it. You were talking to his dick, not him. All his worry about how it looked was thrown out the window, but when you started moving your hand up and down on him, slowly, another worry filled him, and that was that he was going to cum in just a few strokes if he didn't concentrate.

“Baby–” He called out your name, but then he felt your thumb press onto the tip and then pass it on his frenulum which sent a jolt of electricity all over his body. “– Oh god.”

You were relishing in his sounds. You looked up to see his head thrown back, the veins and freckles on his neck being the stars of the show for you. He looked so good right now and you were flushing all over just by giving him pleasure. You looked back down, and your body went downwards just a little bit more, and you lolled your tongue out. A growl was torn out of him as you licked his tip, slotting it right into his slit before kissing it.

You were sucking him off. You were going to suck him off and oh my god, he is going to die. Or he is already dead and gone to heaven. He sighed in delight as he felt your mouth engulf the head of his cock. Your pretty cherry-flavored lips that will now have his taste, smearing your spit all over him. You hummed in delight as you went further and he had to grip onto the sheets as he closed his eyes, taking his mind far away so he wouldn’t blow his load right now.

You could hear his grunts, how he was holding himself back as your left hand was on his hip for leverage while the right one helped you engulf the places your mouth couldn’t reach. You let your mouth salivate around him as you started bobbing your head up and down, slowly, slightly twirling your head from side to side, while your right hand jerked him up everytime your mouth went up.

“Oh– Fuck–” He drapped an arm over his eyes as his back arched a little bit off the bed at a specific tongue press along the shaft. You want more of that, you want more of Steve breaking underneath you, so you quicken your movements, just a little bit. His breathing turned heavy and you looked up to see his chest heaving, and you knew he was holding himself back from making noises.

You pulled away with a soft pop, making him take his arm away from his eyes and raise his head to be able to look at you as you kept slowly jerking him off. His cock was right next to your lips as you stared at him.

“Don’t hold your voice back Stevie…” His eyes rolled to the back of his head when you used his nickname in a situation like this. Goddamn, you had him wrapped around your finger. He shook his head as he sighed, his belly flipping at how your thumb slotted itself in the slit of the head of his shaft.

“It’s not that– It’s– I’m not going to last if you keep sucking me off, and to be honest? I want to fuck you stupid, Mouse.” Your mouth fell open at that, suddenly flushed all over at his dirty words, at the dirty talk you never thought would be directed your way. It made him smirk, and an idea popped up in his head. “– But… I do want to taste you as well.”

You tilted your head as he slowly moved his hands to grab your hand and one touched your cheek. He nodded upwards for you to pull away from him.

“What–”

“Turn around. Shorts and panties off.” You felt your heart in your throat as you gulped, his eyes dark, never leaving your figure as you climbed off the bed in order for you to do as he commanded. As you did that, he took the opportunity to take the rest of his pants and boxers off, throwing them to the side. You bit your lip as you pulled the button in your shorts open and then pulled the zipper down.

You would be completely naked to him right now. You two would finally cross the line, completely. He would see you in all your glory just as how you just sucked his. You had to stop overthinking this. You had to. He wants you. You want him. And you could see how he was biting his bottom lip, how he was expecting this, how desperate he was to see you naked for the very first time.

So, defeating your nerves, you slowly pushed your shorts and panties down, not wanting to show the bland cotton panties to him, but you made a show of sticking your ass out a bit as you swayed your hips to take off your clothes. His head rolled back as he let out a groan, and you saw how his dick twitched at the sight of you and you wanted to smile at the small win.

You were naked. He was naked. You were both naked. You couldn’t help but cover your face in embarrassment with both your hands. It was still Steve. Steve who came to your house to play in the tree house in your garden. Steve who climbed into your room whenever his mom and dad fought and he wanted to get away. Steve who helped you get your first part time job with him at Scoops where you two met Robin.

And it was the man you have loved for the past years.

“Hey– We don’t have to–” He was looking at you worriedly, feeling as if you had realized what was about to happen but you cut him off by jumping towards him, getting on top of him and kissing him on the lips to steal his breath away.

“I’m just nervous…” You confessed and he smiled at you, caressing your cheek as he nodded, completely agreeing with you.

“Me too… and if it’s too much–” And you shook your head at him, biting your bottom lip as you kneeled up, towering all over him. His heart picked up a pace once again as he saw how you turned around, your ass in full view for him and he couldn’t help but sigh dreamily. “God… I want a picture…”

“Steve!” You giggled as you looked down at his length, still hard and waiting, despite the sudden interruption the two of you just had. You took a sharp breath in so you could gather up the courage and you started moving backwards, Steve’s abdomen starting to show the more you moved.

“Can you blame me?” He was already becoming pussy drunk the more your center came closer to him. His hands rubbed the back of your thighs, and then he smacked your right cheek with his hand, making you jolt and gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing. He smirked at the reaction, his hands grabbing onto your hips as you looked down at his red tip, begging for attention, twitching for it.

“S-Stevie…” He groaned, looking up at your glistening folds. Something he has dreamed of doing so many times. He couldn’t wait for you, to taste you, to finally make you scream. He needed to hear you. He needed to let you know just how good he can worship you, and how good he can make you feel.

“Lower on me, baby, I can take it. I can take whatever you give me.” His words came from his heart because he didn’t even process them. Not that they weren’t any less true. You felt his hands gripping your hips, pressing on you so you would finally move down towards him. You took a deep breath in, and you moved your hips downwards, your hands gripping his thighs in anticipation.

Steve could smell you and it was delightful. He is going to become addicted to you. He already was, but this would seal the entire deal. He couldn’t wait anymore, and his head left the pillow, raising up so he could dart his tongue out and finally lick in between your folds, taking a gush of your slick with him. You shivered on top of him, letting out a sigh out of your pretty lips and his eyes closed as he tasted you.

You were sweet, everything he needed and desired in one simple lick. You were the most delicious and addicting thing he has ever tasted. More than nicotine, alcohol, candy itself. You were perfect. You gasped, your nails digging into the skin of his thighs as you felt him lick at you, slurping your slickness away.

“So delicious… please…” He was begging for you to lower down, and after having a bit of what he could offer, your body lowered, his head laying back down on the pillow as your cunt slotted over his mouth. He smirked right before he darted his tongue out to rub it against your clit and then your folds. Your back was arched as you leaned down, moaning as you felt him all over, sending jolts of electricity through your entire body.

He groaned into your folds as your hand wrapped around him again, pumping him for a few seconds before he felt your hot mouth all over the head. You could feel the vibrations of his noises when you started taking him in your mouth, and then moving up and back down. It was making you feel so good. He was making you feel so fucking good. Your Stevie.

You moaned into his cock when he slapped your thigh, the sound echoing throughout the room and he sighed as he felt your moan vibrate all over. He kept licking you away, slurping on your clit thanks to how you were arching your back against him. You were giving him great access to that sensitive button of yours and he was having the time of his life tugging at it, making you cry out a few times as he felt your body tremble on top of him.

He jerked his hips upwards when you went a little further with your mouth, taking him even more. He was surprised and he stopped lapping at your center for just a second, trying to gather up his thoughts once again. You gagged, pulling up from him slightly, but continuing to suck him off. He had to distract you. He had to make you stop because if you didn’t he was going to finish. It’s been an ongoing battle with himself all night, and he was not going to give up now.

He decided to hold your ass cheeks, spreading them and then he entered his tongue inside of you. You pulled away from him with a gasp, the side of your face falling to a rest on his left thigh as you kept pumping him right in front of you, your chest against his abdomen.

“S–Steve–!” You couldn’t believe how thick his tongue was. Everything was overwhelming you, and you couldn’t keep your mouth on him because you just needed to moan. Your hand was still jerking him off and even if he was delighting himself with his tongue inside of you, he had to keep distracting you.

He moved one of his hands, elbow bent between your legs and bicep against his chest in order to aim properly into your core. He pulled his mouth away from you, letting you catch your breath, only for then to be completely washed over by a gasp when you felt two of his fingers sliding over your folds, gathering up your slick in order to lube them up. Those fingers you always fantasized with. Fingers you pretended you were fucking instead of your own.

“Pretty. My pretty girl.” His praises were coming out of his mouth nonstop. Your mouth fell open and your hand stopped moving on his cock as you felt him invade your cunt with two of his fingers. His index and middle finger, in the position of a finger gun. This will give him better access to that special spot of yours, considering the position you two were in, but fuck, his dick twitched in your frozen hand when he felt just how warm you were inside. He felt it with his tongue, but with his fingers, it felt like something else entirely.

He wanted to give you the utmost pleasure, and he knew he was succeeding by how still you stayed on top of him, cunt a few inches away from his face, seeing his fingers start to slowly pump in and out of you. He could hear the squelching, oh fuck. Maybe he is just going to cum like this. He might cum just by fingering you and listening to your sweet little moans and sighs.

You were drooling on his thigh, and you didn’t have the power to care. You were feeling good as he changed the pace and started literally fucking his fingers into you, making you choke on your own moans. You couldn’t even move your hand on him, too distracted as he kept moving his fingers in and out of you, and when you tried to move your hand, you felt him press his ring finger against your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he finger fucked you.

“Oh Stevie–” You couldn’t help the moans you were letting out, pornographic, and it was everything Steve ever wanted. For you to moan his name this way. For you to come undone under his touch.

“You feel good, baby?” You nod against his thigh, as your eyes remain closed, your hips starting to slowly sway against his thrusts. “Oh fuck, yeah, move against me, that’s it–”

He couldn’t help talking to you. He wasn’t very talkative when having sex, but you? You were bringing a new whole side of him. He wanted to know if you were feeling good, wanted to make you do things to feel even better, and most of all, praise you. Worship you.

You raised yourself from his thigh, holding yourself up against it with your left hand, shaking on top of him as you felt him move his wrist slightly, hitting your G-spot even if slightly, but enough to make you cry loudly. Your right hand tightened around him, making him groan but he didn’t feel the intense burning in his belly any longer. It was there, but not as threatening.

He smirked as he flutter around his fingers, knowing you were coming close as you kept fucking yourself on his fingers. Your belly was burning, tightening, your walls starting to clench as you decided to finally let go of his dick, slamming your hand on his right thigh, and now you were just riding his fingers.

You looked so fucking perfect right now, and he couldn’t wait as he felt you clench even tighter around his fingers, feeling your clit throb underneath the length of his ring finger.

“I’m– Shit, Steve, please, I’m gonna cum– You’re gonna make me cum–” Your head dropped as you felt your belly starting to turn into itself and he pulled his fingers out of you, making you whine, only for them to start rubbing against your clit, making you clench around nothing at all.

“Cum on my tongue. Come on. I want it–” And you felt his tongue immediately dive into your folds, swirling inside of you as his fingers kept working magic against your sensitive clit. Your breaths were coming out in short little gasps as you felt tears building up your water lines in anticipation and lust. You felt yourself wanting to separate from him but he held you close with his other hand, not letting you move an inch away from him.

“Fuckfuckfuck– Steve!” Your nails dug into his thighs as you finally felt yourself tighten all around his tongue, your hips swaying desperately against him, not even considering you might suffocate him, but he wasn’t. He was actually in heaven as he kept drinking you, rubbing your clit in order to help you ride your orgasm out. Your cries were of his name, moans he never thought would be as high pitched as that, and you just felt hot all over.

He has to make sure he didn’t cum just now.

You twitched on top of him as you felt yourself start to untense, unclench, and your nails let go of his thighs. You felt him still swirling his tongue and sucking on your folds, eliciting a small wince as you pulled your hips up. You gulped as you breathed heavily, scooching away from his face, his hands leaving you completely. Your knees were wobbly against the mattress as you pulled your leg over his legs in order to turn around and face him.

He was breathing heavily, your slick all over his mouth and jaw, even down his neck, mixed with his saliva. You covered your mouth as you looked at the view before you. He looked utterly fucked just by eating you out. A sense of pride surged inside of you but you still bit your lip as you crawled close to him, looking down at his face.

“Steve…?”

“Holy shit…” He was all dopey smiling up at you. “I’ve wanted to do that since… forever.”

“Oh?” You smiled as your arms felt like complete gelatin as you kept your body up. You looked down to look at his cock, seeing how hard it still was, biting your bottom lip to look at him. “Um… you… want me to help you?”

He raised his eyebrows at you and lifted his head to look down and thankfully, gladly, he didn’t cum. He smirked, wiping his mouth away with a bit of the bedsheet as he turned to look at you once again.

“No.” Your eyes shot up in surprise and you were about to talk as he rolled on top of you, his hands on either side of your face, his pupils completely dilated as he stared down at you. “I want to fuck you, if that’s fine by you.”

You couldn’t nod quicker even if you wished. Your heart was gone already, you didn’t even know if you still had a beat or if it exploded and somehow blood was still pumping, but, sex. You were going to finally have sex with Steve. He licked his lips as he reached over for his night stand and opened his drawer to take out a condom foil. He inspected it, his eyes squinting slightly, making you frown.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking the expiration date.” Your eyes shot up in surprise at his words. Why would he need to check that?

“I… Huh?” He chuckles as he rips the foil open with his teeth, making you stupidly clench like a bitch in heat.

“I don’t exactly bring many women. This is my house and… it’s where most of you are… I didn’t want to taint it. I didn’t want anyone else but you in here for this… kind of thing.” He chuckled nervously as he rolled the condom on himself, and you were just staring at him. He has been waiting for you, all this time. He wanted you all this time. He saved this place for you, even if you two were never doing this. Even if you two were just friends like an hour ago.

“Steve…” He looked at you and connected his eyes with yours, a feeling of warmth invading the both of you, and you two knew this was right. This was meant to happen at one point or the other, you just were too blind or stupid to realize this. Your arms wrapped around his arms as he leaned down to take your lips in his. You could taste yourself in his mouth, and you couldn’t believe that it actually was turning you on.

Your legs spread even more for him to slot easily between them, his hard cock rubbing against you, making the both of you groan into the kiss. Your tongue danced with his as you two danced around that line that is now a spider’s thread of silk. He moaned into the kiss as he kept kissing you, but he needed to be honest with you, in order to not disappoint, so he pulled away, his breaths heavy against your lips.

“I gotta tell you, I’m not gonna last… I waited too long for this and I’ve been holding back from cumming the past thirty minutes and–” You giggled and pecked his lips with reassurance as you nodded at him.

“Don’t worry… We can go again later…” That gave him all the encouragement he needed, which he really didn’t anymore than what he already had, to grab his shaft in order to guide it to your entrance. He gave you one last look and you could feel the joy. The same joy that resides in your chest, a joy that makes you want to almost cry, but it got interrupted as his hips started pushing in. Your mouth fell open into an ‘o’ shape as you felt him stretch you out, inch by inch, and– fuck, his fingers did their best but there’s no comparison at all.

He groaned loudly as you engulfed him in your heat, slowly, and all he wanted was to slam into you, go crazy with it, but he had to be patient. He wanted it perfect. Everything has been going perfect till now, and it shouldn’t stop. It should never stop for you. Nor with you.

“Oh fuck, you feel so good, you feel so fucking good for me, Mousy.” His head fell to the crook of your neck as he inhaled your scent, your perfume, and he placed a kiss onto your skin. And his hips were not stopping, already going halfway in but you already felt full. You couldn’t believe you could keep taking him but maybe you were just made for him.

“B-Big– It’s so fucking big, Steve, what the fuck…” You couldn’t help the curse that came out of your mouth, a breathy chuckle vibrating in your neck thanks to him.

“I’m sorry– Do I–”

“No, don’t stop, I’ll kill you…” And you would, and he nodded. He took a sharp intake of breath as he tensed for a second before he dove his hips all the way in, making you gasp as his pelvis finally slammed against yours. He bottomed out and you felt him in your throat. Your nails were digging into his shoulders as you tried to adjust to him. It wasn’t painful at all, it just felt like too much, and you felt yourself pulsing around him, trying to get used to it. He pulled away from your neck, leaving a trail of kisses up on your jaw, to then move to your left cheek.

“Are you okay?” His voice was a whisper, concerned and you wanted to cry by how attentive he was over his own pleasure. You smiled even if he wasn’t seeing it and you nodded. “Tell me when I can start moving, alright?”

And you wanted to be brave and say right now, but you actually waited for a minute, and in that minute you knew this wasn’t a one time thing. A ‘satisfy your curiosity’ kind of thing. Because Steve was peppering your whole face and neck in kisses, soft little pet names leaving his mouth for you.

‘My baby. My sweetheart. Darling. My sweet. Honey. My love.’

And the last one was the one that caught you by surprise. It seems he noticed what he had done because the moment you opened your mouth, he started to move. A moan left your lips as he started thrusting slowly in and out of you, halfway out, and then in. It was slow tempo, yet deep, but not rough.

“Stevie–” You were letting out pretty sighs as you closed your eyes in pleasure, feeling him rub against your walls with each thrust. He cradled your head in his arms, looking down at your face, his hair falling over his eyes as the sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Perfect. Can I go faster?” It was a plea, a beg, the lust for you inside of him igniting once again, and with your nod, his hips started rolling quicker, a little further than before, making you moan louder, your head tilting back on the pillow, your neck being exposed to him, to which he immediately attacked with his lips.

He started listening to the slamming of his hips against yours as he sucked on the skin of your pulse point, listening to your moans and his dick was twitching nonstop. He couldn’t believe he was having you like this, that you were letting him have you like this at all. His sweet mouse. His sweet, perfect girl.

It was paradise. He was in paradise. You were in heaven. You two felt like everything made sense for the first time in your lives. Why didn’t you do this before? Why were the two of you so scared? Those are questions you two can ask eachother later because right now all you want is to finally let Steve rail into you the way he’s always wanted to.

And to do that, he had to pull away and kneel up, his arms leaving your head so his hands could grab the back of your knees. He looked down at you for just one second as his chest heaved up and down. Your eyes were filled with tears, your gaze finding his and as you opened your mouth to call for him, his hips started snapping into yours, the bedframe hitting the wall at each thrust of his.

You moaned loudly as your right hand shot upwards, holding onto the headboard, while your left one was in a tight fist in the pillow below your head. He was moaning your name as he saw your entire body bounce against his thrusts, and he could hear how wet you were as well. He growled as he felt his belly burn instantly at it, and he wanted to last longer, to have you in more positions, to make this night unforgettable, but he had a feeling that you would not care. It would be memorable no matter what he did or happened.

“Steve, you feel so good–” Your words were like sirens singing in his ear. You were making this very difficult on him as he started rolling his hips in long and deep thrusts, making you gasp and breathe out everytime the tip of his cock hit the deepest part of you, brushing against your g-spot perfectly. Your eyes were wide, looking at the ceiling thanks to how intense he was being and how much you were loving it.

“Yeah? Tell me how much you love it, baby, I want to hear it–” He didn’t know where all this dirty talking really came from. He was still surprised by this.

“I love it– I love it so much– I love you– I love you!” His eyebrows met in the middle as his mouth fell open, and he was done for. He fell forward as his heart exploded inside of his chest, and he knew you were cockdrunk and it came out of your mouth unwillingly, but the feeling was there and he knew it.

You couldn’t believe you said it. You couldn’t believe what you just did but you just let yourself go and this happened. He fell forward, his hands caging your head between them as his hair tickled your forehead, his lips brushing over yours as he kept panting into your mouth, his hips unrelenting in their pace.

“I love you… Fuck, I love you too Mouse, so fucking much, you have no idea–” He kissed you, and you felt your stomach flip, your heart set aflame. “For so long, even before the auditions–” Another kiss and his hips became desperate, not letting you reply to him at all as your breaths were being knocked out of you, thrust after thrust. “-- You’re mine, you’ve always been mine.”

Your arms wrapped around him again, your walls clenching around his length making him moan your name as he got his hand in between the two of you. His lips smashed against yours as his fingers came in contact with your puffed up clit. Your eyes widened when you felt overwhelmed with sensations, your belly coiling at feeling him brush your g-spot at the same time he rubbed your clit.

“Please, please– Stevie, you are so good–” Your praises fell on his lips and he had to hold on for a bit longer, just a bit longer. He could feel you fluttering all around him so he needed to make you cum around him. He needed to feel you. He was begrudgingly going to admit defeat on not making you cum again, but now, now it was a need. Now it’s a must. After your confession, it’s the least he can give you for having the courage he didn’t have.

“C’mon, one more… One more and I’ll cum…” You knew the climax was going to hit you sooner or later, but the fact Steve was feeling as good as you were feeling was just, making you go a little feral.

“Okay– Okay, pleasepleaseplease–” He didn’t know you were this vocal in bed, but he hoped it was because of him, and he was. You two were vocal and just with eachother. A detail you will learn later on. You felt him rub your clit a little faster than before and you threw your head back on the pillow as you dug your nails into his hair. He moaned as he looked between your bodies, seeing himself disappear inside of you as his fingers played with your soaked button.

He felt you flutter around him and fuck, he was going to cum. He can’t hold it in anymore but he can’t change the pace of anything. He can’t. He needs to feel you around him before he gets to cum. He wants to do it at the same time you do. He wants this with you. This memory. Your eyes widen when you feel your belly burning and your back arched towards him, your walls clenching around his cock.

“I feel you. I can feel you baby, come on… Come on–” And without further encouragement, you clenched tightly around him like a vice, which knocked the breath out of him, his hips stuttering as you came all around him, his name coming out of your lips in a cry of pleasure. He looked at your contorted face for a few seconds before his hips finally stopped and twitched when he came into the condom. You were still gripping him tightly, milking every single spurt of cum he had to give. He gave a few thrusts for good measure to help you ride your orgasm out, until his fingers stopped rubbing your clit.

His head fell, forehead hitting your chest as he breathed heavily, wincing as you slowly started to unclench around him, coming down from your high. He took his hand away from your sensitive nub, and he felt your heartbeat against his head. It was so quick. He is scared your heart will burst at any second.

You on the other hand, you were so exhilarated. You could die right now and you would go happily. Death could take you and you would tell it sure why not. A smile displayed on your face as your tight grip on his head softened, slowly starting to rub circles on his scalp with your fingers, which he responded with a satisfied hum. You were breathing heavily, and he was holding most of his weight up with his hands and knees, but you still felt him all over you.

He gulped as he raised his head from your chest, smiling at you as you connected your eyes with his. He kissed your chest once, then moved up and kissed your collarbone, then your neck, which was all marked up by him, then your jaw, and finally he pecked your lips.

“Hi Mouse.” You give him a content huff, panting into each other's lips.

“Hi, Stevie…” He smiled at you, clearing his throat as he felt his cock soften slowly, moving his hips to pull out from you, eliciting a groan out of the two of you. “Fuck…”

“You can say that again…” Your hands were still in his hair and he chuckled, pecking your lips softly. His heart couldn’t pump more blood than it was right now even if it could, but he had to ask. “Did you mean that?” “What?” He gulped and continued with his question.

“That you love me…” You blinked a few times and you bit your bottom lip as the nerves returned like a bulldozer.

“I… Yeah… for a long time… Did you mean it?” Steve smiled widely, his lips coming in contact to every inch of your face, making you giggle because it tickled in some places, and your heart never felt more warm than it was now.

“Absolutely… fuck, baby, I– How could I not want you? You’ve… been with me even when I was a loser.” You rolled your eyes at him and giggled, shaking your head.

“You were prom king!”

“And a loser! I was an ass! And had no dreams! Well, except one.” Your eyebrow raised in question, wondering what he meant.

“What was that?”

“You. You were.” You felt your eyes fill with tears as the emotions overwhelmed you, realizing the two of you could have had this for so long, and neither of you acted on it. Made something happen, and it only prompted the both of you to waste time.

“You were mine… You are mine, Stevie.” A fond smile spreads on his lips as he leans down and kisses you softly, warmly, with the intent of a forever. And he keeps kissing you. He keeps giving you sweet words, until it's time for the two of you to clean up. The moment he gets up from the bed and you wobble to take a look at him, you gasp, your hands covering your mouth.

“What!? What is it!?” His eyes were worried as he looked at you, and you pointed at his body.

“I– Oh, did I fuck it up!?”

“Huh?” He tilted his head at your question, only for him to look down at himself and for his eyes to widen. “Oh… fuck.”

Your fingernails had scratched him all over. His shoulders, his neck, his back, his arms, his fucking thighs. He’ll get killed, or his scene will be postponed till these go away, though, he doesn’t know if he just wouldn’t forbid you from making more.

But the next day, when the director saw the scratches on his body and the hickies on your neck, he thought it was natural looking. That the makeup artist did an amazing job on the two of you, and the director didn’t even know you two didn’t even go to the person in charge of that. You rolled out of bed because you were running late and you rushed to the studio.

You were happy to be here with him. That it took a practice kissing lesson to be able to be with him. You were nervous, but at least not in the way you were yesterday afternoon. Not in the way of kissing him and him thinking you were disgusting, or deciding it was a bad idea to ask you for this. You were nervous because of his career, because of how this could be seen by his fans, but– You cannot give him up now. Not after all these years of missing out.

He wasn’t going to give up on this either. The moment the movie comes out, the moment this debuts, he will go on the carpet of his premiere with you by his side. He will tell everyone that the woman he kisses for ten seconds at the beginning of the movie is his best friend and the love of his life. He will show you off. He wants everyone to know who was there with him from the very beginning and through every instance of his life, even since he was a kid.

“ACTION!”

And the scene was done in one take, the director praising you both with a–

‘Good job you two! It felt natural!’

end

a/n: i want to be fingerbanged by steve harrington

1K notes · View notes

kaira-diaries · 4 months ago

Text

Backstabber

warning: Smut || Violence || death || description of blood || life threatening illness

wc: 15k …

pairing: fem!reader x In-ho

a/n: so the length is…something. This loosely follows the games of season two. LOOSELY !!

I hope you all enjoy, happy reading!!

summary: A young woman finds herself desperate when her family falls into crushing medical debt. Seeking a way out, she enters the deadly Squid Games. Unbeknownst to her, the enigmatic Frontman—her boyfriend of three years, disguising himself as Player 001 and in deep debt, enters the game to protect her, navigating the brutal competition while concealing his true identity from her.

-> Masterlist <-

Aware of every breath and movement, you were pinned down as In-ho finally peeled away your warm sweater, a contrast to the frigid temperature in his bedroom, completely naked before him and he before you.

However all you could feel was his soft lips against your chest, leaving you breathless as he pushed in and out of you with blinding pleasure and strength. His kisses were anything but gentle as you locked your legs around his muscled back, pulling him closer, and he groaned in delight at such a position, dragging his perfect teeth up your neck and eventually reconnecting with your mouth.

You'd been holding onto the weight of a conversation you needed to have with him, the one about your father's medical illness and the mounting medical debt that was dragging your parents under like a relentless tide. You've kept it from him for a while. Was it out of shame? You didn't quite know, but it didn't seem like the kind of conversation to strike up while his tongue worked between your legs, making a mess on the edge of the dining room table. He was on you the moment you got home and after the long day you had, you needed it.

Freeing him from your grip, you pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him, aching for control, something you've had to fight for with him the moment you began seeing each other. A look of disapproval shined in his eyes, but you pressed your palms against his warm chest, earning a scowl of impatience. You innocently smile, beginning to rock your hips. He held you, his grip like iron, as he watched you use him to reach your peak. With your head thrown back, his hands explored every inch of your chest; squeezing and grabbing at everything he possibly could. His grip on you was as tight as he could make it without hurting you, something he worries so much about.

Mumbling sweet praises up at you, you whined, picking up the pace.

"Fuck you're so beautiful riding my cock." He praised, almost making you shatter, and you would have right then and there until your phone began to buzz on the wooden nightstand next to his head. Your movements came to a sudden stop, making In-ho groan, "ignore it," he pleaded, but it was your mother's icon.

With the weight of your father's illness in mind, you pulled off him.

"It'll just take a second." You promised, answering the phone, trying to ignore the slow touch of In-ho's hand caressing your back and his lips sucking the skin of your neck. You slapped him.

"Hi, everything okay? it's late."

Your mother's panicked voice crackled through the phone, her voice trembling with raw fear. "Y/n, you need to come to the hospital now. I-I don't-"

"Ma, I'll be there," you interrupted, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Just stay calm." You hung up without waiting for more, already throwing the blanket aside as you scrambled out of bed.

"What’s going on? What's wrong?" In-ho's voice cut through the chaos, his concern evident as he sat up, his brows furrowed.

Your mind raced, and the first excuse that came to you spilled out in a rush. "Something's wrong with the cat." You blurted, the lie feeling ridiculous even as you said it. Your shaky hands pulled on a sweater, jeans, and some boots, the urgency in your movements selling the story better than the words ever could.

"What? the fucking cat? What happened?" In-ho looked confused but didn't question further as you fumbled to explain. "Their car's in the shop, and they can't get to the emergency vet. I have to go."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sheets pooling around his waist. "I'll take you."

"No!" you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. The tension in the room palpable as his eyes searched your face for an explanation.

One thing about In-ho: he never questioned you, and right now, you were grateful for that. "Okay." He said. "Just be careful."

You nodded quickly, not trusting yourself to say more. Grabbing your keys and bag, you bolted for the door, your thoughts racing faster than your feet. The hallway felt suffocating as you sprinted to your car, your breath coming in shallow bursts.

Sliding into the driver's seat, your hands trembled as you turned the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life but didn't drown out the panic in your mind. What could have happened? Was it worse than you feared?

The rain from earlier had left the streets slick, and your headlights reflected off the wet pavement as you sped toward the hospital. You tried to steady your breathing, gripping the wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white. Every red light felt like a personal attack, each second dragging on like an eternity.

Finally, you pulled into the hospital parking lot, barely bothering to park straight as you threw the car into park and leaped out. The fluorescent lights of the emergency entrance cast an unnatural glow over the scene, and the antiseptic smell hit you as soon as you stepped inside.

Your eyes darted around the waiting room until they landed on your mother. She was sitting in one of the plastic chairs, her face pale, her hands squeezing a tissue.

"Mom!" you called out, rushing to her. She looked up, her eyes red and puffy, and the sight of her broke something inside.

"Y/n..." she began, her voice trembling as fresh tears spilled over. "Its your father. They-they said he's in critical condition. The doctors are with him now, but-" Her voice cracked, and she covered her mouth, unable to finish.

You crouched down in front of her, taking in her hands in yours. “Ma, I'm here. I'm here, okay? We'll get through through this." Your voice was firm, but your stomach churned with dread.

As you comforted her, a nurse approached, asking if you were your father's family. You stood up, your thudding in your chest. "Yes, I'm his daughter. What's going on?" The nurse hesitated, her expression grave. "The doctor would like to speak with you. Please follow me."

Your mother let out a soft sob as you squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I'll be right back, Ma," you whispered before following the nurse down the cold, sterile hallway. Each step felt heavier than the last as you approached the room where your father's fate would be revealed.

The nurse led you to a small consultation room, where a doctor in scrubs was waiting, his face lined with exhaustion. He stood as you entered, his expression grim but composed.

"It's good to meet you, I'm Dr. Patel," he said, gesturing for you to sit. You barely registered the gesture, standing frozen as your pulse thundered in your ears.

"What's wrong with my father?" you demanded, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep steady.

Dr. Patel exhaled softly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of what he was about to say. "Your father's condition has taken a critical turn. His heart is failing rapidly, and the medications we've been using to manage his symptoms are no longer enough. He's in cardiogenic shock."

You blinked, the words slow to register. "What does that mean? Can you fix it?"

The doctor's lips pressed into a thin line. "The only long-term solution is a heart transplant. Without it, I'm afraid he doesn't have much time—maybe days, a week at most."

The air seemed to vanish from the room. You shook your head, trying to process. "A transplant? How... how soon could he get one?"

Dr. Patel hesitated, his gaze softening. "It's complicated. He'll need to be placed on the transplant list, and even then, matching him with a donor can take time. There's also the matter of cost. Even with insurance, the out-of-pocket expenses can be significant."

Your stomach twisted into knots. "How significant?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Typically, upwards of $150,000 for surgery, post-op care, and medications," he replied gently.

Your heart sank. You felt like the floor had dropped out from under you. "I can't… we can't afford that. Even with insurance, we're already drowning in medical debt. How am I supposed to…" Your voice cracked, and tears spilled over despite your effort to hold them back.

Dr. Patel leaned forward, his voice kind but firm. "I know it's overwhelming, but there are programs and organizations that can help. I can connect you with our financial counselor to explore options. Right now, focus on being here for your father."

You nodded numbly, standing on unsteady legs. "Can I see him?"

"Of course. He's sedated, but you can sit with him."

The walk to your father's room felt surreal, the hospital corridors stretching endlessly. When you stepped inside, the sight of him hit you like a punch to the chest. He lay still, pale and fragile, tubes and monitors surrounding him. The steady beeping of the machines was the only sound in the room.

You moved to his bedside, taking his hand in yours. His skin was cold, and the weight of his hand in yours felt too light, too fragile.

"Hey, Dad," you said softly, your voice breaking. "It's me."

Your thumb traced over the back of his hand as you blinked away fresh tears. "They said you need a new heart," you whispered, choking on the words. "And I know you probably don't want me worrying about it, but I'm going to fix this. I swear I'll find the money, no matter what. I'll get you what you need."

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You just hang on, okay? Just hang on."

The room was silent except for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors, but your resolve solidified with every passing second. No matter how impossible it seemed, you would find a way to save him.

Whatever it took.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

Your hands were frigid, the cold from last night's visit at the hospital still clinging to you as you sat in the dimly lit coffee shop. The air smelled faintly of roasted coffee and winter rain, but none of it brought comfort. Across the small table, In-ho sat rigid, his shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring. His expression was a mask of unreadable calm, but his eyes—those lifeless, glassy eyes—made your stomach churn. There was no warmth in them, no spark of humanity like normal. Just emptiness. You swallowed hard, fighting the instinct to shiver under his gaze.

It happened every year around this time, right before his business trip. Yet somehow, it never got easier. That hollow, dead look in his eyes unsettled you more than you wanted to admit, leaving a weight on your chest like a stone sinking in water. He always returned, but the man who sat before you now was different—a stranger wearing the face of someone you loved.

Cupping your warm mug of coffee, you took a tentative sip, hoping the heat would chase away the chill that wasn't from the weather.

"How long will you be gone this time?" you asked, keeping your voice steady despite the unease bubbling under your skin.

"A week or so," he replied plainly, his tone deeper than usual and flat, devoid of emotion.

You nodded, forcing yourself not to press him further. He never shared much about these trips, and you'd learned to stop asking. But this—this lifeless version of him he always snaps into—terrified you in a way you could never quite explain.

He was scheduled to leave today after your coffee date, which explained the gel in his hair and the matching grey outfit he wore, fit for the cold weather. He looked good, but you adored his messy hair. You loved running your fingers through it during sex or washing it while in the shower. It was one of your favorite things about him, the second being his age. You were always into older guys. Despite being 25, men your age still had some maturing to do, so you decided never to dabble with them altogether. Time was precious.

You traced the edge of your coffee cup with your finger, trying to fill the silence. It stretched thin between you, like a thread about to snap.

"She's been calling me a lot lately." you said, attempting to steer the conversation toward something lighter. "Mina, I mean. She's gotten into some trouble again."

In-ho's gaze shifted slightly, though his expression remained impassive. "Drinking?"

"And gambling, she's been asking for money," you added with a faint, humorless chuckle.

"Apparently, she lost a month’s rent at that underground poker game she swore she'd never go back to."

His jaw tightened, just for a second quick. You almost missed it. "The one near the station, right? The one run by that man who drives the black sedan."

Your brow furrowed as you stared at him. "How did you know that?" In-ho's expression didn't waver. "You said she was into underground games," he replied, shrugging. "I've seen people like that around. They're dangerous."

The explanation was reasonable, and you opened your mouth to change the subject, but he checked his watch and stood.

"I should get going," he said, his voice flat.

You stood as well, the knot in your stomach tightening. "Be safe," you said softly.

He nodded, leaning in to press a cool, detached kiss to your lips. It was brief, almost mechanical, and it left you feeling colder than before, but it was the same around this time every year. "I'll see you when I get back," he said, his hand briefly brushing your arm before he turned to leave.

As you watched him walk out into the gray morning, your thoughts lingered on his odd familiarity with Mina's troubles. Something didn't add up, but the question lingered unspoken on your tongue, lost in the wake of his retreating figure.

The bitter dregs of your now-cold coffee lingered on your tongue as you forced down the last bites of a stale croissant, its once-flaky layers now reduced to a dense, chewy mass.

The contrast between this hurried breakfast and the elegant comfort of In-ho's apartment wasn't lost on you—each step toward the train platform felt like moving further from a dream back into your harsh reality.

The morning crowd jostled around you as you weaved between commuters, scanning for an empty seat while waiting. The number "150,000" pulsed in your mind like a neon sign, growing larger and more oppressive with each passing moment. It was a sum so vast it seemed almost abstract—like counting stars in the sky—yet the weight of its importance pressed down on your chest with very real pressure.

Finding an empty bench away from the crowd, you hugged yourself tightly, your fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket. The fluorescent station lights cast shallow shadows under your eyes, and you barely recognized the exhausted person staring back.

Your father's time was running out like sand in an hourglass, and here you sat, drowning in the knowledge that your family's existing debts were already a noose around your neck. Each potential solution you considered crumbled before it could fully form—loan sharks were out of the question, banks would laugh at your application, and friends... well, who among them could even spare a fraction of such an amount? Mina sure as hell couldn't.

It's then a well-groomed man sits beside you. His hair gelled back, similar to In-ho's. You felt his gaze on you, but you tried to ignore it until it became extremely uncomfortable.

Snapping your chin in his direction, you broke.

"What?"

"Hello ma'am, can I talk to you?"

You sighed as he continued.

"Listen, I want to let you in on a great opportunity." You stared down at your hands, not saying a word, when he opened a suitcase beside you.

Looking down at it, you find the game Ddakji next to three stacks of neatly piled money. You perked up a bit at that. The money wasn't enough to pay for the transplant, but it was a cushioned start.

"I'm sure you've played Ddakji before, right?" You nodded.

In-ho appreciated the game.

He held up the two squares, one red and one blue. "Play a few rounds with me. And each time you win, I'll pay you a 1,000. Each time I win you, you pay me the same amount." You bit your lip, feeling how stupid this was. In-ho would tell you to turn and walk away, and you wondered if this man was from that underground poker place Mina indulged in. But, stupid or not, you needed that money for your father.

Exhaling sharply, you agreed but warned the man.

"I don't have any money to spare." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't true either. You had a decent income, but all of your money either went to paying off your parent's medical debt or to your father's treatments when you were able to pay out of pocket.

He held that same creepy grin, "How about you use your body to pay." You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as the words hit you like a slap. What did that entail? A chill ran down your spine, the blood draining from your face as you felt your breath catch in your throat. For a moment, you felt yourself sliding toward the edge of the bench, your limbs numb with terror.

The man, noticing your reaction, quickly shook his hands. "Not like that, no. I'll take 100 off per each slap to the face."

If a slap was the price to pay for losing, then you would endure it. For your father. You clenched your fists tightly, the memory of his quiet suffering and his desperate need for help fueling the burning determination inside you. You would do anything to protect him, even if it meant bearing humiliation, pain, or worse.

Anything.

You stood from the bench with a sense of purpose, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The salesman rose with you, his smile still wide, but there was a subtle shift in his demeanor—something darker, more guarded—as you reached for your red ddakji. Without hesitation, you slammed it down onto the floor, the force of your movement sending it crashing against his, the paper flipping with a satisfying snap. You didn't just win; you dominated, the sound echoing in the still air.

A small wad of cash landed in your palm, the crisp bills a reminder of the stakes, the desperation that had brought you here. Your pulse quickened, the fear dissipating with each flip of the ddakji, each round stacking your winnings higher. The salesman's smile faltered, but you didn't care. You were in control now. The game was simple, but the stakes—your father's fate were anything but.

Round after round, you flipped his every time, effortlessly outplaying him, earning more money than you'd ever imagined in such a short span. The cash piled up between you like a small mountain, but you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. Each win felt like a victory but also like a countdown to something darker, something you weren't sure you were ready for.

Finally, you sat back down, your breathing steady as you finished the game. The salesman handed you a card, its front emblazoned with three distinct shapes, each one sharp and clean, almost menacing. You flipped it over, the number on the back staring up at you—simple, unremarkable, but somehow heavy.

"There are other games like this," he said, his voice dropping slightly as if the offer itself was something that shouldn't be spoken too loudly. "Where you can earn even more."

His gaze held yours for a beat too long. The words lingered, tempting and ominous in their simplicity.

"We don't have many spots left." He added, a subtle edge creeping into his voice as he picked up his briefcase, the leather creaking under his grip. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you alone with the card, the money, and the quiet hum of uncertainty settling in your chest.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

POV: In-Ho

You sat at your desk, the glass of imported whiskey sloshing as you threw back the fifth pour, barely noticing as the amber liquid burned down your throat. The decanter was nearing empty, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. The quiet hum of the room was the only sound, and it settled you in a way nothing else could. Leaving y/n had always been difficult, but that was part of the game, wasn't it? Every year, it was the same—her muted resistance to your sudden change in demeanor, but every year, you also found yourself relieved to return to control, to snap back into that power you craved at your fingertips, to something that mattered all the same. Here, you were just mechanical; any genuine feeling of devotion dwindled until you returned home to her.

You leaned back in your chair, the leather creaking under your weight. The time you spent with y/n—it was never enough. And the more you tried to balance it with the games, the more you realized how impossible it truly was.

It was easy to pawn off the useless responsibilities to an underling, to let someone else handle the messes or orders that were beneath you. You had never cared about choosing the players. It was a waste of time. They were all the same to you: pathetic, greedy souls who saw the world through a selfish lens of self-interest.

Getting a phone call, you grabbed the receiver.

"This is The Frontman speaking. Yes, we are ready to begin."

You set the receiver back down, the soft click of the phone's cradle cutting through the heavy silence of the room. Without a second glance, you reached for the mask resting on the edge of the desk, its cool surface like a familiar presence. Your fingers brushed against the contours, feeling its weight and its unspoken authority. With deliberate ease, you secured it in place, the cold, smooth material pressing against your skin as your identity vanished beneath its form and lifted your hood.

You stood and moved toward the door, your footsteps controlled and purposeful. The air seemed to thicken around you as you passed through the threshold, a shift in atmosphere marking the change. The elevator was waiting—silent, steel, and patient. With a practiced motion, you pressed the central control room button, the elevator's quiet hum responding to your command. The walls around you seemed to close in as you descended. You were going to the heart of it all now, where the control pulse beat steady and unyielding. And there, you would resume your place.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet, effortless motion, revealing the sterile, dimly lit expanse of the control room. Your men, standing at attention, parted like the Red Sea, clearing your path. They were all towering figures, silhouettes in the shadiness of the room, their presence unwavering and mute. As you stepped out onto the cold, polished floor, you felt the shift—the room realigning as though the game had officially begun.

You glanced at each man in turn, your eyes sharp, and you calculated behind the mask, assessing every one of them with practiced ease. They stood frozen, their posture rigid, hands at their sides, waiting for your next command. You could almost feel the anticipation in the air, stout and expectant.

"Let's start," you said, your voice cold, clipped and filtered. The words carved through the silence. Without hesitation, the men moved to their stations, their bodies sliding into their chairs with precise, mechanical ease. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation.

"Wake them up."

The room came alive, the screens flickering to life one by one. The quiet hum of machinery filled the air, a low, steady rhythm as the monitors illuminated, casting a cold glow on the walls. The lights in the player's quarters were activated, brightening the room as a spokesperson illustrated it was time to wake up.

You stalked closer to the screens, trying to get a sense of the new herd. Your gaze exhausts each face as they adjust, blinking groggily, some still lost in the fog of sleep. You monitored the strongest as they rose quicker, as the weakest fought off the remaining effects of the sedative.

Abruptly, it felt like the air had been punched out of your lungs, your heart plummeting into the pit of your stomach with a force that left you momentarily paralyzed. Your gaze locked onto the screen, catching something—someone—that sent a chill racing down your spine. At first, you thought it couldn't be real, that your mind was playing cruel tricks on you. But the unease clawed at you, refusing to be dismissed.

"Focus in on player 150," you ordered sharply, your voice slicing through the tense silence in the room.

The screen obeyed, zooming in on the figure until every detail came into agonizing clarity. And then you saw her.

Your breath hitched. Her messy bedhead—the kind you used to tease her about—was unmistakable. She stretched her arms above her head, a familiar routine you'd witnessed countless mornings. Her flawless lips, her face, her eyes. Every inch of her was burned into your memory, and now, there she was.

Standing in the middle of your slaughterhouse.

The woman you've bared your soul to.

"Y/n," you whispered, your voice barely audible, strangled with disbelief and fear. Panic gnawed at your insides, twisting and tightening until it felt like your very core would shatter.

How had she ended up here?

What is she keeping from you?

Of all the people, of all the possibilities—why her?

᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥

POV: Y/N

The first thing you noticed as you stirred was the faint hum of distant sounds. Your sense of hearing returned before anything else, pulling you from the haze of sleep. You groaned softly, rubbing your eyes as the world around you came into focus.

Fragments of memory surfaced, disjointed but vivid—the musty smell of the van, the creak of its rusted doors, the tattered upholstery that looked like it had seen far too many years. You had hesitated, your hand hovering over the handle, your instincts screaming at you to turn around and walk away. The vehicle was a wreck, the kind of thing you'd imagine a junkie—no offense—might live out of.

But then you thought of your father. His face, his struggle, the weight of it all. That single thought was enough to override your doubts. You had climbed into the van despite every instinct telling you to do otherwise.

Sitting up, you took in your unfamiliar surroundings, momentarily distracted by the nagging awareness of your terrible bedhead. In-ho always teased you about it, though deep down, you suspected he secretly liked it.

Swinging your legs over the edge of the cot, you paused as your fingers brushed against the fabric of what you were wearing. A pajama-like tracksuit, simple yet strange. Your gaze dropped to your chest, where a number—150—was neatly sewn over your left breast.

You frowned, your brows knitting together. "What the hell?" you whispered under your breath.

Looking around, the murmur of movement drew your attention. Other people—strangers—were stirring, dressed in identical tracksuits with different numbers stitched onto their chests. They began to gather hesitantly in the center of the vast room, their expressions mirroring your confusion and unease.

The room itself was massive, stark, and cold, resembling a warehouse stripped of purpose. Above you, suspended ominously from the ceiling, hung an enormous glass piggy bank—empty but somehow radiating a strange sense of suspicion.

Your muscles ached, a dull soreness settling into your body as you stretched your arms overhead, trying to shake off the lingering stiffness, and stood to join the pack of people. The air was heavy, thick with tension and the quiet rustle of fabric as the other players moved cautiously, their faces tight with uncertainty.

As you loosened up, your eyes flicked back to the piggy bank, unease pooling in your stomach. Whatever was happening here, it was far from ordinary—and the number stitched onto your chest felt like it was branding you into something you didn't yet understand.

“Y/n!”

The sound of your name rang out, cutting through the murmurs around you. Your head snapped up, scanning the sea of unfamiliar faces until your eyes locked onto someone you knew—a lifeline in the chaos.

"Oh my God, Y/n!"

It was Mina. Your Mina. Her face lit up with that unmistakable grin, even as the bold 067 stitched across her chest seemed wildly out of place. Relief flooded you, and without thinking, you bolted toward your best friend, your heart leaping in your chest.

"Mina!" you shouted, skidding to a stop just before throwing your arms around her neck. She caught you with a squeal, pulling you into a tight hug as you both burst into a flurry of half-laughs, half-cries.

"What the hell are you doing here, you bitch?" she blurted, pulling back just enough to hold your shoulders, her grin a mix of disbelief and sheer joy.

You laughed, shaking your head. "I could ask you the same thing!"

For a moment, the strangeness of the situation melted away. The towering walls, the eerie piggy bank above, the sea of strangers—all of it faded into the background. Because right now, in this surreal hell, you weren't alone.

Mina shrugged nonchalantly, her lips twitching into a crooked grin. "What can I say? It seems like my hobbies have gotten me into trouble again. Only this time..." She gestured vaguely to the massive, ominous piggy bank hanging above, her tone dripping with mock cheerfulness. "...the stakes are just a little higher."

Your brows furrowed, a sinking feeling settling in your chest. "Oh god, Mina. What did you do?"

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, biting her lip in that telltale way that meant she was about to drop a bombshell. "Well," she started, drawing out the word like she was recounting a funny anecdote, "I kind of... might've signed my physical rights away."

Your stomach flipped. "Excuse me?"

"Yup." She nodded, her voice light, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "If I don't cough up what I owe by next month, I can kiss a kidney goodbye." She gave you a sly grin, trying to downplay the gravity of her words. "On the bright side, I've always wanted to know what it feels like to live with just one."

Your hand shot up to cover your mouth, your heart pounding in disbelief. "Mina...surely you're joking?"

She shook her head, the grin never entirely leaving her face. "Afraid not, babe. But hey, at least this mess has good storytelling potential, right?"

"Mina!" you exclaimed, punching her shoulder. She laughed, though it came out slightly strained. "What? It's not like I can do anything about it now. Besides, kidneys are overrated anyway."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "Mina, could you please stop giving me reasons to worry?"

She gave you a sheepish grin, her shoulder bumping yours playfully. "I'll try, but no promises." Then, her expression shifted, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "What about you?" she asked, folding her arms. "Why are you here? And where's that delicious boyfriend of yours?"

Your cheeks warmed slightly, and before you could stop yourself, you swatted her arm, a soft snicker escaping. "He's on a business trip," you said, trying to sound casual. "Probably miles away from this place."

You turned your head toward her, but the knowing look in her eyes stopped you short. She tilted her chin, her gaze sharpening. "Uh-huh. But you didn't answer my other question."

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, the humor between you flickered, replaced by something heavier. Her gaze stayed steady, probing, as if she could see right through you.

A sharp, jarring buzz suddenly filled the air, slashing through the low murmurs in the room. You flinched at the sound, your heart skipping a beat as all heads turned toward the massive double doors at the far end of the room.

With a mechanical hiss, the doors slid open in perfect synchronization, revealing a line of figures that marched in with unnerving precision. They wore identical uniforms—a stark, unnatural shade of pink that contrasted sharply against the cold gray of the warehouse walls.

Their faces were entirely hidden behind black, featureless masks adorned with bold, white shapes: circles, triangles, and squares, just like the strange card you'd been handed by that man.

The sight sent a shiver racing down your spine. The guards moved with eerie coordination, their presence suffocating and cold, as if they were more machine than human. The room seemed to shrink under their gaze—or what you assumed was their gaze, though the masks gave away nothing.

"I'd like to extend my warmest welcome to you all."

"Everyone here will participate in six different games over the next six days. Those who win all six games will recieve a handsome cash prize." One of the guards stepped forward, his voice sharp and authoritative as it rang out, though it was muffled slightly by the mask. You strained to make out the words, but before you could process them, a man standing near the front of the group raised his voice, cutting through the tension.

"Why the hell should we trust you?" he shouted, his tone laced with anger and desperation. His words hit a chord, murmurs of agreement rippling through the players around you. It wasn't an unreasonable question—after all, you'd been drugged and dragged here against your will.

Your chest tightened as you remembered the van, the haze, the disorientation of waking up in this strange, sterile place. Beside you, Mina suddenly grabbed your hand, her fingers lacing tightly with yours. Her grip was firm, almost crushing, and when you glanced at her, her wide eyes told you she was just as terrified as you were.

The guard's reply came swift and clinical, delivered without an ounce of emotion. He mentioned something about a consent form, the words rolling off his tongue with practiced ease as though this wasn't the first time he'd said them. His tone made it clear there was no room for negotiation.

Your stomach churned as the players began to shuffle forward hesitantly, forming a disjointed line. Each person who stepped up was handed a pen and a sheet of paper, the details too far away to make out. The tension in the room was noticeable, every movement slow and deliberate, as if everyone knew they were crossing a threshold they could never return from.

When your turn came, you stepped forward on shaky legs, Mina's hand slipping from yours as she stayed rooted in place. You barely noticed her whispered "Y/n…" as you reached for the pen.

The words on the page blurred before your eyes. You couldn't bring yourself to read the fine print—it didn't matter. You already knew why you were here.

Your hand trembled slightly as you signed your name, the black ink cutting starkly against the crisp white paper. Whatever this was, whatever it demanded of you, your mind was made up. You'd get that money no matter what it took.

As you turned away, clutching the pen tightly, your heart felt like a drum pounding in your chest. Behind you, Mina's gaze burned into your back, her silence louder than any words she could've spoken.

As the last of the players signed their names, the guards gestured for everyone to move, their silent presence ushering the group out of the dorms and into a large, clean hall. The air was cool and clinical, the kind of atmosphere that sent a shiver up your spine despite the lack of overt threat.

One by one, each player stood in front of a sleek screen where their photo was taken. Mina, of course, couldn't resist making a ridiculous face, puffing out her cheeks and crossing her eyes as the camera clicked.

You doubled over, a genuine belly laugh escaping your lips, the sound echoing faintly in the vast hall. For a fleeting moment, it felt like old times, like the world wasn't crumbling around you.

As the line moved, you and Mina ended up side by side, trailing behind the group as you ascended a winding staircase. The metal stairs clanged beneath your feet, the sound rhythmic and oddly calming despite the tension in the air.

"So," Mina drawled, nudging your shoulder with hers, her grin mischievous. "Fill me in. How's it been going with In-ho?"

A warmth spread through you at the mention of his name, and you couldn't help the soft smile that tugged at your lips. "He's been… amazing," you admitted, your voice almost wistful.

Mina hummed knowingly, her grin widening. "I see. And the sex?" she asked, her tone teasing as her brows waggled suggestively.

You groaned, rolling your eyes. "Ugh, Mina, quit being gross. Let's focus on the game ahead."

She threw her hands up in mock surrender, snickering. "Alright, alright. I'll save it for later," she said, her tone light but her eyes scanning the room ahead, where more guards waited in eerie silence.

As the two of you continued up the staircase, her humor lingered like a comforting presence, a small anchor in the chaos. You couldn't help but feel grateful for her, even if she drove you nuts.

Turning the final corner, you stepped into a vast, open space that made you stop in your tracks. The ground beneath your feet was soft sand, its golden grains warm as they shifted with each step. Overhead, artificial sunlight bore down with an intensity that made you squint, the air thick with the illusion of a desert afternoon.

“Wow,” Mina muttered, her tone a mix of awe and unease. She kicked at the sand lightly, watching it scatter. “This is… interesting.”

You nodded, your eyes scanning the expanse of the room. It felt surreal—like stepping into another world completely removed from the cold, metallic dorms. The space stretched endlessly in all directions, its vastness unsettling.

As you wandered further in, something across the way caught your eye. Narrowing your gaze, you nudged Mina in the arm, breaking her attention away from the boy she had been half-flirting with beside her.

“What?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“What’s that?” you said, pointing toward a shape in the distance.

Her eyes followed your arm, squinting against the glaring light. When she finally spotted it, her expression twisted into a mixture of curiosity and discomfort. “It looks like…” she hesitated, leaning in slightly, “a creepy doll.”

Your stomach churned as you took in the eerie figure. Even from a distance, something about it felt wrong.

Before you could respond, a sharp, mechanical crackle echoed through the air, making you flinch. A smooth, automated female voice spoke over the intercom, its tone disturbingly cheerful.

“Welcome to the game room. For your first game, you will be playing Red Light, Green Light.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “Red Light, Green Light?” you muttered, glancing at Mina with an incredulous smile. “You’ve got to be kidding. A children’s game?”

Mina shrugged, her lips quirking into a half-smile. “What? Would you rather play chess?”

You snorted softly, shaking your head. “Definitely not.”

The voice on the intercom continued, reciting the rules with an unnerving precision that made the simplicity of the game feel sinister. “When the doll says, ‘Green Light,’ you may move forward. When the doll says, ‘Red Light,’ you must stop immediately. Any players caught moving during ‘Red Light’ will be eliminated.”

The word eliminated lingered in your mind, sending a cold chill down your spine.

When the announcement ended, a sudden, oppressive silence settled over the room. The guards lined the edges of the space, their presence a stark reminder that this was no ordinary game.

Mina reached for your hand, gripping it tightly. “We stick together, okay?”

“Okay,” you whispered, lacing your fingers with hers. Despite your nervousness, her touch grounded you, giving you a flicker of reassurance.

The two of you exchanged a nod, solidifying your pact, before turning your focus toward the looming doll in the distance. The game was about to begin, and there was no turning back now.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

POV: In-Ho

You could hardly bear to watch.

Your heart throbbed in your chest, a suffocating pressure building as your mind screamed with one agonizing question: What if she dies?

The thought hit you like a sucker punch, the weight of it crushing your ribs, stealing the air from your lungs. If she died—if she dies—you’d be left with nothing. Nothing but the hollow emptiness of a life that had lost its purpose, your balance between light and dark. There would be no going back. No reason to move forward. You'd be a shell, wandering through a world that suddenly felt unbearable.

The air in your quarters felt thick as if the very walls were closing in on you. You couldn’t stand still, couldn’t think clearly. You paced back and forth, each step fraying your nerves further. Your breath came in ragged gasps, shallow and fast, desperate for relief that never came.

You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t—

The glass in your hand was warm, the drink inside it burning your throat with its bitter sting. And without thinking, you hurled it across the room, the sharp crash of glass against the wall.

For a split second, you stood frozen, staring at the mess. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Your chest tightened painfully, each breath harder to take than the last. You couldn’t control it anymore—the rage, the fear, the overwhelming helplessness. You wanted to roar and tear this facility to shreds, but it was all out of your hands now.

A player could only be removed from the game if they're eliminated.

The glass shards glittered on the floor like the pieces of your shattered resolve as you stared into it, and all you could do was stand there, trembling, fighting against the suffocating tide of emotions threatening to drown you.

"Green Light,"

Your eyes locked onto the screen, your gaze trained on her every move. You circled the couch, your steps restless, like you couldn’t stand still even if you wanted to. Every muscle in your body was tense beneath the grey jacket. Every fiber of your being was focused on her.

You could see Mina beside her, their hands tightly clasped together. It almost felt like an anchor, a momentary reassurance—but not enough.

Not nearly enough.

You silently begged Mina—pleaded with her—to hold it together. To not screw this up.

If Mina stuttered, if she moved a fraction too soon, if she hesitated for even a second—y/n would follow. And that thought made something tighten painfully in your chest.

You could feel your pulse roaring in your ears, a fierce rush of adrenaline as the seconds stretched on like hours. Your hand itched to pry her fingers away from Mina’s, to pull her closer, to shield her from the inescapable bloodbath.

"Red Light."

You exhaled sharply, your body going rigid as you watched her, your heart skipping a beat. Her number hadn’t been called, but the terror that played across her face as she witnessed the eliminations around her carved a hollow, painful hole in your chest.

She stood there, frozen, her eyes wide with raw fear as bodies dropped one by one, their lives snuffed out in an instant.

The sound of each shot rang out like a death knell, each one making her flinch, the horror of it all consuming her.

The games were necessary, but you never wanted y/n within a mile of them, and she didn't deserve a spot. She didn't deserve this.

You couldn’t bear it as guilt flooded your head, asking yourself how you could let this happen. How you could be so oblivious. How you could be so careless.

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest as you rubbed your thumb over your lip, trying to steady your breath, but the panic was suffocating. She was scared, and you could see the paralyzing dread in her eyes as the remaining rounds went on.

Your torture had ended as she and Mina made it across safely, allowing your body to release tension.

Your mind raced, every thought swirling with desperation as you considered all the ways you could protect her. Every option seemed dangerous, every move a step closer to exposing yourself to her. Your fingers ran through your gelled hair, the tension in your shoulders mounting. You knew the truth—if she found out... It would destroy her.

And that was far worse than the lie you were living now.

Your gut clenched bitterly as the weight of the situation sank deeper into your chest. She’d never understand. She couldn’t. No matter how you tried to explain it, the truth would damage her. And you weren’t sure if either of you could survive the aftermath.

You sank into the loveseat, your eyes shifting to the mirror ahead of you. The reflection staring back was unrecognizable.

The image in the glass shattered every preconceived idea of who you were supposed to be in this place. The leader. The cold, calculating mastermind who pulled the strings from behind the scenes. The man who kept his emotions in check, who moved through the shadows without hesitation.

But now?

Now, you could feel the walls crumbling, the mask slipping off with each passing moment. The control you had so carefully cultivated was eroding, and it was because of her.

The realization hit you like a wrecking ball.

You were losing yourself to her—losing one of two things that had kept you alive this long. And the only reason you were willing to let it all slip was because of y/n. Because you didn’t want to watch her suffer, you didn’t want to see that terror in her eyes, knowing you're the cause.

A plan developed in your mind, sudden and dangerous. A twisted solution, but one that could save her.

You would have to enter the games.

For her.

And as the weight of that decision settled over you, you had an odd feeling that this was it.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

POV: Y/N

Your heart was in your throat, pounding so hard you thought it might burst.

Your legs gave out beneath you, trembling so violently that Mina had to grip your arm just to keep you upright. Her voice cracked as she shouted your name, her panic etching through the fog of your stunned silence. You couldn't move, couldn't breathe. You'd never seen someone die like that— so sudden, so violent. A clean shot, some might call it merciful. But there was nothing merciful about the way bodies crumpled to the ground, lifeless in an instant.

Now, back in the dorms, you leaned into Mina, your head heavy against her shoulder. Her breathing was ragged, her frame trembling beneath your touch, and for a moment, you felt like you were both about to shatter.

"So," Mina whispered, her voice raw and barely holding together. "If you lose the game….you die. The words hung in the air like a noose tightening around your neck. She tried to laugh, a sharp, bitter sound that made your stomach twist. "Quite the plot twist, huh?"

You jerked back, glaring at her through the blur of your tears. "Are you serious right now?"

"What else am I supposed to say?" She snapped, throwing up her hands. "We signed the damn contract, y/n. It's not like we didn't know there'd be consequences."

"Not like this," you muttered, your voice breaking as you clutched your knees.

Mina sighed, running a shaky hand through her hair. "What do you want me to say? Crying about it won't change anything. It won't bring those people back. It won't get us out of here."

Her words stung, sharp, and cruel, but you knew she was wrong. You bit down hard on your lip to keep from breaking apart completely. Crying wouldn't help. Begging wouldn't help. Whoever these people were, they weren't going to care about tears or fear. This wasn't just a game anymore—it was survival.

You sat silently next to Mina, absently picking at a loose thread on your shirt, your mind spinning in endless circles. The room felt suffocating.

Then you hear it—a voice you hadn't heard in what felt like forever.

"Y/n?"

The whisper of your name cut through the haze. Your head snapped up, and your heart dropped into your stomach. Standing in front of you was In-ho.

For a moment, you thought your eyes were playing cruel tricks on you. He looked exactly as you remembered—same disheveled hair, same piercing eyes. But his expression...it was off. Shock, disbelief, maybe even a glint of betrayal flickered across his face.

Your body moved before you could think. You pulled away from Mina, stumbling to your feet. Your legs felt weak, your breaths shallow, and every nerve in your body screamed that this couldn't be real.

"In-ho?" you choked out, your voice trembling.

Without a word, he closed the distance between you and wrapped his arms around you. The hug was tight, almost desperate, as though he needed to hold you as much as you needed to be held. His scent hit you like a jolt—so familiar, so grounding. It shattered the doubts swirling in your mind.

You froze, your arms hanging limply at your sides as the weight of his embrace pressed into you. Was this real? Could it be him? Tears blurred your vision as you returned the hug, clutching him like he might disappear if you let go. A broken sob tore from your throat.

But even as relief coursed through you, a shadow of doubt lingered, clawing at the edges of your mind. What was he doing here? Why now? And why did it feel like something was wrong?

Pulling back, In-ho's hands gripped your face tightly, his fingers trembling with barely contained fury. His eyes burned into yours, raw and piercing.

"What the hell are you doing here, y/n?" he demanded, his voice low and rough.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. The tears you thought had subsided returned in full force, choking you. He guided you to sit, his movements sharp and forceful, like he was holding himself back from shaking you for answers.

You gulped for air, your chest heaving as you forced the words out. "My father… he's sick."

The admission felt small, fragile, and yet it hit him like a hammer. He exhaled sharply, the sound heavy with disbelief and frustration. His gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw clenching so tightly you thought he might snap.

Behind you, Mina shifted uncomfortably, her presence a tense reminder of the world around you.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally said, his voice strained, the anger giving way to something else—hurt.

Before you could answer, he swiped a thumb across your cheek, wiping away the tears with surprising tenderness. The contrast was jarring, his touch soft against the intensity of his gaze.

"I didn't want you to worry," you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper.

In-ho scoffed, pulling back as he ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. "You didn't want me to worry?" he repeated bitterly. "Do you even realize—" He cut himself off, shaking his head.

But your own questions burned too hot to stay buried. You leaned forward, your voice trembling but steady enough to challenge him. "Why are you here, In-ho? Why did you lie to me?"

His head snapped up at your words, his expression hardening into something unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might not answer, that he'd leave you to drown in your doubts. The silence was deafening, the weight of everything unsaid threatening to crush you both.

"I'm here because I didn't have a choice, y/n," he said, his voice low and strained. "The company…I put everything into it. I thought I could make it work. I thought I could save it."

He swallowed hard, his eyes darting away from yours. "But the debt...it swallowed me whole."

Your stomach twisted, the air suddenly too heavy to breathe. "Debt?" you repeated, your voice shaking.

He nodded, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It got bad—worse than I ever let on. Loans, investors, deadlines. I tried everything to fix it, but nothing worked."

Your eyes filled with sorrow as you reached for his hand, your fingers trembling slightly as they intertwined with his.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice breaking under the weight of everything.

He huffed softly, his lips pressing into a thin line. "For what? I got myself into this."

You shook your head, gripping his hand a little tighter. "For everything. For keeping secrets, for the company. For getting ourselves into this mess."

In-ho's eyes softened, his resolve cracking just enough to let you see the pain behind it. He scooted, his free hand lifting to cup your cheek. His touch was warm, steadying you in a way words couldn't.

"I swear to you," he said, his voice low but filled with determination, "I'll keep you safe."

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes as a tear slipped free, wetting his palm. For a moment, the chaos and fear melted away, leaving only the connection between you.

"Everything I do," he continued, his voice softer now, almost reverent, "will be for you."

Your breath caught in your throat—until Mina's voice cut through the air.

"Okay, lovebirds, hate to interrupt your heartfelt moment," she said, leaning on her elbows, "but we're still stuck in a life-or-death situation. Maybe save the romantic monologues for after we survive?"

In-ho's eyes darted up to Mina, his expression instantly shifting from tender to thoroughly exasperated.

"Mina," he said flatly, his tone carrying the weight of someone barely holding onto their patience.

She flashed a wide, overly fake smile, tilting her head like she was posing for a sitcom. "Been a long time, hasn't it?"

In-ho's jaw tightened as he let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Not long enough," he muttered under his breath.

Mina, unfazed, grinned wider. "Oh, come on, don't act like you're not happy to see me. I bring joy wherever I go."

In-ho shot her a deadpan look. "Joy, or chaos?"

"Tomato, to-mah-to," she quipped, shrugging.

You tried to stifle a laugh, which only made In-ho shoot you a betrayed look. "You're laughing? Really?"

Mina threw her arm around your shoulder, grinning smugly.

"See? I'm a gift."

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

Meal time passed in a blur as you scarfed down a hard-boiled egg and a small cup of water. It wasn't much, but enough to stave off the gnawing hunger. In-ho, without hesitation, handed you his share, sliding the egg and water toward you with a sweet look in his eyes.

"You need it more than I do," he said simply, ignoring your protests. Mina, never one to let a moment pass with commentary, let out an exaggerated scoff, teasing In-ho and making her remark.

You shot her a glare, "Mina," you said with a sharp edge in your tone.

"Relax," she retorted, smirking as she propped her chin on her hand. "I'm just saying it's cute. Like a scene from a bad rom-com."

You placed a hand on In-ho's arm, silently urging him to let it go. Mina was a professional instigator, and her relentless jabs were as much a part of her personality as her quick wit. He huffed but turned his focus back to you, muttering something under his breath about how she'd been insufferable since the moment he met her.

Later, you lay curled up under the thin blanket on your assigned bed, its scratchy fabric doing little to shield you from the cold. The tension in the room felt slightly less suffocating with In-ho nearby. He'd managed to switch beds, though "convince" wasn't exactly the right word. You'd watched in uneasy silence as he cornered another player—a scrawny man with wide, fearful eyes—and murmured something low and dangerous. Whatever he said had sent the man scurrying away without a second thought.

You weren't sure how to feel about it. Grateful, maybe. Uneasy, definitely. But with In-ho so close, his steady breathing just within reach, you felt a rare sense of safety in a place where none should exist.

The stifling silence of the dorm settled over you as you tried to relax, but sleep remained evasive. The thin mattress beneath you felt harder with every passing moment, and a nagging pressure in your bladder made it impossible to find peace.

You sighed, rubbing your sweaty palms over your face before throwing the blanket off and slipping out of bed as quietly as you could. The cold floor sent a shiver through you as you tiptoed toward the heavy steel door.

With a hesitant knock, you waited, and after a moment, the small window slid open, revealing a pair of eyes behind an ominous black mask.

"I need to use the restroom, please," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly.

The guard's voice was mechanical and unyielding. "No one is permitted to leave during this hour."

You let out a frustrated sigh, shifting uncomfortably. "Please, it's an emergency."

The guard remained silent, and you opened your mouth to plead again when a voice from behind you called out.

"Let her out."

The command was sharp, cold, and filled with an authority that made the hairs on your neck stand on end. You froze, turning slightly to see In-ho standing a few steps away, his posture rigid and his eyes dark and unreadable.

The tone of his voice was unlike anything you'd ever heard from him before—calculated, commanding, chilling. It was the kind of voice that left no room for argument, and even the guard seemed to hesitate, the weight of the demand hanging in the air like a threat.

Your breath caught as the guard finally relented, sliding the door open with a reluctant nod towards In-ho. You glanced at him, his face shadowed by the dim light, and felt a strange mix of gratitude and unease settle in your chest.

The guard stepped aside, motioning for you to follow as the heavy steel door groaned open. You glanced back at In-ho, expecting him to stay behind, but he was already moving to fall into step beside you, his expression unreadable.

The cold air of the corridor hit you like a wall, sending a chill through your already tense frame. The guard's imposing presence loomed ahead, his boots echoing ominously against the concrete floor. You hesitated, then turned to In-ho, your voice low.

"You don't have to come with me, you know. I can take care of myself," you murmured your tone a mix of gratitude and concern.

His eyes flicked to yours briefly before scanning the dim hallway around you. The shadows seemed to shift and stretch with every step, making the atmosphere feel even heavier.

"I stay with you," he muttered, his voice quiet but firm, as though the walls themselves might be listening.

You noticed the way his shoulders remained taut, his movements calculated as if expecting danger at every corner. His eyes darted to the guard ahead, then back to you, and for a moment, you caught a glimpse of something deeper in his gaze.

He stayed close, his presence a shield against the unsettling stillness of the corridor.

Reaching the bathroom, you pushed the door open, feeling the cool air inside as it contrasted against the heat building in your chest. You stepped forward, but before you could make it inside, In-ho followed, his movements swift and deliberate. With a forceful push, he slammed the door shut behind him, trapping you between him and the wood.

You gasped, caught off guard by the sudden intensity of the situation. "What are you doing?" you started, but the words died in your throat.

In-ho didn't answer. Instead, he moved closer, his breath warm against your skin as he cupped your face with his hands. Before you could protest or fully understand what was happening, his lips crashed against yours, silencing everything around you.

For a moment, everything went still—your heartbeat, the weight of your breath, the tension in the air. Then, slowly, you let yourself sink into him, your body responding to his touch with a deep, aching need you hadn't even realized was there. You kissed him back with all the desperation and longing that had been building since the moment he left that coffee shop, your hands reaching up to pull him closer, craving the connection, the heat.

His lips were soft yet urgent, and the kiss deepened, a powerful force that seemed to push away everything else—the fear, the uncertainty, the danger. All that mattered in that moment was him and the way he made you feel safe. You hear the lock click, then feel the touch of In-ho's hand on your waist. You pull back, In-ho's lips working against your neck.

You chuckled, "We can't fuck in the bathroom," You choked as he bit your neck. "Says who?" he uttered against your skin. You smiled with a gasp, "The people that run this place." He only pulls you closer, scooping you into his arms. You look down at him, legs wrapped around his back, "don't worry about them."

Laying you gently on the nearest sink, you pulled him closer as he slid his hands under your shirt, cupping your breasts while sucking at your neck. You whined at the sensation, yanking his jacket and shirt off. You needed him.

Now.

"This is wrong," you arched into his touch as he squeezed. The thought of fucking in a place of death, a place of violence, chilled your spine.

"Tell me to stop, then." He orders.

You couldn't find the words, thoughts drowned out by need—by desire, and you felt him smirk against your skin.

Reaching for the edges of your shirt, he lifted the fabric over your head, laying it behind you on the cold granite.

You ran your fingers through his hair, tugging at the silken strands as he groaned at the ache. You smiled, tugging his head back, attaching your lips and dragging your tongue to his jaw, his neck, his chest—anything and everything you could reach.

With one quick motion, he pulled you off the sink, turning you around and pushing you face-first into the sink. His palm held your head to the cool granite, keeping you in place. Your breath hitched as he pulled your pants down, taking your underwear with. His hands squeezed and grabbed at your ass before administering a sharp slap. You cried out as he leaned into your ear.

"You want me to fuck you?" You whined, your eyes closed, taking in the moment with him. "Fuck you so the guard outside knows who you belong to you?"

He tugged at his pants, removed them completely, and aligned himself to you. He pushed into you with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.

Your neck was pulled at such an angle that you could see yourself in the mirror—cheeks red, lips puffy, and mouth agape as In-ho was mercilessly fucking you. Your hips ached from the force of hitting the counter, making you shriek. He groaned, "I missed you," he leaned forward again, and you grabbed at his neck behind you, pulling him closer.

You whined, "I-I think—" he grabbed at your jaw, "cum for me," he demanded, forcing your climax to shatter through you. Biting at your shoulder, he fucked you through it, reaching his peak a moment later.

As he slowed, he kept himself right where he was, wrapping his arms around your front and offering a sweet kiss to your cheek.

"That was fun, but I really need to pee." You whispered.

Sitting up slowly, you watched as In-ho moved around the small bathroom, his movements almost automated as he dressed. The sound of fabric rustling filled the silence, but inside, you felt anything but calm. A wave of guilt, heavy and suffocating, crashed over you, the weight of it pressing down on your chest.

What had you just done?

You both had fucked like everything was fine, like you were on some sort of carefree vacation, lost in the moment. But this wasn't a vacation. This wasn't a time for pleasure or escape. People were dying here—people you didn't know, people you'd likely never see again. And yet, you had let yourself indulge in something as fleeting and intimate as this as if nothing mattered. As if you were safe.

The realization hit you with sharp clarity. You were not safe.

You stood quickly, your hands shaking as you hurriedly slipped your shirt and pants back on. The fabric felt tight and foreign against your skin, as if you were suddenly aware of the gravity of every movement, every breath.

You glanced over at In-ho, who had stopped midway through shrugging into his jacket, his eyes narrowing slightly as he caught the change in your demeanor. His gaze softened, but the concern in his eyes only made the guilt in your stomach churn harder.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The next game arrived faster than you had anticipated, and the tension in your chest only deepened as you prepared yourself for whatever twisted challenge awaited. You instinctively attached yourself to In-ho, walking shoulder to shoulder with him, Mina's hand securely in yours. The three of you were a united front, or at least you tried to be. In-ho, however, refused to acknowledge it, his disdain for Mina simmering just beneath the surface, his gaze sharp and focused as he kept a distance between them.

Entering the game room, your breath caught at the sight before you: a massive merry-go-round, the painted horses eerily still, surrounded by a strange sense of foreboding. You couldn't help but glance around, trying to make sense of it all.

"Any ideas yet?" you asked Mina, but before she could respond, In-ho cut in with an air of certainty.

"Mingle," he said simply.

You turned toward him, a flicker of surprise in your eyes. "How are you so sure?"

Mina's brow furrowed with suspicion, matching your confused look as she eyed him closely. In-ho gave you both a quick glance before answering with a confidence that made your skin crawl.

"The rooms, the platform. It's obvious."

Without another word, he walked ahead, leaving you and Mina in his wake. Mina leaned in closer, her voice low, filled with an edge of concern.

"Don't you think he's guessing a little...too well?"

You pushed her lightly, a knot forming in your stomach as you caught onto the insinuation.

"Don't be silly. We don't even know if he's right."

But Mina wasn't letting it go. She grabbed your shoulders firmly, her eyes crinkling with worry, her voice taking on a more urgent tone.

"I'm saying this as your bestest friend, y/n," she insisted, her gaze locking onto yours, "but something feels off." Her grip tightened, and you felt the weight of her words settle in your chest.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible, as she leaned closer.

"I've been watching him. I've caught this look in his eye—this calculated look—and it's just giving me this god-awful feeling. The way he threatened that older man, how quickly he figured things out... doesn't it make you wonder why he just randomly appeared after the first game?"

You could feel your heartbeat quicken, the creeping unease crawling up your spine. Mina wasn't the type to stir the pot without reason, and her concern was palpable, making your own doubts resurface. You hadn't noticed it before, but now—he was different. His reactions, his confidence—it all seemed a little too... precise. Too perfect. Not to mention the guard shrinking from his demand.

You swallowed hard, trying to push the rising fear down. "Mina... you're overthinking it."

But the doubt gnawed at you, and the unease in your gut only grew heavier.

"Maybe I am," Mina said, her voice filled with uncertainty but still holding a note of conviction.

She paused, then added, "Just listen for the announcement. If he's wrong, you can spend the rest of our lives rubbing it in."

She gave a slight, teasing snicker, her smile a little more strained now, as if trying to lighten the growing tension.

"Just don't die on me and ruin the moment," she added, the last part almost playful, but there was an underlying concern in her voice.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound coming out a little too nervous to be genuine, but you couldn't help it. "Oh, don't worry," you said, forcing a grin as you nudged her shoulder. "I'm definitely going to outlive you."

Mina's arm swung around your shoulders, pulling you in tight for a brief, tight hug. Her grip was almost protective, and you could feel her warmth seep through your clothes, an odd comfort in a place like this.

"If you do outlive me," she muttered into your ear, "just promise me you'll still remember who had your back when no one else did."

Her words were light, but you knew she meant them as the two of you stepped on the platform next to In-ho.

The familiar woman's voice echoed, but it felt distant like you were hearing it through a thick fog, muffled and hollow.

"Players, welcome to the second game."

A chill ran down your spine.

"For your next game, you will be playing Mingle.”

Your heart stopped.

No, it couldn't be. Not this. The ground beneath you seemed to tilt, and for a moment, everything went still. Your body felt weightless, detached from the reality around you. The world felt like it was spinning, but you were anchored somewhere far away, watching yourself as if from a distance.

You glanced at Mina, your hand trembling in hers as your gaze locked onto hers, the panic written all over your face mirrored in hers. The sound of the woman's voice faded into static, her words becoming unintelligible as your hearing seemed to dull, the world slipping further from your grasp.

You squeezed Mina's hand with a strength you didn't know you had, but the pressure in your chest only tightened. Her expression softened into something akin to sorrow, the pity in her eyes somehow making everything worse. It was as if she could feel what you were experiencing—the crushing weight of the game's announcement.

Too afraid to look at In-ho, you kept your eyes fixed on Mina, clinging to her as if she could pull you back from the edge as if she could stop everything from falling apart. But the feeling—the sense of drowning in your own mind—was overwhelming, suffocating. The fear clawed at you, and you couldn't stop it, couldn't stop the sense of losing yourself in the chaos of it all.

It was like the world was rushing forward, and you were stuck, frozen in place, unable to breathe.

It was as if everything fell into place in that moment, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together with a sickening clarity. The rush of realization hit you all at once, and it was like a weight was crushing your chest.

You thought back to the things he'd said, the things he'd done—each one a thread leading you to this horrifying truth. The way he'd spoken to you at the coffee shop, so calm and calculated, the same cold detachment in his voice now. That look in his eyes—it wasn't just about the game, wasn't just about survival. It was something darker.

He knew exactly where Mina was losing her money. He knew, and he didn't care. And that violent threat he made to that man—it wasn't a slip of anger, wasn't a moment of desperation. It was deliberate. Purposeful. The guard, too, obeying him without question—it wasn't just chance.

"Don't worry about them," he had said in the bathroom. And now, the words echoed in your mind, twisted with new meaning, the lie hanging heavy between you.

You turned to him slowly in that instant, your heart hammering in your chest. The betrayal was like a sharp knife, cutting deeper with every passing second. His cold countenance met your gaze, and in that moment, it all became painfully clear. His indifference to everything, to everyone around him—it wasn't survival for him.

It wasn't coincidence. It wasn't a fluke. It was him.

You looked down and off in the distance.

The games — It was him.

Mina's grip tightened around your hand, pulling you forward off the platform in a blur. You hadn't even realized the game had started—your mind was still reeling, the weight of the revelation suffocating your thoughts. The number 2 echoed in the air, and the pressure of the game became all too real.

Before you could even process what was happening, a sudden force yanked you back, your arm jerking as a strong hand latched onto you. You were pulled against a hard, familiar chest, and you barely had time to breathe before you recognized the feeling—the cold, unyielding presence of In-ho.

A jolt of panic shot through you, but Mina wasn't letting you go that easily. She struggled to break free, her hand reaching for yours, fighting with everything she had to drag you away from him. But it was no use, as a passerby knocked her down with a strong force.

In-ho was swift, dragging you toward the nearest room without hesitation, his grip firm on your arm. The sound of footsteps echoed in the hall, but before you could even register the danger, a man appeared from the shadows, lunging forward and knocking you to the ground.

Twenty seconds

The urgency of the countdown pulsed in the air. In-ho reacted in an instant, grabbing the man by the shoulders and slamming him back.

"Get in! Go!" he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.

You didn't need to be told twice. Fear surged through your body, and you bolted for the room, throwing yourself inside. But as the door slammed behind you, your heart sank—there was already someone in the room. The man's partner, standing tall, blocking the way.

In-ho was hot on your heels, entering just a moment later. His eyes immediately locked onto the intruder.

"Out," he commanded coldly, his voice carrying authority. But the man stood his ground, refusing to move.

Ten Seconds

In-ho didn't hesitate. He circled around the man with lightning speed, his movements precise. Before the man could react, In-ho had him in a chokehold, his grip unyielding.

The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as your pulse raced in your throat. Terrified, you backed against the wall, eyes wide with panic. You could feel the countdown in your chest, each second more suffocating than the last.

5...4...3...2...1

A sharp, sickening crack split the silence, and the man's body went limp in In-ho's arms, his life snuffed out in an instant. The room seemed to freeze, and for a moment, all you could hear was the ringing in your ears.

You slid down the wall in a daze, your breath shallow as you pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle the shock and nausea threatening to overwhelm you. You couldn’t look away from the lifeless form, the reality of what had just happened sinking in, making your head spin.

Mina.

You jumped to your feet, looking out the small window of the room.

You couldn't find her.

That was a good thing, right?

Remaining in the room, that same woman's voice spoke over the loudspeaker.

"The following players have been eliminated."

"Player 022, 120, 207..."

You tried to block out the sound of the numbers, each one echoing in your mind like a drumbeat, relentless and deafening. But then, the one number you’d been desperately praying would never come—the one you feared more than any other—was announced.

"Player 067, eliminated."

The words felt like a physical blow, crashing into you with an intensity that took your breath away. A cold, sinking feeling spread through your chest as reality shattered. The world blurred around you, the weight of the announcement pressing down on your entire being, suffocating you.

You screamed, the sound raw and desperate, a cry that seemed to tear from your very soul. You screamed until your throat burned, until the pain in your chest was too much to bear, until everything in your vision distorted in the haze of shock and grief.

And then, cold hands gripped your shoulders—too cold, too steady. In-ho pulled you, almost as if he were dragging you into the abyss with them. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t think. All that remained was the sound of your own voice breaking, the empty, hollow realization that you’d lost someone you couldn’t afford to lose in this hellish place.

His hands guided you down to the floor, but your legs refused to hold you. You crumpled, your body trembling violently as the weight of the loss crushed you.

There was nothing but the scream in your throat and the terrible, empty silence that followed the words you could never unhear.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

You didn’t remember slipping into unconsciousness, but in that moment, it felt like a mercy—an escape from the crushing weight of reality.

When you awoke, everything felt distant, foreign, like you had been transported to a place where nothing mattered anymore. The world around you was different, but you barely registered it, your mind too numb to care.

In-ho stood in front of you, his presence all too much. His eyes bore into yours, but yours were hollow, glassy, stripped of the light they once had.

"Drink this," he murmured, extending an undersized glass of liquor. His voice was steady, yet cold, as if rehearsed. You took the glass with trembling hands but not to drink. With a sharp motion, you hurled it across the room. The glass shattered against the wall, fragments raining down like jagged tears.

"You're despicable," you spat, the words seething with venom. His face barely flinched, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something-pain? Regret? It didn't matter.

"You were never meant to be involved, y/n. If you would have just come to me about your troubles this wouldn't have happened."

You scoffed, your lip curling in contempt. "Oh, and everything would have been perfect, wouldn't it? You jetting off on your little 'business trips,' murdering people, while I stayed home like some clueless fool, keeping your bed warm and smiling like an idiot. Is that how you imagined it?"

Your voice wavered, thick with bitterness, as tears burned your cheeks.

"How....how could you do it?" He circled you, slow and deliberate, like a predator cornering prey. He sank into the loveseat behind you with an air of calculated calm, gesturing for you to sit. His hand barely moved, a silent command. You didn't budge.

He sighed, "I'm doing this for us, for you. Don't you see? The people chosen for the game are parasites—leeches consumed by greed and selfishness. They deserve to be eliminated from existence. Whether they're crushed in the process or crawl away with their filthy riches, it doesn't matter. Either way, they're removed from our world."

Your breath caught in your throat, the words slicing through you like a jagged blade. For a moment, you couldn't speak, couldn't even think. His voice, so calm, so calculating, made your skin crawl.

"For us?" you finally choked out, your voice trembling, caught between disbelief and anguish.

"How can you even say that?"

He didn't flinch, didn't waver, his eyes cold and distant. But you? You were unraveling. Your chest heaved as if trying to contain the storm brewing inside you.

"People. Parasites. Is that what you think they are? Is that what you thought Mina was? Is that why you had her killed?

"Is that what you think I am?" The words came out sharp, but your voice cracked under the weight of your emotions.

That seemed to get to him. He rose from his seat with slow movements, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You?" he said, his voice softer now but no less chilling.

"You're not like them."

He began walking toward you, his steps measured, almost cautious, like he was approaching a cornered animal.

"You're not here for your own gain, not for greed or selfish desires. You're here for your father, fighting to save him. That’s why I-I” He started, but you scoffed cutting him off.

But as he drew closer, you instinctively stepped back, your feet moving before your mind could catch up. A cold rush of fear swept over you. You'd never been afraid of him before, but now? Now, you couldn't trust what he was capable of.

"In-ho... don't," you whispered, your voice shaking.

He froze mid-step, his hand half-raised toward you, his brows knitting together. "Don't do that," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "Don't back away from me. Please, don't... don't be afraid of me."

Your heart clenched, but his words didn't bring comfort. They only deepened the chasm between you.

How could this be the same man who once made you laugh until your sides hurt? Who wiped your tears with such tenderness that you thought your heart might burst from the love you felt for him? Memories surged through you—the quiet mornings, the stolen smiles, the promises whispered in the dark. You thought of every moment you had shared, the man you believed in, the man you loved with everything you had.

And now, here he was—a stranger standing before you, cloaked in the shadow of someone you used to know.

"How can I not be afraid?" You whispered, your voice barely audible. You felt the knife twist in your back. Your eyes dropped to the crimson spreading across your clothes, the sheer volume of people's blood making your stomach churn. You trembled uncontrollably, paralyzed by shock and disbelief. Through your haze of agony, you caught In-ho's gaze. His expression was a storm of guilt and regret, but it only deepened your devastation as you crumbled before him.

Finally, your voice cracked again. "I…I need space."

His expression faltered, pain flashing across his face. "Space?"

You nodded, wiping your tear-streaked face with trembling hands. "I can't… I need to think. Please."

He hesitated, then nodded slowly, though his posture screamed reluctance. "You can take the spare bedroom," he said softly. "Down the hall, second door on the left."

Without another word, you turned and walked away, your legs heavy and unsteady beneath you. When you reached the room, you stepped inside and slammed the door shut, locking it before leaning back against it. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, your mind racing.

After a moment, you crossed the room, grabbing fresh towels from the small cabinet. You needed to wash it all away—the day, the deaths, the violence. Everything.

The bathroom was dimly lit, the only sound the steady rush of warm water from the shower. You stepped inside, sinking down onto the cold tile floor as the water poured over you, mixing with your tears.

Your mind raced, flashing back to the chaos of the day—the screams, the blood, the merciless decisions. And at the center of it all, the one pulling the strings was him. In-ho.

But then, as much as you wanted to hate him, memories of the past three years flooded your mind. His laughter that lit up even your darkest days. The way he'd hold you, whispering that everything would be okay. The small, thoughtful gestures that made you feel so loved. The way he'd make love.

You buried your face in your hands, the water soaking through your hair and down your bare skin. You still loved him. Even after everything, your heart ached for him.

But how could you reconcile the man who once made your world brighter with the man you'd seen today? The man who was capable of orchestrating so much death and pain?

Your shoulders shook as sobs wracked your body. You didn't know what to do. You didn't know if you could forgive him or if you could ever look at him the same way again.

And yet, even in the depths of your confusion and heartbreak, one thing was painfully clear—you still loved him, but you're not even sure he existed anymore.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

It had been two weeks, two long weeks of isolation. You barely left your room, only emerging when absolutely necessary —for food or the fleeting desire for a change in scenery. In-ho had tried, time and time again, to draw you out of your silence, but every time he spoke, every time his eyes met yours, you couldn't even bring yourself to acknowledge him. The pain was still too raw.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, brushing your damp hair, you let the motions soothe you for a moment. The simple act of taking care of yourself felt almost comforting. But then a knock at the door broke through the quiet.

You approached cautiously, heart beating faster as you turned the knob, only to find In-ho standing there. He said nothing at first, just looked at you, his expression unreadable.

"I want to show you something," he said, his voice low.

You hesitated, shaking your head, instinctively wanting to retreat back into the safety of your room. But his next words made you pause, the sincerity in his eyes pulling at something deep inside of you.

"Please."

It was a simple plea, but it held something genuine—something that made you want to trust him, just for a moment. You sighed, giving in, and followed him down the hall to his office.

The space was quiet and orderly as always. In-ho circled around his desk and sat down, and you stood, hugging your arms tightly to yourself, feeling the chill of the room. He beckoned you over, and you approached, curiosity and apprehension warring in your chest.

He opened a file on his computer, and as the video began to play, your eyes scanned the screen. You recognized the area instantly—it was right outside the city hospital, a place so familiar to you.

And then, you saw him. Your father, sitting in a wheelchair. Beside him, your mother. And the woman next to them…

Mina.

Your heart leaped in your chest, the tears welling up in your eyes as the weight of the moment crashed down on you.

You blinked, trying to steady yourself as you turned to In-ho, your voice shaky. "How..."

He looked back at you, his tone softer than you expected. "Mina was removed from the games. Her death was faked. And yours." He turned the screen toward you, showing more of the footage. "As for your father, I made sure the necessary funds were sent and lined him up with a donor."

A sense of relief flooded through you like a tidal wave. You didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but one thing was clear—everything was going to be okay.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you could breathe again. The people you cared about were safe. Your father was getting the help he needed, and Mina—Mina was alive.

Tears streamed down your face, but they were no longer tears of grief. They were tears of release, of a weight finally lifted.

In-ho's gaze met yours, his eyes unwavering as he reached out to take your hands gently in his. His touch was warm, grounding, as if he was trying to reassure you, to remind you that you were no longer alone in this.

"I swore to you," he said, his voice low and steady, "that everything I did, every decision, every action—it would be for you."

You slid into his lap, your knees trembling as you took his face in your hands, wiping away the stray tear that escaped down his cheek. His skin felt warm against your palms, a comfort you had clung to so many times before, but now it only reminded you of how much had changed—how far apart the two of you had drifted.

"All these years," you began, your voice breaking as tears welled in your eyes, "all I've known is what you've allowed me to know. Half of who you are. And I loved that half—I loved it with everything in me." Your voice faltered, but you forced yourself to continue, your fingers trembling as they traced the curve of his jaw. "But this," you said, gesturing to the cold, sterile facility surrounding you, "this is something I can't forgive. These people… they're not parasites or leeches. They're human beings, In-ho. Human beings who were dealt a bad hand. And you've turned their suffering into a game."

His brows furrowed, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, but he said nothing. You could see it—the war raging in his mind, the guilt and conflict he was too proud to admit. You leaned in closer, your forehead almost touching his as you whispered, your voice trembling, "I'm going to give you a choice."

His hands slid up your waist instinctively, as if trying to anchor himself to you, trying to hold on to the one thing he couldn't bear to lose. You felt his grip tighten, desperate, but you pressed on, your words cutting through the silence.

"Come home with me," you said, your voice cracking with emotion. "Leave this all behind and we can reset. Walk away from this nightmare, because if you don't…" Your breath caught as tears spilled freely down your cheeks. "If you don't, In-ho, you will never see me again."

His eyes widened, a flicker of pain flashing across his face as he processed your words. You saw the gears turning in his mind, the walls he had built around himself crumbling under the weight of your ultimatum. His grip on you faltered, his hands trembling as he clung to you like a lifeline.

"In-ho," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "please. I can't save you from this. You have to save yourself."

For a long, agonizing moment, he said nothing, his silence filling the room like a deafening roar. And as you stared into his eyes, searching for the man you had loved for so long, you realized this moment would either be the beginning of something new—or the end of everything.

-> PART TWO <-

#hwang in ho #hwang in ho x reader #front man x reader #front man #in ho squid game #fanfic #squid game season 2 #the frontman #squid game fanfic #fan fiction #the front man x reader

1K notes · View notes