wonwunss

[wonwunss]

this is an absolute MASTERPIECE like i am literally jaw dropped, no words to describe whatever i just read 😭😭😭😭 this is wayyyyyyy to good, def a reread for me for the next months i might actually start seeing it in my dreams frame by frame.

from the angst to the fluff, everything is perfectly timed, good job writer-nim!!! ❤️❤️❤️

CHERRY TREES

arranged husband!Jungwon x trophy wife!reader - confronting cold arranged husband on your first anniversary.

ENHA HARD HOURS 18+ MDNI, Angst, fluff, a second chance, the smut is crazy im ngl to u but the angst is worse, he actually goes insane like insane he loses it.

-

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed five times, its deep resonance echoing through the marble corridors of your estate. Without opening your eyes, you knew Jungwon was already awake. The mattress dipped slightly as he carefully extracted himself from beneath the Egyptian cotton covers, his movements deliberately gentle to avoid disturbing you. You kept your breathing steady, maintaining the pretense of sleep as you had so many mornings before.

Through barely-parted lids, you watched his silhouette move through the predawn darkness. Jungwon's routine never varied—not on weekends, holidays, or even the morning after your anniversary celebration when he'd had perhaps one glass of Château Margaux too many. Five a.m. meant feet on the floor, regardless of circumstance.

He disappeared into the expansive en-suite bathroom, closing the door with practiced quietness before the shower began to run. You rolled over to face the floor-to-ceiling windows, abandoning the charade of sleep. Outside, the manicured gardens remained dark and still, mirroring the atmosphere that permeated your mansion despite its immaculate decoration and luxurious furnishings.

One year of marriage. Three hundred and sixty-five mornings of this same choreographed dance.

By the time Jungwon emerged from the bathroom, you had straightened your side of the bed and donned your silk robe. He nodded in acknowledgment, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

"Good morning," he said, voice pleasant but neutral. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

"No, I was already awake," you lied, the response automatic after months of repetition. "Will you be joining me for breakfast on the terrace today?"

He checked his watch—the elegant Patek Philippe you'd given him on your six-month anniversary. "I have an early meeting. I'll grab something at the office."

You nodded, expecting this answer. Despite your chef preparing an elaborate breakfast spread every morning, Jungwon rarely sat down to eat it. You'd long since stopped taking it personally, instead viewing it as simply another aspect of your peculiar marriage.

"Madame," came a soft voice from the doorway. Your personal maid stood waiting respectfully. "The blue gown has been pressed for tonight's charity auction, and Mrs. Yang called to confirm your appointment at the salon at two."

"Thank you. Please tell the chef I'll be down shortly."

Jungwon's expression softened momentarily with what might have been gratitude. "The blue gown is a good choice. It matches the sapphires."

The brief warmth in his eyes vanished so quickly you questioned whether you'd imagined it. He dressed efficiently, selecting the navy suit you'd suggested earlier in the week. You busied yourself reviewing the day's schedule on your tablet, giving him space while maintaining the illusion of comfortable domesticity.

"I'll send the car for you at six," he said, adjusting his tie in the mirror. Perfect Windsor knot, as always. "The auction starts at seven, but your mother-in-law suggested we arrive early to greet the host committee."

"I'll be ready," you assured him. "The blue complements the sapphires your family gifted me last Christmas—perfect for the society photographers."

He nodded approvingly. "Perfect. The Yangs must maintain appearances."

The phrase hung in the air between you, a reminder of what truly bound you together. Not love or passion or even friendship, but appearances. The Yang family name and reputation, upheld through generations and now entrusted to Jungwon—and by extension, to you.

Before leaving, he stopped at the bedroom door. "The new arrangement in the grand foyer—the one with the peonies and orchids. My mother asked for the name of your florist."

"I'd be happy to share their contact information," you replied, surprised that he'd noticed the flowers at all.

He hesitated, as if considering saying something more, then simply nodded and left. Moments later, you heard the soft purr of his car starting in the circular driveway below.

The suite fell silent, save for the continuing measured tick of the antique clock.

By eleven, you had completed your morning inspection of the household: reviewing the dinner menu with the chef, approving the landscaping plans for the east garden, and confirming that the linens for Friday's dinner party had been properly pressed. The mansion operated with clockwork precision under your supervision, a showcase of domestic perfection that visitors frequently praised.

Your phone chimed with a text message from Mrs. Yang—your mother-in-law.

The charity auction tonight is a perfect opportunity to connect with the Singhs. Their daughter returned from Oxford and has taken over their foundation. Jungwon could use their support for the new community project.

You typed a gracious reply, assuring her you would make the introduction. This was part of your unspoken role: social facilitator, network cultivator, the charming counterbalance to Jungwon's more reserved demeanor in public. Mrs. Yang had explicitly voiced her approval of your social graces during the marriage negotiations, though she'd phrased it more delicately at the time.

In the solarium, you sipped tea and reviewed correspondence on your tablet. The household staff moved efficiently around the estate, their presence indicated only by the occasional distant voice or the soft closing of a door. This cocoon of luxury and service had become your domain—a gilded cage, perhaps, but one you managed with impeccable skill.

The charity auction venue sparkled with crystal chandeliers and the gleam of expensive jewelry. You stood beside Jungwon, your hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm as he conversed with an important international investor. Your blue gown complemented the subtle blue in Jungwon's tie, a coordinated detail that Mrs. Yang had encouraged early in your marriage.

"And what do you think of the market's new direction?" the investor asked, unexpectedly turning to include you in the conversation.

Without missing a beat, you offered a thoughtful response based on fragments you'd gathered from Jungwon's rare comments about business. Your husband's arm tensed slightly beneath your hand—in surprise or approval, you couldn't tell.

"You've got yourself a perceptive wife, Yang," the man laughed, clearly impressed. "Better be careful or I'll recruit her for my advisory board."

Jungwon smiled, a genuine expression that transformed his handsome face. "I'm very fortunate," he agreed, turning to look at you with apparent pride.

For a moment—just a moment—the warmth in his eyes seemed real. Then a passing waiter offered champagne, and the connection broke as he reached for two glasses.

The evening continued in this manner: introductions, small talk, strategic conversations with selected guests, and the careful maintenance of the image you projected as a couple. Jungwon's hand occasionally rested at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd with gentle pressure. To anyone watching, the gesture appeared intimate and caring.

"Your work with the children's literacy foundation has been inspirational," commented Ms. Singh as you were introduced. "My father is quite impressed."

You played your part flawlessly. Laughed at the right moments. Showed appropriate interest in business discussions. Made mental notes of important names and connections to record later in your planner. You orchestrated the introduction to the Singh family that appeared completely spontaneous, fulfilling your mother-in-law's request with such subtlety that even Jungwon seemed unaware of the manipulation.

During a lull in the event, you excused yourself to visit the ladies' room. Standing before the mirror, you studied your reflection: perfectly applied makeup, not a hair out of place, the picture of a successful young wife. Other women came and went, exchanging pleasantries, complimenting your gown or asking about upcoming social events.

"You and Jungwon always look so happy together," sighed a fellow socialite as she applied fresh lipstick. "My husband can barely remember which events are on our calendar, let alone coordinate his tie with my outfit."

You smiled politely. "Jungwon is very attentive to details."

When you returned to the main hall, you spotted your husband across the room, engaged in conversation with the Singh patriarch as you had arranged. His posture was relaxed, confident, his expression animated as he discussed something that clearly interested him. You rarely saw that expression at home.

As if sensing your gaze, he looked up and met your eyes across the crowded room. For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered across his face. He excused himself from the conversation and made his way to your side.

"Is everything alright?" he asked quietly.

"Of course," you assured him. "Mr. Singh seems interested in your project."

He nodded. "Yes, thank you for the introduction. He mentioned you'd spoken highly of the initiative."

"That's what wives do, isn't it?" you replied, the words emerging more wistfully than you'd intended.

Jungwon studied your face, his brow furrowing slightly. "Are you tired? We can leave if you'd like."

"No," you said quickly. "Your mother would be disappointed if we left before the final auction lot."

The mention of his mother was enough to settle the matter. Jungwon nodded and offered his arm again, leading you back into the social whirl. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of smiles and small talk, your practiced responses on autopilot while your mind drifted elsewhere.

The mansion was quiet when you returned just after midnight, though a few lights remained on for your arrival. The night butler opened the door as the car pulled up.

"Welcome home, Madame, Sir," he greeted with a respectful bow. "May I bring anything before you retire?"

"No thank you," Jungwon replied, loosening his tie. "That will be all for tonight."

As the butler disappeared, Jungwon turned to you in the grand foyer, its marble floors gleaming under the soft chandelier light. "Successful evening," he commented, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "The Singhs have invited us to their summer compound next month."

"That's wonderful," you replied, slipping off your heels with a small sigh of relief. "Your mother will be pleased."

He set down his keys and looked at you directly, something he rarely did at home. "You don't need to keep mentioning my mother. I'm capable of recognizing business opportunities on my own."

The unexpected sharpness in his tone surprised you. "I didn't mean to suggest otherwise."

He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, disheveling it slightly. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

The apology hung awkwardly between you. Jungwon rarely expressed irritation, maintaining the same polite distance whether discussing dinner plans or household accounts.

"It's late," you said finally. "We're both tired."

He nodded, the momentary crack in his composure already repaired. "I have some work to finish. Don't wait up."

You watched him retreat to his home office, the door closing firmly behind him. In the kitchen, you found the chef had left a covered plate of small desserts and a pot of tea keeping warm. The thoughtful gesture—understanding your tendency to skip dinner at formal events—brought an unexpected lump to your throat.

The mansion was beautiful—spacious, elegantly decorated, with every luxury and convenience. The marriage looked perfect from the outside: handsome, successful husband; accomplished, supportive wife; respected families united through a beneficial alliance. You wanted for nothing material.

And yet.

Upstairs, your nightwear had already been laid out and the bed turned down. In the adjoining bathroom, you methodically removed your jewelry and makeup, the familiar routine requiring no thought. Your reflection stared back, younger without the carefully applied cosmetics but somehow sadder too.

When you finally slipped between the cool sheets, Jungwon's side of the bed remained empty. You knew from experience that he might not come upstairs for hours. Sometimes you woke briefly in the night to feel the mattress dip as he joined you, maintaining a careful distance even in sleep.

As exhaustion pulled you toward unconsciousness, you wondered—not for the first time—what thoughts occupied your husband's mind during his late-night work sessions. Whether he ever questioned the arrangement that had brought you together. Whether he ever wished for something more than this immaculate, empty performance you both maintained.

Outside, a gentle rain began to fall against the panoramic windows, drops catching the moonlight like silver tears against the darkness.

-

The first anniversary dinner had been your mother-in-law's idea.

"A small celebration," she'd said during your weekly tea. "Nothing extravagant, of course. Just family to commemorate the successful first year."

You'd nodded and smiled, playing your part. "I'll coordinate with the chef for a special menu."

A successful first year. The phrase echoed in your mind as you supervised the staff arranging peonies and orchids in the dining room—Jungwon's mother's favorites. The crystal gleamed under the chandelier light, the silver polished to mirror brightness, the napkins folded into perfect swans. Success measured in appearances, in business connections forged, in social obligations fulfilled.

Not in moments of genuine connection, in shared laughter, in the casual intimacy of a hand brushing hair from your face. Those metrics of success remained conspicuously absent from your marriage ledger.

"The wine selection has been brought up from the cellar, Madame," said the butler. "And the chef has prepared the appetizers exactly as you specified."

"Thank you," you replied, adjusting a place setting minutely. "Mr. Yang will be home by seven, and his parents will arrive at seven-thirty."

The butler nodded and withdrew, leaving you alone in the perfect dining room of your perfect mansion in your perfect marriage that was, somehow, entirely empty.

Jungwon arrived precisely at seven, as predictable as the sunrise. You heard the familiar sound of his car, followed by his measured footsteps in the foyer. When he appeared in the doorway of the dining room, he was already dressed in the suit you'd laid out—the charcoal gray Tom Ford that his mother once commented made him look distinguished.

"Everything looks lovely," he said, surveying the room with appreciative eyes. "You've outdone yourself."

"Thank you," you replied, accepting the compliment with practiced grace. "Your mother mentioned Mr. Kim might join them. I've set an extra place just in case."

Something flickered across Jungwon's face—annoyance, perhaps. "He wasn't mentioned to me."

"He's the family attorney. Perhaps there's business to discuss."

"On our anniversary dinner?" The edge in Jungwon's voice surprised you. "Some things should remain separate from business."

You studied your husband's face, wondering at this unusual display of emotion. "Would you prefer I call your mother and inquire?"

"No," he said, composure returning like a mask sliding back into place. "It doesn't matter."

But it did matter, and the tension in his shoulders told you so. This was new—this momentary crack in the facade. You wanted to press further, to understand what had triggered this response, but years of social conditioning held you back.

Instead, you said, "There's time for a drink before they arrive. Would you like something?"

He nodded, following you to the sitting room where the bar cart awaited. You poured him two fingers of the Macallan 25-year he preferred, your movements precise and practiced. When you handed him the crystal tumbler, your fingers brushed his—an accidental touch that shouldn't have felt significant but somehow did.

"One year," he said quietly, staring into the amber liquid.

"Yes," you agreed, pouring yourself a small measure of the same. "It's gone quickly."

The silence between you stretched, filled with all the words neither of you knew how to say. Jungwon seemed on the verge of speaking when the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of his parents.

The moment, whatever it might have been, evaporated.

Dinner progressed with the same choreographed precision as every family gathering. Mrs. Yang complimented the decor, inquired about your recent charity work, and dominated the conversation with updates on various family connections. Mr. Yang, stern and reserved like his son, contributed occasional comments about business or politics. And Mr. Kim, who had indeed accompanied them, observed it all with the calculated interest of someone evaluating an investment.

"The first year is always the most challenging," Mrs. Yang declared over the entrée, smiling at you and Jungwon with evident satisfaction. "And you two have managed it beautifully."

"Indeed," agreed Mr. Kim, raising his wine glass in a small toast. "The Yang family's standing has only strengthened. Your partnership has proven most advantageous."

Partnership. Not marriage. The distinction wasn't lost on you.

"And the foundation gala last month," Mrs. Yang continued. "Several board members commented on how impressive you both were. The Choi family was particularly taken with you, dear." She directed this last comment at you. "Mrs. Choi mentioned how fortunate Jungwon is to have found such an accomplished wife."

"I am fortunate," Jungwon agreed smoothly, the response automatic. He didn't look at you as he said it.

"Now, about the expansion into renewable energy," Mr. Yang began, turning to his son. "The board is meeting next week to discuss the proposal."

Business at the anniversary dinner, just as you'd predicted. You caught Jungwon's eye across the table, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. For once, it felt like you were truly on the same side, united in your recognition of the situation's irony.

As the men discussed business, Mrs. Yang leaned closer to you. "You know, dear, I've been meaning to ask... it's been a year now. Any news you'd like to share? Any... expectations?"

The delicate emphasis made her meaning clear. You felt heat rise to your face, embarrassment mingling with a deeper discomfort.

"Not yet," you replied quietly, maintaining your composure despite the intrusive question.

"Well, there's still time," she said, patting your hand. "Though of course, an heir is important for the Yang legacy. My husband's grandmother used to say, 'A tree without new leaves withers.'"

You nodded politely, taking a sip of wine to avoid having to respond further. Across the table, you noticed Jungwon's shoulders tense, though he gave no other indication of having overheard.

The rest of the evening passed in a similar vein—discussions of business, thinly veiled inquiries about family planning, and reminiscences about the wedding that focused primarily on its beneficial outcomes for the Yang family interests.

Not once did anyone ask if you were happy.

After seeing his parents and Mr. Kim to the door, Jungwon returned to the sitting room where you were nursing a final glass of wine. The house felt unnaturally quiet after the departure of the guests, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts.

"My mother was pleased," he said, loosening his tie and pouring himself another whiskey. "She said the dinner was perfect."

"Of course she did," you replied, a hint of bitterness seeping into your voice despite your best efforts. "Everything about us is perfect on the surface."

Jungwon looked at you sharply. "What does that mean?"

The wine, the emotional strain of the evening, the accumulation of a year's worth of silences—something inside you finally cracked.

"It means this," you gestured between the two of you, "isn't a marriage. It's a business arrangement with living quarters."

His expression hardened. "That's unfair. I've given you everything you could want."

"Everything except yourself," you countered, your voice rising slightly. "We live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, but you might as well be a thousand miles away."

"I don't know what you expect," he said stiffly. "We both understood the nature of this marriage from the beginning."

"Did we? Because I didn't agree to a lifetime of politeness and distance. I didn't agree to be nothing more than the perfect hostess and social coordinator for your business connections."

Jungwon set down his glass with careful precision. "You've never complained before."

"When would I have complained, Jungwon? During the three minutes of conversation we have each morning? Or perhaps during our public performances where we pretend to be a loving couple?"

He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling its perfect arrangement. "I thought you were satisfied with our arrangement. You manage the household, attend the events, fulfill your responsibilities—"

"Responsibilities?" The word struck like a match against your accumulated frustration. "Is that all I am to you? A set of responsibilities to be fulfilled?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean? Please, enlighten me about my role in this arrangement, since clearly I've misunderstood."

His jaw tightened. "You're my wife."

"Your wife," you repeated, the word suddenly sounding hollow. "And what does that mean to you? Because from where I stand, I might as well be your assistant or your housekeeper for all the genuine connection between us."

"You're being dramatic," he said dismissively. "Perhaps you've had too much wine."

The condescension in his tone was the final straw. A year of suppressed emotions—loneliness, frustration, yearning—erupted like a volcano too long dormant.

"Don't you dare dismiss me," you snapped, rising to your feet. "I have spent a year of my life walking on eggshells, trying to be perfect, trying to please you and your family, and for what? A thank you when I select the right tie? A nod of approval when I make the right business connection?"

Jungwon stared at you, clearly taken aback by your outburst. "I don't understand where this is coming from."

"Of course you don't! You've never bothered to see me as anything more than a convenient addition to your perfectly ordered life. Wake up at five, ignore wife, go to work, come home, work more, sleep. Repeat until death."

"That's not fair," he protested, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Isn't it? When was the last time you asked me about my day? Or shared something personal about yours? When was the last time you looked at me—really looked at me—not as the 'Madame' of this house or as an accessory at a business function, but as a woman? As your wife?"

The color drained from Jungwon's face, but you were beyond stopping now. The floodgates had opened, and a year's worth of unspoken thoughts poured forth in a torrent.

"We haven't even consummated our marriage, Jungwon! One year, and you've never once reached for me in the night. Never once kissed me with anything resembling passion. Do you have any idea how that feels? To lie beside someone night after night, wanting to be touched, to be desired, and meeting nothing but polite distance?"

His eyes widened in shock at your bluntness. "I—I thought you preferred our current arrangement. You never indicated—"

"Indicated?" You laughed, the sound brittle. "Would it have mattered if I had? You barely look at me when we're alone together. You keep yourself locked in your office until I'm asleep. Tell me, Jungwon, are you repulsed by me? Is that it?"

"No!" The vehemence of his response surprised you both. "That's not it at all."

"Then what? What keeps you at arm's length? Because I can't live like this anymore—this half-life of appearances and politeness with nothing real beneath it."

You moved closer, anger giving you courage you'd never had before. "How do you satisfy your desires, Jungwon? Do you have someone else? Some mistress in an apartment downtown who gets to see the real you? Who gets to feel your touch, your passion?"

He looked genuinely shocked. "There's no one else. I would never—"

"Then what?" Your voice broke slightly. "Are you simply that cold? That disconnected from your own body, your own needs? Because I refuse to believe a healthy man in his prime feels nothing, wants nothing."

Jungwon's jaw tightened. "This conversation is inappropriate."

"Inappropriate?" You were nearly shouting now. "We're married! This is exactly the conversation we should have had months ago! Do you have any idea what it's like to wonder if there's something wrong with you? To lie awake wondering why your husband never reaches for you? To start believing that maybe you're fundamentally undesirable?"

"That's not—" he began, but you cut him off.

"I've started inventing stories in my head, Jungwon. Elaborate scenarios to explain why my husband treats me like a porcelain doll. Maybe you're secretly in love with someone from your past. Maybe you prefer men. Maybe you have some medical condition you're too embarrassed to discuss. I've considered everything because the alternative—that you simply feel nothing for me—is too painful to bear."

His face had gone pale. "It's none of those things."

"Then help me understand," you pleaded, anger giving way to raw vulnerability. "Because the silence is killing me. The wondering is killing me. Are you like this with everyone? This... removed? This contained? Or is it just me you can't bring yourself to touch?"

Jungwon paced away from you, his composure cracking visibly. For a moment, he looked like he might retreat to his office—his usual escape—but instead, he stopped at the window, staring out at the darkness.

"I live in my head," he said so quietly you almost missed it. "Always have. Physical... intimacy... doesn't come naturally to me."

"Have you ever let yourself feel something?" you asked, your tone softer now. "With anyone?"

He was silent for so long you thought he might not answer. When he did, his voice was strained. "There was someone in college. It ended badly. I lost control, became... emotional. My father said it was embarrassing. Unbecoming of a Yang."

The confession surprised you. This tiny glimpse into his past felt like more intimacy than you'd experienced in a year of marriage.

"And since then?"

"Since then I've learned to be careful. Controlled." He turned to face you. "I thought I was respecting your space. Your independence."

"Respecting my space?" You stared at him incredulously. "There's a difference between respect and indifference, Jungwon."

"I'm not indifferent to you," he said quietly.

"Then what are you? Because from my perspective, I might as well be living alone for all the emotional connection between us."

He turned away again, his shoulders rigid with tension. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely. "Marriage. Intimacy. I wasn't raised for it."

"Neither was I," you countered. "But I'm trying. I've been trying for a year while you've been hiding behind work and politeness and duty."

You moved to stand beside him at the window, close but not touching. "Do you ever look at me and feel anything, Jungwon? Anything at all? Because sometimes I catch you watching me when you think I won't notice, and there's something in your eyes that disappears the moment I turn toward you."

He swallowed visibly. "I notice everything about you," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him. "The way you arrange flowers according to your mood. How you always leave the last bite of dessert. The small sigh you make when you're reading something that touches you."

The revelation stunned you. "Then why—"

"Because wanting leads to needing," he interrupted, his voice suddenly raw. "And needing makes you vulnerable. My father taught me that. The moment you need someone, you've given them the power to destroy you."

The silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of truths finally spoken aloud. When Jungwon finally turned back to face you, his expression was uncharacteristically vulnerable.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, and for once, the question seemed genuine.

The simplicity of the question momentarily deflated your anger. What did you want? It was a question you'd asked yourself countless times during sleepless nights.

"I want a husband, not a housemate," you said finally. "I want to know the man behind the perfect facade. I want to feel wanted, desired, known. I want the possibility of love, even if it's not there yet."

Your voice cracked on the last words, and you felt tears threatening. "Sometimes I think if I sleep with you once and let you get me pregnant, at least I won't be so damn lonely. At least I'd have someone who needs me, truly needs me, not just for appearances or social connections."

"A child deserves better than to be born from desperation," Jungwon said softly, surprising you with his insight.

"And a wife deserves better than emotional abandonment," you countered. "I look at other couples sometimes—even the arranged marriages in our circle—and I see moments of genuine tenderness. A hand on a shoulder. A private smile. Small intimacies that say 'I see you, I choose you.' We have none of that, Jungwon."

He flinched as if struck. "Is that what you think? That I only see you as a means to an heir?"

"How would I know what you think?" you demanded. "You barely speak to me about anything that matters. For all I know, you've mapped out our entire future in that methodical mind of yours—the optimal time for children, their education, their role in continuing the Yang legacy—all without once considering what I might want, what I might need as a woman, as a person."

"That's not true," he protested, but his voice lacked conviction.

"When have you ever shared your fears with me, Jungwon? Your hopes? Your dreams beyond the next business deal or family obligation? When have you ever asked about mine?"

He had no answer, and his silence was damning.

"I can't do this anymore," you said, suddenly exhausted. "I can't keep pretending that this empty performance is enough. I need more than politeness and perfect appearances. I need connection. I need intimacy. I need to at least feel that there's the possibility of love someday."

"And if I can't give you that?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

The question hung in the air between you, a challenge and a plea at once. You met his gaze directly.

"Then this marriage is already over, regardless of what we show the world."

The words fell like stones into still water, ripples of consequence expanding outward. Jungwon's face paled, and something like genuine fear flickered in his eyes.

"You would leave?" he asked, the question revealing more vulnerability than he'd shown in a year of marriage.

"Not in body, perhaps," you replied. "The scandal would devastate both our families. But in spirit? I'm already halfway gone, Jungwon. Every day of polite distance pushes me further away."

He sank onto the sofa, looking suddenly lost. This wasn't the composed, controlled man you'd lived alongside for a year. This was someone else—someone real and raw and unsure.

"I don't know how to be what you need," he admitted finally.

"I'm not asking for perfection," you said, your anger giving way to a profound sadness. "I'm asking for effort. For honesty. For the chance to build something real together, even if it's difficult. Even if we don't know exactly how."

Jungwon stared at his hands, his wedding ring catching the light. For a long moment, he said nothing. When he finally looked up, his eyes held a complexity of emotion you'd never seen before.

"I need time," he said. "To think. To... process all of this."

The request was reasonable, but it still stung. Even now, faced with the potential collapse of your marriage, he couldn't give you an immediate response.

"Fine," you said, suddenly bone-weary. "Take your time. You know where to find me."

You turned to leave, your body heavy with emotional exhaustion, when his voice stopped you.

"Where are you going?"

"To the blue guest room," you replied without turning. "I think we both need space tonight."

He made no move to stop you as you left the sitting room, your anniversary dress rustling softly with each step. The grand staircase seemed longer than usual, each step an effort. Behind you, you heard the clink of glass—Jungwon pouring another drink, perhaps, or simply moving restlessly in the silent house.

The blue guest room was immaculate, as was every room in the mansion, but it felt cold and impersonal. You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your evening dress, too tired even to cry. The confrontation had drained you completely, leaving nothing but a hollow ache where hope had once resided.

From the nightstand, your phone chimed with a message. Mechanically, you reached for it, expecting perhaps your mother-in-law with some post-dinner comment.

Instead, it was Jungwon.

I do want you. I always have. That's what frightens me.

You stared at the screen, the words blurring slightly as you read them over and over. A text message—that was what it had taken to finally glimpse the man behind the mask. Not a conversation, not a touch, but characters on a screen.

Another message appeared below the first.

I'm sorry. I should have said this to your face.

I'll be in the study when you're ready to talk. No matter how late.

The formality, even now. The careful distance maintained even in apology. You placed the phone back on the nightstand without responding, a weariness settling over you that went beyond physical exhaustion.

For a moment, you sat motionless on the edge of the guest bed, the weight of the past year pressing down on your shoulders. The perfect house with its perfect furnishings suddenly felt suffocating—every object a reminder of the performance your life had become.

You rose and moved to the window, pressing your palm against the cool glass. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the night remained dark and close. The mansion grounds, usually so meticulously maintained, seemed oppressive in their perfection. Even the garden paths were laid out with mathematical precision, every plant and stone exactly where it should be.

Like you. Exactly where you should be. The proper wife in her proper place.

The realization came suddenly, with absolute clarity: you couldn't stay here tonight. Not in this guest room, not in this house, not with Jungwon waiting in his study for a conversation that would likely end with more careful words and measured promises.

You needed air. Space. A place where you could remember who you were before becoming Mrs. Yang.

With deliberate movements, you changed out of your evening dress and into simple clothes. Packed a small overnight bag with essentials. Found your personal credit card—the one not connected to the Yang family accounts.

You hesitated only when it came time to write a note. What could you possibly say that wouldn't be misinterpreted or dismissed? In the end, you kept it simple:

I need space to breathe. Please don't follow me. I'll contact you when I'm ready.

You left it on the bed, where it would surely be found when someone came looking for you. Then, silently, you made your way down the service stairs and through the side entrance—avoiding the main foyer where you might encounter Jungwon.

The night air hit your face as you stepped outside, cool and clean and startlingly fresh. You took a deep breath, perhaps the first real one in months, and felt something inside you loosen just slightly.

You didn't call for the driver. Instead, you walked down the long driveway and past the gates, your heartbeat quickening with each step that took you farther from the mansion. Only when you reached the main road did you order a rideshare, giving the address of an old friend—one who predated your marriage, who had no connection to the Yang family circle.

As the car pulled away, you glanced back at the house—a magnificent silhouette against the night sky, lights burning in the study window where Jungwon waited for a conversation that wouldn't happen tonight.

Tomorrow would bring complications, explanations, perhaps reconciliation. But tonight, for the first time in a year, you were choosing yourself.

Your phone buzzed with a message from Jungwon.

Are you coming down?

You turned off the notifications and watched the mansion recede in the distance, growing smaller until it disappeared from view entirely.

-

The city lights blurred through your tears as the car wound its way through the quiet streets. The driver, sensing your distress, maintained a respectful silence, occasionally glancing at you in the rearview mirror with concern. You kept your face turned toward the window, watching as elite neighborhoods gave way to more modest surroundings.

When the car finally pulled up outside Leah's apartment building, you sat motionless for a moment, suddenly uncertain. It was past midnight. What if she wasn't home? What if she had company? What if—

"We're here, ma'am," the driver said gently, interrupting your spiraling thoughts.

"Thank you," you managed, gathering your small bag and stepping out into the night.

Leah's building was nothing like the Yang mansion—a six-story pre-war structure with a faded charm that stood in stark contrast to the sleek modernity you'd grown accustomed to. You hesitated at the entrance, then pressed her apartment number on the intercom.

After a long moment, a sleepy voice answered. "Hello?"

"Leah," you said, your voice cracking slightly. "It's me. I'm sorry it's so late, but—"

"Oh my god!" The sleepiness vanished instantly. "Are you okay? I'm buzzing you up right now."

The door clicked open, and you made your way to the third floor, each step feeling heavier than the last. Before you could even knock, Leah's door swung open, revealing your oldest friend in mismatched pajamas, her curly hair wild around her face.

"What happened?" she demanded, then stopped as she took in your appearance—the elegant makeup now streaked with tears, the designer clothes hastily exchanged for whatever you'd grabbed, the overnight bag clutched in your trembling hand.

"Oh, honey," she said, simply opening her arms.

Something inside you broke. You stumbled forward into her embrace and the tears you'd been holding back for months—perhaps for the entire year of your marriage—finally erupted. Great, heaving sobs that shook your entire body, that made it impossible to speak or breathe or think.

Leah didn't ask questions. She simply guided you inside, closing the door behind you, and held you while you fell apart. Her apartment was cluttered and lived-in, books stacked on every surface, half-finished art projects leaning against walls—the complete opposite of your sterile perfection at the mansion.

"I can't—" you tried to speak, but the words dissolved into more tears.

"Shh," she soothed, leading you to her worn but comfortable couch. "Just breathe. That's all you need to do right now."

You don't know how long you cried—long enough for your eyes to swell, for your throat to grow raw, for Leah's shoulder to become damp with your tears. Eventually, the storm subsided enough for you to become aware of your surroundings again. Leah had wrapped a soft blanket around your shoulders and was pressing a mug of hot tea into your hands.

"Small sips," she instructed, settling beside you. "It has honey for your throat."

You obeyed, the warmth spreading through your chest, momentarily calming the chaos inside you.

"I left him," you said finally, your voice hoarse from crying.

Leah's eyebrows shot up. "Jungwon? You left Jungwon?"

"Just for tonight. Maybe a few days. I don't know." You shook your head, struggling to articulate the tangle of emotions. "I couldn't breathe there anymore, Leah. In that perfect house with its perfect things and its perfect emptiness."

"I always wondered," she said cautiously, "if you were really happy. You stopped talking about the real stuff after the wedding. It was all charity events and dinner parties, but never... you know. The actual marriage part."

"There was no marriage part," you confessed, fresh tears threatening. "That's the problem. We live side by side like strangers. Polite, distant strangers who happen to share the same address."

Leah reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. "Did something specific happen tonight?"

You nodded, the evening's confrontation flashing through your mind in painful fragments. "We had our anniversary dinner with his parents. And after they left, I just... broke. All the things I've been holding back for a year came pouring out."

"Good for you," Leah said firmly.

"Is it?" You looked at her, uncertain. "I said terrible things, Leah. I accused him of seeing me as nothing but a showpiece, a means to an heir. I asked if he was repulsed by me. If he was sleeping with someone else."

"And what did he say?"

"He was shocked, mostly. I don't think anyone's ever spoken to him like that before." You took another sip of tea, gathering your thoughts. "But then he said something about... about wanting me but being afraid of needing someone. Of being vulnerable."

Leah nodded thoughtfully. "That actually makes a strange kind of sense. Your husband always struck me as someone who keeps himself under tight control."

"You've met him twice," you pointed out with a watery smile.

"Twice was enough." She grinned briefly, then grew serious again. "So what happens now?"

You shook your head, feeling utterly lost. "I don't know. I just knew I had to get out of there tonight. To remember what it feels like to be... me. Not Mrs. Yang, not the society hostess, just me."

"Well, you came to the right place," Leah said, gesturing around her chaotic apartment. "Nothing perfect or polished here. Just real life in all its messy glory."

For the first time that night, you felt a small laugh bubble up. "I've missed this. I've missed you."

"I've been right here," she reminded you gently. "You're the one who got swept up into the Yang universe."

The observation stung because it contained truth. After the wedding, you had gradually withdrawn from your old friendships, immersing yourself in the role expected of Jungwon's wife. It hadn't been a conscious choice, but rather a slow submersion into a new identity that had eventually consumed the person you used to be.

"I don't know who I am anymore," you confessed, the realization dawning as you spoke it. "I've spent so long being what everyone else needed me to be that I've forgotten what I actually want."

"Then maybe that's what this time away is for," Leah suggested. "To remember."

You nodded, exhaustion suddenly washing over you. The emotional release had drained what little energy you had left after the confrontation with Jungwon.

"The guest room is a disaster area right now—art supplies everywhere," Leah said apologetically. 

"The couch is perfect," you assured her, overwhelmed.

"Shut up, you'll sleep next to me,"

-

Jungwon sat in his study, crystal tumbler of whiskey untouched beside him, as he stared at his phone screen. The message showed as delivered, but not yet read. He refreshed the screen again, a gesture he'd repeated dozens of times in the last hour.

Are you coming down?

The timestamp mocked him. It had been nearly two hours since he'd sent it, and still no response. Unease had gradually transformed into concern, then alarm when he'd finally ventured upstairs to find the blue guest room empty, save for a handwritten note on the perfectly made bed.

I need space to breathe. Please don't follow me. I'll contact you when I'm ready.

The words had hit him with physical force. He stood there staring at the note, reading it over and over as if the sparse sentences might reveal some hidden meaning. Space to breathe. Had he really been suffocating you all this time without realizing it?

Now, back in his study, Jungwon fought against his instinct to act—to call security, to track your phone, to send drivers searching the city. You had asked for space. Following you would only prove that he couldn't respect your wishes, your independence. The very thing he'd convinced himself he'd been protecting all this time.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

Jungwon picked up his phone again, debating whether to try calling. His thumb hovered over your contact information before he set the device down with a sigh of frustration. What would he even say if you answered? The right words had eluded him for an entire year of marriage; they weren't likely to materialize now, in the middle of the night, after the worst fight of your relationship.

A relationship. Was that even the right word for what you had? You had called it a "business arrangement with living quarters," and the brutal accuracy of the description had left him speechless.

Jungwon ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it completely. The careful composure he maintained at all times had crumbled the moment he'd found your note. Now, alone in his study, there was no one to witness his distress, his uncertainty, his fear.

Fear. That was the emotion he'd denied for so long, burying it beneath layers of control and duty. Fear of needing someone. Fear of being vulnerable. Fear of repeating his father's cold, loveless existence.

And in trying to avoid his father's mistakes, he had made his own. Different in method, perhaps, but identical in result: a wife who felt unseen, unwanted.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two in the morning. Jungwon hadn't slept, had barely moved from his position at the desk. The silence of the mansion pressed in around him, no longer the peaceful quiet he'd always preferred, but an emptiness that echoed your absence.

On impulse, he rose and left the study, walking through the darkened house toward the master suite. Inside the bedroom, everything remained exactly as you'd both left it hours earlier—your perfume bottle on the vanity, your book on the nightstand, your robe draped over a chair. He moved to your side of the bed, sitting down carefully on the edge, and picked up the book you'd been reading.

A collection of poetry. Jungwon hadn't even known you liked poetry.

What else didn't he know about the woman he'd married? What interests, dreams, fears had you kept hidden—or worse, had tried to share only to be met with his characteristic reserve?

He opened the book to where a silk bookmark held your place. The poem was circled lightly in pencil:

Between what is said and not meant, And what is meant and not said, Most of love is lost.

The simple lines struck him with unexpected force. Jungwon stared at the words, wondering how many times you had tried to tell him what you needed, how many signals he had missed or misinterpreted.

From his pocket, his phone buzzed with an incoming call. His heart leapt as he fumbled to answer, but the caller ID showed his father's name, not yours.

"Father," he answered, struggling to keep his voice even. "It's very late."

"Where is your wife?" Mr. Yang's voice was sharp, cutting through the pretense of pleasantries.

Jungwon tensed. "How did you—"

"Mrs. Park saw her getting into a taxi. Alone. After midnight. She naturally called your mother with concerns."

Of course. The gossip network never slept. "She's visiting a friend," he said carefully.

"In the middle of the night? Without you?" His father's skepticism was palpable. "Do you take me for a fool, Jungwon? What's going on?"

A familiar pattern attempted to reassert itself—the urge to placate his father, to maintain appearances, to ensure the Yang family reputation remained unsullied. For a moment, he almost slipped into the expected response.

But the circled poem caught his eye again. Most of love is lost. He couldn't lose any more.

"We had a disagreement," Jungwon said finally, the admission feeling like ripping off a bandage. "She needed some space."

"A disagreement?" His father's tone grew icier. "Serious enough for her to leave the house? To risk being seen by others, creating speculation? What were you thinking, allowing this?"

The word "allowing" ignited something in him—a flicker of the same defiance he'd felt when his father had demanded he end his college relationship.

"I wasn't 'allowing' anything, Father. She's my wife, not my subordinate. She made a choice, and I'm respecting it."

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. Never in his adult life had Jungwon spoken to his father with such open opposition.

"This is unacceptable," Mr. Yang said finally. "You will resolve whatever childish spat has occurred and bring her home immediately. The gala next week—"

"Is not as important as my marriage," Jungwon interrupted, surprising himself with the firmness in his voice.

"Your marriage? Suddenly you care about your marriage?" His father's laugh was without humor. "For a year you've treated it exactly as I advised—as a beneficial arrangement. Now you're telling me you've developed feelings? Become sentimental?"

The contempt in the older man's voice was unmistakable, but instead of cowering as he might have in the past, Jungwon felt a strange calm settle over him.

"Yes," he said simply. "I have feelings for my wife. I always have. And I've been wrong to hide them."

"This is disappointing, Jungwon. I expected better from you."

"I'm beginning to think your expectations are precisely the problem, Father." Jungwon took a deep breath. "I need to go now. It's late, and I have some thinking to do."

"Don't you dare hang up on—"

Jungwon ended the call, staring at the phone in mild disbelief at his own actions. Then, with deliberate movements, he silenced the device and set it aside.

Returning to the poetry book, he carefully noted the page number of the circled poem, then moved through the house to your closet. There, among the designer clothes and accessories, he searched for some clue to the woman behind the perfect facade—the woman he'd married but never truly allowed himself to know.

In the back of a drawer, he found a small wooden box, simple and clearly personal. For a moment, his ingrained respect for privacy warred with his desperate need to understand you. Privacy won—he couldn't begin rebuilding trust by violating it—but the box's existence gave him hope. There were parts of yourself you'd kept separate from your arranged life, a core identity preserved despite the pressures of being Mrs. Yang.

Jungwon returned to the study, his earlier paralysis replaced by a growing resolve. He wouldn't chase you—you'd asked for space, and he would respect that. But he could prepare for your return, could begin the work of becoming someone worthy of a second chance.

The task seemed monumentally difficult, decades of conditioning standing in opposition to what he now knew he needed to do. He had no model for the kind of husband he wanted to become, no example of vulnerability balanced with strength.

But for the first time since you'd walked out, Jungwon felt something like hope. If you gave him the chance, he would find a way to be better. To be real. To tear down the walls he'd built over a lifetime of emotional suppression.

Dawn was breaking outside the study windows when he finally drafted a message, simple and without expectation:

I understand you need space, and I respect that. I'll be here when you're ready to talk—whether that's tomorrow or next week. I'm sorry for a year of silence. I'm listening now.

He sent it before he could second-guess himself, then set the phone down and moved to the window. Outside, the gardens were beginning to emerge from darkness, the first light revealing dew on the perfectly manicured lawns.

For once, Jungwon didn't see the perfection. Instead, he noticed how the morning light caught in a spider's web between two branches, transforming the fragile structure into something beautiful and strong. Perhaps there was a lesson there, in vulnerability's unexpected resilience.

As the mansion gradually woke around him—staff arriving, coffee brewing, the day's preparations beginning—Jungwon remained at the window, watching the light change and wondering if you, wherever you were, might be watching the same sunrise.

-

The mansion felt impossibly silent as Jungwon moved through the darkened hallways, your poetry book clutched in his hand like a lifeline. Sleep had become not just elusive but impossible, the vast emptiness of your shared bed a physical manifestation of what had been missing between you for a year. The sheets still carried your scent—a subtle perfume that he'd never properly acknowledged until now, when its absence made the fabric seem cold and lifeless.

He couldn't bear to remain in that room, surrounded by the ghosts of a thousand nights spent in careful distance. Instead, he found himself back in his study, the room that had been his refuge from intimacy for so long. Now it felt like a prison of his own making, walls lined with business achievements that suddenly seemed hollow.

With trembling hands, he placed your book on his desk and opened it once more to the marked page, the one with the circled verse that had first pierced his carefully constructed armor:

Between what is said and not meant,

And what is meant and not said,

Most of love is lost.

His fingers traced your handwriting in the margin—small, delicate notes that revealed more about your inner thoughts than a year of careful conversation had. Next to this poem, you'd written simply: Us? with the question mark trailing off like a fading hope.

One word, followed by a question mark. So much longing contained in those three small letters. Had you written this recently, or months ago? Had you been silently questioning the emptiness between you while he maintained his facade of contentment?

Jungwon turned the page, discovering more of your markings. Some poems had stars beside them, others had entire stanzas underlined. Some had exclamation points, others question marks. It was like finding a secret language, a code he should have deciphered long ago.

A poem about two rivers running parallel without ever meeting carried your annotation: This is what marriage feels like. So close yet never touching.

His breath caught. When had you written that? While lying beside him in bed, bodies carefully not touching? While sitting across from him at breakfast, exchanging polite comments about the day ahead?

He continued reading, unable to stop himself now. Each page revealed more of your hidden inner life. A poem about seasonal changes had reminds me of childhood summers before expectations written in the margin. Another about distant mountains carried the note wish we could travel together somewhere without his family or business associates.

Each annotation was a window into desires you'd never expressed, dreams you'd kept hidden. Why had he never asked what you wanted? Where you longed to go? What made you happy?

The night deepened around him, but Jungwon barely noticed. He was falling into your world, glimpsing for the first time the woman behind the perfect wife he'd taken for granted.

Then he found a page with the corner folded down, a poem about physical love:

I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Your handwriting beside it was more hurried, almost feverish: too much to hope for? would he ever lose control enough?

Jungwon's throat tightened painfully. All those nights lying beside you, maintaining a careful distance, while you marked poems about passion and wrote desperate questions no one would see. How many nights had you lain awake, wanting him to reach for you? How many times had you considered reaching for him, only to retreat in fear of rejection?

He turned more pages, finding increasingly intimate selections. Next to Pablo Neruda's words:

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes

You'd written: I dream of his mouth on my skin. Would he be disgusted by such thoughts?

The pain that shot through him was physical. Disgusted? How could you think that? But then, what else could you think when he'd maintained such careful distance, when he'd retreated to his study each night rather than face the vulnerability of desire?

Another poem, this one about hands tracing the geography of a lover's body, carried your note: I've memorized the shape of his hands during dinner parties, imagined them on me instead of on his wine glass.

Jungwon looked down at his own hands, remembering all the times they'd almost touched you—passing dishes at dinner, handing you into the car, the brief contact when giving you a gift—and how he'd always pulled back just slightly too soon. What would have happened if he'd let his fingers linger? If he'd given in to the urge to trace the line of your jaw, to feel the softness of your skin?

Hours passed as he lost himself in your secret thoughts. Some poems had tear stains, barely perceptible wrinkles in the paper where droplets had fallen and dried. Those broke him most of all—the tangible evidence of your solitary tears, shed perhaps just feet away from where he sat working, oblivious to your pain.

One poem about loneliness had simply: I am disappearing inside this house, inside this marriage, becoming nothing but "Mrs. Yang" scrawled across the bottom in handwriting that shook with emotion.

Dawn found him still at his desk, eyes burning from reading and from tears he hadn't realized he was shedding. The morning staff moved quietly through the house, shocked to see him disheveled and unshaven, the immaculate Yang heir looking like a man undone.

He ignored their concerned glances, your poetry book still open before him. But it wasn't enough. One book couldn't contain all of you. He needed more.

"Sir," the housekeeper approached hesitantly as Jungwon emerged from his study, still in yesterday's clothes, "would you like your breakfast now?"

"No," he replied, his voice hoarse from a night without sleep. "I need to see all of Madame's books. Every book in this house that she's ever touched."

The housekeeper exchanged a worried glance with the butler. "All of them, sir?"

"Every single one. Novels, poetry, anything with her handwriting in it. Bring them to the library."

He moved with feverish purpose to the library, pulling books from shelves himself—any that showed signs of your touch. Dog-eared pages, bookmarks, the slight cracking of spines that indicated frequent opening to favorite passages.

Throughout the day, the staff delivered more and more books—novels from your nightstand, reference books from the sunroom shelves, journals from your writing desk. Jungwon created careful piles around him, transforming the library floor into a map of your mind.

He found a travel book about Greece with dozens of Post-it notes marking specific locations. The private cove where no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked read one note that made his heart race. Another, beside a picture of a small village: No social obligations, no family expectations—heaven.

You'd been dreaming of escape. From the mansion, from the Yang name, from him? The thought was unbearable.

In your copy of Jane Eyre, he found your underlining of Rochester's passionate declaration: "I have for the first time found what I can truly love–I have found you." Beside it, your handwriting: To be truly SEEN by someone. What would that feel like?

"Oh god," he whispered, the words escaping involuntarily. "You've never felt seen."

How could he have failed so completely? He, who prided himself on his attention to detail in business, had missed everything that mattered about the woman who shared his home, his name, his bed.

As afternoon turned to evening, Jungwon discovered a small leather journal tucked between larger books on a bottom shelf. He hesitated, knowing this was crossing a line from reading your notes to reading your private thoughts. But his need to know you, to understand what he'd missed, overrode his sense of propriety.

The journal wasn't a diary but a collection of poems you'd written yourself, clumsy in places but raw with emotion:

I practice conversations with you in my head

Witty things I might say that would make you look at me

Really look at me

But when you enter the room

My words evaporate like morning dew

And we speak of dinner parties and business associates

Never of stars or dreams or why your eyes

Sometimes follow me when you think I don't notice

Jungwon felt his careful composure—the mask he'd worn his entire adult life—shatter completely. You had seen him watching you. Had known there was something beneath his polite facade. But he'd never given you enough to be sure, had never been brave enough to let you see his wanting.

Another poem, dated just two months ago:

Your fingers brushed mine as you handed me a glass

Accidental touch that burned through my skin

I wonder if you felt it too

That current between us, electric and dangerous

Or if I imagined it, desperate for connection

For any sign that beneath your perfect suit

Beats a heart that could want me

As much as I want you

He had felt it. Every accidental touch, every brush of your hand, every moment when you stood close enough that he could smell your perfume. He had felt everything and denied it all, retreating into work and duty and the expectations drilled into him since childhood.

The worst entry was the most recent, written just days before your anniversary:

One year of marriage

Three hundred sixty-five nights of lying beside him

Listening to his breathing

Wondering if he's awake

Wondering if he ever thinks of touching me

Of breaking through the invisible wall between us

One year of perfect Mrs. Yang While the woman inside me slowly suffocates

Sometimes I think if I just reached for him once

If I was brave enough to cross that divide

But what if his rejection destroyed the last piece of me

That still believes I'm worthy of being

Wanted.

Jungwon closed the journal, his vision blurred with tears. You had been silently begging for him to reach across the divide while he had been congratulating himself on respecting your independence. The magnitude of his failure crushed him.

He didn't eat that day. Didn't change clothes. Didn't acknowledge the increasingly concerned staff who hovered at the library's periphery. Instead, he immersed himself in your hidden world, learning you through the books you'd loved, the passages you'd marked, the words you'd written when you thought no one would see.

Dawn arrived, but Jungwon had lost all sense of time. The library floor was covered with open books, each one containing fragments of your soul. He had read himself into a state of emotional exhaustion, discovering more and more evidence of your loneliness, your desire, your gradual loss of hope.

A desperate energy seized him. Reading wasn't enough. He needed to act, to change, to create physical evidence of his awakening before you returned—if you returned.

He summoned the head gardener, ignoring the man's shocked expression at his disheveled appearance.

"I need every peony on the estate moved to the front garden," he announced, his voice rough from disuse. "Every single one. From all the gardens, the greenhouse, everywhere."

"Sir, that would be hundreds of plants," the gardener protested. "And the formal design—"

"I don't care about the design," Jungwon interrupted, thinking of a note he'd found beside a picture of a wild garden: Why must everything be so ordered? So perfect? I long for beautiful chaos. "I want them arranged naturally. The way they would grow if they chose their own placement."

"But sir, your mother's landscape plan—"

"Is no longer relevant." Jungwon's eyes flashed with an intensity that made the gardener step back. "The peonies were always her choice, not my wife's. I want a garden that reflects what she loves."

"This will take all day, possibly longer," the gardener warned.

"Then start immediately. And I need something else. The bookshelves from the east parlor—bring them to the east garden. All of them."

The staff exchanged alarmed glances, but Jungwon was beyond caring about their concerns. He continued issuing instructions, driven by the need to transform the mansion—to break the perfect mold that had trapped you both.

"Sir," the butler ventured cautiously when the others had gone to carry out these strange orders, "perhaps you should rest. You haven't slept or eaten—"

"How can I rest?" Jungwon's voice broke with emotion. "Do you know what I've discovered? She's been living here for a year, lonely and unfulfilled, while I congratulated myself on being a proper husband. I've failed her completely."

The butler, who had served the Yang family for decades, had never seen the young master in such a state. "Sir, if I may... it's never too late to change course."

Jungwon looked at him sharply. "Have you seen her? Has she contacted anyone?"

"No, sir. But knowing Madame, she's not one to leave matters unresolved."

With renewed determination, Jungwon returned to the library. He selected dozens of books containing your most revealing notes and had them brought to the east garden. As the shelves were positioned on the grass, he began arranging the books, creating a physical testament to what he'd learned.

The gardeners worked throughout the day, transplanting hundreds of peonies to the front garden in a naturalistic arrangement that would horrify his mother but, he hoped, would speak to you. The once-formal approach to the house transformed into an explosion of your favorite flowers, arranged with the organic randomness of nature rather than the rigid precision of Yang tradition.

By late afternoon, Jungwon had created an outdoor library in the east garden—the private corner of the grounds where you often walked alone. He placed books on the shelves and opened others on the grass around him, creating a circle of revelations.

He had sent the staff away, needing to be alone with the evidence of his awakening. His phone buzzed repeatedly—his father, his mother, business associates all demanding attention. He ignored them all.

Instead, he picked up your poetry journal again, reading and rereading your most vulnerable confessions. The precise handwriting becoming more jagged with emotion. The careful Mrs. Yang breaking through to the woman beneath.

As sunset painted the sky in shades of pink and gold, Jungwon sat amidst the books, surrounded by the fragments of you he'd collected, feeling more alive and more terrified than he had ever been. What if it was too late? What if you had already decided that the year of emotional solitude was too high a price for the Yang name and fortune?

He wouldn't blame you. How could he? He had offered you everything except himself.

Night fell, and still he remained in the garden, under stars you had once described in a margin note as witnesses to all our silent longings. He read your words by the light of lanterns the staff had silently provided, losing himself in the labyrinth of your unspoken desires.

In the faint light, he reread the poem that had started his journey—the one about love lost between what is said and not meant, what is meant and not said. He traced your question mark with his finger, feeling the slight indentation in the paper where you had pressed the pen, perhaps harder than you intended, the physical evidence of your frustration.

"I see you now," he whispered to the empty garden, to the books that held pieces of your soul. "I see you, and I'm terrified it's too late."

The night deepened around him, but Jungwon remained among the books, keeping vigil, waiting, hoping you would come home—and fearing you would not.

-

Five days since you'd left. Five days of freedom from the perfect imprisonment that had become your life. Five days to remember who you were before becoming Mrs. Yang.

On the morning of the sixth day, as you sat on Leah's small balcony with a chipped mug of coffee, your phone lit up with a text from Jungwon's personal assistant.

Mr. Yang has canceled all appointments for the foreseeable future. The household staff reports concerning behavior. If you could contact them, they would be grateful.

You stared at the message, rereading it several times. Jungwon never canceled appointments. Even when he'd had the flu last winter, he'd conducted meetings by video rather than reschedule. His schedule was sacred, immovable.

"What's wrong?" Leah asked, noticing your expression.

You handed her the phone. She read the message and raised her eyebrows.

"Sounds like someone's having a breakdown."

"Jungwon doesn't have breakdowns," you said automatically, then paused. The man you'd confronted before leaving—the one who'd admitted his fear of vulnerability, who'd texted you his feelings rather than say them aloud—perhaps that man did have breakdowns after all.

"Are you going to go check on him?" Leah asked.

You sighed, setting down your coffee. "I have to, don't I? At the very least, I need to get more of my things." You'd left with only a small overnight bag, having no plan beyond escape.

"Want me to come with you?"

"No," you said, more decisively than you felt. "This is something I need to do alone."

As you showered and dressed, you tried to prepare yourself for what awaited. Would Jungwon be coldly angry, his moment of vulnerability already locked away? Would he have summoned his parents, ready for a united front to convince you of your duties? Or would he simply be absent, buried in work as a shield against emotion?

In the rideshare on the way to the mansion, you rehearsed what to say. You would be calm but firm. This wasn't about blame anymore but about whether a real marriage was possible between you. You needed honesty, vulnerability, true partnership—not just the performance of marriage you'd endured for a year.

But as the car approached the gates of the estate, your carefully prepared speech evaporated. The formal gardens that had always greeted visitors with mathematical precision had been transformed. Instead of the orderly rows of seasonal blooms, there was a riot of peonies—your favorite flower—planted in natural, wild groupings that looked almost as if they had grown there spontaneously.

"Wait here," you told the driver. "I may not be staying."

As you walked up the long driveway, your heart hammered against your ribs. The front door opened before you reached it, the butler appearing with an expression of profound relief.

"Madame," he said, bowing slightly. "Thank goodness you've returned."

"I'm not staying necessarily," you clarified, stepping into the foyer. "I just came to—" You stopped, noticing more changes. The formal floral arrangements that always occupied the entryway tables had been replaced with wild, exuberant bouquets of peonies and wildflowers. "What's happening here?"

"Mr. Yang has been... making adjustments to the household," the butler replied diplomatically. "He's in the east garden. He's been there nearly two days now."

Two days? "Is he... is he all right?"

The butler hesitated. "I believe he's waiting for you, Madame."

You made your way through the house, noting more changes as you went. Books that had always been perfectly arranged on shelves now sat in haphazard stacks on tables, many open to specific pages. Your books, you realized, from your private collection.

When you reached the doors leading to the east garden—your favorite part of the grounds, where you often walked alone—you paused, gathering your courage.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you found.

The garden had been transformed into an outdoor library. Bookshelves stood on the grass in a semicircle, filled with books—your books—many open to display specific pages. And in the center, sitting cross-legged on the ground surrounded by open volumes, was Jungwon.

You'd never seen him like this. His usually immaculate appearance was completely undone—hair disheveled, several days' stubble on his jaw, clothes rumpled as if he'd slept in them. He was reading intently from what you recognized as your private poetry journal, his expression a mixture of pain and wonder.

He looked up as your shadow fell across the page, and the naked hope and fear in his eyes made your breath catch.

"You came back," he said, his voice rough as if from disuse.

"What is all this?" you asked, gesturing to the surreal scene around you.

Jungwon carefully closed your journal and set it aside. He rose slowly to his feet, a man moving carefully so as not to shatter something fragile.

"I've been trying to find you," he said. "The real you. The one I should have been looking for all along."

You stepped closer, picking up one of the books from the grass. It was your copy of Neruda's love sonnets, open to a page where you'd scribbled Would he ever touch me like this? in the margin.

Heat rose to your face. "You've been reading my private notes?"

"Yes." Jungwon didn't try to justify or excuse it. "I needed to understand what I'd missed, what I'd ignored. I needed to see you—really see you."

You should have been angry at the invasion of privacy, but something in his broken expression stopped your protest. This wasn't the controlled, perfect Jungwon Yang you'd married. This was someone else entirely—raw, desperate, real.

"Do you have any idea," he continued, taking a step toward you, "how much you've wanted? How much you've needed? All these books, all these words you've underlined, notes you've written—they're full of longing I never acknowledged."

You remained silent, unsure what to say as he moved closer, stopping just short of touching you.

"I found your poem about lying beside me at night, wondering if I was awake, wondering if I ever thought about touching you." His voice broke slightly. "I did. Every night. I lay there wanting you, terrified of reaching for you, convinced that maintaining distance was the same as showing respect."

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he must hear it. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I almost lost you." The simple truth hung in the air between you. "Because I realized that the thing I feared most—vulnerability, need, the possibility of rejection—was nothing compared to the emptiness of letting you walk away without ever knowing how much I want you. How much I've always wanted you."

To your shock, Jungwon suddenly dropped to his knees before you, looking up with eyes that held none of his usual composure.

"I don't deserve another chance," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "I've been a coward, hiding behind duty and family expectations. But if you're willing—if there's any part of you that believes we could start again—I swear I will spend every day trying to be worthy of you."

You stood frozen, overwhelmed by his declaration, by the sight of Jungwon Yang—heir to an empire, always in perfect control—on his knees before you, walls finally shattered.

"I want to build a life with you," he continued, the words spilling out as if he couldn't contain them any longer. "A real life, not this performance we've been trapped in. I want mornings where we don't pretend to sleep through each other's routines. I want to hear about your day and tell you about mine. I want to take you to that cove in Greece where no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked."

Your cheeks flamed at the reference to your private note in the travel book.

"I've read every word you've written in the margins," he confessed, his voice dropping lower. "I've memorized your poetry. The ones you circled, the ones you starred. Neruda's words—'I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees'—I understand them now. I feel them in my veins."

His eyes locked with yours, their intensity almost unbearable.

"I dream of you. Of being inside you. Of knowing nothing but the depth of your eyes when you look at me. Of drowning in your skin until my mind forgets every lesson in restraint I've ever learned." His voice shook slightly. "All those nights I lay beside you, rigid with control, while you wrote of desire in book margins—it was never indifference. It was fear. Fear of how completely I would surrender to you if I allowed myself a single touch."

You couldn't breathe, couldn't speak as he continued, years of suppressed desire breaking through the dam of his composure.

"I found where you wrote 'would he ever lose control enough?' The answer is yes. God, yes. Every moment of every day I've wanted to lose myself in you. To press you against walls, to taste every inch of your skin, to hear my name in your voice when I'm buried so deep inside you that we can't tell where I end and you begin."

He trembled visibly now, hands clenched at his sides to keep from reaching for you.

"I want children who know their father can feel, can love," he went on, his voice breaking. "I want to be the man you deserve—not the perfect Yang heir, but a husband who sees you, hears you, wants you exactly as you are."

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. This was what you'd wanted—wasn't it? The real man beneath the perfect facade. But now that he was here, raw and vulnerable, you found yourself terrified of your own power to hurt him, to be hurt again.

"I don't know if I can trust this," you admitted softly. "What happens when your father calls? When your mother visits? When business demands return? Will you retreat back behind those walls you've built over a lifetime?"

Jungwon nodded, acknowledging the fairness of your question. "I already told my father I won't be controlled by his expectations anymore. I hung up on him—" He gave a small, disbelieving laugh. "I actually hung up on him when he tried to order me to bring you back for appearances' sake."

Your eyes widened. In the Yang family hierarchy, defying the patriarch was unthinkable.

"I can't promise I'll never struggle," Jungwon continued. "A lifetime of conditioning doesn't disappear in a week. But I can promise to try. To talk instead of withdraw. To let you see me—all of me, even the parts I was taught to hide." He swallowed hard. "And I can promise that no business meeting, no family obligation, nothing will ever be more important to me than you are."

The morning sunlight filtered through the garden trees, casting dappled light across his face, highlighting the exhaustion in his eyes, the vulnerability in his expression. In that moment, all the trappings of wealth and status fell away, leaving just a man asking a woman for another chance.

"I love you," he said quietly, the words clearly strange on his tongue. "I think I have from the beginning, but I didn't know how to show it, how to say it, how to let myself feel it without fear."

Your carefully constructed walls began to crumble. The honesty in his eyes, the tremor in his voice—this wasn't another performance. This was real in a way nothing between you had been before.

You took a deep breath, making a decision that would change everything.

"Stand up," you said softly.

Jungwon rose slowly, uncertainty in every line of his body. He stood before you, not touching, waiting.

"I need time," you said finally. "Not away from you—I think we've had enough distance. But time here, together, building something real. Day by day. No quick fixes, no grand gestures, just... honest effort."

Relief washed over his face. "Anything. Whatever you need."

You reached out slowly, your hand trembling slightly as you placed it against his cheek. The stubble was rough under your palm—a tangible sign of his unraveling, his transformation.

"We start again," you said. "As equals. As partners. As two people choosing each other every day, not just fulfilling an arrangement."

Jungwon covered your hand with his own, his eyes never leaving yours. "Yes," he agreed simply. "That's all I want. The chance to choose you, and to be chosen by you, every day."

You stood there in the garden surrounded by the evidence of his awakening—the books, the wildflowers, the breaking of perfect order that had defined your lives together. Nothing was resolved yet, not really. The real work of building a marriage would take time, patience, courage from both of you.

But as Jungwon's fingers tentatively interlaced with yours, you felt something you hadn't experienced in a very long time: hope.

Not the desperate hope that had led you to mark passages in poetry books, dreaming of connection. But a quieter, stronger hope built on the foundation of truth finally spoken, of walls finally breached.

A beginning, at last, after a year of beautiful emptiness.

-

The transformation didn't happen overnight. Real change never does. But it began with small, deliberate steps—each one a silent promise, a brick in the foundation of what you both hoped would become something genuine and lasting.

The first week was tentative, both of you navigating an unfamiliar landscape of honesty. You moved back into the master bedroom, but Jungwon slept on the chaise lounge across the room, respecting your need for physical space while closing the emotional distance. Each night, you talked—sometimes for hours—about everything and nothing. Your childhoods. Your dreams. The books that had shaped you. The places you longed to visit.

"I never knew you wanted to see Greece so badly," Jungwon said one evening, sitting cross-legged on the chaise, looking younger and more relaxed than you'd ever seen him. "We could go. Whenever you want."

"It's not just about going," you explained, hugging your knees to your chest as you sat against the headboard. "It's about going somewhere simply because we want to, not because it's expected or beneficial to the family business."

He nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. "A trip just for us. No schedules, no business meetings disguised as vacations..."

"Exactly."

Two days later, you found a travel guide to the Greek islands on your pillow, with a note in Jungwon's precise handwriting: Pick the places that call to you. No expectations. No time limit. Just us.

-

The second week brought the first real test. Mrs. Yang arrived unannounced, sweeping into the foyer with the authority of someone who had never been denied entry.

"I've heard disturbing reports," she announced, eyeing the wildflower arrangements with thinly veiled distaste. "The garden completely rearranged. Appointments canceled. Your father says you're not taking his calls. And now this..." She gestured to the informality of the house, the books scattered on surfaces, the general disruption of the perfect order she'd helped establish.

In the past, Jungwon would have immediately adjusted his behavior to appease her. You braced yourself for his retreat back into the perfect son role.

Instead, he surprised you.

"Mother," he said calmly, "we're in the middle of some changes here. I should have called to tell you it's not a good time for a visit."

Her eyes widened. "Not a good time? Since when do I need an appointment to visit my own son's home?"

"Since now," Jungwon replied, his voice gentle but firm. "We're working on our marriage, and we need space to do that properly."

Mrs. Yang turned to you, expecting you to be the reasonable one, to smooth over this unprecedented friction. "Surely you understand that family obligations—"

"Are important," you finished for her, "but not more important than our relationship. Jungwon and I are learning to put each other first."

Her mouth opened and closed, momentarily speechless. "This is your influence," she finally said to you, her voice sharp. "My son has never been so disrespectful."

You felt Jungwon tense beside you, but before he could speak, you placed your hand on his arm. A silent communication—I've got this.

"It's not disrespect to establish healthy boundaries," you said, maintaining a respectful tone despite the accusation. "We both value you and Mr. Yang, but we're building something here that needs protection and care."

Mrs. Yang looked between the two of you, noting the united front, the way Jungwon stood slightly closer to you than necessary, the casual intimacy of your hand on his arm. Something in her calculation shifted.

"I see," she said finally. "Well. Call when you're ready to rejoin society. The foundation gala is in three weeks, and people will talk if you're absent."

"Let them talk," Jungwon said simply.

After she left, you turned to Jungwon, studying his face for signs of regret or anger. Instead, you found him looking almost relieved.

"That was the first time I've ever said no to her," he confessed with a shaky laugh. "It feels... terrifying. And right."

You squeezed his hand. "You were perfect."

"Not perfect," he corrected. "Real. There's a difference."

-

By the third week, physical barriers began to dissolve. Jungwon moved from the chaise to the bed, though always maintaining a careful distance. But one night, half-asleep and cold from the air conditioning, you instinctively shifted closer to his warmth. Without fully waking, he draped an arm over you, pulling you against him with a contented sigh.

You froze, suddenly wide awake, your heart racing at the casual intimacy. His breathing remained deep and even, clearly still asleep. Slowly, you relaxed into the embrace, allowing yourself to feel the solidity of him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the warmth that radiated through his thin t-shirt.

It was the first time you'd slept in each other's arms. In the morning, when you both woke to find yourselves entangled, there was a moment of awkward uncertainty before Jungwon smiled—a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his face.

"Good morning," he said softly, making no move to pull away.

"Good morning," you replied, marveling at how natural it felt to be here, in this moment, with him.

That day, the staff noticed the shift between you—the lingering glances, the casual touches as you passed each other, the private smiles. The mansion seemed to exhale, as if the building itself had been holding its breath, waiting for life to finally fill its rooms.

-

A month after your return, Jungwon came to you with a proposal.

"I've been thinking about the house," he said over breakfast, which you now took together every morning before he left for work. His schedule had been completely reorganized, with strict boundaries between work and home time. "It's beautiful, but it's never felt like ours. It's been my family's vision of what our home should be."

You nodded, understanding immediately. "It's always felt like living in a museum."

"Exactly." He pushed a folder across the table. "What would you think about this?"

Inside were architectural plans for a new house—smaller, more intimate, designed around shared spaces and natural light.

"You want to move?" you asked, surprised.

"I want us to build something that belongs to us," he clarified. "Something that reflects who we are together, not who everyone expects us to be."

You studied the plans more carefully, noting the library with two desks facing each other, the open kitchen designed for cooking together, the master bedroom with windows that would catch the sunrise.

"There's room for a nursery," you observed quietly, looking up to gauge his reaction.

His eyes softened. "I thought... someday... if we decided..." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I want children with you. Not for the Yang legacy, but because I can't imagine anything more beautiful than creating a family with you. But only when we're ready. Only when our foundation is solid."

You reached across the table, taking his hand. "I'd like that. Someday."

He squeezed your fingers, a simple gesture that had become precious in its newfound ease. "So, the house?"

"Yes," you decided. "Let's build something that's truly ours."

-

Two months into your new beginning, you attended your first social event as a changed couple. The charity auction—ironically, the same type of event where you'd played your roles so convincingly before—now became the stage for your authentic selves.

When you entered on Jungwon's arm, the subtle changes were immediately apparent to the careful observers of high society. The way his hand rested at the small of your back—not for show, but because he liked the connection to you. How he kept you within his sight even during separate conversations. The private smiles you exchanged across the room, small moments of complicity in the public setting.

Mrs. Singh approached you during a lull in the evening. "There's something different about you two," she observed shrewdly. "You seem... happier."

You smiled, watching Jungwon across the room. He was engaged in conversation but looked up at that exact moment, as if sensing your gaze, and smiled back with undisguised affection.

"We are," you replied simply.

Later, when the dancing began, Jungwon led you to the floor. Unlike the choreographed movements you'd performed at countless events before, this time he held you closer, his cheek occasionally brushing against your temple, his hand warm and secure against yours.

"Everyone's watching us," you murmured, feeling the weight of curious eyes.

"Let them," he replied, his lips close to your ear. "Maybe they'll learn something."

The evening continued, but unlike before, you weren't simply playing a part. The genuine connection between you was unmistakable, and as the night progressed, you felt something shift in the atmosphere around you. The calculated social maneuvering gave way to something more genuine, as if your authenticity had granted others permission to drop their own facades, if only slightly.

When you returned home that night, the tension that had always accompanied these performances was absent. Instead, there was a shared sense of accomplishment, of having navigated the social waters together without losing yourselves in the process.

"That wasn't so bad," Jungwon admitted as you both prepared for bed. "Being real in public."

"It was actually nice," you agreed, sitting at your vanity to remove your jewelry. "Though I think your mother nearly fainted when you declined the board seat Mr. Lee offered."

Jungwon laughed, the sound still new enough to delight you. "The old me would have accepted immediately, even though we both know it would have meant even less time at home." He moved behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "I have different priorities now."

He reached for the clasp of your necklace, his fingers brushing against your skin as he helped you remove it. The simple intimacy of the gesture—one that might have seemed ordinary in most marriages but was revolutionary in yours—made your breath catch.

When he finished, his hands remained on your shoulders, thumbs gently caressing the exposed skin above your dress. Your eyes met in the mirror, and the desire you saw there—no longer hidden or denied—sent heat cascading through you.

"May I kiss you?" he asked softly.

It wasn't your first kiss since the reconciliation—there had been gentle pecks, cautious explorations—but something about this moment felt different. More significant.

You turned to face him, rising from the vanity bench. "Yes."

He cupped your face with reverent hands, studying you as if committing every detail to memory, before leaning in slowly. The kiss began gentle but deepened as months of carefully banked desire kindled between you. His arms encircled your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the rapid beating of his heart against yours.

When you finally separated, both breathless, Jungwon rested his forehead against yours. "I love you," he whispered, the words no longer strange or difficult but natural, necessary.

"I love you too," you replied, the truth of it filling every part of you.

That night, for the first time, you truly became husband and wife—not through social obligation or family expectation, but through choice. Through desire. Through love that had fought its way past barriers of conditioning and fear to find expression at last.

-

Six months after your confrontation, the new house was completed. It stood on a hillside overlooking the city, modern in design but warm in execution, with natural materials and spaces designed for living rather than showcasing wealth.

The move was symbolic in more ways than one—leaving behind the mansion with its rigid expectations and cold perfection, stepping into a home created specifically for the life you were building together.

On your first night there, after the movers had gone and the essentials were unpacked, Jungwon opened a bottle of champagne, pouring two glasses as you both stood in the expansive living room, floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the city lights spread below.

"To new beginnings," he said, raising his glass.

"To us," you added, clinking your glass against his.

After you both drank, he set his glass aside and reached for your hand, his expression turning serious.

"I want to ask you something," he said, leading you to the sofa. When you were both seated, he took both your hands in his. "This past year—these six months especially—have been the most transformative of my life. I feel like I'm finally becoming the person I was meant to be, not the perfect heir my father designed."

You squeezed his hands encouragingly. "I'm proud of you. The changes you've made, the boundaries you've set—none of it has been easy."

"It's been worth it," he said simply. "And I want to keep growing, keep becoming better. With you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. "Which is why I want to ask you to marry me. Again. For real this time."

He opened the box to reveal a ring nothing like the elaborate diamond he'd given you during your engagement. This one was simpler, more personal—a band of intertwined gold and platinum with a small sapphire that matched the color of your favorite flowers.

"Our first marriage was arranged for us," he continued. "I want this one to be chosen by us. No families planning, no strategic alliances, just two people who love each other deciding to build a life together."

Tears filled your eyes, but unlike the lonely tears you'd shed in that first year, these were born of joy, of wonder at how far you'd both come.

"Yes," you whispered, watching as he slipped the ring onto your finger, alongside the formal engagement diamond you still wore. The contrast between them—one chosen for appearance, one chosen for meaning—perfectly symbolized your journey.

"I thought we could have a small ceremony," Jungwon said, pulling you close. "Just us and a few people who truly care about our happiness. On that Greek island you've been reading about."

You laughed through your tears. "Your mother would never forgive us."

"She'll survive," he said with a smile. "This isn't about the Yang family or social connections or business advantages. It's about you and me, choosing each other. Every day. For the rest of our lives."

As you kissed to seal this new promise, you marveled at the journey that had brought you here—from empty performance to authentic partnership, from silent longing to expressed love, from arranged marriage to chosen commitment.

The road hadn't been smooth. There had been setbacks, moments when old patterns threatened to reassert themselves. There would be more challenges ahead, more work to maintain the vulnerability and honesty you'd fought so hard to establish.

But looking into Jungwon's eyes—eyes that now held nothing back from you—you knew with absolute certainty that the difficult path was worth it. That true connection, once found, was worth fighting for. That love, real love, could grow even from the most barren beginnings, if only given the chance to breathe.

-

The most shocking transformation in your renewed marriage wasn’t the tenderness.

It was the hunger.

Jungwon, who used to sleep with a polite space between your bodies, now touched you like he couldn’t bear even a millimeter of distance.

The man who once bowed his head before kissing your hand now dropped to his knees and begged to taste you.

It was as if years of restraint had finally snapped—like some tight, internal knot had come undone—and he was feral from the release.

The first night you truly became intimate, you realized just how much he’d been suppressing.

His hands, once always tucked in his lap, now gripped your thighs like a lifeline, dragged you down onto the sheets with a growl. He shook when he touched you, but not from nerves—from sheer fucking relief.

His mouth, which had always only spoken in formal tones and quiet dinner conversation, now whispered against your skin—

“I’ve dreamed of spreading your legs and living between them.”

You gasped. He kissed lower. His breath hot between your thighs.

“Every night beside you, pretending I didn’t hear how you breathed heavier when I got too close. I wanted to fuck you so bad I used to take cold showers just to stop myself from humping the fucking mattress.”

You were already soaked, trembling.

You cupped his face, forced him to look up. “You don’t have to hold back anymore.”

His pupils were blown wide. He licked his lips, nodding.

“I don’t think I could if I tried.”

He broke.

He devoured your pussy like it owed him rent. Like it was his first and last meal.

No teasing. No patience. Just his tongue, buried deep, moaning into you like your taste was the only thing that ever made him lose his composure.

You came once on his mouth—fast and loud—and he didn’t even let up.

“Again,” he groaned, “fuck, again, I want to feel you fall apart.”

And when he finally hovered over you, flushed and trembling and naked between your legs?

“Tell me,” he whispered, cock dragging through your soaked folds, “tell me what you want. What you’ve been aching for. Let me ruin you the way I’ve dreamed about.”

So you did.

You told him all of it. The fantasies. The positions. The filthy little things you’d only ever written down in notebook margins when he was still cold and distant.

And Jungwon?

Did. Not. Flinch.

He nodded, breath shaking, and said—

“You want to be face down? Crying? Begging? I’ll give it to you. Just know when I start, I won’t stop until you’re fucked stupid.”

And he meant it.

He took you face down on the mattress, hips locked in place by his grip, his cock slamming into you so deep you saw stars. He growled things you’d never imagined him saying—

“This pussy’s mine. All fucking mine. You think I don’t know how wet you get when I talk like this?”

“Look at you—slutty little wife, dripping down your thighs like you’ve been waiting to be treated like a whore.”

“How many times you make yourself cum thinking about me breaking like this, huh?”

You choked on your moans. You were sobbing by the time he made you cum again, legs shaking, jaw slack, vision blurry.

He kissed your spine afterward. Slowly. Tenderly. Like he hadn’t just rearranged your insides.

Pulled you into his arms and whispered, “I used to leave the room when I got too hard just looking at you. I thought wanting you like this made me weak. My father always said a Yang man should control his urges.”

He paused. Smiled against your neck.

“I’ve never been so happy to disappoint him.”

-

In the weeks that followed your first night together, the shift between you became impossible to ignore. And impossible to contain.

Jungwon couldn’t stop touching you.

He didn’t even try. His hand found yours under the breakfast table.

His palm slid across your lower back when you walked past him in the hallway—lingering there, possessive.

He stole kisses while you were brushing your teeth, while you answered the door, while you loaded the washing machine.

It was as if his body was always reaching, always chasing, making up for a year of self-denial all at once.

You gave in to him every time.

One afternoon, he came home early from the office to find you kneeling in the garden, soil smudged on your knees, digging holes for the last peony bush you’d saved from the mansion.

You didn’t hear him approach.

But you felt it—the change in the air. The heat behind you. The sound of breath catching.

Hands on your waist. A sharp inhale. And a low, devastating voice.

“That’s what I come home to?”

You turned your head, startled—and then flushed under the weight of his gaze.

He was already unbuttoning his sleeves.

Already breathing too hard.

“Jungwon—”

He hauled you to your feet. Didn’t flinch at the dirt. Didn’t care about the sunlight.

Just gripped your waist, pulled you close, and kissed you like you’d been killing him in his dreams. You gasped against his mouth, hands braced on his chest, heart pounding.

“What was that for?”

His eyes were black with need. He didn’t let you go.

“Because I can,” he said. “Because I spent a year not touching you. Not letting myself want you. Not letting myself want to bend you over every surface in our house.”

You trembled.

He pulled you closer.

“I refuse to waste another fucking day.”

The peonies were forgotten.

He dragged you inside, dirt on your hands, sweat beading on your spine—and kissed you again against the door.

His jacket hit the floor first. Then yours.

Then his belt, as he backed you into the living room like a man possessed.

When your knees hit the rug, he dropped with you.

Didn’t even bother removing your clothes properly—just shoved your dress up and pulled your underwear down like it offended him.

“Here,” he growled, palming your ass as he pressed you forward onto all fours. “Here on the floor, where I can see every inch of you. Where I can fuck you raw and you can scream for me.”

You moaned, breath hitched.

“God, I wanted to do this the first night I married you. I wanted to wreck you. I wanted to see what sounds you’d make with my cock in you.”

You were dripping by the time he pushed inside.

No teasing. No patience. Just one smooth thrust that made you cry out, already clenching.

“So fucking tight,” he hissed. “So wet and hot and mine.”

He fucked you hard, fast, hips slapping against your ass as your moans echoed through the empty house.

You didn’t care. You let him take everything.

He gripped your hips, pulled you back onto him harder, chasing your high like he’d been dying for it. You came shaking on him, and he groaned, low and broken, before following with a curse buried into your shoulder.

You collapsed to the rug in a tangled heap, both of you breathless, glowing in the afternoon sun. Later, still half-naked, your cheek resting on the rug, he lay beside you—head on your stomach, smiling like a teenager.

“My father would be appalled,” he murmured. “The Yang heir behaving like this. Desperate. Loud. Fucking his wife on the floor.”

You laughed, running your fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

“And what do you think?”

He tilted his head. Kissed your bare hip, then lower.

Then smiled.

“I think we should do it again in the kitchen.”

A pause.

“Then the stairs. Then the study. Then maybe the floor again.”

You didn’t even get a chance to answer. Because his hand was already sliding between your legs again.

-

What amazed you most was his attentiveness. Jungwon, who had once seemed completely disconnected from physical needs, now anticipated yours with an almost uncanny perception. He noticed when tension gathered in your shoulders and appeared with warm hands to massage it away. He registered which touches made your breath catch and revisited them with deliberate intent. He cataloged every sensitive spot, every preference, every response with the same meticulous attention he'd once reserved for business reports.

"How did you know?" you asked one evening when he drew you a bath exactly when you needed it, complete with the lavender oil you preferred when tired.

"Your left eyebrow tenses slightly when you're exhausted," he explained, kneeling beside the tub to wash your back with gentle hands. "And you roll your shoulders every few minutes. Plus, you've been on your feet all day with the interior decorator."

The fact that he noticed such small details—that he paid such close attention to your physical comfort—moved you deeply. This wasn't just passion; it was care, consideration, genuine desire for your wellbeing.

One night, as you lay tangled together in the afterglow of particularly intense lovemaking, Jungwon traced patterns on your back with his fingertips, his expression thoughtful.

"I used to think that needing someone physically was a weakness," he confessed. "That it gave them power over you. My father warned me about it—how desire could cloud judgment, make a man vulnerable."

"And now?" you prompted, propping yourself up to look at him.

A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features in a way that still took your breath away. "Now I think vulnerability is its own kind of strength. The courage to need someone, to show them exactly how much you want them..." He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I've never felt stronger than when I'm completely undone in your arms."

-

The physical transformation in your marriage rippled outward, affecting every aspect of your lives together. Jungwon, once rigid in his schedules and plans, now embraced spontaneity. He would cancel meetings to spend the day in bed with you, laughing as you expressed shock at his newfound willingness to prioritize pleasure over work.

"The company won't collapse if I take a day off," he said, pulling you back under the covers when you suggested he shouldn't neglect his responsibilities. "And this—" he kissed you deeply "—is a responsibility too. To us. To what we're building."

Even in public, the change was evident to anyone with eyes to see. Though still mindful of appropriate boundaries, Jungwon couldn't seem to stop himself from small touches—his hand at the small of your back, his fingers laced with yours, the way he would occasionally lean down to whisper something in your ear that made heat rise to your cheeks.

At a corporate gala, Mrs. Yang cornered you by the refreshment table, her eyes narrowed in disapproval. "Your husband's behavior has become rather... demonstrative lately," she observed acidly. "It's unseemly for a man of his position to be so openly affectionate."

You smiled, watching Jungwon across the room as he spoke with investors. Even engaged in business conversation, his eyes sought you out regularly, as if making sure you were still there, still his.

"I disagree," you replied calmly. "I think it shows remarkable strength for a man to be secure enough in himself to express his feelings openly."

Your mother-in-law's lips thinned, but before she could respond, Jungwon appeared at your side, his hand automatically finding yours.

"Mother," he greeted her with polite warmth. "I see you've found my wife. I hope you'll excuse us—this is our song."

There was no song playing that held any special meaning, but Mrs. Yang couldn't know that. With a small bow, Jungwon led you to the dance floor, pulling you closer than was strictly proper for such a formal event.

"Rescued you," he murmured against your ear, his breath sending delicious shivers down your spine.

"My hero," you teased, relaxing into his embrace. "Though your mother might never recover from the shock of seeing the Yang heir so besotted with his own wife."

"Let her adjust," he replied, his hand splayed possessively against your lower back. "This is who I am now. Who we are together."

Later that night, he touched you like he’d been holding it in all day—like the hours of careful, public restraint had coiled inside him, pressing tight under his skin, begging for release.

Now, with you spread beneath him in your shared bed, every breath he took seemed heavy with need.

His thrusts were deep, deliberate, dragging moans from your throat with each slow roll of his hips.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t look away. He studied you.

His dark eyes locked onto yours, watching every flicker of expression, every twitch, every gasp, like he wanted to memorize the exact second you shattered.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, voice low, tight, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.

You blinked up at him, dazed, overwhelmed. “That I hardly recognize you sometimes.”

His rhythm stuttered—hips faltering, jaw tensing.

His brows drew together. “Is that… disappointing?”

You couldn’t help the breathless laugh that escaped you. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist and pulled him closer, arching up to meet him.

“No. Quite the opposite.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, your voice thick with wonder and arousal.

“I’m amazed that all of this—”

Your hands trailed down his chest, to where your bodies met, to the heat and slick and stretch between your legs,

“—was hidden inside that perfect, restrained man.”

Relief washed over his face, followed by a crooked, mischievous smile—so at odds with the version of him you’d once known that it sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you.

“I have years of self-control to make up for,” he said, lowering his mouth to your throat, his voice a warm rasp against your skin. “You don’t think I’ve imagined this? Every night. Every day. Watching you walk around like you didn’t know how badly I wanted to fuck you into the mattress?”

You whimpered, breath catching.

“You think I didn’t notice how soft your thighs looked in those dresses? Or how your voice changed when you said my name?”

His tongue flicked over a sensitive spot just below your ear, and your back arched without thinking.

“I used to jerk off in the shower,” he whispered, filthy now, “biting my lip so you wouldn’t hear. Palming my cock like a coward while I imagined you moaning for me just like this.”

You gasped as he pinned your wrists above your head, not rough, just firm—controlling, possessive. His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers circling your clit with devastating precision.

“You’re mine now,” he said against your collarbone. “I don’t have to hide it anymore. Don’t have to pretend I don’t want you crying and shaking under me every night.”

The need in his voice made your toes curl.

“I don’t think anyone could be prepared for this version of you,” you managed to gasp, hips bucking as his thumb pressed harder.

He chuckled darkly. “Good. I like catching you off guard.”

Then his lips ghosted over your pulse, and he murmured:

“I like knowing no one else gets to see you like this. Just me. The mess. The begging. The way you moan when I hit you right there.”

His hips snapped, and your whole body trembled.

“I like owning this version of you. The version that melts under me. That asks for more even when I’m already inside.”

The sheer possessiveness in his voice—raw and reverent—nearly undid you.

Your whole body clenched, eyes wide, breath gone. “Only you,” you whispered, completely wrecked. “Always you.”

He kissed you then. Deep. Unrelenting.

And when you came again, shaking apart in his arms, you knew:

You’d never seen the real Jungwon before this.

Afterward, as you drifted toward sleep in his arms, you reflected on the journey that had brought you here. From polite strangers sharing a bed without touching, to lovers who couldn't bear even the smallest distance between them. From a marriage of appearance to a union of body, heart, and soul.

Jungwon's arm tightened around you, even in his sleep unwilling to let you go. The man who had once feared needing someone now embraced that need without reservation, transforming what he'd been taught was weakness into his greatest strength.

As you snuggled closer to his warmth, you silently thanked whatever courage had prompted you to finally break the silence between you, to demand more than the empty performance your marriage had been. The risk had been terrifying, but the reward—this man who loved you without restraint, who showed that love in every look and touch and whispered word—was beyond anything you could have imagined.

Epilogue: Aegean Dreams

The light breeze carried the scent of salt and wild herbs through the open French doors of your villa, perched on the cliffs of Santorini. Dawn had just begun to paint the horizon in shades of gold and rose, the Aegean Sea below reflecting the spectacle like a mirror. You stood on the private terrace, wrapped in a silk robe, drinking in the view that had once been nothing more than a wistful note in a travel book margin.

Warm arms encircled you from behind, and Jungwon's lips found the curve where your neck met your shoulder.

"I woke up and you were gone," he murmured against your skin. "For a second, I panicked."

You turned in his embrace, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. No product kept it in place here—just like no tailored suits or carefully crafted personas had made the journey to this small Greek paradise.

"Just wanted to see the sunrise," you explained, smiling at the vulnerability he no longer tried to hide. "Old habits. Though I'm not used to you noticing when I slip out of bed."

"I notice everything about you now," he said, tightening his hold. "Especially when your warmth disappears from beside me."

Two years had passed since that fateful anniversary night when everything had broken open between you. Two years of learning each other, rebuilding trust, discovering what it meant to truly choose one another every day. The small, intimate wedding you'd held on this very island six months ago had merely formalized what your hearts had already decided.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Jungwon asked, noticing your contemplative expression.

"I was just thinking about that travel book," you said, leaning into him. "The one where I marked all those Greek islands, never believing I'd actually see them."

"And now you've seen five of them in three weeks," he replied with a smile. "With three more to go before we have to think about heading back."

The itinerary for this trip had been deliberately open-ended—a luxury neither of you had ever permitted yourselves before. No business calls, no social obligations, not even a fixed return date. Just the two of you moving at your own pace through the islands you'd dreamed of.

"Remember that cove I mentioned in my notes?" you asked, a mischievous glint in your eye. "The one where 'no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked'?"

"How could I forget?" Jungwon's voice dropped lower, his hands sliding down to your waist. "It's circled on the map in our bedroom. I've been wondering when you'd bring it up."

"The boat captain said he could take us there this afternoon. Completely private, accessible only by sea."

His eyes darkened with desire—a look that still thrilled you, even after months of uninhibited passion. "I'll tell him we'll double his fee if he drops us off and doesn't return until sunset."

You laughed, stretching up to kiss him. "Always the efficient businessman."

"Only when efficiency serves pleasure," he countered, deepening the kiss until you were both breathless.

When you finally pulled apart, the sun had fully crested the horizon, bathing the white-washed villa in golden light. Jungwon led you to the small table on the terrace where he'd already set up breakfast—fresh fruit, local yogurt, honey, and coffee prepared exactly the way you liked it.

"I have something for you," he said, reaching into the pocket of his linen pants as you both sat down.

He placed a small package wrapped in simple brown paper on the table between you. His expression held an endearing mix of anticipation and nervousness that reminded you how far he'd come from the controlled, emotionless man you'd married.

"What's this for?" you asked, picking up the package. "It's not my birthday or our anniversary."

"Do I need a reason to give my wife a gift?" he countered with a smile. "Open it."

You carefully unwrapped the paper to find a leather-bound journal, its cover soft and supple. When you opened it, you discovered it was filled with poems—some typed, others handwritten in Jungwon's precise script.

"I've been collecting them," he explained, watching your face closely. "Every poem that made me think of you. The ones that helped me understand what I was feeling when I didn't have the words myself."

You turned the pages, eyes widening as you recognized some of the poems you'd once secretly marked in your books, now preserved in this new collection. But there were others you didn't recognize—contemporary pieces, older classics, even what appeared to be original works.

"Did you... write some of these?" you asked, looking up in surprise.

A flush crept up his neck—the unguarded reaction still so different from the controlled man he'd once been. "I tried. They're probably terrible, but..." He shrugged, a gesture of vulnerability that would have been unthinkable in the old Jungwon. "I wanted to find a way to tell you what you mean to me that wasn't borrowed from someone else's words."

You found one of his original poems, dated from the early days of your reconciliation:

I lived behind walls so high

Even I forgot what lay inside

Until your voice broke through

And light flooded places

I had kept dark for so long

I had forgotten they could shine

Tears pricked your eyes as you continued reading. The progression of the poems—from hesitant early attempts to more recent, confident expressions—mirrored the journey of your relationship.

"This is the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me," you said finally, closing the journal and holding it against your heart.

"There's one more thing," Jungwon said, reaching across the table to take your hand. "I've been thinking about what you said last week, about not being ready to go back to real life yet."

"I was just being silly," you assured him, though the thought of returning to schedules and obligations did fill you with a certain dread. "We can't stay on vacation forever."

"Why not?" He smiled at your startled expression. "Not forever, but... longer. I've been working on something." He pulled out his phone—rarely used during the trip except for taking photos—and showed you a property listing. "It's a small villa on Paros. Nothing extravagant, but it has a garden for you and a study for me with a decent internet connection."

"You want to buy a house here?" you asked, stunned.

"I want us to have a place that's just ours. Not tied to the Yang name or business or social expectations." His eyes held yours, serious despite his smile. "A place where we can come whenever we need to breathe. Where no one expects anything from us except being ourselves."

"But your work—"

"Can be managed remotely for extended periods," he interrupted gently. "I've been talking with the board about restructuring my role. Less day-to-day management, more strategic direction. It would mean fewer hours, more flexibility."

You stared at him, processing the magnitude of what he was suggesting. The old Jungwon would never have considered stepping back from his corporate responsibilities, would never have prioritized personal happiness over professional ambition.

"What about your father?" you asked, knowing that Mr. Yang would view such a move as a betrayal of family duty.

"He'll adapt," Jungwon said with surprising calm. "Or he won't. Either way, I'm not living my life to meet his expectations anymore." He squeezed your hand. "What do you think? Not about him—about the villa."

You looked out at the endless blue of the Aegean, then back at the man who had transformed himself for love of you—who continued to transform, to grow, to choose your shared happiness over prescribed obligation.

"I think," you said slowly, a smile spreading across your face, "that I'd like to plant bougainvillea along that terrace wall in the photos."

His answering smile was radiant. "Is that a yes?"

Instead of answering with words, you stood and moved around the table, settling onto his lap. His arms came around you automatically, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in his world—which, you knew now, you were.

"It's a 'you make me happier than I ever thought possible,'" you said, framing his face with your hands. "It's a 'I love the life we're building together.'"

"Even if it scandalizes my mother?" he asked, laughter in his eyes.

"Especially then," you replied, leaning in to kiss him as the Greek sun climbed higher in the sky, warming your skin, illuminating the future stretching before you—unplanned, unprescribed, and gloriously your own.

Behind you, the pages of the poetry journal fluttered in the sea breeze, open to the last entry, written in Jungwon's hand just days before:

Once I thought perfection meant control

Now I know it's the moment you laugh

Head thrown back, eyes dancing

Completely unguarded in my arms

The sound of your happiness echoing

Through rooms once filled with silence

This is the music I want to hear

For all my remaining days

fin.

-

TL: @addictedtohobi @azzy02 @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @zzhengyu @somuchdard @annybah @ddolleri @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist

[wonwunss]

"the quiet place between hello and home"

–ᝰ.ᐟ✮ On a quiet spring morning in 2015, a 13-year-old girl named Sofia arrives in South Korea — alone, unfamiliar with the language, and completely out of place — to train with a group of boys she's never met before. It’s her first day as a potential trainee with the soon-to-debut Seventeen, and her first step into a world that doesn't speak her name yet.

pairing: predebut seventeen x 14th member!oc

genre: soft angst, slice-of-life, found family, comfort, sofia doesnt speak korean, teenage boys svt, first meeting

word count: 2.9k

a/n: not sure if this will be just a one time story, but its been on my mind for so long since i started reading 14th member blogs on tumblr so i wrote it out for fun

The spring air was crisp. Thin, cold, and slightly wet — the kind of chill that crept under your sleeves and clung to your skin.

Sofia stood in front of the large white building with PLEDIS ENTERTAINMENT stenciled across its glass doors, clutching her backpack tight in one hand and a half-wrapped onigiri in the other. Her dad stood beside her, hesitant, his hand hovering protectively near her shoulder.

“You have my number,” he said, voice low and calm like it always was when he was trying not to worry. “Call me if anything feels off. Anything at all, okay?”

She nodded. Small. Quiet. The knot in her chest pulled tighter.

He didn’t want to leave her there. She knew. He was just following the plan, doing what they’d agreed on after her grandmother’s tearful insistence that “Sofia’s meant for something bigger.”

And so here she was — 13 years old, Korean-French, raised in an English-speaking household, in a country whose language she didn’t understand, standing in front of the door to what could be a whole new life… or a very strange, uncomfortable chapter.

The door opened before she could think too much about it.

“Hello! Sofia?” a staff member stepped out, friendly-faced, Korean-accented English soft on the ears. “Come, come in. We show you around first, yes?”

She nodded again. Her dad gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before she followed the staff inside, already missing the warmth of his presence behind her.

The studio was bright — clean, modern, a little intimidating. It smelled like wood floors and sweat and energy drinks. Staff greeted her with kind smiles as they gave her a tour, explaining each room with a mixture of English and gestures. There were dance studios, recording booths, practice rooms, and far too many mirrors.

They asked her soft questions: “Where are you from?” “Do you like to sing or dance more?” “Are you nervous?” (She nodded. Of course she was.)

She smiled politely, murmured small answers, tucked her hands behind her back like it would help hide how out of place she felt.

Then came the moment she’d been dreading.

“You ready to meet the boys?”

She didn’t answer. Just nodded again, too unsure to say anything else.

The staff opened the door to the main practice room and ushered her in. Laughter burst through the air like a firecracker.

Thirteen boys were scattered across the space — some stretching, others dancing to random songs, a few play-fighting on the mats like overgrown puppies. They were loud. Comfortable. Messy in the way only teenage boys could be.

When the staff clapped their hands, the room fell into a strange, awkward hush.

Everyone looked at her.

“This is Sofia,” the staff introduced. “She’ll be training with you starting today.”

She gave a polite bow. Her stomach twisted.

The boys shuffled forward, each offering their own shy bow, murmuring greetings in Korean she didn’t understand. Joshua and Vernon were the only ones who tried to speak to her in English — brief, polite lines like “Nice to meet you” and “Hope you like it here” — but even they quickly retreated back into their familiar circles.

And just like that… she was alone again.

She stood in the corner of the room as the boys resumed dancing, laughing, jumping around to music. She watched them through the mirrors. Observed. Smiled to herself occasionally when someone slipped or broke into a ridiculous move. They were funny, even if she didn’t know what they were saying. They were kind of like a TV show with no subtitles.

At one point, a staff member encouraged her to join. She nodded — always nodding — and stood quietly at the back of the group as they messed around, copying the steps from a distance but never inserting herself in their circles.

Then lunch came.

And everything scattered.

The boys broke into small groups, heading for the nearest convenience store like it was their favorite hour of the day. Joshua and Vernon were already out the door with their own cliques before she could even think about asking to tag along.

She was left standing near her bag, unsure if she should follow.

She didn’t.

Instead, she sat back down in the corner, quietly pulled out the onigiri she and her dad had bought this morning. It was small. A snack, really. Not enough to fill her, but enough to keep her from crying out of hunger and sadness.

The room was empty now, but not fully. A group of five lingered behind — Seungcheol, Jihoon, Seungkwan, Seokmin, and Wonwoo.

Seokmin was digging dramatically through his bag, yelling about how his wallet had disappeared and everyone needed to calm down because he was “sure it’s here somewhere!” The others laughed, complained, groaned theatrically.

But then… their voices quieted.

Because they noticed her. A tiny girl, alone, eating the smallest lunch in the corner of a room she didn’t belong in.

They exchanged glances. Wordless, unsure.

Seungkwan whispered something. Jihoon rubbed the back of his neck. Seungcheol furrowed his brows, clearly thinking hard. Wonwoo’s gaze lingered the longest.

After a beat of silence…  “Rock, paper, scissors,” Seokmin suggested.

Wonwoo lost.

He protested. Something about a rematch, and “you guys are better at English!” but in the end, they all just pointed at him until he sighed and stepped forward.

The others trailed behind, like backup dancers in a very awkward mission.

Wonwoo stopped a little in front of her and cratched his head.

“You… us… lunch?” he said. “Together. Store. 7-Eleven.”

He made vague hand gestures between her and the door, nodding his head toward the hallway.

It was clumsy, ridiculous even. But she understood. So she nodded, a shy, grateful nod — the kind you make when you want to cry, but you’re too busy being relieved.

The walk to the store wasn’t magical. It was messy and loud — Seokmin and Seungkwan were screaming at each other in exaggerated tones, Seungcheol and Jihoon occasionally chiming in with laughter.

Sofia stayed at the back, not close enough to talk to them but not alone either.

And Wonwoo stayed close to her.

He didn’t speak much — didn’t know what to say — but he slowed his steps until they matched hers. Stayed near her without making it weird. Just there. Quiet. Present.

At one point, he glanced at her and said, “First… time? Korea?”

His accent was heavy, the sentence a little awkward, but the question was clear.

She nodded. He smiled, soft and a little proud of himself. “Okay,” he said.

Just that and in that moment, it was enough. It was still her first day. Still lonely. Still terrifying. But she wasn’t completely alone anymore. Not really.

The store glowed with bright fluorescent lights, its automatic door hissing as it slid open to welcome them in. The cold spring air was quickly replaced by the warm scent of instant ramen and fresh bread, the soft hum of a refrigerator and the quiet beep of a microwave heating someone's lunch. The moment they entered, the group scattered — a flurry of teenage energy eager to devour their hour of freedom.

Seokmin and Seungkwan immediately darted for the snack aisle, arguing over which flavor of chips was superior.

“Loser pays!” Seungkwan shouted, already grabbing a basket.

“Okay, but you’re the loser!” Seokmin yelled back with his usual sunshine grin.

Somewhere in between them, Jihoon groaned, shaking his head while reaching for a triangular kimbap. Seungcheol muttered something about “not this again” before being dragged into their mess anyway.

They were loud. Messy. Laughing and complaining about prices, tossing snacks into each other’s baskets when they weren’t looking. One of them — Jihoon, maybe — tried to trick Seungkwan into scanning an extra chocolate milk.

Meanwhile, Sofia stood just past the entrance, clutching her small wallet, unsure where to even begin.

But she wasn’t alone.

Wonwoo hadn’t left her side since they walked out of the building. He didn’t say much — he hadn’t from the start — but he lingered beside her with a quiet kind of attentiveness, like he’d made a silent decision to stay until she found her footing.

He looked at her now, then gently pointed toward one of the aisles. “Come,” he said simply.

She followed.

They walked slowly through the convenience store, Wonwoo leading with a sort of quiet grace — like someone used to moving without taking up too much space. He stopped occasionally to point at things he liked, using awkward hand gestures and short, simple phrases.

“This, yum yum.” He held up a microwavable pasta bowl and gave a firm thumbs up.

“This,” he said again, pointing to a peach drink, “Nice. Good. Try?”

Sofia giggled softly at his effort, nodding back. It was awkward. Stilted. But there was a kindness in his gestures that spoke louder than any word.

He watched her study the food options, patient. He didn’t rush her, didn’t move on when she paused too long. Even when she stared blankly at the cash in her wallet, overwhelmed by the number of zeroes on the unfamiliar bills, he stepped in.

“No,” he murmured gently, taking the wrong note from her hand and replacing it with the right one. “This one. Okay.”

He showed her the coins too, explained with his fingers which was a hundred and which was ten. She didn’t fully understand, but his steady nods helped her through.

At the counter, he stood beside her, letting her do it herself but never straying far. When she gave the cashier the right amount and received her change, he gave her the tiniest smile — a proud one.

“You good,” he said. Not You’re good. Just You good. But she understood what he meant.

Once they stepped outside, the others were already huddled at a small round table meant for two, balancing their lunches and bodies in an absolute circus of limbs.

Seokmin was sitting squarely on Seungkwan’s lap, insisting, “My ramen needs to be on the table!” while Seungkwan shouted, “You need to be off me!”

Seungcheol stood over them, eating rice balls while laughing at the chaos. Jihoon had somehow managed to squeeze into the only real chair and was refusing to give it up no matter how much they teased him.

They were a mess. But a warm one. A kind of chaotic harmony that came from knowing each other inside out.

Wonwoo didn’t hesitate. He led Sofia toward them, nodding once when she looked unsure.

The moment they reached the group, Seungcheol shifted aside without a word, making just enough space for her to sit on the edge of the chair beside Jihoon. The others didn’t say much — just offered brief smiles, small nudges of welcome.

She sat, carefully placing her food down. Her hands trembled just slightly, but she tried to hide it.

Wonwoo settled next to her, kneeling casually on the ground, tearing open a packet of kimchi with one hand and reaching for his chopsticks with the other. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. But he stayed.

Sofia took a deep breath. Her ramen was too hot. The wind was too cold. Her fingers felt numb, and her heart still beat with the quiet ache of homesickness. But she was here with them.

She ate quietly, listening to their laughter, watching the way they bickered over who bought what and who owed who next. She didn’t understand a single word. But she laughed anyway, just a little, when Seungkwan dropped a fish cake and Seokmin yelled “Foul!” like they were playing a sport.

She didn’t belong yet, not fully. But maybe… she could and for now, that was enough.

Wonwoo glanced over at her mid-bite, eyes soft, and offered a quiet thumbs up. She returned it. A little slower, a little awkward but with a smile and somewhere inside, something warm began to bloom.

The sun had already dipped beneath the skyline when practice ended.

Inside the studio, the air was thick with the scent of sweat, rubber soles, and half-drank bottles of sports drinks. The room buzzed faintly with the low hum of the Bluetooth speaker that hadn’t been turned off, playing a lo-fi track that no one was really listening to anymore.

Sofia stood near the corner where she’d left her bag hours ago, legs aching from trying to keep up with choreography she didn’t know, arms sore from a full day of unfamiliar movement. The soft cotton of her sweatshirt clung damply to her back, and her hair was pulled messily into a low ponytail.

But her eyes were bright. Tired… but bright.

The boys were slowly packing up, tossing towels over their shoulders, teasing each other over missed steps and misheard instructions. Seungcheol playfully scolded Seokmin for nearly kicking someone during a freestyle segment. Vernon was laughing over a clip he filmed on his phone while Joshua gathered everyone’s forgotten water bottles.

One by one, they trickled out — in twos, in threes — splitting off to catch their buses, walk to their dorms, or grab late-night snacks before heading home. Each of them offered her a small nod or smile before they left, not quite friendship yet… but something like acceptance.

The staff waved goodbye with warm smiles as they shut off the lights and locked the doors behind them.

"See you tomorrow, Sofia!" one of them called. "You did well today. Rest, okay?"

She bowed politely, whispered a soft thank you in English. She stood outside the building now, just beyond the glass entrance, holding her phone tightly with the screen still lit up:

Papa, I’m done. You can come now. I’ll wait here. Sent 12 minutes ago.

She sat down on the concrete edge of the entrance, resting her arms on her knees, chin tucked between them. The street was quiet this late. The occasional car passed by with a soft rumble, but mostly, it was still. The kind of stillness that made you aware of how far you were from everything familiar.

She missed her cat. She missed her bed. She missed knowing how to say anything without second-guessing herself. But she didn’t cry. Not this time.

Because she wasn’t alone.

Wonwoo sat beside her, quiet as ever, his backpack resting against his shins. He hadn’t left after practice — hadn’t even looked like he intended to. He just… stayed. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Sofia glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His head was tilted slightly back, resting against the glass, eyes closed like he was listening to something only he could hear.

The glow from the streetlamp made the edges of his hair look gold.

Then, without opening his eyes, he spoke. "Today…" He paused, searched for the right words. "...okay?"

Sofia blinked. It took her a second to realize he was talking to her. She turned to face him fully. “Huh?”

Wonwoo opened one eye, then gestured vaguely with his hand, mimicking a small dance move. “Dance. Practice. You. Today… okay?”

She smiled a little. Tired, but genuine. “…It was hard,” she admitted, softly. “But… not bad.”

Wonwoo nodded. He didn’t seem to understand all of it, but he caught the tone. He mimicked her smile, even if his was the quiet kind that barely curved his lips.

A pause.

Then, with all the hesitation in the world, he added, “You… strong.”

Sofia laughed quietly — the kind that surprised even her. “Thank you.”

Another beat of silence passed. "You..." he said again, his brows furrowing slightly. "Miss... home?"

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked up at the stars that were barely visible through the haze of the city lights. “…Yeah.”

Wonwoo nodded again, as if he understood more than he let on. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. Sometimes, sitting beside someone who chooses to stay is more comforting than all the words in the world.

Soon, a familiar figure turned the corner and slowed to a stop in front of them. Her father, looking tired but relieved, scanning the street until his eyes landed on her.

“There you are,” he said with a warm smile. “I’ve been circling the block.”

Sofia stood, brushing the dust from her jeans. Her dad looked to her side — to the quiet boy who stood up beside her, bowing deeply in respect.

Wonwoo didn’t speak.

But he offered Sofia’s dad a small wave and waited until he saw the two of them head off in the right direction. He walked them to the edge of the street, where he gestured them toward the nearest subway entrance, already checking his phone for train times.

Sofia turned around once as they started to descend the steps.

Wonwoo was still there.

He gave her a small nod.

She returned it, her fingers curling around the strap of her backpack, heart warm in a way she hadn’t expected when the day began. They didn’t say goodbye, they didn’t need to.

That night, as Sofia lay in the small hotel bed beside her dad, staring up at the ceiling, her limbs aching and her mind buzzing, she thought about the quiet boy with the soft eyes and broken English.

She wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring.

But she knew one thing. She didn’t feel so alone anymore and that — for now — was more than enough.

[wonwunss]

hello i just wanted to tell u that i love ur dad!joshua and the uncle!wonu fics so much i'm not saying this to pressure u or anything but i hope to see few more of his daughter in the future <3

hi loveee! yess ofc i’m so happy you love them too, i’ll DEFINITELY bring them back again soon!! 😙😙

[wonwunss]

🩸The Vessel : Chapter 7

pairing: mingyu x f!reader

Genre: supernatural thriller / horror, psychological mystery, dark fantasy, romance?, urban paranormal, demon possession, “Head over Heels” k-drama inspired

word count: 1.9k

The Vessel: Masterlist  |  previous  | next

The music room door creaks open. You’re already inside, seated on the floor with your knees pulled to your chest, the only sound the quiet hum of an amp left on somewhere.

You don’t look up when Mingyu enters and he doesn’t say a word. Not yet.

He stands in the doorway like a shadow. Frozen. Ashamed. But then he walks toward you—slowly, like every step might shatter something—and sits down right across from you. Just far enough that your knees don’t touch.

His hands are clenched in his lap, jaw tight. He’s trying so hard not to shake.

You’re the one who speaks first, voice barely more than a whisper. “Do you see it now?”

Your eyes flick up, finally meeting his. There’s no judgment in your expression. No fear of him. Only that gentle concern you always had. “That it’s not you doing all this… it’s the thing inside you.”

Mingyu swallows hard. And it hits him just how tired you sound. How tired you’ve been for so long, carrying this secret alone.

He opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. So you scoot closer. Very carefully.

Then, without warning— You reach out and take his hand.

Mingyu’s breath catches.

Your fingers wrap around his, warm and grounding. And immediately—you feel it. That cold, slithering presence that always lingered just out of reach— Gone.

Like it recoiled the second you touched him. You smile a little, but it’s sad. “That’s how I know it’s really you. That I’m really talking to you.” You glance down at your joined hands. “It never stays when I touch you.”

Mingyu’s brows furrow. He looks down, too, like he’s seeing your touch for the first time. You can feel his pulse—wild, uneven, struggling to stay calm.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, and his voice breaks. “I—I didn’t know. I thought I was going crazy. People kept telling me weird things, and I—I kept forgetting. I kept waking up in places I didn’t remember going to. But I didn’t want to believe it.”

You gently squeeze his hand. “It’s okay. You weren’t supposed to figure it out alone.”

His eyes lift back to yours. “But why you?” he whispers. “Why are you the only one who sees it?”

Your lips part—but you hesitate. That’s a question that deserves the full truth. But not tonight. Not yet. Instead, you give him a softer truth.

“Because I’ve seen things like this before and because… I think it’s been after you for a long time.”

Mingyu’s jaw tightens again, but not in fear this time. In pain. “Then I was right to stay away from you,” he mutters. “I should’ve never—”

“Don’t.” Your voice turns firm. “Don’t say that.”

He stops. You look at him with the same intensity you had the first time you confronted the demon. “It wants you to stay away from me because I’m the only thing that makes it weak. I’m the only one who can help you fight it.”

And this time, he doesn’t pull away from your touch. He doesn’t deny you. He just lets you hold on, eyes shining with something so fragile and grateful and scared.

The night air had begun to cool, slipping in through the cracked window of the music room. You both had shifted positions, backs now against the wall, your shoulders just barely touching. His knees were pulled up. Yours were stretched out.

And between your hands? A single pinkie hooked loosely.

Neither of you said much after your last words. But the silence wasn't awkward. It was… full. Like a page waiting for the next sentence.

You could feel how tired Mingyu was. Not just from what happened earlier, but from everything—everything. The weeks of confusion. The gaslighting from his own mind. The terror of realizing his body wasn’t entirely his.

He was quiet for so long, you almost thought he fell asleep but then, his voice broke through the stillness. Soft. So unsure. “Why aren’t you scared of me?”

Your eyes turned to him slowly. He was already looking at you.

“I’ve done awful things. Even if I don’t remember… even if I wasn’t really me… you saw it. You were there.” He swallowed, gaze darting away for a second. “I almost hurt you. Why do you still… trust me?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your pinkie tightened slightly around his then—after a breath—you nodded to yourself. You owed him the truth.

“When I was younger,” you began, voice quiet and careful, “I used to see spirits everywhere. Some were kind. Some were lost. But there were others that weren’t just lost—they were hungry. Mean.”

Mingyu turned toward you slowly, eyes wide and open.

“There was one that stayed for years,” you continued. “It never possessed me, but it tried. Over and over again. Got into my dreams. Followed me to school. Touched things in my house. Said terrible things about the people I loved.”

You inhaled, chest tightening at the memory.

“No one believed me. Not my teachers. Not my classmates. Not even my parents, at first. But there was someone who did believe me. My grandmother.” Your voice cracked a little on the word. “She had the same gift. She taught me everything I know now—how to protect myself, how to understand what I was seeing. And eventually, she helped me get rid of it.”

You turned toward him now, voice soft. “But I still remember how it felt. Being scared. Being blamed for things I didn’t do. Wondering if I was losing my mind. So when I saw you… when I saw that thing around you…” You shook your head gently. “I knew I had to help. Because I know what it’s like to not be believed. To feel… haunted.”

Silence fell again, heavier than before. Not uncomfortable—just intimate. Your pinkies were still linked but this time, it was Mingyu who moved. His hand turned in yours, slow and unsure at first… until all his fingers wrapped fully around yours, closing the space.

“I want to stay like this,” he said, so quietly it almost didn’t reach your ears. You looked up. His gaze met yours—raw, real. “I want to stay as me. And I think I can… if you’re with me.”

The music room felt sacred for a moment. Like time had folded in on itself. And you said nothing in reply. You didn’t need to. Your hand tightened in his.

And you stayed that way until the moon rose high in the sky—two people sitting in the dark, holding on just tightly enough to keep the demons at bay.

It happened on a Tuesday. Barely a week since you and Mingyu made the pact—touch, no matter how small, as protection. No demon, no matter how old or powerful, could enter where real connection lived.

But you had slipped. Just for a moment.

The bell had rung for lunch. A swarm of students shuffled through the corridor. You were walking side-by-side with Mingyu, your pinkies just barely brushing when someone bumped into you from behind, jostling your arms apart.

“Shit—sorry,” Mingyu had said, reaching back for your hand.

But it was too late. The moment his skin lost yours, you felt it like a cold wind slipping into a cracked window. You turned toward him instantly—except he wasn’t there anymore.

It was in. “Really?” the voice that came from him rasped, sickly amused. “That’s all it takes now? One second without your hand in his and I’m free again?”

You staggered back, throat tightening. The students around you hadn’t noticed—yet. “You’re disgusting,” you spat under your breath.

It only grinned. That same face—Mingyu’s face—except not. The eyes were colder. Lips too wide. Shoulders too stiff. “And you,” it purred, stepping toward you, “are so very interesting.”

You held your ground. “What do you want from me?”

“A lot of things,” it said, voice almost sultry now, sickeningly smooth. “Your spine, for starters. I like how it never bends. Your fear, because it would taste delicious. And maybe—” It leaned in, slow, lips almost brushing your ear. “—your mouth. Just once. See what all the fuss is about.”

You shoved it away violently, and it laughed—loudly, drawing attention from a few students who turned to look. They saw Mingyu’s body stumble slightly, but nothing seemed too out of the ordinary.

“You’ve lost it,” you hissed, trying to steady your breath.

“No,” it smiled cruelly. “I think I’ve found something. Or maybe… someone.” Its gaze raked over you with something darker than malice. Something dangerously close to want.

“All your righteous anger,” it sneered. “All your light. Do you know how long it’s been since someone challenged me like this?”

“You’re obsessed with me,” you snapped.

“And you’re obsessed with saving him.” It gestured at its chest—Mingyu’s chest—mockingly. “But I wonder… are you saving him because you care, or because you’re afraid you’ll fall for what’s inside?”

You froze and the thing smirked.

“I could give you things he never would,” it whispered, almost tenderly. “Power. Secrets. Everything you’ve been curious about since you were a child. Just say the word.”

“Get. Out.”

“Make me.”

You stepped forward, fully intent on reaching for Mingyu’s hand again—but the demon moved quicker, grabbing your wrist midair.

It wasn’t tight. It wasn’t painful. But it was intimate like it knew you wouldn’t dare scream, like it wanted to see what you would do now.

You locked eyes and for a second… just a second… you swore its expression flickered.

Not with anger. But with something mournful, almost… tired. Like it was haunted, too. But the second passed. Its grip tightened.

And then— “Mingyu?”

A classmate’s voice cut through the hallway. The demon turned its head, eyes narrowing at the interruption.

That’s when you struck. Your hand shot up, threading your fingers with Mingyu’s. There was a jolt—like lightning firing through your veins—and the demon screamed.

Not aloud but you felt it, heard it inside your skull. It hated being forced out but it fled.

Mingyu’s knees buckled as the real him came back, panting, confused, his hand still tangled in yours. “What… just… happened…?”

You gripped him tighter. “We need to leave. Now.”

THE DEMON’S MONOLOGUE

She touched him again. And I vanished. Again.

I never asked for this vessel—he chose it. Offered himself like a lamb, all soft eyes and shattered bones. There was a moment, back then… a moment that cracked the world open. A promise made, a vow I still feel etched into my chest.

He doesn’t remember. But I do. I always do. And now, she’s here. The girl with fire in her eyes and light in her veins.

She walks like she owns the truth, talks like she’s never known fear. Calls me by what I am without flinching. She knows the game. Speaks the old words. Sees through the veil and still dares to defy me.

At first, I wanted to tear her down. Crush her beneath the weight of her own boldness. But now… Now I don’t know if I want to destroy her or understand her.

She looks at me like I’m a puzzle she needs to solve. She presses her palm to his skin and makes me burn. Makes the vessel strong enough to fight back. Makes me weak.

And I—

I hate that I want to see what her hands feel like when they’re not trembling with fury.

I hate that her voice lingers when she’s gone.

I hate that when she called me obsessed, I didn’t deny it.

Because maybe I am.

Maybe I’ve been bored too long. Maybe there’s something in her I remember too—buried beneath the years, buried beneath the light. A familiarity. A face from long ago. That’s the thing about souls like hers. They don’t get to live quietly. They draw the dark like moths to flame.

And I wonder—Will she burn for me?

Or will she be the one to burn me first?

taglist: @mingyuisthevictimofsvt @hearts4cheol

[wonwunss]

🩸The Vessel : Chapter 6

pairing: mingyu x f!reader

Genre: supernatural thriller / horror, psychological mystery, dark fantasy, romance?, urban paranormal, demon possession, “Head over Heels” k-drama inspired

word count: 1.7k

The Vessel: Masterlist  |  previous  | next

You didn’t sleep that night. Your room was dark, quiet—too quiet. The kind of stillness that rang in your ears. But inside, you were breaking apart.

Your hands had stopped shaking. That was the worst part, because numbness was scarier than fear.

Your throat burned from everything you didn’t scream. And somewhere between 2AM and sunrise, you whispered into the silence:

“I didn’t mean to push him away.”

As if the universe would forgive you for trying to protect someone who no longer wanted your help. That was when you felt it—the temperature drop. The soft pulse of a familiar presence.

You didn’t have to look up to know. He was already there, your spirit friend—old as the wind, kind as the sea in summer—stood near the corner of your room. This time, he looked… grave.

You sat up slowly. “You know what happened.”

He nodded, his slightly long hair floating behind him, like water suspended in time. “You forced the truth too early.”

“I had to,” you whispered. “He was slipping.”

“And now?” he asked softly. “He’s slipping faster.”

You felt your heart shatter again. “You mean—”

“The spirit is growing stronger. Bolder. That thing inside him... it’s feeding on guilt, confusion, fear. You’ve been a buffer. A shield. But now that you’re apart…”

He trailed off but you already knew. You clenched your fists, voice cracking. “I thought if I told him, he’d… he’d listen. He’d fight it with me.”

“He’s still human,” he said. “And he’s afraid.”

Meanwhile…

Mingyu sat alone in his room, hunched on the edge of his bed. His knees bounced. He couldn’t sit still. He couldn’t stop thinking about what you said.

“There’s something inside you.” “You don’t remember it, but I do.”

He rubbed his face hard with both hands. “Shut up,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not real. She’s just messing with me. She—she has to be.”

But then the whispers came again. Not your voice, not his own, from somewhere just beneath his thoughts—like echoes in an old, abandoned house.

He heard his voice—but it wasn’t him—say:

“She knows too much now. What a shame. You always ruin the ones you love.”

He flinched. Stood up too fast, walked in circles. Paced. Hit his palm against the wall like it would knock the sounds out of his skull.

He wanted to believe he was losing his mind. It was easier than believing the truth.

Except—This wasn’t the first time.

He thought back to years ago. Different people. Strangers who had looked at him once, pale and confused, just like you did.

“Are you… okay?”

“What was that just now?”

“I think something’s wrong with you.”

“There’s someone—something—behind you.”

And then they disappeared. No goodbyes. Just gone. Like you now. The worst part? You weren’t wrong and that’s what scared him most.

He leaned against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, whispering to no one:

“What did I do…?”

A week passes.

Mingyu doesn’t speak to you, doesn’t text, doesn’t look your way in the hall. But sometimes, when you do catch a glance—when your eyes flicker to him for a split second—it’s there. That not-quite-Mingyu stare. Too still, too long, like he’s watching you like prey, not like someone he used to beg to sit next to in class.

The demon isn’t hiding anymore.

It doesn’t have to because it’s learning to blend. It’s learning how to mimic his kindness, wear it like a mask.

You see it at lunch: when Mingyu smiles at someone… and that smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

You hear it in class: the way he’s more quiet now, answers questions with a tone too flat to be his.

And worse—when you pass by him on accident, shoulder brushing his—he doesn’t flinch.

But you do. Because his body is warm. Too warm. Not-human warm. Like whatever’s living inside is starting to boil over.

And then, one afternoon… you’re walking past the field alone. You hear footsteps behind you. You don’t turn. Not until—

“Hey.”

You freeze. It’s his voice.

You turn around slowly, heart pounding. Mingyu’s standing there, hands in his pockets. Casual. Like it’s nothing. Except his eyes are glazed. His jaw too sharp. He doesn’t blink.

“Did I scare you?” he asks.

It’s him. And it’s not.

You try to speak, but your throat’s dry. “What are you doing here?”

He tilts his head. “Just wanted to talk.”

He steps closer while you take a step back. And he laughs. Soft, almost charming—except you hear it now. There’s something layered underneath his laugh. A second voice, hidden just below.

“You always look so scared. And here I thought you said you could handle it.”

You stiffen, your voice comes out low. “You’re not Mingyu.”

“Sure I am,” he says, smiling. “I’m always Mingyu now.”

And that’s what makes your blood run cold.

Because this time, he’s not possessed. This time, he’s awake and whatever this demon is doing—whatever it’s becoming—it’s learning to exist alongside him like a shadow stitched to his skin.

He leans in just a little. Not close enough to touch. But close enough for you to feel it.

The heat. The pressure. The pain.

“Keep your distance,” he says with a smile. “You’ve already done enough damage, haven’t you?”

And then he turns, walks away just like that.

Back in your room, you can barely sit still. The ghost appears again, but doesn’t say anything at first.

You ask him, barely above a whisper: “What happens if he never pulls away from it?”

And he answers with a solemn look. “Then it becomes him.”

Mingyu wakes up one morning with dirt under his nails. There’s a cut on his lip. A bruise on his arm that looks like a handprint. But he doesn’t remember a fight. Doesn’t remember anything.

All he remembers is going to bed.

The first time it happens, he thinks maybe he sleepwalked.

The second time, he knows that’s not it.

He’s halfway through brushing his teeth in the dorm bathroom when one of the guys from class walks in, claps a hand on his shoulder.

“Yo, you good now? You looked totally out of it yesterday after school.”

Mingyu freezes. “Yesterday?”

The guy tilts his head. “Yeah? You were standing outside the old building behind the gym. Like—just standing there. For a long-ass time. You didn’t say anything when we called out.”

Mingyu frowns. “I—I wasn’t there.”

The guy just laughs like it’s a joke, like Mingyu’s being playful. But Mingyu knows he wasn’t there.

The confusion builds slowly. He starts waking up in clothes he didn’t remember putting on.

Gets tagged in a blurry picture online—one of him, standing in the far background of a group photo.

The caption reads: “That tall guy was creeping us out lol he didn’t move for like ten minutes”

But he swears he wasn’t there. He was at home. Wasn’t he?

One night, he checks his own phone. He doesn’t remember texting anyone. But there’s an unsent message in his drafts. To you.

“i miss you. but he doesn’t.”

He deletes it immediately.

His body hurts more these days. There’s tension in his shoulders like he’s been fighting in his sleep. Like he’s trapped in something… or someone.

He starts catching his reflection in mirrors—just for a moment—and he doesn’t recognize the expression he’s wearing. Sometimes his mouth smiles without him meaning to. Sometimes his hands twitch like they want to grab something he isn’t thinking about. Sometimes… he hears his own voice say something—softly, just beneath the surface of his own thoughts—and it doesn’t feel like his words.

“She ruined this for both of us.”

“You don’t need them. You don’t need anyone.”

“Let me in. Let me finish what you started.”

Mingyu’s still trying to be rational, still trying to play it off like stress, like maybe he’s not sleeping enough. But he knows something’s wrong. There’s a part of him—deep down—that’s begging to be listened to.

There’s something fighting and there’s something else feeding.

It happens in the middle of school. The main hallway. Loud. Crowded. Daylight flooding through the windows, students milling around after lunch.

You’re nowhere nearby. You haven’t spoken to Mingyu since that day he walked away from you. But even from your classroom, you hear the commotion because it’s his voice—raised, furious.

You drop your pen. Your stomach sinks. You already know something’s wrong.

The crowd parts.

And you see him—Mingyu—shoving a classmate hard enough into the lockers to make a sickening metal clang. The boy drops to the floor with a startled cry, hands raised in surrender. And Mingyu?

Mingyu laughs. But it’s not his laugh. It’s too low, too sharp, like it was made to mock.

“I told you not to talk to me again.”

“You didn’t listen. You never learn, do you?”

And when the boy says something—something small and trembling, like he doesn’t understand—Mingyu’s boot comes down next to his shoulder, barely missing.

He doesn’t even flinch. Everyone’s staring now no one’s intervening because this isn't just a fight.

This is a possession.

You’re already running toward it.

Your pulse is pounding. The spirit is so strong now, so unhinged. You can feel it from the other end of the hall—like a thick fog clinging to your skin, choking the air.

You reach them just as Mingyu grabs the kid by the collar again.

And you do the only thing you can. You call his name. Not the demon’s. Not a spell. Just—Mingyu.

Desperate and terrified and sharp. “Mingyu, stop it. You’re hurting him.”

His hands freeze and for a second, just a second, you see the flicker in his eyes. Not red. Not black. Just Mingyu—the real one—trapped behind his own irises.

He looks around slowly,sees the crowd, the fear, the boy shaking under him.

He blinks. His breathing picks up. “...w-what… what am I doing?”

And his legs give out. He crumples to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

They carry the boy to the infirmary. No one says anything to Mingyu. They just stare, some whisper. You stay back, eyes wide, not moving closer because you know—you know—he’s not ready to look at you.

Mingyu sits against the lockers, dazed, shivering. He presses his hands to his mouth like he can’t believe what they’ve just done. Because he was there the whole time.

Watching.

Screaming.

But no one could hear him.

taglist: @mingyuisthevictimofsvt @hearts4cheol

[wonwunss]

🩸The Vessel : Chapter 5

pairing: mingyu x f!reader

Genre: supernatural thriller / horror, psychological mystery, dark fantasy, romance?, urban paranormal, demon possession, “Head over Heels” k-drama inspired

word count: 1.4k

The Vessel: Masterlist  |  previous  | next

a/n: took so long because i've been procrastinating... sorry to everyone waiting enjoy the next few chapters heheh

Mingyu woke with a gasp. His chest was heaving, hair clinging to the sides of his face. The room was quiet—just the hum of his desk fan and the faint chirping of cicadas outside. Everything was fine.

Except it wasn’t.

His palms were sweating. His legs, tangled in the sheets. And that dream—it still lingered like smoke. Not the usual kind of nightmare, either. Not the monsters-jumping-out-of-a-dark-corner type. No. This one felt… real. He could still see it.

Dimly lit. Cold stone floors. A place that didn’t look like anywhere he’d ever been but felt familiar. He had been on his knees, back bowed in a posture that didn’t make sense—like he was begging. Or… surrendering.

And you were there.

Standing a few feet away, not quite visible, your face always just outside the frame of his dream. But he knew it was you. Somehow. The curve of your shoulder, the softness of your voice—it echoed even though he couldn’t make out the words.

What had he said?

The memory of his own voice came back warped—like it had been underwater. The syllables were twisted, ancient. But the emotion? That part rang clear.

It was desperation. Grief. A promise, carved out of pain.

He remembered that part best. The way his chest felt like it was ripping open, like he was offering something he couldn’t ever get back.

And then— Nothing.

He blinked up at the ceiling, heart still thudding.

“It’s just a dream.”

He told himself that over and over, but it didn’t help. Because the strange thing was—he never remembered dreams. But this one? Every blurry edge, every stone in that room, every shaky breath—was burned into his mind like it had really happened.

Still dazed, he rolled over and grabbed his phone. 4:32 AM. He groaned, flopping back onto his pillow. Maybe it was a horror movie. Or stress. Or—

His mind flashed back to you.

You, with that strange little smile you’d given him yesterday, the one that wasn’t for him but at something behind him. The way you’d touched his arm gently—like you were doing more than just touching—and then quickly changed the subject when he asked.

His stomach twisted.

What the hell was going on?

Mingyu noticed it again.

That strange feeling. Like he’d been here before.

Not just here, in the hallway outside the library, but here—with you. You were facing the other way, fiddling with the strap of your bag as you muttered something about forgetting a textbook. The sun was cutting sharp across your features, and the dust in the air sparkled like it had been frozen in time.

And then it hit him again. That feeling, that tightness in his chest, that odd echo that ran down his spine like a memory he should’ve forgotten.

He stared.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy checking your phone, too busy keeping your gaze low because you’d seen it again—just behind him. That shadow, watching and smiling.

Mingyu blinked. “Hey.”

You looked up quickly, lips parting in alarm before softening into a shaky smile.

He tilted his head. “Did I… say something weird earlier?”

You frowned. “What?”

“Nothing. I just—” He scratched his head. “It’s stupid. Just feels like we’ve done this before. Like exactly this. You forgetting a book. Me saying something.” He laughed nervously. “Maybe I’m just really tired.”

You said nothing. You didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t him who said something strange earlier—it was the thing that wore his face.

Because lately… it had gotten worse.

The demon didn’t wait until nighttime anymore or till you were alone. It slipped in and slipped out of him like a joke, like a game, like it knew how far it could push you before you'd crack. Sometimes, it said things just to mess with your head.

“You’re starting to like him again, aren’t you?”

“He touches your hand and you think you’re saving him.”

“He’s warm, isn’t he? But I live right beneath that warmth. I live there.”

You had to pretend not to react. Had to keep walking, keep breathing, keep smiling—because when it spoke, he didn’t remember a thing.

Not the shift in his voice. Not the cold flicker in his eyes. Not the horrible, dry chuckle that curled in the back of his throat when the demon surfaced just enough for you to notice.

And still, Mingyu—clueless, kind, precious Mingyu—stayed close. Kept checking on you. Kept walking you to class. Kept offering you his arm when the crowd got too thick.

And with every brush of his skin, the demon twitched. The more you reached out, the more it burned. The more you stood your ground, the more agitated it became. But it wouldn’t give up.

It liked the game. It liked the taunting.

And lately, it whispered things that scared you more than anything else:

“You think you’re protecting him.”

“You think you’re strong because you make me flinch.”

“But you forget—he chose this. And I’ve never left something that belonged to me.”

It started with a twitch in his hand.

Mingyu was seated on the edge of the old stairwell behind the gym—his usual shortcut spot—half-dozing with his chin tucked against his chest. You were watching him from a safe distance, arms wrapped around yourself, sensing it before it even happened.

The air dropped a few degrees. You stood frozen, dread prickling down your spine then came the shift.

It wasn’t dramatic, not like the last time behind the cafeteria. This one was quieter, subtler. Like a shadow slowly uncoiling itself behind his ribcage, seeping into his limbs. His head tilted. A sharp breath escaped his lips.

And when he looked up— It wasn’t Mingyu anymore.

Not fully. Not yet. His eyes were still brown, still soft—but unfocused like something else was watching through him.

He blinked slowly then spoke. “You shouldn’t have touched me so much.”

The voice was his, but the cadence wasn’t. Your stomach dropped.

“I didn’t know,” he murmured, a small smile forming—strangely hollow. “Didn’t know your touch would make it burn like that. Didn’t know I could remember you that way. Now it’s angry.”

Your throat tightened. “Mingyu.”

He blinked, sluggish, confused, as though only just realizing what he was saying.

And then he spoke again—this time clearly not him:

“It’s your fault, little ghost-seer. You’re waking something I’ve worked so hard to bury.”

You stepped forward. “Get out of him.”

“Oh, but he’s perfect.” “And he let me in—do you remember that part yet?” “He’s the one who called for me. You were there. You watched.”

Your hands balled into fists.

“He doesn’t know that now, of course. His tiny human brain is too busy dreaming about you. How funny, isn’t it? He dreams of the girl that’s about to destroy him.”

And that was it. You broke.

Your feet moved before your fear could stop you. You dropped to your knees in front of him and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him hard. You knew it’d draw the demon back, that your contact always forced it to retreat—but you needed Mingyu now. Just for a second, just long enough to say it.

And it worked.

He gasped—eyes wide, focus snapping back.

“Wh—what the hell?” he croaked, panicked. “Why are you—why are you touching me like that?”

“There’s something in you,” you choked out, eyes burning. “Something dark. Something that’s been here before. It’s not just a bad dream, Mingyu. It’s real. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen him. He’s been using you—hurting you—and you don’t even realize it.”

Mingyu stared at you, lips parting. “What…?”

“He’s inside you. Right now. Half the time I talk to you—it’s not even you. You don’t remember it, but I do. And it’s my fault,” your voice broke. “I kept thinking I could handle it. That if I just stayed close, I could protect you. But it’s getting worse.”

Mingyu was frozen.

And then he stepped back. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re seriously messing with me right now?”

“Mingyu, I’m not lying—”

He let out a bitter laugh—one that sounded so unlike him it cut deep. “Is this some kind of elaborate joke? Did I say something weird again? Did I blank out and now you’re making fun of me?”

“No—Mingyu, I swear—”

“I knew I shouldn’t have kept trying to talk to you.” His voice dropped, quieter now, raw. “I knew it. From the start. You always looked at me like you were scared. Like I was going to break something.”

You froze. “That’s not what I meant—”

“I don’t know what this is,” he whispered, “but I don’t want to be part of it.”

And then he turned and walked away, and this time—you didn’t stop him. Because if he looked back… He would’ve seen the demon smiling over his shoulder.

taglist: @hearts4cheol @mingyuisthevictimofsvt

[wonwunss]

–ᝰ.ᐟ✮ In which Wonwoo ends up being Joshua's daughter unspoken favourite uncle because she fell asleep on him once.

pairing: uncle!wonwoo x joshua's daughter (3 y/o)

genre: fluff, awkward uncle turned softest uncle, quiet affection, doe eyes & toy cars

word count: 2.7k

a/n: can you tell im digging into the seventeen being dads and uncles era? anywayss wonu gives off awkward uncle with kids just because he rarely interacts with kids. but then turns most comfortable and warm uncle,, he gives off warm hugs energy that lulls kids to sleep in his arms

The house is full today.

Music plays low in the background. Voices echo through the hallway—laughter, overlapping conversations, the sound of clinking glasses and chopsticks tapping against bowls. It’s one of their usual group get-togethers, the kind that feels like a reunion, a birthday, and a full-blown family party all at once.

Joshua’s daughter is here too, of course.

She always is, when they gather. Just three years old, she’s become something like the group’s shared baby—their collective sunshine. She bounces from uncle to uncle with no hesitation, fully confident that each one will drop whatever they’re doing to hold her or play with her or answer her questions about her imaginary friends.

Well. Most of them.

Wonwoo’s around, sure. Always is. But he’s not one of the main players in her orbit. Not like Seungkwan who brings her snacks and mimics cartoon voices. Not like Mingyu who hoists her onto his shoulders and pretends she’s flying. Not like DK who lets her paint his nails with glitter polish and says it’s fashion.

Wonwoo is… there. A background constant. He knows her, of course. Says hello. Lets her offer him a bite of her animal crackers now and then. But they’ve never really had a moment. And he’s not sure he’d know what to do if they did.

Which is exactly why he blinks, slightly alarmed, when he finds himself in her playroom... alone with her.

It happens like this.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, talking with Mingyu and DK while Chan plays on the carpet with her, little blocks and figurines scattered in colorful chaos.

Then Hoshi leaves for the kitchen—“I haven’t eaten anything yet, I swear I’m gonna pass out, you guys”—and a few minutes later, DK and Mingyu are summoned out to “help Joshua un-ruin” a dish he was apparently too confident about.

“Back in five,” Mingyu promises as he follows DK out.

But they don’t come back.

And Chan?

Chan’s lying on his side now, motionless. His arm is draped over a plushie and his mouth is slightly open. Asleep.

So it’s just her and Wonwoo.

She doesn’t seem to mind. She's still playing, humming to herself, stacking blocks and mumbling a little storyline under her breath that involves a fairy, a pancake, and a dinosaur wearing glasses.

Wonwoo stays where he is. On the floor. Glued to his phone. Not scared of her—just… uncertain. She seems to be fine. Kids are good at playing by themselves, right?

He tries to scroll through his feed like he’s totally unbothered. Like the room isn’t too quiet now. Like he doesn’t feel her eyes flick over to him now and then, curious.

She doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t either.

Until—

bump.

Something taps against his knee.

He lowers his phone.

A tiny toy car rests against his leg, pushed there deliberately by a small hand.

He looks up.

She’s watching him, eyes wide, almost shy—but not quite afraid. Her bunny is clutched under one arm. Her other hand is still resting on the car, fingers curled around the back of it like she’s waiting to see what he’ll do.

It’s the look that gets him.

Those same round, gentle eyes that Joshua has. The soft silent question in them. Not a demand, not a whine, just… an ask.

Wonwoo blinks.

Then clears his throat.

“…Was that on purpose?” he says, voice quiet.

She tilts her head.

“I think it wants to play,” she says simply.

He exhales a laugh before he even realizes he’s smiling. “The car wants to play?”

She nods. “But he’s shy. So I helped him.”

“I see.”

A beat passes.

Then Wonwoo reaches out and gently nudges the toy car back in her direction. It rolls lazily across the rug and bumps against her slippered foot.

She gasps like it’s the most delightful thing in the world.

And suddenly, just like that, the air shifts.

—

They end up playing a game. Nothing complicated—he pushes the car to her, she pushes it back. But every time it bumps into one of them, she giggles like it’s brand new.

After a while, she starts giving the car a voice. A little high-pitched squeak: “Oh noooo, I crashed! Someone call the firetruck!”

Wonwoo, unexpectedly, obliges.

He picks up a nearby red block and mimics a siren with zero skill.

She squeals. “That’s silly! Try again!”

So he does.

He ends up making car noises. Dinosaur noises. At one point, he’s holding a sparkly wand and she tells him it’s his “magic booster stick” and he just… goes with it.

He doesn’t even realize how much time has passed until Mingyu pokes his head back in.

“Oh my god,” Mingyu whispers, eyes wide. “You’re… playing.”

Wonwoo scowls. “Shut up.”

But the toddler beside him just beams. “Uncle Woo’s fun.”

Wonwoo pauses.

And then, quietly, almost under his breath: “Yeah?”

She nods. Then, without warning, crawls into his lap with her bunny and settles there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He freezes for a second—hands in the air like she’s fragile.

But when she rests her head on his chest, still clutching her toy, he finally lets his hands settle gently around her back.

“…You’re warm,” she murmurs, drowsy.

“Yeah,” he says, heart suddenly full in a way he can’t explain. “You too.”

Joshua’s been walking around the house for five minutes now with a tiny pink sippy cup in hand, humming softly as he peeks into each room.

“Sunshine?” he calls out, quiet enough not to disturb the conversations going on around him. “It’s milk time. Nap time too. Where’d you wander off to, huh?”

She usually comes running when she hears “milk time.” But the house is full today, and sometimes she gets so distracted by her uncles that she forgets to keep track of her own rituals.

Joshua tries the kitchen first. No sign. Then the hallway. The guest bedroom. He finally ends up outside her playroom door, hearing nothing from within.

Strange. Usually it’s a cacophony of squealing laughter and full-grown men arguing over imaginary tea party etiquette.

He pushes the door open slowly—

And freezes.

There, in the middle of the colorful, toy-strewn room, is Jeon Wonwoo.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor. Completely still. Cradling his daughter in his arms.

She’s sound asleep.

Her cheek is smushed against his chest, arms tucked between them. Her bunny is dangling from one loose hand, and her lips are slightly parted in the peaceful rhythm of deep, drooly toddler sleep. And Wonwoo?

Wonwoo looks like a man who hasn’t moved in twenty minutes because he’s afraid of waking the tiny creature sleeping on him.

His back is straight. His phone is face down beside him. His hands are carefully braced around her like she’s made of glass.

Joshua’s heart squeezes.

But also—

He slowly, silently, pulls his phone out.

click.

Wonwoo’s head jerks up instantly at the sound. He blinks, wide-eyed, like he’s been caught red-handed.

“Hyung—!”

Joshua grins, lowering his phone with a hand over his heart. “Oh, don’t move. This is the most precious thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I—she fell asleep,” Wonwoo whispers, like he’s explaining himself to a judge.

“I can see that,” Joshua says, trying not to burst out laughing. “On you. Mr. ‘I don’t know how to play with kids.’ Mr. ‘She doesn’t even talk to me much.’ Now she’s taking full-body naps on you like you’re her favorite pillow.”

Wonwoo scowls, looking mildly panicked. “I didn’t do anything. We were playing. She said I was warm. Next thing I knew, she just—” he gestures vaguely to the sleeping toddler in his lap, “—did this.”

Joshua tiptoes closer, looking down at them with a softness in his eyes.

“You must’ve done something right,” he says gently, crouching down beside them. “She doesn’t fall asleep on people she doesn’t trust.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flick to his daughter, her little nose smushed against his shirt, breathing slow and even. His arms tighten slightly around her before he can stop himself.

“…She’s heavier than she looks,” he mutters.

Joshua grins. “That’s all the cookies DK feeds her.”

There’s a quiet beat.

Then Joshua nudges his shoulder, eyes twinkling.

“Hey. Thank you.”

Wonwoo looks up.

“For what?”

“For… letting her choose you,” Joshua says, smiling. “I know you didn’t expect to be left alone with her today. But… I’ve never seen her this comfortable with you before. I think she really likes you.”

Wonwoo’s ears flush pink.

“…She’s not bad,” he says after a pause.

Joshua lets out a laugh. “She’s a three-year-old, not a new brand of earbuds.”

Still, he’s beaming. Because he knows what a big moment this is—for both of them.

And he’s definitely saving that photo.

Forever.

Joshua carefully scoops her up from Wonwoo’s lap, one hand supporting her head, the other wrapped around her little back.

She stirs slightly, mumbling something unintelligible, before sighing and snuggling closer to her father’s chest.

Wonwoo watches, suddenly aware of how warm his arms feel now that they’re empty.

“She’s due for a nap anyway,” Joshua says quietly, brushing her hair back. “I’ll put her in my room—it’s the furthest from all the noise.”

Wonwoo nods once. Still quiet.

As Joshua heads out, he pauses at the door and glances back at him.

“She really liked you, you know.”

Wonwoo shifts a little, ears still pink. “...She’s alright.”

Joshua smiles and disappears down the hall.

It’s sometime after dinner prep and before the food hits the table when she wakes.

The living room is still lively, voices overlapping—Hoshi is yelling something about rice texture, DK is explaining a dramatic dream, and Seungkwan is lecturing Vernon about hydration.

None of them notice the small figure slowly padding in from the hallway.

Her eyes are still heavy with sleep, one hand rubbing at her lashes, the other dragging her bunny behind her.

She pauses just inside the room.

Tiny. Barefoot. Blinking around blearily.

Looking for one person.

Joshua’s not there.

He’s still in the kitchen, checking on the final dish.

And like most toddlers—still slightly disoriented from sleep, still tucked inside the softness of her nap-brain—she defaults to the first face she feels safest with.

The one she remembers from before she fell asleep.

The one she chose.

She walks past the group.

The members notice her and immediately light up.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” DK coos, reaching out a hand.

“You want to sit with me?” Seungkwan asks, already making space on the couch.

But she keeps walking.

Right past all of them.

The entire room goes quiet as her tiny footsteps carry her, slowly and silently, across the carpet.

Until she reaches the end of the couch.

Where Wonwoo is.

Still quiet. Still observing from the edge of the chaos.

She doesn’t say anything. Just stands in front of him, blinking up at him.

Wonwoo lowers his phone.

And she lifts her arms.

Not in a dramatic way. Just a simple, sleepy toddler gesture—two hands raised wordlessly, like she knows what she wants and doesn’t need to explain it.

Wonwoo hesitates.

Then leans forward and scoops her up gently, settling her into his lap like he’s been doing it for years.

She exhales, small and content, and rests her head against his chest again—same exact spot as before. As if she remembers. As if she meant to return.

No one says anything for a full five seconds.

Then—

“What just happened,” Vernon whispers.

“She passed all of us,” DK breathes, scandalized.

Hoshi stares. “Even me.”

Joshua walks in from the kitchen then, wiping his hands on a towel. “Oh,” he says, pausing at the sight. “Right. She’s fully attached now.”

Wonwoo looks up from the little girl snoozing against him.

“…She’s yours now, bro,” Joshua says with a grin. “Congratulations.”

Dinner is finally ready.

Joshua sets out the plates and calls everyone over.

“Let’s go!” he says. “Food’s hot—grab your spots!”

She’s already sitting at the table, perched on the booster seat beside him, pressed up against his arm. Her cheek is still flushed from sleep, bunny dangling off her lap.

Hoshi makes his way over and gestures to the chair beside her.

“Can I sit here?”

Before Joshua can even answer, his daughter immediately shakes her head and plants her little hand on the chair.

Hoshi freezes. “Oh?”

She doesn’t say a word. Just guards the seat like a tiny security guard.

Then she turns her head, scanning the room.

Eyes locked on one person.

“Uncle Woo.”

Everyone turns.

Wonwoo, who had been hanging back near the couch, blinks.

She pats the seat beside her. Once. Then again, more insistently.

With the softest voice, she says, “Here.”

Wonwoo blinks again. “You want me to sit there?”

She nods.

And Hoshi dramatically clutches his chest. “Betrayal.”

Wonwoo awkwardly walks over and sits down, and the moment he does, her hand grabs his sleeve like a tether.

All through dinner, she eats slowly but steadily, one hand always on him. Sometimes she rests her head against his arm. Sometimes she just holds his pinky while chewing a bite of rice.

No one lets it go.

“Hyung,” Minghao says around a bite of kimchi, “you’ve been chosen.”

“She’s imprinted on you like a baby duck,” Seungkwan says.

Joshua just laughs. “She used to follow me around all the time. Now I guess I’ve been replaced.”

Wonwoo glares at him. “This is your daughter.”

“Not anymore, apparently.”

Later that night, when most of the guests have started packing up, she’s still glued to his side.

As Joshua walks around tidying up—clearing plates, refolding blankets—he keeps glancing over his shoulder.

Every time, he sees her clinging to Wonwoo’s hand. Tiny fingers wrapped tightly around his. Following him from the dining table to the couch. From the couch to the hallway. Like a shadow.

And Wonwoo?

He doesn’t even seem to notice anymore.

He just lets her follow.

At one point, when she yawns and stumbles a little, he picks her up automatically and adjusts her against his side, one hand braced under her thighs, the other gently patting her back.

Joshua watches them from the hallway, arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his lips.

“She's yours now, bro,” he says again.

Wonwoo rolls his eyes but doesn’t let go.

It’s one of those easy Sunday afternoons again.

Seungcheol's house, same familiar chaos. Someone’s already brought fried chicken, Mingyu’s brought wine “for the aesthetic,” and Chan is setting up a game on the TV like they won’t get distracted halfway through.

Joshua arrives a few minutes later, hand-in-hand with his daughter and her ever-present bunny.

Everyone lights up at the sight of her.

“Ayyyyy, it’s the princess!”

“Come here, baby, come give Uncle DK a hug—!”

“You missed me the most, right?”

She blinks up at the room full of extended family.

Pauses. Scans. And then?

She lets go of her dad’s hand and runs.

Not to DK.

Not to Seungkwan.

Not to Mingyu, who’s already kneeling with arms out dramatically like he’s waiting for a K-drama reunion hug.

No.

She runs straight across the room—like, full toddler zoom mode—toward the quiet figure standing near the edge of the kitchen counter.

Wonwoo blinks.

“…Oh,” he says.

Before he can say anything else, she barrels into him with all the force of a three-year-old tornado and wraps her arms around his legs.

“Uncle Woo!!”

Wonwoo freezes for a half-second.

Then slowly leans down and picks her up like it’s second nature.

“Hey, you,” he murmurs.

She tucks her head under his chin, bunny hanging by the ear in one hand. “I missed you.”

Behind them, the entire room explodes.

“WHAT?!”

“No way!”

“She didn’t even look at me!!!”

“YOU DIDN’T EVEN DO ANYTHING!!”

“WONWOO HYUNG, TEACH ME!!”

Joshua is wheezing by the front door. He hasn’t even taken off his shoes yet.

“She picked him, guys,” he says proudly, clapping Mingyu on the back. “It’s over. You all lost.”

“She ran past me,” DK says in shock. “Like past. Like I didn’t even exist.”

Wonwoo, still holding her, looks slightly overwhelmed but not unhappy. She’s babbling something about the cereal she had this morning and a sticker she wants to give him later.

Joshua saunters over with a smug little grin. “Feels nice being someone’s favorite, huh?”

“She’s not—”

“Don’t even lie,” Joshua cuts him off. “She chose you and now you’re stuck. You’re gonna have to come to every hangout now or she’ll riot.”

Wonwoo glances down at her. She’s playing with the string on his hoodie, half-listening to the room’s chaos.

“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess I’m hers now.”

And she? She just leans her cheek against his shoulder, completely content.

Because to her, it’s simple: She chose him. And she always will.

[wonwunss]

pairing: dad!joshua x daughter (3 y/o)

genre: fluff, domestic softness, sleepy cuddles & pancakes

word count: 827

a/n: shua is soooo girl dad coded like he's so soft with them. i just know he'll be the type to spoil them and gently fluff their hair with that loving smile of his :(((

The house is still, quiet in the way all early mornings are.

Golden sunlight seeps through the curtains, casting soft stripes along the hallway floor. Joshua had woken not long ago, more out of habit than need, and now stands at the kitchen counter in his cozy sweatshirt and sleep-tousled hair, nursing a cup of warm tea. Everything is peaceful.

Until he hears the tiniest patter of feet.

He turns just in time to see her—his daughter, his heart in human form—emerge from the hallway, dragging her pink bunny blanket behind her, eyes still half-closed. Her cheeks are round and flushed from sleep, her hair a little messy in that way only toddlers can manage. She isn’t quite awake yet but she knows where to go.

Without a word, she shuffles across the living room and lifts her arms.

Joshua doesn’t hesitate.

He sets his mug down and crouches to scoop her into his arms, lifting her with ease as she melts against his chest like a baby koala. Her cheek rests right over his heart. She doesn’t speak—doesn’t need to. She’s where she belongs.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he whispers into her hair, rocking her gently side to side. “You’re up early.”

“Mmh,” she hums, still half-asleep. “You weren’t in bed.”

“I know,” he murmurs, kissing her temple. “I missed you too.”

She clutches her bunny tighter, little fingers curled around its ear, and nestles deeper into his chest. Joshua smiles, pressing another kiss into her curls. They stand there like that for a while, wrapped in that warm, still moment, as the world continues its slow stretch into the day.

Eventually, she lifts her head just a bit.

“…Pancakes?” she whispers, like it’s a secret password.

Joshua chuckles softly. “Yeah, baby. Let’s make pancakes.”

She’s still sleepy, so he sets her on the kitchen counter with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a sippy cup of warm milk in her hands. He turns on a playlist of soft jazz piano—just background noise—and gets to work, letting her watch as he pulls out ingredients.

“Can I help?” she asks, perkier now, her bunny watching from beside her.

“Of course you can,” he says with a grin, placing a little mixing bowl in front of her. “But only if you’re my official blueberry sprinkles boss.”

She beams, dimples and all. “Okay! I’m good at sprinkling!”

She is, in fact, very good at it. Even if about seven blueberries end up in her mouth instead of the batter.

Joshua pretends not to notice.

When it’s time to crack the eggs, she insists on doing one herself. It’s a disaster in slow motion—tiny fingers squeezing too hard, yolk everywhere—but Joshua just laughs, gently cleaning her hands and kissing her nose.

“You did perfect,” he tells her. “Egg cracking is a special skill. Takes practice.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

They talk while he flips the pancakes—well, mostly she talks. About how Mr. Bunny had a dream where he flew to space, about how she wants to bring pancakes to her teacher next week, about how she thinks clouds taste like marshmallows.

And Joshua listens to every word like it’s the most important thing in the universe.

Because to him, it is.

—

Breakfast is served at the dining table: little pancakes with smiley faces, extra blueberries on the side, and a small stack of buttered toast because “Mr. Bunny needs toast too.”

His daughter eats with both hands—one for her fork, one holding her bunny—and halfway through, she scoots her chair closer to him and holds out a piece of pancake.

“Daddy, try mine.”

Joshua leans in obediently and takes the bite, exaggerating a “Mmm!” as he chews.

Her eyes sparkle. “Is it good?”

“The best pancake I’ve ever had,” he says, completely serious.

She giggles, proud, and leans her cheek against his arm. “You’re my favorite person, Daddy.”

He stills.

It hits him like a soft ache in the chest—one of those moments where love is so big, so bright, it leaves him a little breathless. His baby, his tiny girl, saying it like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

Joshua wraps his arm around her gently, pressing his forehead to hers.

“You’re my favorite person too, sunshine.”

—

After breakfast, the two of them curl back up on the couch. Her belly’s full, her energy’s dipping again, and her fingers are tugging his sleeve as she fights sleep.

“Stay, Daddy.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, pulling her into his lap.

She curls up like a cat, cheek pressed to his chest, thumb in her mouth, bunny tucked against her belly. Joshua strokes her hair with slow, gentle fingers as she yawns once… twice… and finally sinks into sleep.

The house is quiet again.

Only now, it’s filled with warmth. With the soft sound of his daughter’s breathing, the weight of her trust in his arms, and the slow, golden glow of a morning that began in his favorite way:

With love.

[wonwunss]

the vessel is so good!!!!!!! so so so good i wish there were more people reading it!!!! 🥲

i love your writing style (⁠｡⁠・⁠/⁠/⁠ε⁠/⁠/⁠・⁠｡⁠)

thank you SO much for this 🥲💖 i’m really glad you’re enjoying the vessel, your words seriously gave me a huge boost today!! sending hugs!! (｡⁠•́⁠︿⁠•̀⁠｡)

[wonwunss]

When will you post the next chapter for 'THE VESSELS'? 😭😭. I might die, I am not even joking😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

ahhhhh dont go yettt, we havent even got to the best part 😈👀 im planning for one chapter to come out for the next 3 days, so stay tuned!

[wonwunss]

🩸The Vessel : Chapter 4

pairing: mingyu x f!reader

Genre: supernatural thriller / horror, psychological mystery, dark fantasy, romance?, urban paranormal, demon possession, “Head over Heels” k-drama inspired

word count: 2.4k

The Vessel: Masterlist  |  previous  | next

The teachers were called. The students who found you said they saw Mingyu “shoving you against the wall,” said his face looked off, like he wasn’t really himself.

“He was quiet for a second, then just snapped,” one of them told the school nurse, a bandage in her hand. “Like… he didn’t know where he was.”

You sat on the edge of the cot, shoulders trembling under the weight of it all. You hadn’t said much, just that you were fine, that it must’ve been a misunderstanding, that maybe Mingyu wasn’t feeling well.

No one seemed to know what to make of it, but you did.

You couldn’t stop seeing it—that thing behind him, in him. How it had spoken with Mingyu’s voice. How it had hurt you. You didn’t know which part haunted you more.

A knock on the infirmary door made you flinch. Then it opened. And he stepped in. Mingyu.

“Can I…?” he asked softly, not coming any closer.

You didn’t say anything for a moment and then you nodded.

He walked in, slow like he was afraid of startling you. His face was pale, expression unreadable.

“I don’t remember what happened,” he said. “One second I was walking with you… the next I was on the ground and people were yelling.”

You kept your eyes down.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he added in a rush. “I didn’t mean to—God, if I did anything—”

“You didn’t,” you said quickly. “You didn’t.”

He looked like he didn’t believe you. You finally lifted your gaze. And there it was again — the shadow. Faint, behind him, curling like smoke. Watching.

You didn’t react. Not this time. You just… stared past him and something in it moved.

Mingyu frowned. “You’re doing that again.”

You blinked. “Doing what?”

“Looking past me. Like there’s something behind me.”

Your heart jumped in your chest. “There isn’t,” you said too fast.

“Okay… but you’re staring like there is.”

You tried to laugh. “Maybe I just zoned out.”

“That’s not zoning out,” he said gently. “That’s fear.”

You looked away again. He crouched beside the cot then, eyes searching your face. He didn’t touch you, didn’t reach for your hand—but his voice dropped softer. “Are you scared of me?”

You nearly broke then. “No.”

“Then what are you scared of?”

Everything, but you couldn’t say that. So instead you shook your head. “It’s nothing. It’s just been… a weird day.”

He looked at you for a long second.

Then finally nodded. “Okay. But… if something is wrong, will you tell me?”

You wanted to. So badly. But you just said, “I will.”

He stood back up, slow and reluctant. “I’ll let you rest.”

You watched him leave, watched the shadow curl tighter behind him, watched as the door clicked shut.

And then you were alone again. Or so you thought.

Until the mirror in the corner flickered. And the spirit returned, same translucent figure, same faint glow that always blurred the edges of its face. But this time, its tone was different—urgent, strained.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” it asked.

You stood slowly, facing it. “It tried to hurt me.”

“It will hurt you again.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“Because you’re the only thing stopping it now. It felt it, didn’t it? When you touched him. It burned. It’s scared of you.”

“I’m not strong enough,” you whispered.

“You are,” the spirit said. “You were born with sight for a reason. You think your gift is to see them—but it’s more than that. You can touch what others can’t. That’s why it’s afraid of you.”

You clenched your fists. “Then tell me how to stop it.”

The spirit looked at you long and hard. “You can’t. Not yet. Not entirely.”

You stared. “Then what can I do?”

“Stay close. Touch him. Push it back. But it’ll fight harder now. It knows you’re a threat.”

You thought of the demon’s voice. The way it growled he’s mine. “Why Mingyu?” you asked. “Why him? Why did it cling to him?”

The spirit paused. “I don’t know,” it admitted. “But I don’t think it was by chance.”

You froze.

“Some bonds,” it said, “aren’t made. They’re remembered.”

You didn’t understand, but the weight in your chest told you that whatever tied the demon to Mingyu… it went far, far deeper than either of you knew.

That evening, you couldn’t sleep. Not with the demon’s voice still echoing in your ears, not with the image of Mingyu cornering you—possessed, gone and not with the spirit’s words circling your mind like a ghost of their own:

“Some bonds aren’t made. They’re remembered.”

You had no idea what it meant so you started looking.

You turned to the internet first. Dead ends. Occult forums, archived web pages, even those sketchy Reddit threads from users claiming they’d been “spirit-touched.” Nothing explained why something would target someone so violently. Why it would stay.

Then came the inherited books—the ones passed down from your great-grandmother, brittle pages filled with handwritten rituals and strange inked diagrams of protection circles, but not one mention of remembered bonds.

Hours passed like water slipping between your fingers until you remembered her. Your grandmother. The one person who truly understood what it meant to live like this.

You didn’t visit often. Your parents called her eccentric, strange, said she still burned incense that smelled like fire and iron and muttered to herself when she thought no one was listening.

But you remembered the way she used to look at you when you were little. Like she knew what you saw. And maybe she did.

You didn’t tell your parents where you were going. The train ride was long, and by the time you reached her house at the edge of the woods, dusk had already dipped the sky in shadow.

She opened the door before you could even knock. “You look haunted,” she said.

You didn’t answer, just stepped inside. She poured tea, didn’t ask questions.

Until you finally spoke: “What does it mean when a spirit says… a bond isn’t made, but remembered?”

Her hand paused mid-stir. The silver spoon clinked against porcelain and then she looked at you. “Who told you that?” she asked softly.

You didn’t answer.

She didn’t press. “Sit down.”

You did. She took a long breath. “There are ties between the spirit world and ours that don’t start here. Sometimes, they come from before. From another life. A vow, a ritual, a sin, a sacrifice—something that bound two souls together so tightly, they carry it across lifetimes.”

Your pulse jumped. “You mean like… reincarnation?”

She nodded. “Or possession. Not all things follow the rules of life and death. Some cling to what they lost.”

You stared at her. “So this demon… clung to him? Mingyu?”

“Possibly.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice dropped. “But if it’s still here after all this time, then it wants something.”

You swallowed. “What kind of bond could cause that?”

She hesitated.

Then said carefully: “There are stories—old ones. Of demons falling in love with humans. Of humans making blood oaths for someone they couldn’t bear to lose. Some of those don’t end when the body does.”

Your throat tightened.

“But I don’t think it’s love this time,” she added. “It feels like possession. Like obsession. Like rage.”

You remembered the demon’s face—how it had glared at you with Mingyu’s eyes. How it had hissed when you touched him.

“How do I stop it?” you asked, desperate.

She met your gaze, and for the first time, her expression cracked. There was fear in her eyes.

“You might not be able to,” she said. “Not without breaking the bond entirely. And that means knowing why it started.”

“Then how do I find out?”

She stared at the steam rising from her cup and then she said the words that chilled you to the bone:

“Ask the one who made it.”

The next time you saw Mingyu, the air shifted.

You knew the demon was with him before you even heard his voice. There was a heaviness in the way he entered the hallway where you waited. A barely-there pressure that crawled over your skin like fingers brushing the back of your neck.

Mingyu, still as sunshine as ever, slowed when he caught your eyes.

“Hey,” he greeted, a little unsure. “Are you okay?”

You didn’t answer, your gaze had already shifted—behind him. Right at it.

His brows furrowed. “Are you looking at—me?”

You tilted your chin slightly, voice razor-sharp. “I know you’re there. Come out.”

Mingyu froze, blinking at you.

“...Huh?”

You didn’t look at him. Not really. Your attention was still locked onto the shadow clinging behind his shoulder—long, dark, twisting in the flicker of hallway light.

“Stop hiding behind him,” you bit out. “You’ve had your fun. Now talk to me.”

Mingyu’s confused laugh came out shaky. “Wait, are you—talking to me right now?” He pointed to himself, eyes darting left and right. “Or… someone else?”

He followed your gaze over his shoulder. There was nothing there, but he felt it. You saw the shiver ripple across his skin.

The demon stirred. And then—click.

Mingyu’s posture stiffened just slightly. The warm glint in his eyes dimmed. His smile dropped, like a curtain pulled down.

When he looked at you again, it wasn’t Mingyu anymore.

“You should’ve stayed quiet,” it spoke, voice deeper than Mingyu’s, a low growl bleeding through his tone. “You’re getting too close.”

You didn’t blink. “So are you.”

Its smile twitched. “Touching him won’t save you.”

“I wasn’t trying to save me.”

For a moment, it said nothing.

Then— “What do you want to know?” it asked, gaze narrowing. “You keep prying. Keep trying to unravel a knot you don’t even understand.”

You swallowed. “The bond.”

It didn’t answer.

“Why him?” you asked. “Why stay with him? What is this thing between you two?”

The demon tilted its head, studying you with something unreadable then, unexpectedly, it left.

Just blinked out of Mingyu like a ghost tearing out of its shell.

And just like that, Mingyu gasped—body jolting, hand clamping around his chest as if catching his breath after being dunked underwater. He stared at you, startled, confused.

“Wait—what just happened?” he asked, looking genuinely panicked now. “Why are you talking like that? What do you mean, 'the bond?' What bond?”

You opened your mouth, but— Snap.

It came back. Mingyu straightened again, eyes flickering black for just a split second.

“I told you to stop,” the demon hissed. “You’re unraveling things that should’ve stayed buried.”

“I need to know what happened,” you said, stepping forward. “You’re not just haunting him. You’re clinging to him like an echo—something unfinished.”

Its expression darkened.

“You think this is some tragic tether? A story of past lovers?” The demon snarled. “He chose this. And now he forgets.”

Your blood turned cold. “What did he choose?”

It stepped forward—Mingyu’s body, but its will.

“You want the truth?” it said, voice like smoke and iron. “He gave himself up to save someone else. That was the vow. That was the bond. A soul for a soul.”

And then— Gone. Mingyu blinked, wincing.

“What the hell—?” he muttered. “Why… why are you looking at me like that? What did I do?”

You stared at him. He looked so normal, so him. But now, every time you looked at him, you saw the outline of a truth buried deep inside him. A vow made long before this life. A bond remembered.

It haunted you the rest of the night.

He chose this.

You turned it over and over in your head until the words lost shape, like a puzzle piece that didn’t belong anywhere no matter how you twisted it. You couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think of anything but the way the demon had said it—with venom, but not quite a lie. No, it sounded too true. Too old. As if you were the one late to the story.

So you did what you hadn’t done in a long time.

You lit a candle. You scattered the salt. You whispered the old chant passed down in your family for generations—the one only meant to be used when you're in need of clarity… or protection.

Then you waited. And waited. And waited.

Until— "You're so dramatic,” a voice finally chimed from behind.

You turned sharply, and there it was—- the spirit.

Hovering casually like it always did, same soft, semi-transparent glow, same flicker in its eyes that said it knew too much, and it hated having to explain any of it.

"You came," you breathed out.

"You called."

You stood. “I need you to tell me the truth.”

The spirit didn’t answer right away. It floated lazily toward the corner of the room, peering down at the candle’s flame like it could read something inside it.

“I confronted the demon,” you went on. “It said Mingyu chose this. What did it mean by that?”

The spirit tilted its head, then sighed deeply—too dramatically for someone who didn’t even breathe. "I was hoping it wouldn’t say that part.”

“Why?”

“Because once you know, there’s no going back.”

You stared at it. “Tell me anyway.”

It looked at you for a long time. And then, gently, it began.

“Years ago—not in this lifetime, but before—there was a rift,” it said, voice low. “Someone made a deal. A soul for a soul. Not with that demon, but something worse. Something older.”

Your breath caught. “Mingyu?”

The spirit nodded. “He offered his soul to protect someone. I don’t know who. I wasn’t there for that part.”

“But then—how did this demon get involved?”

“Parasites,” the spirit muttered. “They always find the ones left open. Mingyu’s soul was never fully returned to him. Something else crawled into the cracks. This demon—it found a sleeping body and made it home.”

You sank to the floor, stunned. “So… all this time… he’s been half-possessed?”

“Not always. Some days he’s stronger. Some days the demon sleeps. But every time he brushes against your energy—your light—it burns. That’s why it’s angry. Why it’s acting up now.”

You felt your chest tighten. “And the bond?”

The spirit floated closer. “I think you were the one he tried to save.”

You stopped breathing. “Not in this life,” it clarified, “but a long time ago. Maybe that’s why you can see it. Maybe that’s why he keeps getting drawn to you.”

You shut your eyes. “But he doesn’t remember.”

“Of course not,” the spirit said, softer now. “He gave up the memory too.”

You looked up, eyes burning. “Then why do I remember?”

The spirit smiled sadly. “Because you never asked to forget.”

taglist: @hearts4cheol @mingyuisthevictimofsvt

[wonwunss]

🩸The Vessel : Chapter 3

pairing: mingyu x f!reader

Genre: supernatural thriller / horror, psychological mystery, dark fantasy, romance?, urban paranormal, demon possession, “Head over Heels” k-drama inspired

word count: 3k

The Vessel: Masterlist  |  previous  | next

It comes to you in a dream or something like one.

You don't remember falling asleep. You only remember curling up in bed, exhausted beyond reason, eyes still stinging from crying. But when you blink next, the world is dim.

The floor beneath you is stone, cold and echoing. Candles burn in strange places, flickering without flame. Shadows slither along the walls, never quite staying still.

You spin around, heart leaping into your throat—until you see it.

The spirit, the one that had stopped the demon in class. Its form still flickers like smoke, barely visible, but stronger now. Closer. Like it’s using all its energy to finally be seen.

"You again," you gasp, half-relieved, half-furious. "What is this? Why am I here?"

"I brought you."

Its voice is deeper than before. Clearer. You take a step forward, your fists clenched.

"You said touching Mingyu would make it back off. You said it might drive the demon out—just a little."

The spirit doesn't answer. "You were right," you say, voice rising. "I touched him. Just a brush. And it flinched. It looked at me. It knew. And now it’s angry."

The spirit remains still.

Your voice shakes. “It’s going to start targeting people. It already started. That music room—what happened to Mingyu, it wasn’t just possession. That was a warning. For me.”

The spirit nods once. “It sees you now. You’re not just a girl who sees spirits. You’re a threat.”

“But I don’t want to be!” you snap, voice breaking. “I don’t want to use that against it. I don’t want to drag Mingyu into this more than he already is. There has to be another way.”

The spirit looks at you with something almost like sorrow. “There isn’t,” it says. “Not anymore.”

You back away, shaking your head. “No. No, you said touching him weakens it. But why me? Why does it care? Why is it after him?”

The spirit’s form flickers again. “Because it was never meant to survive this long,” it says. “It needs a host. It found one in him. Someone open. Someone kind. Someone vulnerable in a moment of darkness.”

“…he didn’t ask for this.”

“No one does,” it murmurs. “But it clung. It rooted deep. And now it knows you're different.”

You breathe out harshly, eyes wide. “So what? If I stay close to him, it hurts the demon? That’s it?”

“Yes. Because you have something it can’t feed on. Something it fears.”

“…what?”

The spirit drifts closer. You feel the cold now, creeping across your arms. “You care for him,” it says simply. “You’ll fight for him. And it hates that.”

You go still. “No,” you say. “There has to be a way without me getting closer. I can find someone stronger—another shaman, or a ritual—”

“There’s no time,” the spirit cuts in, voice harder now. “It’s growing stronger because it’s angry. Because of you. Every time you pull away, it gets what it wants.”

You feel tears prick at your eyes. “It’ll hurt him,” you whisper. “If I get closer… it’ll lash out through him again. I saw it. I see it behind him every time. Watching me.”

The spirit’s voice softens again.

“Then look back,” it says. “Because the longer you turn away, the easier it is for it to win.”

You freeze.

Look back. That’s what it wants from you. Not to run. Not to hide. But to stand your ground. To make the demon afraid of you.

The dream starts to dissolve—candles dimming, shadows vanishing, the ground beneath you crumbling into light. The spirit’s form fades too, its final words echoing before it’s gone:

“If you truly want to protect him… don’t look away.”

The hallway is humming again. Morning voices, rubber soles squeaking against the tile, students filing in and out of classrooms in a blur of navy uniforms and sleep-dulled chatter. You’re back where it started—at the door to your class, spine straight and gaze forward, even as you feel it.

That cold, crawling pressure, that now-familiar heavy weight pressing from the other side of the classroom.

It's there again. Just like yesterday. Just like always. But this time, you look.

You see him before he sees you—Mingyu, dimpled and warm like sunlight on skin. He’s surrounded by friends, bent slightly forward to hear someone, mid-laugh at something dumb. His whole presence is golden, like always.

But your eyes don’t linger long on him. Because it’s there too, behind him. Still and watching.

And when his eyes flick up and catch yours, he lights up instantly—waves a little like always, like it’s just another day. Like he didn’t collapse yesterday. Like you didn’t cradle him half-conscious while a demon coiled behind his eyes.

“Hey,” he says when he jogs over to you. “You okay? You left pretty quick yesterday.”

You force a smile, and this time, you don’t look away. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

His head tilts, reading you. “You sure? You looked kind of… pale.”

Of course you did. You saw him possessed. But all you do is nod, still holding his gaze. Your fingers curl at your side, just enough to feel the tremble inside your palm. Not from him.

From it.

Because it’s watching you now—its gaze sharper than before. You can’t see its face fully, not yet, but it’s like staring into pitch black eyes behind a mask. It knows what you’re trying to do.

You shift slightly forward. Mingyu’s arm is bare where his sleeve is pushed up, elbow bent from holding his bag. You lift a hand, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you tap his arm lightly with your fingertip.

The effect is instant.

Mingyu doesn’t notice—he’s busy adjusting his backpack—but the demon does. You see it recoil, almost like a ripple of black smoke being pulled too hard. It doesn't disappear, but it shrinks. Just a little. Just enough.

Your lips curl—half-relieved, half-amused. A small, incredulous scoff leaves you as you stare right past Mingyu, eyes locked on the dark shape writhing behind him.

You smile. Just a little, because this time, it flinched first.

“What?” Mingyu asks, blinking down at you. You hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten. He pauses, his brow furrowing. “Why are you… smiling like that?”

You look back up at him—his real eyes, wide and worried. And then he glances over his shoulder, right into the empty space where your gaze had lingered.

He looks back at you quickly. “Was there something—? Are you… laughing at something behind me?”

You blink, caught. Your smile falters, but you shake your head. “No. Just… remembered something dumb.”

Mingyu’s still looking at you like you’ve grown a second head.

You soften slightly. “Sorry. I’m okay, really. You don’t have to worry.”

“I’m always gonna worry,” he says quietly, still watching you. “Even if I don’t know what it’s about.”

Your chest squeezes. You want to tell him. God, you want to warn him but what would that do except terrify him?

So you nod, gently, and reach out again. Your fingers press briefly to his wrist—just a light brush. Mingyu startles a little, glancing down.

“You’re warm,” you say.

It’s a lie. You’re the one who’s freezing. But behind him, the demon recoils again and you smile once more, just faintly. You’ll keep smiling. You’ll keep touching him. And you’ll burn it out, one brush at a time.

Mingyu doesn’t notice the game you’re playing, not really. But the demon does, it notices everything. Like when you hover your hand just a breath away from his shoulder—fingers suspended midair, eyes locked not on Mingyu but just past him, right where the demon’s form lurks.

And it flinches.

Just the suggestion of your touch—heat and spirit and power that it doesn’t fully understand but knows is dangerous—threatens it.

Mingyu doesn’t notice the tension crackling behind him. He’s too busy pointing at something dumb on your shared worksheet, too close, too unknowing.

“Isn’t this the same answer as the last one?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your cheek.

And you’re distracted. Not by his question, but by the way your arms are pressed side by side. He doesn’t notice—doesn’t even realize he’s leaning—but you do.

So does it. The demon recoils again. Subtly. As if burned by static.

And you smile to yourself.

Later, in the hallway, you test it again.

You brush your hand along Mingyu’s forearm casually—like you’re just steadying him as someone bumps into you from behind. Your touch lingers.

One… Two… Three seconds.

Mingyu turns his head toward you, expression open, soft. “You okay?”

You nod, feigning surprise. “Oh—yeah. Just got pushed.”

But behind him, you feel it—the demon coiling tighter. Agitated. Hot and twitching beneath Mingyu’s skin, not strong enough to surface while you’re still there, touching him.

So you let go. And just like that, it settles again —barely.

You look past him once more, staring the demon down in its shadowy form.

You know now. It hates you.

Not because you’re afraid—but because you aren’t anymore. It knows that if Mingyu gets too close to you, too often, he’ll become harder to possess. Its grip on him will waver. It knows.

And you can tell—because every time Mingyu accidentally brushes his arm across yours, every time his hand brushes yours when passing a pencil or resting beside yours on a desk, every time your knees bump beneath the table— It flinches. It writhes.

You see it coil tighter behind him, like it’s hiding. Like it’s desperate to stay inside, to not be dragged out again.

And sometimes, sometimes, it glares at you. Right past Mingyu’s smiling face, behind those clueless eyes, the demon stares.

You stare back. And now, you smile not out of fear or disbelief—but because you understand the rules. The more Mingyu touches you, the more time he spends with you— The weaker it becomes.

So you don’t run anymore.

You hold eye contact with it as you lightly tap Mingyu’s hand with your own during lunch. You watch its dark tendrils shiver, you lean just slightly into Mingyu’s side as he laughs about something ridiculous, and you see it hiss.

The touches are casual. Innocent. Barely noticed by anyone but you. And it is killing the demon. Slowly.

It starts small. A quiet pause during a late study session and you’re both leaned over the same book, shoulders nearly pressed together.

And Mingyu isn’t looking at the words anymore. He’s looking at you. “Are you cold?” he asks suddenly.

You blink, glancing up. “Huh?”

“You keep looking over your shoulder,” he says. “And just now, you kind of… shivered.”

You straighten up, giving a small, stiff laugh. “Just a draft,” you say. “Maybe the AC’s too strong?”

There is no AC.

But Mingyu lets it slide. Until it happens again.

This time, you're walking side by side down the hallway after class. Mingyu is talking about something dumb—his group project, probably, or how he forgot his lunch—and you’re nodding along, pretending to listen. But your gaze keeps flickering up.

Past him. Over his shoulder. To it.

And Mingyu notices. “You keep doing that,” he says quietly, his voice almost playful, almost not.

“Doing what?”

“That thing. Looking behind me.”

You falter. “No, I wasn’t.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been doing it all week.”

You’re silent for too long.

So he adds, with a half-laugh, “Is something on me?”

“Not on you,” you say too fast. “Just… uh. I’m zoning out, I guess.”

Mingyu stares. You feel it again, behind him. Watching. Listening. The pressure of it almost dares you to lie, so you do.

You force a smile and bump your shoulder against his. “Why? You jealous of the wall behind you or something?”

He snorts, smiling easily again. “No, just…” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “You’ve been weird lately.”

Your stomach sinks. He doesn’t say it to be mean. If anything, he’s smiling as he says it, like he’s trying to lighten the mood but the word still lands. Weird.

And suddenly you realize—you’ve been slipping. Losing your grip on the lie.

You cover it quickly. “Weird how?”

“Like…” He pauses, thoughtful. “Like you’re always somewhere else. Not in a bad way, just—like your mind’s busy with something.”

You press your lips together, thinking.

“Homework,” you say. “Stress.”

It’s the worst excuse. Mingyu knows you’re good at school. He’s seen how calm you usually are.

But he hums, nodding anyway. “Right. Stress.”

You glance at him, wondering if he believes it. You try not to react when he brushes your knuckles with his own. You really try not to react when the demon behind him jerks back like it’s been burned.

But your gaze flickers—just for a second.

Mingyu sees it so he stops walking. “Okay,” he says slowly, “I know you just looked at something.”

You stop too, caught. You try to laugh it off again. “I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Mingyu…”

“Do I have something behind me?” he asks, half-joking now, spinning a little on his heel like he’s trying to see. “Like a tail? Is there a ghost attached to me or something?”

You freeze.

He doesn’t notice your silence right away. He’s still laughing lightly—until he looks back at you and sees the expression you’re trying not to wear.

“…Wait.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out.

He stares at you for a long moment. “That was a joke.”

You force a breath. “Right. Yeah. Funny.”

“…But you looked scared.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You kind of did.”

You smile too wide. “You’re imagining it.”

He narrows his eyes. “I’m not.”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing, Mingyu.”

“Then why are you lying?”

That makes your heart stop. His voice is soft. Confused. Not angry—but something close to… hurt. And still, you can’t tell him, not yet. So you say the only thing you can. “I’m not lying.”

He doesn’t believe you but he doesn’t push again either. You both keep walking, side by side. The silence stretches too long—but eventually, Mingyu’s voice returns, quiet, uncertain.

“…If something’s wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

You don’t look at him. Your eyes are fixed just behind him.

Where the demon is smiling now — smiling at you.

You swallow hard, and you nod. “Yeah,” you lie again. “Of course.”

You were laughing. It was easy, too—too easy.

Mingyu had just said something dumb about the lunch menu (“If they serve that gray mystery stew again, I’m transferring schools”), and you were still giggling when he tugged your wrist lightly, pointing to a corridor.

“Shortcut to the cafeteria,” he said, dimple on full display. “Way faster.”

You raised a brow. “Since when do you know shortcuts?”

“I pay attention,” he said smugly, pulling you along.

You followed without hesitation and that was your first mistake.

The corridor was quieter than usual—empty and dim, the kind of back hall used by maintenance or upperclassmen trying to skip class. You knew it existed, but you never came back here, still, you didn’t question it.

Until you realized it was too quiet. Your steps echoed. Mingyu’s grip on your wrist had tightened.

You frowned, pulling slightly. “Hey, it’s really quiet—where’s this shortcut again?”

He stopped walking and you froze with him.

Then he turned to face you—and it wasn’t Mingyu anymore. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His posture had shifted—shoulders stiff, stance sharp. There was no gentle glow to him now. No softness in his gaze. Only darkness.

And you knew.

Your voice came out small. “Let go.”

He didn’t. “You’ve been awfully clingy,” it said, through his mouth. “I don’t like that.”

You stumbled back, trying to yank your arm from his grip, but he didn’t budge.

“I gave you warnings,” the demon growled, his voice lower now, distorted, layered. Like Mingyu’s voice was just a vessel.

“I told you to stay away.”

You trembled, backing until your shoulder hit the cold wall. “Let. Him. Go.”

“Funny,” it said, and Mingyu’s lips twisted into a mockery of a smile. “That’s exactly what I said to you. But you didn’t listen, did you?”

The grip on your wrist tightened to the point of pain. You cried out, but the corridor was empty, your voice swallowed by the stone.

“I didn’t care at first,” the demon continued, eyes blazing black. “You were just a pest. But now?” He leaned in closer. Too close. His face was a mask of Mingyu’s, but everything in it was wrong. “Now you’re interfering.”

You struggled, but it was like stone held you.

“You touch him like you think you can protect him. You think that’ll save him?”

Tears stung your eyes. “He’s not yours to control—”

“He’s not yours,” it snarled. “He’s mine. He let me in. He asked for help—did you know that? And I answered.”

The words made your blood run cold. “You’re lying,” you whispered.

Its smile widened. “Am I?”

It raised a hand—Mingyu’s hand, but sharp and trembling—and the air turned hot. A pressure pressed against your chest, heavy, suffocating. You gasped, struggling to breathe as shadows gathered at the edges of your vision.

“Let’s see how close you can really get before you break,” it whispered.

Your knees buckled.

And then—

“Hey! What the hell?!”

Voices. Footsteps pounding the concrete.

The demon turned, snarling, eyes flickering with rage. You fell to the ground as a group of students rushed in—two seniors, maybe a junior—all wide-eyed and panicked.

One of them grabbed Mingyu’s shoulders. “Dude, what the hell are you doing?!”

That’s when the demon slipped.

The shadows recoiled. Mingyu’s body went slack for half a second—then all at once, he gasped and collapsed, his own weight knocking him down to his knees.

The others rushed to you. “Are you okay?! What happened?!”

You couldn’t answer. You were still staring at Mingyu, who looked up with wide, genuine eyes. Confused. Panicked.

“Wait,” he croaked. “What—why am I—what’s going on?”

He looked around, dazed. His gaze found yours. And you saw it—the fear.

“Mingyu,” you breathed.

He didn’t remember, not a thing. He tried to reach for you—but this time, you pulled back.

Because behind him, in the shadow cast by the wall— It was still there.

The demon wasn’t done.

taglist: @hearts4cheol @mingyuisthevictimofsvt

[wonwunss]

🩸The Vessel : Chapter 2

pairing: mingyu x f!reader

Genre: supernatural thriller / horror, psychological mystery, dark fantasy, romance?, urban paranormal, demon possession, “Head over Heels” k-drama inspired

word count: 2.1k

The Vessel: Masterlist  |  previous  | next

It happens just after midnight. Your room is quiet. Curtains drawn, lamp casting a low, warm glow across your notes—half your attention on textbook pages, half on every creak and whisper in the dark.

You haven’t been able to focus all night-–not since class.

Not since the way Mingyu’s voice dipped—not his voice, not really—and how his eyes had gone pitch black for a heartbeat too long.

Not since the ghost—the boy—was dragged out of sight right in front of you.

You shouldn’t be surprised when he reappears. But you still flinch when you feel the cold sweep across your skin, your breath frosting slightly in the airless room.

He’s there. Standing at the foot of your bed. Same translucent glow. Pale. But now… there’s something heavier in his eyes.

You swallow. “You came back.”

He nods once.

You sit up slowly, heart thudding. “What was that? Why did you try to—?”

“I was trying to stop it,” he interrupts. His voice is clearer now. Still soft, but more grounded. “But I wasn’t strong enough.”

You’re silent for a moment. Then: “It knows I see it,” you whisper.

He nods again, this time grim. “It knew the second you recognized it. That makes you a threat.”

You already knew. Deep down, but it’s different hearing it out loud.

You grip your blanket tightly. “What is it? What’s wrong with Mingyu?”

The boy spirit looks away, as if searching for the right words or maybe avoiding them.

“I don’t know the full story,” he says slowly. “No one does. That thing… the demon… it’s not like the other spirits. It’s older. Hungrier. And it’s been with him for a long time.”

You feel your stomach drop. “How long?”

“I don’t know. Years, maybe. Since childhood.”

You inhale sharply. “Why him?”

The ghost shakes his head. “He’s pure. Too pure. It’s almost ironic. Some people attract light. He was born with it. Bright enough to blind—and that kind of soul?” He looks back at you, eyes hollow. “It makes demons curious. Makes them want to break it.”

Your throat goes dry. “So it’s using him.”

“It’s hiding inside him. Like a parasite. But it’s getting stronger now. And you—” he looks at you with something close to pity— “You made it worse.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, shaking your head.

He steps closer, voice low. “But you can see. That alone feeds it. It wants your fear. Needs it. Yours is stronger than normal people’s because your gift is old. Inherited. The more you fear it… the more you try to run or hide…”

You already know the rest. “It grows.”

He nods. “And it’s watching you now.”

Your breath catches. “What do I do?” you whisper.

He hesitates, then: “There’s only one thing I’ve seen that makes it recoil. Even just for a second.”

You look up sharply. “What?”

“Contact.”

You blink. “What kind of—?”

“With him.”

You freeze. The spirit steps closer, voice soft but urgent. “You don’t just see spirits. You have energy. Old energy. It lives in your blood, in your bones. And if you touch him—really touch him—it stings the demon. Like holding fire to its skin.”

Your hands tremble. “So you’re telling me the only way to protect myself… is to get closer to the person it’s hiding inside of?”

He nods.

“And if he notices? If he starts asking questions?”

“You’ll have to lie.” The spirit’s expression is grave. “Or he’ll try to help you. And if he tries…”

You already know.

It’ll wake up.

The boy begins to fade again, the air warming slightly as his glow dims.

You scramble to your feet. “Wait! Will I ever be able to stop it? Free him?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you with something too heavy for words. Then vanishes. And you’re left alone in the dark, heart pounding. Because now you know the truth:

You’re not just haunted anymore.

You’re hunted.

And the only way to fight back… is to get close enough to burn it.

You wake the next morning with one thought heavy in your mind:

That spirit had to be wrong.

It doesn’t make sense. You’re not powerful. You're not some divine chosen one—just a girl who was born with a curse she learned to hide. You see spirits, sure. Talk to them, sometimes. But burning a demon? Just by touch?

It sounds like a cruel joke. So you avoid him.

All morning, you avoid Mingyu like your life depends on it—which, according to a dead boy, it might. You fake a phone call instead of walking into class with him, you sit a little too far to the left, you don’t meet his eyes, you don’t laugh when he tells a joke.

It’s obvious.

And he notices.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks quietly during group work, his gaze searching your face.

“No,” you murmur, eyes fixed on your notebook. “Just tired.”

But it’s not tiredness keeping your shoulders tense or your throat dry. It’s him. Or more accurately—the thing that watches from behind his smile. The shadow you feel every time he leans a little too close.

And the more you avoid him, the more he tries to close the gap.

Little things. He taps your shoulder when he asks a question, he nudges his elbow against yours when you both reach for the same folder, he offers you his umbrella when it starts raining as school ends, stepping so close you can see the outline of his dimples forming in concern.

“Are you really okay?” he asks again. “You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

You look up, just for a second.

And there it is.

That faint, pulsing presence looming just over his shoulder. It doesn't look like a face, not quite. More like the impression of one—dark eyes, twisted shadows stretched into something vaguely human. Watching you.

Waiting.

You step back. “I’m fine.” You walk away without taking the umbrella.

The hallway is packed. Lunchtime traffic. Students brushing past, laughter echoing, the squeak of shoes on tile. You keep your head down, navigating the crowd as fast as possible, trying to escape to somewhere—anywhere—quiet.

You round a corner sharply and collide into someone full-force. A hand grabs your arm instinctively, steadying you.

You look up.

Mingyu.

Your bare skin touching his wrist. And the world stops. For a split second, everything slows. The air warps—sizzles—with tension.

You see it again.

The demon.

But this time it’s not idle. It jerks back. Like something burned it. Its dark mass recoils sharply behind Mingyu’s shoulder, face flickering into something warped and furious. It doesn’t scream. Doesn’t snarl.

It just glares. Right at you. Like a warning.

Stop.

Stay away.

You’re not ready.

And then—it slips back. Quiet. Hidden. Like it never moved at all.

Your hand trembles where it touches his skin.

Mingyu’s brows knit. “You okay?”

You yank your arm back. “Sorry,” you mutter, stepping away fast. “Didn’t mean to—”

He smiles, soft and clueless. “It’s okay. You’re jumpy today.”

You nod. Still breathless. Still shaken. Because now you know it’s real. You touched him. And the demon felt it. And it didn’t like it.

But more than that— It looked afraid. Just not afraid enough.

The warning doesn’t come in words. It comes in incidents and at first, it’s subtle. Easy to brush off as coincidence.

Your seatmate in math—someone who tried to pair you with Mingyu last week—slips and falls down the stairwell the next morning. A clean break in her ankle. No one saw what tripped her.

Then a junior who once commented loudly in the cafeteria that you and Mingyu looked cute together gets sent home with a nosebleed so bad it won’t stop for hours. They say he fainted on the spot.

Then your homeroom teacher—who praised Mingyu and suggested the two of you pair up for the school festival—starts complaining about chest pains. He’s sent to the hospital for observation.

The school is buzzing with talk. Accidents. Illness. Bad energy.

But you feel it every time. That presence in the air. The chill down your back. That same shadow brushing at the edges of your vision, even when you're not looking at Mingyu.

And then—it escalates.

Because suddenly, it's not someone else.

It’s him.

It’s late one afternoon, and you’re the only one left in the music room.

You came here to breathe. To think. To hide.

Your palms are still sweating from what happened in the hallway —from the feel of Mingyu’s skin under yours, the way the demon flinched. You haven’t stopped replaying the glare in your head, that raw, unfiltered hatred.

You set your bag down and close your eyes. Just one moment of peace.

But the door creaks open.

“Mingyu?” you ask without turning around.

You feel it before you hear the reply. That heavy air. That subtle shift.

“No,” he says.

And your blood goes cold. You whirl around.

It’s Mingyu—but not him. His posture is too straight. His eyes too still. No crinkles by the corners. No warmth.

You take a step back. He takes one forward.

“I told you,” he says, voice lower, slower. “Stay away.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Mingyu—?”

He tilts his head. And smiles. But it’s not his smile. Not even close.

“You think you’re special,” it says. “Just because you can see. Just because you touched me.”

You try to move, but your legs won’t work. The air feels wrong, like gravity is heavier in this room.

“I’ve seen girls like you before,” it continues. “Full of fear. Full of light. You burn so beautifully when you’re scared.”

You grit your teeth. “Why him?”

It doesn’t answer. Just steps closer. And then—flickers. His body stumbles suddenly, like a marionette cut loose. Mingyu gasps, falling to his knees as if someone just ripped the air from his lungs.

“Mingyu!” you rush forward instinctively, catching his arm before he collapses.

His skin is ice-cold. His eyes flutter open—dazed, confused.

“...what happened?” he breathes, looking up at you, shaky.

You don’t answer. Because you know. That was no warning. That was a promise.

Stay away. Or I’ll take him from you.

His body slumps into your arms. Heavy and unsteady.

You catch him before he can collapse fully, your arms around his back, your knees hitting the floor beside him in a graceless thud. Your heart is racing, pounding against your ribs so loudly you can’t even hear your own thoughts.

He groans softly. Breathes. And when he lifts his head— He’s back.

“Mingyu?”

His eyes blink open. Brown again. Warm. Confused.

“…huh?” he mutters, squinting around. “Where…?”

You can’t speak. You’re still shaking.

He blinks once, twice, then looks at you. “Wait—why am I…?” He glances around the music room. “I was just going to the toilet. How did I…?”

You don’t answer. Your throat’s closed tight, fingers digging into the sleeves of his shirt as if letting go would let it come back.

He notices.

“…hey,” he says softly. “Why are you—?”

He sees your face. The panic, the pale clammy skin, your wide eyes.

His expression changes instantly. Worry, full and raw. “Hey, hey, are you okay? What happened?”

You shake your head once, your hands still gripping him, still waiting for the cold to return, for the eyes to darken, for that voice to surface again.

But it’s just him. It’s just Mingyu. And that might be the cruelest part of all.

“I—” Your voice is barely audible. “You weren’t… you weren’t you.”

He frowns, confused. “What do you mean?”

You swallow, forcing the words out. “You came in here and… you said things. You looked at me like…”

Your voice dies in your throat.

He gently pries your hands away from his shirt, not out of rejection—just so he can cup your face in his palms instead, his thumbs brushing the sides of your cheeks with such soft warmth that it makes your chest ache.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his forehead nearly touching yours now. “You’re shaking. What scared you?”

You stare at him. He doesn’t know. He has no idea. You search his eyes for any hint of it—any trace of the thing that stood in front of you minutes ago, that taunted you, threatened you with his body—but there’s nothing.

Just Mingyu, warm and worried and completely in the dark.

You shake your head again. “It’s nothing. I just—thought I saw something.”

He still looks worried. Still scanning your face like you’ll suddenly crack and confess something he doesn’t understand.

“Did someone try to hurt you?”

You nearly laugh. If only he knew. “No,” you lie, too quickly. “It was just… I scared myself.”

You expect him to doubt you. To press. But he just nods slowly.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. But… you’re not alone, alright? Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Your throat tightens. That’s the worst part. He means it.

You nod once, eyes stinging. “I know.”

He doesn’t let go right away. Just keeps holding your face like he’s anchoring you there, trying to keep you steady—never realizing it’s him you’re afraid might disappear again.

taglist: @hearts4cheol @mingyuisthevictimofsvt

[wonwunss]

🩸The Vessel : Chapter 1 

pairing: mingyu x f!reader

Genre: supernatural thriller / horror, psychological mystery, dark fantasy, romance?, urban paranormal, demon possession, “Head over Heels” k-drama inspired

word count: 1.6k

lmk if you want to be added to the taglist okieee

Th e Vessel: Masterlist  |  previous  | next

Mingyu leans in slightly, eyes crinkled as he grins. “So? What’s your first impression of this place?”

You blink. It takes a second to pull your thoughts back from the cold weight pressing on your shoulders. “Lively,” you manage, because it’s the safest word you can find that isn’t cursed or heavy.

He laughs. It’s full-bodied and warm, and some of the tension in your neck melts from the sound alone. “Lively, huh? You haven’t seen lunch break yet.”

You don’t realize you’ve been staring until his smile softens and he tilts his head. “Are you okay?”

There it is again. That warm concern. That genuine softness.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just… still adjusting, I guess.”

You should be used to this. Transferring schools. Seeing spirits. Pretending the dark things don’t touch you. But something about him—it’s like standing in a meadow with a thunderstorm pacing just out of sight.

He offers you a snack from his bag during break. A choco pie.

“It’s the rule,” he says, unwrapping his own. “First day of school, you get a snack from your seatmate. That’s me.”

You take it hesitantly. His fingers brush yours, just for a moment.

And your vision shudders.

For a split second, you see his face change.

His eyes go dark, not just color-wise, but void-of-light dark. The curve of his lips pulls too far, too tight. Not a smile. A snarl dressed up as one.

And then it’s gone.

Mingyu blinks at you, chewing thoughtfully. “What? Did I smudge chocolate on my face?”

You shake your head, heart racing. “No. You’re fine.”

You don’t know what’s more terrifying—that no one else notices, or that he doesn’t notice it himself.

Later, during a group discussion, he laughs so hard he nearly falls off his chair. He keeps leaning close to help you with the instructions, offering to do the cutting because “you’ll probably curse the scissors if they mess up your line,” and you think: This is the nicest person I’ve ever met.

But every time your eyes stray toward his, there’s a flicker—just behind the surface. Watching you. Watching.

And that chill? The one that started at your spine earlier?

It hasn’t gone away.

You take the same path home you took this morning, a shortcut through the alley behind the school and past the row of small corner shops. It’s only early evening, but something feels off.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

This morning, the alley had been alive with the usual buzz—students chattering, shopkeepers sweeping dust out their doorways, motorbikes humming past.

Now? Nothing.

No voices. No footsteps. Just the sound of your own shoes tapping softly against the pavement, swallowed by the growing shadows.

You try not to look too closely at the edge of your vision—but you see them.

The same spirits from this morning.

You recognize them—the woman with the caved-in cheekbones and shredded hanbok. The old man whose eyes never quite meet yours. A small girl in a school uniform too big for her, standing barefoot in the middle of the alley with her head bowed.

They don’t move. They don’t speak.

But their gazes follow you.

It’s not new. You’re used to ghosts. You’ve had years to steel yourself against their presence. But something about today—something about this stretch of alley—makes your chest clench tighter with each step.

Their eyes are wide. Frightened.

No—not frightened of you. Frightened for you.

You keep walking. You don’t let your pace falter, though your grip on your bag strap tightens.

One of them reaches a hand out as you pass. You flinch, but they don’t touch you. They just look. Like they’re begging you to listen. Still, no words. Just silence and stares.

Until—One appears directly in front of you.

You let out a sharp gasp and stumble backward, heart leaping into your throat.

It’s a man—older, face half-burnt, smoky tendrils still rising faintly from his scorched skin. His presence is loud, louder than the rest. You can hear a faint buzz in your ears now, like static crawling across your scalp.

He doesn’t move. Just looks at you. Head tilted.

And then, finally, he speaks—a deep, rasping voice, like wind through gravel.

“He doesn’t know what walks inside him.” “But we do.” “It knows you now.” “Stay away.”

Your blood runs cold.

“What… who are you talking about?” you whisper, though your body already knows. Already senses the answer in the shadow that clung to Mingyu’s smile.

The man’s expression doesn’t change. But his eyes, what’s left of them, sharpen. Burn.

“It saw you today. Saw you see it.” “And it’s hungry.”

Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he’s gone. Blinks out of existence like mist in sunlight.

The alley is empty again. But the silence stays. And something tells you the presence inside Mingyu just turned its head for the first time—and looked straight at you.

You don’t sleep that night. How could you? Every time you close your eyes, you hear it again. That voice. That warning.

“It saw you today. Saw you see it.”

The memory of the burnt spirit’s words clings to your skin like soot.

You stay up until dawn, watching the sky lighten through your bedroom window, a protective salt line scattered along the sill. You almost don’t go to school. But you do. Because what else can you do? Avoid him forever?

Maybe you should. But you don’t.

The moment you step into the classroom, the air shifts again. That pressure returns.

Not crushing. Not violent. Just… aware.

Your eyes stay fixed on the floor as you walk to your seat. You don’t need to look up. You already feel it. That same dense, slithering shadow behind him. Perched just out of sight. Like it never left.

And Mingyu—he’s the first to notice you enter, of course.

“Hey,” he calls, his voice bright. “You look tired. Did you stay up studying or something?” he teased.

You nod, quick and wordless, sliding into your seat without so much as a glance in his direction.

He blinks, a little surprised. But he doesn’t push. “Well, I brought you something.”

He rummages through his bag and sets something on your desk. A small carton of banana milk. Your favorite, something you had mentioned in passing yesterday when he asked and that made your heart sink.

You finally glance up—just briefly—and there it is.

The same dark mass. Clinging to his shoulders like a second skin. Its outline barely visible in the morning light, like a trick of shadow and movement.

It doesn’t speak.

But it watches.

You tear your gaze away instantly, fists clenched tight under your desk.

“Thanks,” you manage, staring at the drink instead of him. “That’s… really kind.”

He smiles. You hear it in his voice even without looking. “Of course. I figured I owed you one, after you helped me carry all those books yesterday. You seriously saved me from back pain.”

You almost laugh.

If only he knew what was really trying to break him.

“Are you sure you're okay?” he asks again, a little quieter this time. There’s concern in his tone—genuine and soft. “You’re acting kind of distant.”

You shake your head. “I’m fine,” you lie.

But your body’s still tense, your jaw locked. Because even though you’re not looking at him—you feel it again.

That presence.

Still there. Still staring. Still waiting.

The rest of the morning drags on in a haze. You keep your head down. Eyes away. Hands trembling under your desk no matter how tightly you grip your pen.

Mingyu, to his credit, doesn’t push. He’s unusually quiet beside you compared to yesterday, only occasionally tapping his foot against the leg of your chair as if to say I’m here. His presence is so warm. So innocent.

It only makes the thing inside him feel more wrong.

During literature class, your teacher drones on about symbolism and longing in old poetry. Half the class is nodding off.

You, on the other hand, are wide awake. Hyperaware.

And that’s when you feel it. A shift in the air—but not from the demon. From the other side of the room.

You glance up before you can stop yourself. There. A faint glow by the windows. Just barely visible to you. A spirit. Not like the others you’ve seen. This one’s new. Young. A boy, maybe your age—pale, almost translucent, but his eyes are bright. He doesn’t look at anyone but you.

And he’s moving slowly walking across the classroom. No one else notices. He passes through desks, chairs, even people, without so much as a stir in the air.

But your breath catches.

He’s heading straight for Mingyu.

Your pulse spikes. “No,” you whisper under your breath, too quiet for anyone to hear. “What are you—?”

The spirit raises a hand. Reaches for Mingyu’s shoulder. And that’s when it happens.

The air snaps.

Your body locks up as an invisible pressure floods the room, concentrated like a wave of heat just to your right—right where Mingyu sits.

It hits the ghost first.

He stumbles back with a gasp, like he’s been burned, even though he has no body to burn. He clutches his chest, eyes wide with panic—and then he disappears. Not fades. Not drifts.

He’s yanked away. Gone.

The room is still. Students continue writing notes, laughing softly, unaware.

But next to you? Mingyu’s posture has shifted. He’s not slouched anymore. He’s sitting up straight. Too straight.

You turn your head just slightly.

And see it just for a moment. His eyes—black. No warmth. No light. No Mingyu. And then he blinks. Tilts his head. Looks at you.

“Something wrong?” he asks, voice low.

Normal. Almost. But you can’t breathe. Because the thing behind him is no longer hiding.

It’s smiling.

And it knows.

taglist: @hearts4cheol @mingyuisthevictimofsvt

[wonwunss]

🩸The Vessel : Prologue

pairing: mingyu x f!reader

Genre: supernatural thriller / horror, psychological mystery, dark fantasy, romance?, urban paranormal, demon possession, "Head over Heels" k-drama inspired

word count: 340

a/n: its my first time trying this genre so i hope its good >< any feedbacks are greatly appreciated

The Vessel: Masterlist | next

You’ve always seen ghosts.

They lurk in corners, flicker past your peripheral vision, whisper nonsense when they think you’re not listening. You’ve lived your whole life brushing shoulders with spirits and slipping salt into your pockets like other people carry lip balm. So when you transfer schools—yet again—you’re already prepared for the usual: haunted bathroom stalls, echoing footsteps in empty hallways, a weeping girl who keeps reappearing by the vending machines.

What you aren’t prepared for is this.

You’re halfway down the hall to your new homeroom when it hits you.

A pressure—low in your gut, crawling up your spine. It’s heavy, like being submerged underwater. Cold. Ancient. And wrong.

You stop walking.

The students around you pass by as if nothing’s off, but the closer you get to your assigned classroom, the more suffocating it becomes. You clench your jaw and take another step, eyes darting around. There’s no ghost in sight, no flicker of a soul hanging off the ceiling or pressed against the lockers. But you know something’s here.

Something dark.

You force yourself through the door just as the bell rings.

The classroom buzzes with chatter, and the teacher waves you in with a tired gesture. “Everyone, this is our new transfer student. Please make her feel welcome.”

You bow, give your name, your voice steady despite the way your fingertips have gone numb. The teacher tells you to take the only empty seat—next to a boy who’s leaning back in his chair, one hand lazily twirling a pen. He looks up as you approach.

And for a second—you don’t see a boy.

You see a thing. A twisted shadow, oily and long-limbed, slithering just beneath his skin. His eyes flash pitch black, then return to warm brown so quickly you could almost believe you imagined it.

Almost.

You sit beside him stiffly.

He smiles at you.

“Hey,” he says casually. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

You stare. You can still feel the weight of it—whatever’s hiding behind his gaze.

And it’s staring back.

[wonwunss]

🩸The Vessel : Masterlist

pairing: mingyu x f!reader

Genre: supernatural thriller / horror, psychological mystery, dark fantasy, romance?, urban paranormal, demon possession, “Head over Heels” k-drama inspired

Teaser

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

a/n: its my first time writing this type of genre, let me know what you thing of it. i think Mingyu suits this genre because he looks the most... possessable but one where he doesn't know he is... idk?? stay tuned for updates yeah!

comment under any of ‘The Vessel’ post if you want to be included in the taglist 😚

[wonwunss]

🩸The Vessel : Teaser

He had the face of an angel and the soul of something far darker.

When you transfer to a new school, the last thing you expect is to sense a demon. But something isn’t right about the quiet boy in class — the one with the dazzling smile and soft laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes. What lurks inside him isn’t human. 

And what’s worse? It knows you can see it.

What begins as a twisted game between hunter and hunted soon unravels into something neither of you saw coming. Because the demon inside him isn’t just hiding — it’s waking up. And the longer you stay, the more it craves your light.

They say demons need a body. He’s not just possessed — he’s becoming.

And if you don’t figure out what it wants before it fully emerges, it won’t just devour him. It’ll make him permanent.

And this time, it’s not leaving.

a/n: sooo.... i might have caved and wrote out the drafts hehe. i had a hard time deciding who should be the male character since the votes were tied! butttt, i think gyu fits this storyline. prologue and maybe chapter 1 coming out today okaysss!!