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💙 If you’d like to read more of my stuff you can find it Here: Master List . Thank you for reading and if requests are open or you just wanna talk feel free to send me something🩵

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Renjun’s car isn’t quite what you imagined. Sleek. Black. (Okay, that part’s totally predictable) But then there’s the undeniable part: it’s definitely, unquestionably expensive. Almost like he can sense your hesitation hanging just outside the passenger door, he opens it for you, gestures you in, and says,

“My first big purchase from this job.”

You gape, your eyebrows slowly climbing. Before you can press him for more, he shuts your door with a gentle-but-firm click—like a full stop to the conversation. Which, of course, is a mistake.

Because you may be slightly upset. You may be discombobulated and, yes, may be having an emotional clusterfuck in your mind. But you’re still you. You’re still nosy.

“How long did it take you to save? Yuta pays in buttons.”

That earns you a warm laugh. “I thought you got special treatment. You know, being a nepo baby and all that.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?”

Another laugh, softer this time, before: “Seat belt.”

You click it into place.

“Seriously,” you persist. “How long did this take you?”

He checks his mirrors, glances over his shoulder, flicks on his blinker.  “You’ll have to direct me. I don’t like sat nav—”

“Renjun! How long did this take you to afford? Or are you secretly rich?” You gasp then. “Don’t tell me you’ve been hiding the fact that you’re also secretly a nepo baby?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head with the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “I just… I’ve worked at the theatre a long time. Six years, maybe.”

“No shit,” you say, genuinely impressed. “You’ve managed to stay loyal to the same high school job well into your college years?”

“I don’t like change,” he says simply.

“Clearly.” Your eyes sweep over the spotless interior—black leather, not a single crumb in sight. “I guess that’s a good thing, though. For a second there, I thought you’d been letting me sit in the nepotism guilt alone, and that would’ve made me very upset with you.”

“Phew,” he says, mock-relieved. “Because now that I know what you look like upset, I’m glad I don’t have to deal with your wrath.”

You sink deeper into the passenger seat, the leather molding around you. The laugh you’d just shared evaporates, replaced by the hollow weight that’s been trailing you all day.

Renjun catches it. Your change in mood. You don’t have to look at him to know—he’s gone quieter, his fingers flexing once against the steering wheel like he’s checking himself. For a second, you swear you can hear his internal monologue debating whether or not he’s just put his foot in it again. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. 

“Want is the wrong word.” You rub at your temple. “Need? Probably. Take a left here.”

Renjun knows he should leave it alone. He knows exactly what it’s like to not want to talk about something. To need space. He’s built his entire adult coping mechanism around giving people the distance he craves for himself. But with you? He doesn’t want to.

He wants to know why his sunshine girl isn’t smiling, why you’re sinking into his expensive seats on the verge of tears, why the first time you’re in his car is out of necessity—because of some asshole ex—and not because you wanted to hang out with him.

Woah.

He wants you to want him.

Shit. 

“I don’t want to go home,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick over to you, confusion tugging at his features—but also relief, because you just derailed the spiral he was about to launch himself into. “Okay…?”

“That’s where all my problems are. They’re never here. With you.”

Okay. Abort mission. That was not you giving him a pass to shelve the whole why do I want her to want me revelation. That was you flipping on a neon sign in his chest that reads ‘EXAMINE FEELINGS NOW’. 

And he is not ready for that.

At some point—he’s not sure when—you’ve managed to fold yourself into the passenger seat, legs pulled to your chest.

[Feet on the seat, may he add. Something he yells at Hyuck for. But, because you look sad, he drops it. Only because of that.]

“Where do you want me to take you…?” He coughs then, jerks his gaze back to the road like you might catch him staring.

“Nooo…” you groan, letting your head drop against the window. “You pick. I always pick.”

“Y/N—I don’t like—”

“Anything? I know.” Your voice softens, but there’s a tiny smile in it. “You pretend not to be interesting, but you’re a liar. You’re so loyal—to Hyuck, to me, to Yuta, to your job. You like cars. Nobody who doesn’t care spends years of saved paychecks on something this expensive. You like to draw—I see you doodling when I’m studying. And you hum. A lot.”

“I do not hum.”

You roll your eyes.

“And despite being the most defensive person alive, you’re also the most thoughtful. You told me the bus wasn’t safe and made me get a ride. You put yourself between me and a guy double your size—twice. You bring me Skittles to work even though I know it personally offends you that I eat them…” You keep going, almost like you can’t help yourself.

“Your thing, Renjun, is caring. You notice. You’re thoughtful. It makes you happy—I know it does. So please…” Your voice dips quieter, something almost shy. “You pick. For me.”

Renjun feels like a goldfish—open-mouthed, slow-blinking—because you’ve just cracked him. Cracked the code Joy’s been working at since he was fourteen, in less than two months. Read him front to back despite the fact that the cover has been deliberately, stubbornly uninviting.

It shouldn’t matter. It really, really shouldn’t. But it does.

He keeps his eyes on the road—convinced that if he looks at you, you’ll see every emotion flickering through him clear as day. Not just the inferred parts. 

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He swallows. He knows exactly where to take you.

The first thing you notice when Renjun pulls into a random parking lot is the painted pawprint on the sign—bright blue, with a slightly chipped edge. The second thing you notice is the sound: a muffled, overlapping chorus of barks and soft, impatient scratches from somewhere beyond the walls.

An animal shelter.

You turn to him slowly, your smile instant. “See? I told you. You’re such a thoughtful person. You knew I liked animals.”

Renjun doesn’t smile back—no, he does something worse: he nods, slides out of the car, rounds to your side, and opens the door. Then he helps you out.

(And he has the nerve to say he’s not thoughtful. You think otherwise.)

The bell above the shelter door chimes softly as you step inside. The air smells faintly antiseptic but still can’t mask the warm musk of fur. 

“Hey, Junnie!”

A voice floats over from the front desk—a girl, maybe your age, maybe younger, ponytail bobbing.

Your skin prickles at the nickname. Junnie.  The one he claims to hate. The one he swats away every time you try it on him. Your brain decides to spiral and ask the worst possible question: Did he just pretend to hate it? Or—worse—did he just not want you saying it?

You glance sideways at him, your pulse flickering.

“I see Hyuck’s been talking to you,” Renjun says dryly to the girl. “Told you all about my nickname, huh?”

“Seems only fair I get to know there’s a cringey nickname for you, dear cousin,” she fires back. “Considering you sent your sex-pest best friend into my shelter—my place of work—with, yes, the cutest stray kitty ever, but still.”

Cousin.

The prickling on your skin deflates like a popped balloon, replaced by something heavier and way more embarrassing to admit. Because it’s not like you have any claim on him. It’s not like you should care that a pretty girl uses the same nickname you use for him. You didn’t even invent it. You need to—seriously—get a grip.

“Hyuck has a crush on you,” Renjun states to the girl.

“Hyuck has a crush on everyone,” she says. “That doesn’t mean you send him into my happy place with a cute cat so he can try and—I don’t know—finesse me!”

You watch the girl ramble and flail helplessly, and suddenly you see the resemblance to Renjun. Same mannerisms. Same distant coldness. Same anxious state. 

“No.” He continues, “Hyuck likes to mess around. He really likes you.”

“And I should be flattered?”

“I would say no,” Renjun replies, “but only because the idea of my cousin dating my best friend makes me want to bleach my brain. Hyuck is way too TMI—”

“What are you doing in my animal shelter so late?” she cuts in, eyes narrowing at him before darting to you.

Renjun turns toward you too. 

“Oh…” she says, dragging it out.

Your brows knit. “What is ‘oh’?”

Her mouth curves into a mischievous smile. “Oh, nothing. Just that my dear cousin here had his friend Hyuck drop a cat off here a couple weeks ago. Hyuck mentioned that I had to take it because Renjun is absolutely besotted—”

“Watch it,” Renjun growls. “Remember who’s Grandma’s favourite.”

She rolls her eyes but lets it go, turning that smile on you instead. “I’m guessing he brought you here to see that cat?” She shoots Renjun a look for confirmation.

“Do you still have her?” he asks.

Her grin widens, and she leads you both down the hallway, taking a right into a quieter section. She stops in front of a crate, where a familiar ginger tabby sits like she owns the place.

The minute she sees you, she lets out a yowl. Your heart actually stumbles in your chest as you crouch down. “Oh my god!”

The cat doesn’t hesitate—presses herself into you, rubbing her cheek along your arm with the kind of possessive affection usually reserved for people who bring snacks. You stroke down her spine, fingers sinking into the plush warmth of her fur, and she purrs so hard you can feel it in your ribs.

From the doorway, Renjun’s cousin clears her throat. “So this is Kitty Girl.”

“I think I heard the bell on the door chime,” Renjun says through clenched teeth, glaring at her. 

She sighs, unbothered. “You didn’t. But since I’m an excellent cousin, I’ll stop cockblocking you and pretend there’s a customer out front at almost nine p.m at night.”

“You’re not cockblock—”

She’s already gone, her footsteps fading down the hall.

Renjun turns back to you, looking down at where you’re crouched on the floor with the cat curled against your thigh. There’s the faintest smile tugging at his mouth—weak, almost reluctant, like he’s not sure he should be wearing it.

“Cousin, huh?” you ask.

“Did you think she was my sister? Most people do. They say we act the same, but I don’t see it.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No, actually. I thought she was…”

The words choke off before they can betray you. Because what right do you have to sound even a fraction jealous? Zero. Less than zero, actually. But Renjun—observant to the point of irritation—waits. 

“…Your girlfriend,” you finish.

“First of all, gross,” his face twists into a grimace. “Second of all, why would I bring you to meet my girlfriend when you asked me to pick a place for you?”

He’s got a point. Which is annoying.

“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug, feigning nonchalance you absolutely do not feel. “Why wouldn’t you? We’re friends. It’s important I meet the people who matter to you. You just met Jeno.”

His brows draw together. “Jeno the ex… is still important to you?”

Shit.

Fuck.

No. 

This is exactly the conversational landmine you’ve been tiptoeing around all day, and now you’ve stepped right on it, stomped down with both feet, and waved a little flag to announce your location.

“No—that’s not—” You gently place the cat back in her crate and push to your full height, suddenly needing the armour of vertical distance. “Jeno’s like family… because of my brother”

Renjun’s jaw works once, twice, before he says, “Right.”

You can feel it. The mood has changed, and you’re pretty sure it’s your fault. You want to say something—anything—to pull it back, but your thoughts are tangled. Because the reason everything feels sour is because of the one thing you refuse to examine too closely.

[The way your ribcage felt like it was cracking open when you walked into the animal shelter and thought he had a girlfriend. The idea of him having someone smiling at him from across a coffee shop table. Someone else hearing that soft, reluctant laugh he hides from everyone but gives you.]

It’s absurd. You’re absurd. He’s your friend. He’s just your friend. And then, because apparently your self-control has been left at the movie theare, your mouth opens.

“I mean…I’m just being silly about all of it, really. It’s not like any of that really matters anyway.”

His brows pinch again. “What doesn’t matter?”

You wave a hand. “Oh, you know—like, girlfriends, boyfriends, important people in our circles… all that. Because we’re friends. Just work friends.”

The words come out fast, rushed, like ripping off a bandage. Except instead of relief, you get… a weird hollowness in your chest. He watches you, unreadable, which is somehow worse than if he’d laughed or argued or rolled his eyes.

“Okay,” he says finally. The same flat tone as before, but there’s something under it now. “Well then, I’m going to go help out front. Let you two reconnect.”

“Renjun—”

But he’s already turning toward the door, leaving you there with the ginger tabby and your swirling thoughts. The cat yowls, batting at something metal that clanks against the side of her crate. You glance down and see it: a small silver plaque.

Bonnie.

You press your fingers against it, guilt pooling in your stomach.

Renjun is suspiciously quiet when you get back to his car.

The rain has picked up again, smearing across the windshield. And because he’s too fucking nice for his own good, he slips the strap of his backpack off his shoulder and presses it into your hands, holding it over your head while you cross the short stretch of pavement. He still opens your door. Still waits until you’re tucked in, safe and mostly dry, before shutting it and making his way around to the driver’s side.

You don’t speak as he starts the engine. The rain thrums on the roof instead. 

“Did… that make you feel better?” he asks at last.

And of course he asks. Because he still cares—is still thoughtful—even though you’re almost certain you’ve just made it awkward between you. Pretty sure you’ve hurt him. But equally, he doesn’t fucking communicate. He doesn’t tell you where he stands, doesn’t give you a single foothold in the terrain of his feelings.

Maybe if he did, you wouldn’t be sitting here—jealous, possessive, unraveling—over a man you have no official claim to. Over a work friend, for god’s sake.

Ugh!

You huff out a breath. “No. It didn’t.”

His frown is immediate, brows pulling together. “Is it because you can’t adopt Bonnie yet? Because I can call and reser—”

“No, Renjun, it’s not that!”

You don’t even understand why you’re snapping at him—why you’re snapping at all. If anything, seeing a sweet, soft ball of ginger fur should have been the perfect remedy after the day you’ve had. After the ambush of your brother and your ex (an ambush you’re almost certain your father orchestrated, because in your family nothing is ever accidental) you should feel lighter. Happier.

But you’re not.

You’re confused. And conflicted. And frustrated. And, you’re certain that none of it is really about the cat.

“Then… what is it?”

“It’s—!” The word is jagged, harsh. “I don’t know! Avoiding my problems doesn’t mean they go away. I know you think that. I know you’ve mastered that craft. But for me? Putting a plaster over a bullet wound doesn’t mean I’m not going to bleed out.”

“I don’t think that.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you—”

He sucks in a slow breath, loud enough to cut you off. “I know it looks that way. I know I definitely avoid my problems. But that doesn’t mean I think they go away,” he says. “The opposite, in fact. They… they exist in my head permanently.”

“They don’t have to, though,” you reply. “You have people who’ll listen. Me, Hyuck… you have friends.”

“I know.” His throat moves as he swallows. “I’m well aware of that now.”

Maybe it’s the way his voice dips on the last word, or the way his hands tighten on the steering wheel. But you hear it: the punch.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t sting. But it does—because it’s one thing to be put in the friends category by anyone else. With him, it feels… wrong. Is this how he felt when you—

You swallow the thought before it can fester into something messier. Instead, you hear yourself blurt, “Take me to the beach.”

He cuts his gaze to you.“It’s raining, Y/N.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to get a cold.”

“I’m not. It’s August.”

“It doesn’t work like—” He breaks off with a sharp exhale. “It’s late. Dark,” he tries instead.

“I know,” you say again, tilting your head toward him. “You’ll be there with me.”

His groan vibrates low in his chest. “I hate the beach.”

“Then don’t come.”

He scoffs, glancing at you like you’ve just suggested the stupidest thing. “Y/N, I’m not leaving you at the beach on your own. In the dark. In the rain.”

“I know.” You let the smallest curve of a smile slip onto your lips, because, well, you’ve clearly won. “So take me there.”

And he does.

Straight down narrow lanes until he pulls into a  gravel lot, and the ocean comes into view. The tires crunch to a stop, and before the engine even winds down, you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and shoving the door open. Rain greets you instantly—cool, wet, soaking into your hair until it clings in damp strands against your bare neck.

You don’t think. You just run. The wet sand shifts beneath your feet as you cross it, your fingers tugging at the buttons of your polo until it’s loose enough to take off. Your shorts follow too, dropped in a pile without care. 

“Y/N!”  Renjun’s voice cuts through the rain all sharp and worried. “What the hell are you doing?”

You keep walking, toes sinking deeper into the packed sand until the foamy tide kisses your ankles, then your calves, then climbs to your thighs. Your bra strap slips against your damp shoulder as you ease in. When the water reaches your ribs, you dive forward, letting the ocean swallow you.

“Y/N, stop! This isn’t funny!” He’s closer now, voice practically shaking. “It’s dangerous—

You turn in the water, hair plastered to your cheeks, grinning at him. “Come in! What’s the worst that can happen? You’ll get wet?”

He shakes his head, a disbelieving huff escaping him. But you see it—you see the way his jaw works, the restless shift in his weight. Then his teeth catch on his lower lip, like he’s physically holding back, before he rips his own rain-soaked employee polo over his head.

The rain slides over the bare planes of his shoulders. The sight is enough to make your breath stutter—enough to make you nearly forget you’re supposed to be treading water.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, flinging the shirt onto the sand. His pants follow in a similar motion, and you look away.

[You curse yourself for looking away!]

And then he’s in, moving through the water toward you. For half a second, you debate whether or not to goad him some more. Try swimming farther out, just to watch him lose his mind. Give him a heartattack, maybe. But you don’t get the chance. Because suddenly his arms are around you, hauling you into his bare chest.

Your brain flatlines.

It’s all too much, too fast. You two haven’t touched—not really. Maybe a brush of knuckles when you pass him a popcorn bucket, a graze of fingers when you exchange candy. But hugs? Full-body contact? Basically naked? Absolutely not.

“That wasn’t fucking funny!”

The shout snaps you back into your body, into the fact that he’s holding you like he might actually never let go.

“Do you have any idea how choppy the water gets when it rains—” He’s still talking, voice edged with panic, and your chest tightens. Because what was fun for you, a reckless little thrill, has clearly rattled him to the core.

He’s looking over your body now, and unlike you (who’d been very much appreciating his toned, unfairly pretty physique) he’s scanning for injuries. Checking that you’re breathing, steady, not bruised.

“I’m sorry,” you manage. “I didn’t think—”

“You never do!”

You haven’t seen this Renjun in a long time—the serious one, the methodical one, the stoic, unflinching one. You press your palms to his chest—not to push him away, but to get him to loosen up. 

“Hey,” you say, softer now, “relax, okay? This was just… my way of showing you my band-aid on a bullet wound technique.”

“Endangering yourself!?”

“No,” You suck in a breath, shaking your head. “Impulse.”

That makes him pause. You can see the gears turning in his head. And then there’s this twinge of recognition, the quiet oh. Because he knows. He’s seen it before: you stepping in front of moving traffic to scoop up a stray cat; charging headfirst into arguments you should probably walk away from; refusing to back down against his coldness when most people would fold.

It’s then, for the first time everything registers for him—that he’s holding you, skin to skin. His cough is abrupt, like he’s choking on the realisation. A blush spills over his cheekbones as he clears his throat and looks sharply away. His hands fall from you, because they technically don’t belong there. 

“You’re… um… fine. Sorry—” His voice stumbles, breaks a little. “I just—yeah.”

He starts edging back, putting water and air between you both, and you watch him do it—like he’s physically removing himself from the epicenter of… whatever this is. Then you splash him.

“Hey! What’re you—”

“I want to talk about it,” you say, letting the droplets fall off your fingertips “I’ve had a really shitty day.”

“Right now?” In the middle of the sea?”

“Yes, now. I told you—my problems don’t just go away. I believe if you never bleed, you never grow.”

“So… a band-aid is pointless then? Regardless of whether it’s going over a bullet wound or not?” he asks, a half-smile twitching at his mouth. 

“Shut up,” you say, splashing him again.

He laughs. It’s short, almost a reluctant burst of air before he then relents, giving you the kind of space he’s infuriatingly good at giving.

You take a breath and start. “This is such a first-world problem, but… my dad’s forcing me to be tutored by Jeno or he’ll cut me off. And I don’t want to because—you know—he’s my ex. We ended fine, but that doesn’t mean I want the guy I thought I was going to marry one day in my space, you know?”

[Renjun does not know. He does not know what it feels like to have someone he thinks he might marry on this earth at all, actually. Well—not until—]

“You thought you were going to marry him?”

“It’s complicated,” you say quickly. “I told you my family has indirectly planned out everything for me—job, husband, probably my future kids’ names, so something ugly.” You snort. “But Jeno and I… we never clicked like that. I love him—like a brother, more than anything. But even then, I think it’s because he’s always been around. I hardly know life without him. Plus my family like him. He obviously likes them.”

“Makes sense.”

“I just feel…” you swallow hard. “Like when I’m with my family, I’m outside of my body. Like I’m watching this version of me—this good daughter they’ve designed—and I constantly have to try, try, try to be her. And I’m not. Naturally, I’m just… not. But I’ve let it spiral so far out of control that now they control everything now.”

You don’t even realise you’re crying until the salt on your lips tastes more like you than the sea. Or maybe it’s just the rain—either way, he notices. Renjun hesitates, like his mind is having a quiet fistfight with itself, before his hand lifts. And then—so gently, he wipes your cheek with his thumb.

You give him the smallest smile.

“You know…” you clear your throat, cough around the lump. “When they said they’d cut me off, I didn’t even flinch. I laughed. I had this job. I liked it. But then they reminded me—they control that too.”

“Hey—if Yuta tried to get rid of you, I’d vouch for you. Unfair dismissal.”

“It would only be you,” you laugh, soft. “Yushi still hates me for the Icee machine thing. Honestly, I should’ve been fired then. But I was happy to reap the benefits of nepotism then.”

“It was your first day—”

“You don’t have to defend me.” You smile again, this time no teeth. “I remember how pissed you were. Same day as the cat in Yuta’s office.”

There’s a pause, long enough that you almost expect him to stay in his lane, because he’s the listener. But then, almost like he’s testing the weight of the words before handing them to you, he says—

“I know what it feels like. To be outside of your body.”

You blink at him, but he’s looking past you.

“With my family,” he adds. “It’s like… they never tried to understand me. Not really. They just—” His mouth tightens. “Shoved me into therapy because my emotions were too much. Until I learned to do the thing. The good thing. Ignore it. Play the part.”

It’s strange, hearing him say it out loud. Not because you didn’t suspect, but because you’ve never heard him speak about himself this way—plainly, without the sarcasm. Like he’s finally bleeding to grow.

And suddenly he’s not just Renjun, your friend. He’s the one person who doesn’t make you feel like you’re watching yourself from third person. He’s here. With you. Looking past you, but seeing you.

You can hear your own breathing. It sounds foreign. You tell yourself not to do it. You do it anyway.

Your hand moves first. Slow and testing. Fingers brushing over his jaw—so warm, startlingly warm against the cool rain still clinging to your skin. He flinches just barely, eyes snapping to yours like you’ve just crossed a line. And maybe you have.

It would be so easy to move back. Not change this. But you don’t.

You stay there, inches from him. Watching the way his wet lashes lower. Watching the way his mouth parts. Your thumb grazes the defined edge of his cheekbone, that flush you’ve been thinking about for weeks finally beneath your fingertips.

Then you’re leaning in, until your mouth is on his. You wait for him to stop you, but he doesn’t. Instead, the kiss is hesitant at first—an almost-kiss, until it’s not. His breath hitches against your mouth, the faintest tremor in it, like he’s learning you in real time and scared to get it wrong. Like he’s letting you lead.

It’s messy, too close—rain in your hair, the sound of your heartbeat louder than the cars on the street. And when you pull back, you’re still close enough to feel the way he exhales, like he’d been holding it the whole time.

“You’re shivering,” you say when his eyes finally flicker open.

“Y-yeah. Cold.”

You laugh, and it pulls his eyes down to your mouth, again. He lingers there for a second too long before dragging his eyes back up, like he’s making sure you’re still here. Still real.

“You, uh…” He swallows, voice catching. “You taste like—”

“Don’t say rain,” you warn, the corner of your mouth tugging up.

He exhales something close to a laugh, quiet enough you feel it more than hear it. “Fine. Not rain. Skittles.”

You roll your eyes. “Romantic.”

“I’m not—” He stops himself, shakes his head once. “I’m not good at this.”

“I know.” It comes out softer than you intended, and you watch as his ears turn a warm, shade of pink.

You’re about to say something else when voices split through the quiet. Loud and slurred. A group of college guys stumble past on the opposite sidewalk, their laughter booming. 

“Oi! Get a room!” one of them yells, followed by a chorus of cruder suggestions that knot your stomach.

The moment is gone.

It only dawns on you that night—sometime between brushing your teeth and wondering where you put your favourite pyjama bottoms—that despite spending every single working hour together over the summer (four, ten, twelve-hour shifts), you and Renjun have never exchanged numbers.

Not when he shielded your body from the street while you tugged your uniform back on on the beach. Not when he drove you home with one hand on the wheel and the other warm and heavy on your thigh. Not when he pressed the quickest, softest peck to your lips before watching you climb your porch steps. 

You hate it. You wanted to talk to him that night. Debated it. Finally caved and looked him up on Instagram. Unsurprisingly—because he’s committed to living like a senior citizen—he isn’t on it.

So when your shift starts the next morning, 9 a.m. for you, you’re devastated to see his doesn’t start until 1 p.m. It feels like the universe is actively punishing you, depriving you of this boy who makes you feel like you can actually breathe. The boy whose presence got you through a lecture at the breakfast table from your parents, and a “talk” from your brother in the car on the way to work.

The theatre door creaks open, and your head snaps up.

Finally.

You don’t even check before you extend the packet of Skittles you’ve been methodically sorting for the past fifteen minutes. Only the yellow and green remain. Which—yes—you’ve been saving for last, because you are a generous, self-sacrificing human being and Renjun always eats them without complaint.

Except.

The hand that dips into the bag is not Renjun’s. It’s attached to an entirely different boy. One with teddy bear hair: Hyuck.

He tosses an unholy amount into his mouth in one go, crunching obnoxiously before grimacing like he’s been personally wronged. “Yuck! Offering Skittles when there’s only yellow left? You’re an evil woman, Y/N.”

“They weren’t for you.” You yank the packet back, clutching it to your chest. “I thought you were Renjun.”

Hyuck’s brows shoot up. “Oh? So you save the sour flavours for Renjun? Do you hate him? Did he hurt you?”

“No,” you laugh. “What are you even talking about? Renjun told me he likes the yellow ones.”

“Well, no,” Hyuck says, shrugging like you’re the one not making sense. “Honestly…I’m more flabbergasted that you got him regularly eating Skittles at all. He only lets me have them once a month during our movie nights—since we share—and when we do, he always eats the red first. Man fucks up anything strawberry flavoured.”

“But he said…for weeks he’s been—”

You blink, but your heart decides to do this dumb, stuttering skip like it just tripped over its own feet. Because you vididly remeber Renjun saying he does not like strawberries that much…and then it clicks.

Hyuck’s expression shifts into pure, unholy glee. “That little shit has been letting you eat the red first, hasn’t he?” He leans back, shaking his head. “And here I was thinking he had no game.”

Just then, Yuta storms out of his office. His eyes lock immediately on Hyuck—who’s got one hand elbow-deep in your Skittles despite having a visceral reaction to the flavours left—the other giving a cheerful, mocking wave.

Yuta rolls his eyes so hard you’re honestly worried they’ll never come back down. Then—oh God—his gaze snaps to you.

“Y/N, I need you to start clearing up the kids’ party that just took place in Screen Seven.”

You groan, deeply. “Can’t I just wait for Renjun to help me? His shift’s about to start any minute.”

“No,” Yuta says, with the exact amount of scorn that makes you want to hurl a popcorn bucket at his head. “Because the idiot said he’s cashing in on a favour. He’ll be a few minutes late. Something with this ‘Joy’ person he knows running over.”

He waves a hand like he couldn’t care less about this ‘Joy’ person. You wish you could say the same.

“I don’t know what you college kids do anymore,” he finishes.

College kids? As in… Renjun and Joy? Two college kids?

Joy, which sounds like a very female name. Your mind immediately starts running every possible, awful scenario: Renjun and some effortlessly gorgeous girl named Joy, who probably doesn’t stress him out or leave him with the yellow candies, who doesn’t annoy him or dump her life story on him.

You feel so stupid. Like, how did you let him kiss you? Is she his girlfriend? If so, what does that make you? An accomplice in whatever last night was? Oh God, no.

Almost like he can sense the million questions swirling in your head, Hyuck reaches across the box office counter and grabs your arm. “Y/N, hey—”

You shake him off.

This is Renjun’s best friend. He knows him better than anyone. He has to know if Renjun has a girlfriend. He’d cover for him. Right? God, Hyuck definitely has Renjun’s number. Renjun’s probably told him about the kiss already. And now Hyuck’s probably convinced you’re some filthy little homewrecker.

You press both hands to your lips, trying to steady yourself. “Tell Renjun to meet me in Screen Seven when he gets in. If you’re still here.”

“Y/N—” Hyuck insists, but you’re already pushing past him into the screening area, somewhere he has no right following unless he buys a ticket.

You lock Screen Seven behind you just in case.

You’re twenty minutes into cleaning the theatre room, filled with stray popcorn, empty candy wrappers, and what you’re pretty sure might be actual snot. (Seriously, Yuta needs to stop booking kids’ parties.) When the lock on Screen Seven jiggles, and he walks in.

At least, you assume it’s him—because you can’t imagine Yushi, the only other person on shift, abandoning the front desk to help you clean when he could be people-watching and eating popcorn instead. And Yuta? Yeah, he definitely wouldn’t help.

You keep your focus on the last stubborn popcorn kernels stuck in the carpet.

“I’m almost finished,” you say through tight teeth. “Basically did everything myself. You might as well go out front and help Yushi or something.”

Still not turning around, you bend down, crouching low to scrape. But then you hear footsteps coming up the stairs anyway.

“I don’t want to help Yushi.”

Now you have confirmation it’s him. That voice. Indisputable.

“Well,” you say, straightening up, trash bag in hand, peeling off your rubber gloves and blowing a quick breath upward to cool a trickle of sweat on your forehead, “unfortunately, this is a workplace, and you don’t get to slack off—”

“I know you know about Joy.”

Oh. So he’s just…ripping the bandage off? Typical Renjun. You don’t know why you’re surprised he’s being direct. He never offers you anything different, really. Though, in the beginning, he used to be shy about it.

“The real question is, does she know about me?” You ask.

Renjun swallows. “She does. And I know I probably should’ve spoken to you about everything first—”

“You think?”

“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration catching at his jaw. “She said I should work this out with you, not her—”

You scoff. “I don’t know about that. She clearly is a priority, since—you know—she’s your girlfriend!”

That actually startles him—like, physically jolts him back a fraction. Brows pulling in before they lift again, his mouth twitching in a way that makes you instantly want to kill him, because…is he going to smile, right now?

“Y/N, you think…You think Joy is my…girlfriend?”

You cross your arms, feeling protective and defensive of yourself all at once. It feels like your body might fold in around the tiny embarrassment blooming in your chest any second.

“I don’t know. Is she?”

“No,” he deadpans.

“Well, she’s clearly important to you if you’re skipping work to hang out with her.”

“We had a lot to talk about,” he shoves his hands into his pockets. “A lot happened yesterday.”

Okay, now he’s being an asshole. A weird, smug fuckboy asshole. You clomp down the steps toward him, setting the trash bag aside just so you can poke at his chest.

“You’re. A. Dick.”

His hands stay in his pockets as you land each hit, his body shifting back with the force but never resisting.

[It’s hot. You hate that.]

You go to storm past him on the stairs, aiming for the aisle, but his hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you just enough to turn back around. And now you’re regretting walking yourself down this way because now he has the higher ground. Now he’s looking down at you from above, under those lashes you remember being wet, framing pupils so dark they’d swallow the brown whenever they’d look at your mouth, your body—

“Joy’s my therapist,” he says.

You flounder, like a fish. “You’re what?”

“My therapist,” he says, voice soft. “I told you yesterday—my parents have had me in therapy forever because I feel too much. And with you... I guess I feel a lot.”

“Ren—”

“That was my first kiss,” he blurts out, like you’ve swapped brains. Him, suddenly vulnerable. You, quiet, listening. “Well, not first first. I mean, I’ve had pecks and stuff. But not like that. You know, with tongue and teeth and like…”

It hits you then. This is him bleeding—wanting to grow, to let you in.

“It was nice. I liked it. I didn’t know if you did, and I couldn’t ask. Didn’t know if it was appropriate, honestly. And then, because we were, you know... half-naked, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Because I liked it. A lot.”

“Me too,” You whisper, and you swear you see your favourite colour bloom all over him—right down to his fingertips.

“Well, that’s what I was asking Joy about,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, heat rising in his cheeks. “She said the only person who could give me answers was you. But I had to, like, psych myself up in her office because I’ve never done this before, and I think I’m rambling—”

Without thinking, you rush up the steps and press your lips to his. Your arms snake around his neck, pulling him close, letting you feel that flush of heat on his skin against yours—that burn.

Renjun freezes for a second, hesitating, like he’s trying to figure out if this is real or just something his brain is making up. Then, slow and careful and with a little prompt from you, his hands slide around your waist. It’s light, almost afraid, like he’s scared of grabbing too much, too little, too hard. 

It makes you smile against his mouth.

The kiss isn’t smooth, not even close. It’s chaotic—teeth bumping, breaths stuttering, lips finding and losing each other before finding each other again. You taste the nerves on him, feel the subtle tremor in his fingers where they rest on your sides.

There’s a tight, raw ache in your chest. You want this. You want him. And when you pull back, you see it in his eyes too—the same wild softness, the same wanting, but wrapped in hesitation he’s not ready to voice.

You’ve never taken the lead before. But you’ve also never been so sure about anything in your life. Not like you are right now. Here. In this exact movie theatre—the one you swear sounds dramatic but has, somehow, changed your life. 

He has changed your life.

You undo the buttons on your polo shirt, the same way you’ve done a thousand times before in front of him—carelessley, now you think about it. But his reaction? That deep, rattling swallow, that has his Adam’s apple bobbing just right against his skin? It’s been the same. Every. Damn. Time.

It’s like you’re moving in slow motion just to torture him, he thinks. He nods eagerly, keeping his eyes locked on you, silently begging for more. For faster. The last button slips free beneath your fingers then, and you peel the polo off your shoulders. Heat licks across your skin under his stare in just your bra.

He doesn’t pounce or rush to devour. He just looks. Because he never got to last night. Not with the water and the dark and the boundaries he was so scared to cross. But now, his gaze traces the elegant dip of your collarbone, lingers on the soft swell of your breasts beneath the fabric. Now, his gaze is greedy. 

Eventually, his hands finally find you, they start at your waist, before sliding higher. Higher. Higher. Until palms spread warm against your back, fingertips drawing lazy, invisible circles. Then he moves to the front, cupping you, kneading you through the thin barrier of lace.

Your whimper cracks the stillness. His head dips needily, lips brushing your shoulder. He murmurs something low and unintelligible into your skin,  causing a vibration that shivers down your spine. A sound of his own catches in his throat, a broken little whimper that melts against the slope of your very bare neck.

His hands keep kneading your tits as his mouth trails up, licking, and sucking, and teasing the column of your throat. You tip your head back, offering him everything, letting your eyes fall shut. 

You want to let go—of thought, of control—and sink into the weight of his hands, his mouth, this intoxicating, fragile kind of tenderness.

But then you feel it. The subtle shifting of his hips, the slow, restrained rut against you. You notice the way his breath keeps stuttering, catching every time his body brushes yours. Lust floods low in your belly, but it’s chased by a different thought—you’re not ready for anything to be over. 

[Not when he’s still fully dressed. Not when you haven’t had the chance to feel his naked skin under your palms.]

Your fingers slip to the hem of his shirt, curling in the fabric. You push it up enough to brush your fingertips against the ridges of his stomach, the twitch of muscle under your touch. His breath hitches again, this time sharper, like he’s holding back a groan.

“Off,” you whisper. 

He moves instantly, pulling back to strip the shirt over his head. You’re already reaching behind you yourself, unclasping your bra. The straps fall down your arms, and that’s it—his eyes go dark, pupils swallowing the colour.

It’s like something takes over him, something primal and single-minded. One moment he’s staring, the next his mouth is on you—hot, desperate—sucking your nipple into his mouth like he’s been starving for it. His groan vibrates against you, low and guttural. And—

“Fuck!”

You fist your hands in his hair, holding him there, arching into the pull of his mouth. His tongue swirls, teeth scraping. His other hand cups your other breast, kneading with a roughness that makes you want, thumb brushing over your peaked nipple until your knees go weak.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a wet sheen on your nipple and a dazed look in his eyes.

“For someone so shy, you’re very eager,” you tease, breathlessly.

He swallows, still holding you, thumb brushing over the spot his mouth just left. “You have no idea.”

Your lips curl in a slow smile—until you feel it. The subtle press of his hips again moving forward, the insistent hard length of him straining against his jeans. The nervous way he immediately tries to pull back, like he’s worried about overstepping. Or moving too fast.

“Renjun,” you murmur, sliding your hand down, cupping his bulge through the denim. He gasps, eyes going wide.

“I don’t know if I made it clear but—I’ve… I’ve never…” His voice trails off, and you feel the tremor in his thighs.

You lean in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I know. Let me take care of you.”

The button on his jeans pops open beneath your fingers, the zipper dragging down in a metallic hum. His flush deepens, colouring the delicate skin along his cheekbones, but he doesn’t stop you. When you slip your hand inside, over his boxers, the strangled sound he makes nearly undoes you.

“God, you’re so—” you start, but his mouth crashes into yours, cutting off the words as you free him. He’s hot and hard in your palm, and the way his breath hitches with every stroke is so fucking sexy.

Every so often, you feel him twitch—sharp little spasms that make him instinctively pull back. You hate that distance, but you recognise it for what it is: his overthinking, his mental brakes, his worry for cumming too quick.

That suspicion is confirmed when his hands shift to your shorts, fumbling for the buttons, clearly eager to please you too. Renjun’s hands are clumsy at first when he slides between your thighs, fingertips skimming over the thin cotton of your panties before pushing them aside. His touch is cautious until you guide him, curling his fingers inside you.

The groan that rips out of him when he feels how wet you are is almost pathetic. 

“Is that—good for you?” he asks. 

“Better than good,” you breathe, rocking into his touch.

The hesitancy bleeds out of him with every soft sound you make, every needy roll of your hips. Soon his fingers are moving to work, fast, unforgiving circles into your clit, giving way to a steady rhythm that has your body coiling tight.

You match his pace, stroking him faster, feeling him twitch in your grip. His forehead presses to yours like he’s holding on for dear life. “If you keep—God, I’m gonna—fuck!”

“Not yet,” you whisper, pulling your hand away.

The whine he lets out is immediate, raw. “Please?”

You shake your head, still close enough to press against his and whisper against his lips. “I want you inside me when you cum.”

His eyes go impossibly wide. “You—? But… I don’t have—”

“Don’t care. I’m clean. On birth control,” You cup his jaw, steadying him. “I want you. Just you.”

His hand curls tighter around yours, and before you can say anything else, you’re moving—half-stumbling, half-dragging him toward the closest empty row of seats. You push him into the far corner, the fabric creaking under his weight.

“Sit,” you order softly.

He obeys instantly, still wide-eyed as you climb into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. His hands hover, trembling, until you take them and press them to your waist. 

“Here,” you murmur, guiding him. “Hold me.”

The armrest bites into your thigh, the seat too narrow, but it doesn’t matter. You lean in, kiss him deep—slow and hungry—until his whole body loosens beneath you. Your hips rock, dragging over him where he’s already painfully hard. 

“God…” His voice is almost nothing.

You shove your shorts down just far enough, then tug his jeans and boxers low in one clumsy motion. The dim light hits his face. He’s flushed, stunned, wanting you so badly he can barely look at you, but also can’t look away.

“You sure?” you ask, hovering over him, giving him the last chance to pull away.

He nods too quickly, almost frantically, you nearly laugh until—you sink down onto him. The laughter you feel is gone in an instant, replaced by the sharp, perfect stretch of him filling you. His head tips back hard against the seat, fingers digging into your hips like they’re the only thing keeping him tethered.

[They are.]

“Oh my—” His inhale cuts him off, shuddering and sharp.

You still, stroking your thumbs along his cheekbones as he adjust to the feel of your pussy, wet and warm, wrapped around him. “Breathe, Renjun.”

“I’m—” His voice is rough, wrecked, almost breaking. “I’m trying.”

You shift against him, rolling your hips again, and that’s all it takes to encourage—he starts moving. Short, shallow thrusts at first, like he’s afraid of hurting you. Each one makes his breath hitch, the sound shaky and almost boyish.

“That’s it,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “You can go deeper.”

His eyes flick up to yours—and he tries. The next thrust is clumsy, off rhythm. You let out a whimper.

“You like that?” he asks.

You smile, stroking the back of his neck. “I like you.”

Something in him melts at that. His hands slide up your back, holding you closer as if that will make him better at this. He wants to be better for you. He tries again—finding a slightly better angle, though he still stutters when your thighs tighten around his hips.

“You feel so… tight,” he says, brows knitting 

“Focus, Renjun,” you tease, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“I am focusing!” It comes out as a breathless laugh, and you can feel him trembling beneath you.

You guide him with more small movements of your own, rolling your hips back and forth, coaxing him into something that almost feels like a pattern. But it never lasts—every time you clench around him, he falters, groaning low into your neck before having to start again.

“Gonna… I can’t—” His voice cracks, raw.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, threading your fingers into his hair. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He buries his face deeper into the curve of your neck, hips pushing up hard one last time before he cums—hot and deep inside you—with a soft, helpless sound that’s almost a whimper. His arms wrap tight around your body like he’s afraid to let go, even after his body stills.

You stay like that, bodies still joined, breaths uneven. Your fingertips draw slow, aimless shapes over his back, feeling the tremor in his muscles slowly fade. When he finally lifts his head, his hair is messy, his lips pink, and there’s a small, sheepish smile tugging at them.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “That was… not very good.”

You cradle his face in your hands, brushing your thumb along the flush in his cheek. “That was perfect. You were perfect.”

His eyes soften and you kiss him until you’re both breathless. Then you stay, tucked against him, your ear over his heart, neither of you moving. You don’t know how long you sit there, both too afraid to break the moment, too careful not to disrupt the tenderness.

But what you do know is this: when you finally get dressed this time, you ask for his number before you part ways.

Renjun doesn’t think he’s ever had a summer this good.

Hyuck says that’s just what having regular good sex does to a person. Renjun rolls his eyes because it’s more than that. Yes, the girl and the sex are a fantastic new discovery this year, but it’s not just flushed cheeks and sneaky kisses on his lunch break that’s good. It’s the fact that he’s tanned—actually tanned—at the beach, gone camping, and finally said yes to Hyuck’s family’s annual lake trip instead of coming up with excuses. 

He’s making memories.

[Joy thinks you’ve brought him out of his shell. He’d agree.]

But as the Sunday of the lake trip begins to fade into evening, there’s a faint sourness in the air that Renjun can’t name. He wants to call it a gut feeling. His therapist would probably call it his persistent hypervigilance creeping back that has him ready for something to go wrong. Still, he’s trying to be optimistic. That’s all anyone’s ever asked of him—right?

It’s only when Hyuck (Hyuck, who practically bleeds look on the bright side propaganda and “positive mental attitude), pulls him aside in the kitchen of the lakehouse that Renjun realises maybe he’s done too much healing and has been too optimistic.

“Don’t you think it’s weird she hasn’t called?” 

“No…” he replies slowly, finishing the plate he’s drying. “We text every day.”

“I know that, buddy, it’s just—” Hyuck tosses a dish towel over his shoulder then. “You went from calling every night, sending pictures, making everyone nauseous with your lovesick crap… and now? Since the start of this trip? All you’re getting is one-word answers.”

Renjun feels the familiar twitch in his chest—the one that used to send him spiralling, but he’s better now. It’s probably nothing. People get busy, conversations slow down. It’s not a red flag; it’s a scheduling conflict. And just because Hyuck’s noticed, it doesn’t mean it’s time for him to panic. 

“Maybe she’s just busy,” Renjun says, because that’s easier than thinking too hard. “College starts back next week, and you know she’s on that event planning committee. She’s probably swamped with welcoming freshmen.”

Hyuck just… looks at him until eventually, he exhales and turns back to the sink. He finishes drying one of his parent’s favourite mugs and sets it carefully on the counter. Then, without warning, his palm lands warm between Renjun’s shoulder blades.

“Yeah, you’re probably right, buddy,” Hyuck says, the corner of his mouth tugging up but not quite making it to a smile. “I just—worry about you.”

“I know,” Renjun says, meaning it. “But you don’t have to.”

“I know.” Hyuck tosses the dish towel onto the counter and heads for the doorway. “I’m gonna head to bed.”

Renjun wishes it was only that time at the lake he had to defend you to his best friend. Back then, he thought you were just busy. But when one-word texts turn into full-on ghosting three weeks into classes, he starts to notice the correlation between your withdrawal and the start of his senior year.

[Joy’s voice in his head then—optimism, be brave, be bold, don’t fear rejection.]

So he starts showing up in places he never had much reason to before. Sitting on the low brick wall in the campus quad at lunch, pretending to read while his eyes flick automatically to every passing figure. Lingering in the gym building, always—coincidentally—when volleyball practice is on. (Okay, that one was maybe a little weird. But he was desperate.)

It’s like you’ve disappeared off the face of the earth.

And he hates it—hates how much he hates it—which is so fucking ridiculous, because a couple of months ago he barely knew you. He knew of you. Could’ve picked you out of a line-up, sure.

But now he knows your favourite candy. And the order you eat it in. Your favourite colour. Your disdain for biology. The exact argument you make when someone tries to claim pink doesn’t belong in the rainbow. He knows your dream job. Your stupidest fear. The sport you love but swear you’re awful at. What you smell like. What you taste like. He knows you feel trapped, and lost, and like your family has a remote control with your name on it.

You’ve basically set up camp in his subconscious, rent-free, somewhere between the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach.

Which is maybe why—after three weeks of nothing from you, three weeks of surviving on scraps (memories of tangled limbs, stupid breathy jokes, and a bag of Skittles he still can’t bring himself to finish)—he ends up at the animal shelter.

[And no, he is not talking to Joy about this. Because Joy would point out the obvious: lines have been blurred, sex is involved, and that’s why he’s acting like a lovesick puppy. Which is wrong. Because Renjun is not clingy. He swears.]

He tells himself (lies to himself, really) that he’s only here to see Bonnie—the cat. Only because he’s worried about all sheltered animals, and he likes cats. Not because Bonnie feels like the only tangible proof that this summer actually happened. That you happened.

[That he heard from his cousin that you started volunteering there last week.]

The bell above the shelter door rattles faintly when he reaches for it. He’s already picturing Bonnie’s lopsided ears, the way she noses into his hands—when the door jerks open from the inside.

You come spilling out. Laughing. You’ve got a girl tucked under your arm in a close and familiar way that can only suggest friendship. Miyeon—he recognises her from the volleyball team.

Your laughter dies the second your eyes land on him. Like someone pressed pause. Or threw water over you. The curve of your smile flattens. Your arm doesn’t move from Miyeon’s shoulders, but Renjun sees the way it goes rigid.

Miyeon looks between you two. “Uh…?” she says lightly, almost a question, but neither of you answer.

Renjun feels stupidly aware of himself in this moment. He suddenly remembers he has hands and absolutely no idea what to do with them. His ears are hot. And all he can think about is the time you traced your fingertips along every flushed inch of his body.

God, he’s not good at this. He’s not good at girls. And he’s especially not good at girls who’ve made him cum, shared their secrets with him, made him feel like he might actually be fun to be around—and then vanished.

Still, it’s him who breaks the silence. Because someone has to. Because the alternative is drowning in it.

“Hi.”

Your mouth opens like you might say something, but no sound comes out. Miyeon’s eyes bounces between you two like she’s watching a very slow, very awkward tennis match. The air is thick. Heavy. Full. And all those things you told him this summer—about feeling trapped, about feeling controlled—they’re here, too. 

Only now, they’re aimed straight at him.

“Hi,” you finally say back, but it’s short, clipped, already swallowed by the cold September chill. You fold your arms across your chest like you’re trying to keep him out.

Miyeon swoops in before he can respond. “Hi, I’m Miyeon. You are…?”

Renjun feels it—a tiny, precise sting right in the chest. You haven’t told your friends about him. Not only did he tell you about Hyuck, you also know about the whole Haechan thing. He clears his throat. Hands disappear into his pockets like maybe they can take the embarrassment with them.

“I’m Renjun.”

“Ohh, so this is theare guy?”

Miyeon’s eyes cut to you as she says it. Big, round, a little too knowing. And Renjun—suddenly very aware of how he’s standing, breathing, existing—feels an uncomfortable itch of self-consciousness. Because…theatre guy?

“All good things, I hope. Haha.”

He tries a joke. You like jokes. Your friends probably do too. He’s never chased likability a day in his life, but right now he wants it like oxygen.

Miyeon tips her chin, mouth pulling into a not-quite-smile. “Mhm. Right.”

Well… that response definitely doesn’t feel good. No, it feels like a slow-blooming bruise he already knows will ache later, when he’s lying in bed staring at the ceiling and poking at it just to see if it still hurts. (It will.)

You’re not looking at him. You’re not even looking near him. Somehow that’s worse than if you’d just be flat out cruel to him. Because this—this polite, indifferent cold—is so much worse.

He hates that his mind immediately drags him back to summer. To you in his car, knees pulled to your chest, hair damp from the the sea, telling him you felt like you were living in someone else’s life. That no one ever really listened. That you didn’t feel seen.

And god, he’d wanted to be the exception. He’d thought maybe he was. 

Because you were his.

You turn to Miyeon. “Can you wait in the car? I’ll be done in a minute.”

She hesitates, glances between the two of you like she’s considering whether to refuse. Then she nods, tosses him one more unreadable look, and walks toward the car in the parking lot.

And then it’s just you. And him. 

Except this version of just you and him feels… wrong. Different.

You’re not loose-limbed and bright-eyed like you used to be. You’re still folded in on yourself—arms crossed, chin tipped down, body angled as though his very proximity is violating your personal space.

He tells himself not to read into it.

[Which is hilarious, because that’s literally all he’s been doing for months.]

“You changed your hair,” he says finally, motioning to it. 

“Yeah. It’s a new term.” Your voice is flat, almost bored.

He tries again—leans into what he thinks is your thing with him. “New haircut for a new term. Not a late-night existential crisis with scissors?”

You don’t laugh. You don’t even look at him. You just say: “No, Renjun.”

The way you say his name—measured, distant, blunt—makes him want to shake you until you remember the stupid, ridiculous Junnie nickname Hyuck told you about.

He swallows. And because apparently he enjoys punishment, he tries again.

“Okay, but you have to admit my suspicions were valid. New haircut, total radio silence—classic crisis stuff.”

Nothing. Not even the twitch of your mouth.

And it’s… baffling. Because the you he knew this summer would’ve played along, rolled your eyes and smiled, shoved his shoulder, told him to shut up. Now you’re looking at him like maybe you wish you’d never told him anything.

He can feel it—this yawning gap between the person he thought you were and the one standing in front of him. He keeps trying to throw a rope across it, and you keep letting it fall.

Jokes clearly aren’t working. He shifts tactics.

“How’ve you been?”

“Busy.” A shrug. 

“I saw Yuta took you off the schedule…you didn’t want to stay on?”

“It was always going to be a summer temp job.”

He knows that. Knew it the moment you started. But some selfish, stupid part of him thought maybe you’d want to stay anyway. That you liked the job. That you liked… him.

“Right.” His shoe scuffs at the pavement. “So… busy?”

“Jeno started tutoring me.”

The name hits him square in the sternum like a brick.  “…Your ex, Jeno?”

You shift then, eyes dropping to the floor, lips pressing into something that’s almost a pout. For a second—just a second—Renjun thinks you might step forward, might bridge the distance with a half-hearted apology for the cold shoulder, for disappearing.

But then you swallow.

“I’m trying not to fail my classes this year.”

“I get it,” he says, though he doesn’t, not really. “I just thought you were going to talk to your parents about… you know. The major thing.”

The last conversation plays in his head, happy and giddy  in a way this one isn’t. You were leaning forward, voice quick with excitement telling him all about you wanting to switch to journalism. How your hands wouldn’t stay still when you told him your plan to finally tell your parents about it.

Something flickers in your eyes—longing, maybe—and then you cough, blink it out, shake your hair out of your face.

“I was, but… the more I thought about it, I figured I’ve already spent three years in my current major. A whirlwind summer and a dream isn’t enough to make me change my whole life plan.”

“Your whole life plan?”

You swat the air, dismissive. “You know what I mean.”

[He doesn’t. Last time you spoke, you were ready to take a match to any life plan involving biology and watch it burn.]

“Okay then…” He presses anyway. “What happened to not wanting to be in close proximity to an ex?”

“He’s not an ex.”

Renjun’s entire body feels like he’s on fire. The words land like a blow. It feels like you’ve slapped him. Like you’ve poured acid straight into his veins. Like you’ve driven a blade between his ribs and twisted—not for the kill, but to see what happens when he bleeds.

And maybe you can see it, the hurt on his face. Because your eyes lift—just barely—like you’re tempted to take it back.

“Well, he’s not—” you rush, tripping over the words. “We’re—It’s complicated.”

“Then uncomplicate it for me,” he says.

You stop dead. Like he just asked you to speak a language you don’t even know. Your gaze darts. Quick. Frantic. Stuck between a rock and a hard place. Between him and the life you still have to answer to.

You breathe out, and a small cloud of white drifts from your lips, dissolves into nothing.

“He was just—” You stall. “You know he’s close to my family.”

Renjun doesn’t blink. “So what? That gives him permanent immunity to flit in and out of your life?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to.” His voice is quiet, almost calm, and somehow that’s worse. “Because what I’m hearing is: he’s in the inner circle, and I’m… what? Disposable?”

You shake your head. “No, that’s not—”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s just—it’s easier—”

His eyebrows lift. “Easier than me?”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“It feels like one.”

“This has nothing to do with you, Renjun.”

“Really?” He laughs, dry as dirt. “You going back to your ex after we’ve been fucking all summer has nothing to do with me?”

The words slice. You pretend they don’t. He stares at you, hard, like he’s trying to peel back your skin and see what’s underneath.

“That’s not fair,” you say.

“What’s not fair? The fact that you’re pretending I was just a way to kill time?”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. You’re acting like this, us, was nothing.”

“I’m not acting. I’m telling you it wasn’t—” You break off, jaw tight. “We weren’t… whatever this is, it wasn’t serious.”

Ouch.

Renjun feels like you just reached in and gutted him. Ripped him open from sternum to navel and left his insides on display. Because nothing about you and him was ever casual. People who aren’t serious don’t talk about the things you talked about. They don’t tell each other the ugly stuff. They don’t hold you in the middle of the fucking sea, in the rain whilst you slur and sob.

So for you to stand there and say it wasn’t serious—it feels like you’re spitting on him.

He swallows it, though. The pain. Pretends it doesn’t hurt as much as it does. Pretends he isn’t thinking about every time you smiled or laughed or offered him candy

“Sorry,” he croaks, tasting the word, letting it burn his tongue.“I must have gotten confused because it sounded pretty serious when you gave me the cold shoulder because you thought I was dating my therapist.”

“Renjun—” You stop, your throat working.

“Do you remember the last conversation we had?”

Your face changes instantly when he asks. He sees it—the way the memory plays behind your eyes like a film reel. For a second, he swears your pupils blow wide, but that anxiety monster he’s been keeping on a leash lately yanks hard on the chain. 

[Her pupils are not dilating because she’s thinking about you, idiot. Pupils don’t dilate over people who aren’t serious.]

When you nod, Renjun continues. 

“You wanted to be a news reporter. You were so sure of it. We talked about it for hours. You were lit up about the whole thing—like nothing could touch you. Not your dad. Or your brothers. Or Yuta.”

Your throat works once before you answer. “Things change.”

He shakes his head. “Not that quickly.”

“You did!” You shoot back. “You went from this grumpy and shy guy to funny and playful and… nice. All in, what, two months?”

“I know,” he agrees without hesitation. “Because someone reminded me—a really pretty girl—that I’ve always been that way. I just didn’t let anyone see.”

“She sounds smart,” you say, small. It’s an attempt at a joke, but your voice barely lifts.

“She has her moments.” He smiles. “Mostly when she’s not letting her family dictate her career… her relationships—”

“Don’t.” You cut him off, voice sharp but trembling. Your eyes are glassy now. “Please don’t.”

“You don’t, Y/N. Don’t do this. We were close. We were friends””

“Were we?”

“What?” He blinks, caught off guard.

You swallow, eyes darting somewhere past him—like the chipped wall behind him is easier to look at than his face. “I think we were both just…lost? Craving connection?”

He stares. “Craving connection?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” he says, lower now, more dangerous. “I don’t think I do. Because as far as I remember, you were the one who wanted to be my friend. You were the one who pushed. You were the one who put a name on it. And now—” His voice falters, but only for a second. “Now you want to lie about how you feel, just because it’s… convenient?”

“It’s not just that—” you say quickly, then softer, almost to yourself, “You know it’s not.”

He almost laughs, pure bitter. “Do I?”

“Yes. My family—” You stop, breath catching. “They wouldn’t want… this. Us. They’ve already—” You bite your lip hard enough he thinks you might draw blood. “I can’t ignore them, Renjun.”

“Yes, you can.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get it. It’s not that simple. Everything I have—everything I am—it’s tied to them. My career. My… safety.”

“So you’re just going to let them choose for you?”

“I’m choosing to make it easy.”

“For them.”

“For me,” you insist.

He takes a step closer, and the air between you sharpens. “You can’t just erase what happened between us. You can’t convince me none of this was real.”

“I’m not trying to convince you.” Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “I’m telling you.”

Renjun’s jaw works like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, staring. And it feels like there’s this raw, invisible thread between you both—thin enough that if either one breathed too hard, it would snap.

The silence swells. Your throat burns. Like somehow the words you just threw at him have ricocheted and came back to hit you harder than they ever could’ve hit him.

You can’t stand it, so you move. Stepping around him, shoulder brushing his, and it’s the smallest thing—an accident—but it feels catastrophic. Because you used to lean into that touch. Seek it out without thinking. And now you can’t.

Because you made your decision. 

And it wasn’t him.

And now you have to figure out how to navigate the rest of your college life pretending you don’t know what it’s like—what he’s like. To be held by this boy. To be seen by this boy. To laugh with this boy. To be loved… by this boy.

Instead, you’ll look at him like he’s nothing. Like he’s a stranger. 

Your apartment was already too warm, heavy with the breath of late summer heat. Fans buzzed uselessly in corners, wine bottles clinked together on the kitchen counter, and half-melted candles leaned drunkenly in mismatched holders. Your friends sat scattered around the living room, slouched in various stages of buzzed and barefoot, legs thrown over each other, necks craned toward glowing phone screens. 

The mood had turned rowdy an hour ago, drinks flowing faster than the conversation could keep up. Xiaojun, ever the instigator when tipsy, nudged Ten with a sly grin. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” 

“Which mythical creature would you let raw you?”

Everyone howled. Ten didn’t miss a beat. “A werewolf. Tall, repressed, dramatic. Just my type.” 

Kun groaned and covered his face. “You guys are the reason I can’t take horror movies seriously anymore.” 

“So?” Ten grinned. “Truth or dare, Winwin.” 

“Dare.” 

“I dare you to draw a summoning circle on the floor.” 

You all hooted as Winwin grabbed a paper and pen from someone’s bag and started scribbling. The lines weren’t symmetrical. He even added a warped little smiley face in the center for good measure. 

The red candle sat inconspicuously on your bookshelf, nestled between an old tarot deck and a plastic skull from last Halloween. You eyed it and brought it down onto the paper, lighting it without thinking, without ceremony. “For the ambiance,” you said. The flame bloomed tall, then steadied. 

“Okay,” your friend Xiaojun grinned, cheeks flushed. “Truth or dare.” 

You were three drinks in, tongue loose, body humming from a mix someone had made. “Dare,” you said. 

Xiaojun leaned forward, elbow knocking over a half-full glass of wine across the coffee table. “Summon a demon.”

You snorted while leaning forward to clean up the spill. “Is that all?”

Ten pulled up a Reddit thread on his phone titled ‘Demon Summoning Spells That Totally Work (don’t try this at 3AM)’. 

You laughed and read it out loud. It wasn’t even Latin, just a string of syllables that sounded like someone choking on poetry. You said it anyway, because why not? That’s what the night was for. To tempt fate, mock ghosts, drink too much, and feel invincible. You spoke the words with theatrical flourish. 

Then the lights flickered. The candle flared. A chill dragged its fingers down your spine. One of the wine glasses cracked sharply, a fault line webbing through the glass like it had been struck from within. 

You all screamed. Laughed. Clapped. 

“Damn, that was good timing!” Hendery said, and you all cackled until it hurt. 

But then you saw him. 

He was already there, already part of the scene, like you had forgotten to notice him until now. He sat on one end of the couch, a spot that you were sure was previously empty, his legs spread wide as if it was his throne. He wore a smug half-smile on his face, teeth catching in the glow of the flickering candlelight. 

He looked boyish and bored. The kind of handsome that made your stomach twist, not in attraction, but warning. He had an aura that suggested that he belonged in another time. That he knew things you didn’t. 

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” he chided, his voice low and amused. 

No one reacted. No one else even looked. 

He raised an eyebrow at you. You blinked, thinking maybe it was just your eyes playing tricks. He was still there. 

You didn’t scream. You didn’t run. Instead, you laughed, awkward and breathless, brushing it off as an illusion, a trick of the alcohol. 

You turned to Kun. “Truth or dare?”

He blinked like you’d pulled him from another thought. “Truth.” 

You thought fast. “If you had to be haunted by one supernatural being for the rest of your life, what would you pick?”

He tilted his head, considering. “A ghost. Preferably a quiet one that does minimal damage to my belongings.”

You laughed, the sound a little too high. “That’s fair.” 

You watched as Ten reached for the nearly empty wine bottle, pouring the last of it into his cup. “Guys, we’re out of wine.” 

Groans filled the room. Hendery was nearly asleep, half-curled on the carpet. The rest of them rallied together to clean up, lifting bottles and collecting stray corks. You hugged everyone goodbye at the door with a tired smile, laughing off the cracked glass incident and bad Latin with a theatrical bow. 

But he was still there. Leaning against the kitchen island now, watching the scene like it was one he’s seen a thousand times before. On Winwin’s dilapidated summoning circle, the red candle burned tall, its wax unmelted. 

When the door finally shut, the lock turned, and it was just the two of you. “I’m not drunk enough for this,” you muttered. 

“You summoned me,” he said, voice smooth as satin, smugness laced behind every word. “Whether you meant to or not.” 

“I didn’t summon anything,” you shot back. “It was a joke.” 

His smile didn’t fade. “Not such a joke when I’m right in front of you.” 

You crossed your arms across your chest. “Okay. What the hell are you?”

He stepped toward you—slow, like he had nowhere else to be, like time bent differently around him. “A demon,” he stated. “Sort of.” 

“That doesn’t sound comforting.” 

“It’s not supposed to. You summoned me, so now I’m here.” 

“I was dared to read a spell on Reddit.” 

He grinned. “And it worked.” 

You scoffed. “You’re not real.” 

He walked past you—solid, warm, real enough that the air stirred in his wake—and sat back on the couch. The candlelight reflected in his eyes. 

“I’m Yangyang,” he said lightly. “And whether you believe in me or not doesn’t really change the fact that I’m here now.” 

You stared. He stared back. “I’m not scared of you,” you said flatly. 

He smiled wider. “That’s your first mistake.” 

You shook your head, not saying a word to him. You went back into the kitchen and stacked the last of the glasses in the sink, and wiped the sticky rings off the coffee table with a dish towel. 

The summoning circle was smeared now, warped under wine stains. You picked up the red candle, still burning, still perfect, not a drop of wax spilled, and pinched the flame out between your fingers. It should’ve hurt. It didn’t. The flame didn’t go out either.

Yangyang lingered in your periphery, half-shadow and half-smirk, leaning on the arm of the couch. You didn’t look at him. 

“You’re really committing to this bit, huh?” you grumbled. 

“Bit?” He responded with mock sarcasm. “You said the words. You brought me here.” 

You ignored him. Turned off the lights. You climbed into bed without brushing your teeth and closed your eyes. 

You didn’t see Yangyang follow you into your bedroom, but you felt him there anyway. It was like static in your sheets, like pressure behind your eyes, like the space beside you was more than just empty. 

You buried yourself further under the blanket and told yourself it was just residual alcohol or perhaps a lucid dream. You would sleep it off. 

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of your own shower running. For a moment, you thought one of your friends had stayed the night. Then you remembered ushering them out, the cracked glass, the candlelight, the boy on your couch. Yangyang.

You rose slowly, moving toward the bathroom door. It was open. Steam curled out in soft spirals. 

And there he was, leaning lazily against the tiled wall, fully clothed, hair dry, arms crossed, watching you like you were the intrusion. 

“What the fuck,” you breathed, stepping back. 

Yangyang gave you a slow once-over. “Good morning to you, too.” 

“Do demons have boundaries?”

He scoffed while walking past you out of the bathroom. “Do humans have any sense of gratitude anymore?”

You slipped in and slammed the door shut. 

When you came out five minutes later, he was in the kitchen, legs swinging off the counter, eating a bowl of your cereal. Milk dripped from the corner of his mouth only the laminated marble. 

You pointed at him. “You don’t live here.”

He held up the spoon, waving it around. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

It didn’t stop at that. 

He was in the corner of your room when you got dressed, face buried in a book he didn’t even seem to be reading. He hovered behind your shoulder while you typed on your laptop, occasionally commenting on your essay draft as though he were your professor.

“Your thesis is soft,” he quipped, lips brushing the rim of your coffee mug before taking a sip. “Your transitions are sloppy.” 

You deleted a paragraph out of spite. 

When you checked your Zoom screen for class, he didn’t appear. But at the end of class, when you turned off your laptop, you saw his reflection on the black surface of the screen—upside down, hanging from your ceiling like a bat. 

“You’re not even trying to be subtle.” 

“I could be worse,” he teased, suddenly blinking up at you from under your desk. 

You nearly fell out of your chair. 

After that, you started searching for banishment rituals between classes. You didn’t find much, just blogs from the early 2010s and a YouTube video titled ‘15 Ways To Know You’re Being Followed By A Demon (And How To Make It Leave)’ with a thumbnail of a shadowy figure and a memed terrified face. 

You tried salt circles. You tried holy water that was really just tap water prayed over by your neighbor’s Catholic aunt. You even messaged a psychic on Yelp who specialized in ‘astral pests.’ She stepped into your apartment, took one look at Yangyang lounging on your couch in a plain t-shirt and joggers, and vomited in your sink. 

“I don’t do infernals,” she whispered, wiping her mouth. “You’re on your own.” 

Aside from that, the red candle never went out. You tried blowing it, snuffing it, even pouring water on it. The flame hissed and bent, but it always snapped upright again, stubborn and steady. 

Yangyang watched you from the kitchen island, head tilted. “You’re really trying, aren’t you?”

“I’d like my personal space back.” 

He smiled like he didn’t understand the concept of it. 

“Why are you always so close?” you snapped one afternoon, voice sharper than you meant it. “You hover. You watch. It’s like you’re in my skin.” 

Yangyang took a long breath, then stepped closer, slowly enough that you had time to stop him, but you didn’t. You felt his presence like pressure—behind your eyes, in your chest, beneath your ribs. It wasn’t quite touching, just proximity and awareness. 

He leaned in, mouth near your ear. “You ask too many questions,” he whispered, his voice like smoke, soft and poisonous. “Curiosity is dangerous.” 

You shivered. He laughed. 

Not long after that, he started showing up outside the apartment. At first, you thought it was your imagination playing a sick joke on you. But then you saw him across campus, sitting beneath a tree near the library, sunglasses on, arms folded, expression bored. 

He appeared again, in your class, sitting in a seat near the back of the lecture hall with an all-too-familiar smirk. The next time you looked over, he was gone. 

When you left the building, feeling as if you might have finally been rid of his presence, there he was, leaning against the wall just outside the door. 

“You’re so annoying,” you growled, speeding past him. 

“That’s nice of you to say,” he replied, falling into step behind you. 

That night, you lay on your bed staring at the ceiling, the candle flickering quietly on your windowsill. Then you felt the mattress shift. 

“I can’t sleep if you’re watching me,” you said flatly, still staring at the ceiling. 

“I’m not watching you.” 

“You’re literally in my bed.” 

“Correction. I’m on your bed.” 

You rolled over to glare at him. He lay sprawled across the edge, face turned toward you, his head propped up on one arm, completely at ease. 

There was a glitter of amusement in his eyes, but his voice had gone soft. “You summon me. I’m yours now.” 

You stared at him. And for the first time, you let the words sink in. 

Yours.

You sat cross-legged on the floor of your living room, remnants of party laughter and salt granules scattered on the carpet. The wax of a different candle had dripped down into a dish below in thick rivulets, pooling into shapes that almost resembled wings. 

Yangyang lounged in the armchair, one leg thrown over the side, twirling your lighter between his fingers like it was a toy. His eyes never left you while you cleaned up tarot cards, picked up glasses, or even when you yawned, loud and obvious. 

“I’m going to bed,” you muttered, brushing past him. 

“I’ll be here,” he said simply. 

You didn’t say goodnight or anything else, for that matter. You just climbed into bed, pulled the blanket over your body like armor, and pretended not to feel the weight of his presence behind the closed door. 

Sleep came in jagged waves that night. 

First, you dreamed of running barefoot down a marble hall that stretched too long, endless. Then Yangyang was there. He was dressed in something strange. White robes cinched at the waist with a golden thread that shimmered like sunlight underwater. There was a sword strapped to his back, and his eyes were filled with something darker than night. 

When he reached for you, you slipped through the floor and woke up gasping, fingers curled in your sheets. After your breathing evened and your heartbeat steadied, you found that the apartment was quiet. Too quiet. 

You stepped out of bed, and your foot brushed something brittle and blackened at the edge of the rug. You looked down. 

Burn marks. A perfect half-moon of them, like something had been burned right at the foot of your bed. You knelt slowly and felt them. The edges of the fibers were still warm. 

You didn’t scream. But your heart tried to. 

At the windowsill, something pale fluttered, drawing your attention. 

Feathers. Singed, charred around the tips, yet soft at the center. No bird in your neighborhood left feathers like that. 

Later that day, when you stepped out of the shower and looked at the fogged mirror, there were streaks. You moved closer to look at them. 

There, beneath the fog, were fingerprints. They dragged across the mirror like someone had leaned both palms against the mirror and sighed. 

Your spine crawled. You turned around in the bathroom, looking for anything else unusual but found nothing. 

When you brought everything up with Yangyang, he didn’t even look up from the book he was flipping through…upside down. “Could’ve been a cigarette ember,” he mused. “You know Winwin smokes sometimes.” 

“That doesn’t explain the—”

“The mirror? You probably did it yourself before the water got hot enough.”

“And the feathers?”

He paused, then shrugged. “Maybe from your pillows. You’ve had that one for years, right?”

“Bullshit.” 

“It’s just your mind playing tricks. Happens when you don’t sleep well.”

You stared at him, but he smiled like he had won something. But you let it go. For now.

Throughout that week, your dreams deepened. Each time you closed your eyes, Yangyang was there. Never the same but always him. 

One night, he wore a suit—black, sharp, blood on the cuff. He stood in the middle of a ballroom floor, alone. The lights above spun in slow motion, but no one else was there. Just him, holding out his hand, the other hidden behind his back. 

Another time, he was barefoot in the rain. His hair was soaked, his eyes red while he cried without sound. You ran into the rain and reached for him then, but your fingers passed through like water. 

The worst was the one where he fell from the sky. He had wings, and they were burning. You screamed his name in your dream, but it didn’t sound like ‘Yangyang.’ It felt older, something full of salt and flame, but your throat gave shape to it anyway. 

You woke up sweating. Above you, the ceiling bore new marks. Scorch marks in the shape of wings stretched outward above your bed. It was like the imprint of something massive and divine. Standing on your bed, you ran your fingers over the pattern, and they came back blackened with ash. 

This time, you snapped. 

“Okay. Seriously. What the fuck is going on?” You spat as you stood in the kitchen with your arms crossed, glaring at Yangyang.

He was stirring instant noodles like this was the most casual day of his life. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know what I mean. The dreams. The feathers. The scorch marks. The handprints. The ceiling. The thing you do when you show up in places and keep following me.” 

He looked at you, unreadable. Then he smiled, just barely. “Weird things happen all the time. Doesn’t mean they have a reason for them.”

“You’re lying.” 

“I’m protecting you.” 

That stopped you. “From what?”

Yangyang didn’t answer. He simply blew on the noodles and took a bite like it wasn’t your reality unravelling thread by thread. 

You groaned and turned away, frustrated. “Fine. Whatever.” 

And maybe that would’ve been the end of it, just another failed confrontation with the demon in your apartment, until you mentioned something else. “Oh, by the way, I ran into an ex on campus. It was odd seeing him again after so long. I didn’t know he still went to this school. He even texted me. Can you believe that?” 

You didn’t even look at Yangyang at first. You were busy pouring yourself a cup of water. But Yangyang’s head had snapped up. His jaw was clenched. 

“You didn’t block him?”

You turned to him, your head tilted in confusion. “Why would I?”

He didn’t answer right away. He stood there, tension simmering like smoke off a matchstick. “He made you cry. I remember that.” 

“You weren’t even—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “You don’t even know what you are to me.” 

You froze. “What?”

Yangyang’s eyes glowed. Not like fire, but like something older. Like something that remembers creation and loss. But by the next breath, it was gone. He blinked and smiled crookedly. “Forget I said anything.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. 

A few days later, you mention something else to him. “You know the old couple in the unit down the hallway?” you asked idly, eyes still on your phone. 

“Yeah?”

“I haven’t seen them in weeks. But suddenly their lights are on. I didn’t get a notice about anyone moving out or in or anything like that.” 

Yangyang stiffened. “They probably left. Happens all the time. You just didn’t notice,” he said too quickly, too easily. 

You narrowed your eyes. “But I always notice. They were here before I even moved in.” 

“Don’t make this a thing,” he muttered. “It’s nothing.” 

“Don’t tell me to—”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated louder, already walking away. 

You didn’t follow him. You just stood there, pulse quickening, wondering what you were missing. 

You were starting to get used to him.

Yangyang, with his ridiculous habit of leaving your refrigerator open like the concept of condensation didn’t apply to him. Yangyang, with his lazy sprawl on your couch, flipping through your books, commenting on everything with that bored lilt that somehow made you want to throw something at him and kiss him all at once. 

He was always around. Not quite human, not quite gone. Like static, like the buzz behind your thoughts, like the shiver that settled into your bones whenever he got too close. 

You didn’t talk about what happened. The mirror, the burn marks, the way the air sometimes went still when he walked into the room, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. 

You almost convinced yourself you were imagining it all. Almost. 

And yet, when sleep took you without warning, it felt like being pulled beneath velvet waters. 

When your eyes opened, you were still in your apartment. But not really. The room was the same shape, but the walls were deeper somehow, lined in dark wood instead of paint. The floor was polished, gleaming faintly beneath your bare feet. Candlelight flickered on every surface, spilling honey-colored light across heavy drapes, gilded picture frames, and furniture that looked too ornate to exist in your real life. 

It was warm and familiar. But not yours. 

You turned—-because you felt him before you saw him. 

Yangyang stood behind you, close enough that his breath stirred the wisps of hair at the nape of your neck. His hands ghosted up your sides, calloused fingers dragging slow paths just beneath your ribs. 

“You don’t remember,” his voice trembling. “But I do.” 

You tried to pivot and look around, but his hands held you in place, firmly. Like if he let go, everything would come undone. 

“This place,” he murmured, nose brushing the curve of your shoulder, “was ours once.” There was something ruined in the way he said it. 

You opened your mouth to ask what he meant, but he was already kissing you, soft and slow. His touch wasn’t hungry at first. His hands slid down your hips, then back up, fingers memorizing the shape of you like he had done it a thousand times and never got it quite right. 

“I found you,” he breathed into your skin. “Every time. Even when I wasn’t supposed to.” 

Your breath hitched. His mouth moved lower, and you reached for him instinctively, nails digging into his arms when he pressed you against the nearest wall. He wasn’t rough, nor was he gentle. It felt like his soul was tearing at the seam, and the only way to hold it together was this, the two of you tangled in something neither time nor death could erase. 

The fabric between you added a strange kind of tension. You hadn’t noticed what you were wearing until his hands slid over it. Cotton, pleated, heavy with time. Something from another decade. The kind of thing you’d only seen in old photographs, oil paintings, or museum glass. 

You gasped when Yangyang’s palm slid over your stomach, then lower. The fabric of your dress was old, threadbare, and thin, but it might as well have been soaked in water with the way his fingers glided across it. It clung to your body like it knew what was coming. 

Yangyang’s suit jacket had been discarded somewhere between one breath and the next, his shirt half-unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up his forearms like he had been preparing for this, for you. His hair was a little tousled, his gaze so dark it threatened to swallow you whole. 

His hands worked their way up your sides again, slower this time, mapping the seam where cotton gave way to skin. He cupped your breasts over the fabric, thumbs brushing lazily over your nipples until the cotton grew warm under his touch. When he dipped his head, mouthing at your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, he did it like he had worshipped you in another life and was only now allowed to remember. 

“That feels so good,” you whispered, breath catching as his teeth grazed a spot just above your heart. 

“I know,” he said simply, dragging his palm between your thighs, pressing through the soft folds of your dress, heat finding heat. “I know everything you like. Even the things you’re afraid to ask for.” 

The way his fingers found you under your dress felt like he had done it a thousand times before. Your body jerked when his thumb pressed against your clit firmly and his fingers ground slow, torturous circles on your folds through the barrier of your underwear. Your hips bucked forward, instinctively, wanting more. 

“That’s it,” he exhaled, his tongue slipping into your mouth when you moaned. “Don’t hold back.” 

You clung to him now, mouth open and panting into his throat. Yangyang didn’t stop. He reached under your dress, pushing it up past your hips with reverence and fever. When his fingers slipped under your panties and slid against your bare skin this time, it wasn’t just good. It was devastating. He circled your entrance with maddening patience, dragging his fingers through your slick folds like he was testing the depth of your want. 

And then he sank two fingers into you. You cried out, breath catching in your chest. He groaned against your ear, the sound low and broken, like it hurt him to be inside you but hurt more not to be. 

“You always feel like this,” he whispered. “Tight. Hot. Like you were made for me.” 

Your knees trembled, and he pressed his body closer to keep you upright, one hand braced against your lower back as his other moved between your legs, fingers working in slow, merciless strokes. He curled them just right, dragging over a spot that made your vision blur. 

You gasped again, shocked by how good it felt, how precisely he knew where to touch, how you were already tipping forward into ecstasy. 

Yangyang shifted slightly, angling his fingers inside you while applying pressure to your clit with his thumb. It made your whole body jolt. 

“There,” he murmured. “There it is.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate, grounding yourself in the flex of his muscle, the damp heat of his breath at your throat, the glide of his palm as it pressed flat against your pelvis, holding you there while he fucked you with his hand. 

“I didn’t even know—” you tried, the words catching in your throat as pleasure began to build, your hips bucking into his forearm. 

“I do,” he said. “I always know.” 

Your breath stuttered, hips rolling in time with the slow, deliberate curl of his fingers. Each thrust grazed something inside you that made your pulse flicker like lightning behind your ribs, like your body had been waiting for this exact touch to remember what it meant to burn. 

Yangyang knew just how to move. When to press deeper, when to draw back, when to drag his fingers in a languid arc that made your thighs shake. His thumb moved in tight, patient circles, not rushed, not careless, but focused like he had all the time in the world and none of it went to waste. 

You whined softly, the sound catching on your tongue as your head fell against his shoulder. Everything else fell away, and there was only the slick drag of his fingers, the weight of his body grounding yours, and the heat coiling tighter in your gut. 

“Just like that,” he murmured, voice rough and close, like thunder caught in a storm cloud. “Let go for me.” 

You tipped over the edge in a slow, cresting wave, one that broke again and again as your walls pulsed around Yangyang’s fingers, drawing them deeper, clenching like your body never wanted to let him go. You moaned against the exposed skin of his neck, desperate and unrestrained, the sound swallowed by the curve of his neck and the press of his lips against your hairline. 

Your legs gave out first, but Yangyang caught you and held you through the aftershocks, his hand firm at your back while his fingers stayed nestled deep inside you, steady and unyielding as your body shook. 

“There you are,” Yangyang whispered, as if he’d been waiting lifetimes for this moment. His thumb slowed, drawing the last threads of pleasure out of you like silk from a spool. 

Your pulse thrummed against his chest, heart still climbing down from its peak. Sweat pooled at the base of your spine, your muscles slack, every nerve lit up and undone. 

Yangyang didn’t pull away. He cradled you through it, still moving soothingly between your legs like a vow, as if to remind you he'd been there and that he was still there. That he always would be. 

Then something in you shifted. A current ran beneath your skin as desire kindled again in the quiet space between ecstasy and hunger. His mouth brushed your cheekbone, then your jaw. You turned toward it instinctively, catching the soft tremor in his breath before his lips claimed yours. 

This kiss wasn’t careful. It unleashed something from inside of you. 

You found yourself dragging him with you, one hand fisting in the collar of his shirt, the other tracing blindly along the hallway. There were no words for the ache building again between you, only the thud of your heart and the shuffle of desperate limbs as he backed you toward the bedroom. 

Somewhere along the way, your dress slipped off your shoulders. Yangyang’s shirt hit the floor. Your panties were tugged down with shaky hands, and his pants followed, kicked off without grace. It didn’t matter. You fell into the bed fully bare, limbs tangled, skin pressed against skin like you were trying to remember a body you had forgotten in a past life. 

The sheets bunched beneath you, and his thighs slid between yours. Your palms roamed his torso, memorizing the lines and heat of him with greedy fingertips. You felt him shudder as you pressed your lips to the center of his chest, just over his heart, then lower. 

Yangyang let you guide him to his back, his breath catching as you slipped down his body and between his legs. You looked up at him once, and what you saw there in his eyes wasn’t lust. It was longing. Fierce. Ancient. Unhidden. 

You let your gaze linger on him for a moment longer—on the rise and fall of his chest, the tremble in his abdomen, the way his lips parted like he was already halfway gone. Your fingers trailed down his torso, light at first, teasing, until they wrapped around the base of his hardened length with a grip that felt familiarly confident. 

You stroked him slowly, savoring each movement, intentional and precise. Yangyang let out a sound that was low and broken, like it had been punched from the center of his chest. Your hand glided from base to tip, twisting just slightly at the top, thumb brushing the sensitive underside where he throbbed hardest. The heat of him pulsed against your palm, heavy and alive, and each roll of your wrist seemed to unravel him further. 

He threw an arm over his eyes, exhaling sharply. “Fuck—” 

You wanted to hear more. Needed to. 

You dipped your head, letting your tongue trace a single line up the length of him. A flick, then a swirl, then a kiss to the flushed tip. He jolted, his hips bucking up like his body couldn’t help but chase the warmth of your mouth. You wrapped your lips around him, slow and sure, and took him inch by inch until your mouth was full, jaw stretched wide. 

Yangyang’s hips tensed beneath you. His hand flew to his sides, clutching the sheets. 

You moved with grace, but not gentleness. There was desire behind it, a rhythm that felt instinctive, practice in another life. Your lips slid up and down in steady bobs, hollowing your cheeks just enough to make him groan. One hand steadied the base of cock, twisting with each descent of your mouth, while the other pressed against his thigh to keep him grounded as he writhed beneath you. 

“That…fuck, that feels—” he gasped, voice cracking, wrecked. He couldn’t finish his sentence. His head fell back, neck arched, throat bared. He looked divine like this, unraveling under your touch, lost in you. 

You moaned softly around him, just to feel the way he twitched in response, how his hips jerked upward despite himself. Your pace quickened, slick and controlled, your lips dragging down to where your hand met your mouth, and up again with a soft pop that made him curse like he was praying. 

Yangyang’s hand found your hair, weaving through and trembling as you continued. You watched the way his body arched, the way his abdomen tightened, and his thighs tensed. You knew that edge. He was close. Too close. 

Suddenly, his fingers tightened in your hair, and he pulled you off, breathless. “Wait, wait—”

You let him go with a soft drag of your lips, glancing up just in time to see the flicker of panic in his eyes, drowned quickly by something else, something raw. He surged upward and flipped you both in one smooth, fluid motion. Now he was above you, flushed and panting, absolutely wrecked. His hair was a mess of gold shadows, sweat pearling along his temple, his pupils blown so wide that the brown was almost gone. 

He didn’t speak. He just stared down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Then he lowered himself slowly, deliberately, until the weight of him pressed against your center, hot and heavy, his cock sliding between your folds. He didn’t slip inside, not yet, only gliding through the mess you’d both made of each other, wet and silken.

You felt the smear of your arousal over him, mixed with the dampness that clung to your thighs and his abdomen. The friction made you cry out softly, your hips arching up to meet his.

Yangyang’s breath hitched. His body trembled like restraint cost him something. “You’re so wet,” he groaned. “You always were.” 

He rocked forward, dragging the head of his cock along your clit in a slow, deliberate grind. You gasped, your thighs instinctively trying to close around him, but he pressed them open with a gentle firmness, keeping you spread open for him. 

“Feels like you missed me,” he murmured, amused and awed all at once. “Tell me how much you want this.” 

You whined, rolling your hips to match his pace. “Please.” 

He grinned faintly, but it was tight with control. “Tell me what you want, baby.” 

You almost sobbed. “I want your cock. I need it.” 

“You need it?” He echoed, grinding harder. “Say it again.” 

“Please, Yangyang—fuck—please, I need your cock, I need you inside me—”

That did it. He aligned himself, sliding just the tip in. The stretch made your back arch as your body opened for him easily, like it had always been his. Like you’d been waiting for this, for him. 

“You take me so well,” he moaned, pushing deeper, inch by inch. “You always do.” 

It felt impossibly good, familiar in a way that made your chest ache. The stretch, the weight, the slow push forward until he was buried to the hilt inside of you. Your body clenched around him like you didn’t want to let him go. It felt as if you had done this before. Many times. 

You whined his name, barely audible. Yangyang stilled for a heartbeat, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged. “Fuck, I’ve missed this. You have no idea.” Then he started to move. 

His hips rolled into you with a rhythm that felt almost ritualistic, like he was savoring every stroke, every clench of your walls around him. His mouth was everywhere. Your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, your shoulder, your jaw. Kissing, tasting, worshipping. 

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin. “You’ve always been perfect for me.” 

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Each thrust stoked a fire in your core, but it wasn’t enough. “I want more,” you whispered, breath hot against his ear. “Harder.” 

His breath caught, and then he gave you exactly what you asked for. His hips snapped forward, deeper and rougher now. But even like this, there was an intimacy about it.

Yangyang knew your body like a second language, like he’d written poetry in the curve of your spine and memorized the sound of your moans. His rhythm grew frantic but never careless, hitting the spot inside you that made you see stars. 

You cried out, fingers digging into his shoulders, holding on as he fucked you like he was trying to remind you of something, as if this was a reunion and not the first time. 

He swallowed every sound you made with his mouth, kisses messy and open and hungry. “I know you,” he growled into your ear. “I know this body. I know how you fall apart.” 

You felt your pleasure building again, fast, sharp, inevitable. Every snap of his hips, every praise spilling from his lips, every heated drag of skin against skin, it pulled you closer to the edge. 

Yangyang’s pace turned relentless. He buried his face in your neck, panting, groaning your name like it was a vow. “I’m right here,” he murmured. “Let go for me.”

And just as your body began to shatter again, just as pleasure surged up through your spine like a storm, you saw it. The flicker of gold light. The blur of candle shadows. 

Your eyes flew open. 

The air felt different. The scent of your own sheets filled your lungs, and the familiar warmth of your apartment surrounded you like a second skin. Your heart pounded in your ears as the last waves of your orgasm rippled through you, the aftershocks thrusting you fully back into reality. 

But Yangyang was still here, hovering over you. Solid. Hot. Panting. His pupils were blown wide, his lips parted, his chest heaving like he’d just run miles to get to you. The dream might have shattered, but he hadn’t vanished. 

And here, in your own bed, in your own space—something inside you shifted. 

You pushed at his chest, and his brows furrowed, confused, until he was lying on his back as you straddled his hips, planting your knees on either side of him. His cock, still slick from you, pressed against your folds. You rolled your hips slowly, dragging your wetness along his length, coating him in your juices. 

Yangyang’s breath hitched, his hands curling into the sheets beside him like he didn’t dare touch you. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Fuck, don’t tease me.”

You smiled, lazy and wicked. “You made me beg for this earlier.” You rocked against him again, slower this time, letting your clit catch on the head of his cock. “Your turn.”

His head tipped back with a groan that sounded like surrender. “Please…” His eyes met yours, glassy and desperate. “Please, I need your pussy. I need to be inside you.” 

You didn’t make him wait long. Lifting just enough to line him up with your heat, you sank down in one smooth motion until he was buried to the hilt. The stretch made your breath stutter, but the sound that tore from Yangyang’s throat nearly undid you. 

His hands shot to your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear. He sat up suddenly, chest pressed to yours, arms banding tight around your waist. His face was buried in your neck, and that made you realize—he was shaking. 

When you pulled back to look at him, you saw the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “Yangyang…” you started, but he shook his head quickly.

“Don’t—” His voice broke, rough and urgent. “Just…please. Keep going.” 

You could have pressed, but something in his tone, fragile but commanding, made you move instead. You found a rhythm easily, your hips rolling in a way that felt less like improvisation and more like memory. 

The way you moved on him was slow filth, deliberate and precise, dragging him out nearly to the tip before sliding back down, clenching around him until his jaw locked. Every rise and fall made his breath stutter, his grip on your hips tightening as he lay back. 

Whatever restraint he had been holding onto snapped. His hips began thrusting up into you, meeting each grind with enough force to make the headboard tap against the wall. One of his hands slid to the small of your back, holding you down so he could drive into you harder, like he was chasing something just out of reach. 

“Fuck—” His voice was hoarse now, the words coming in fragments. “I’m gonna—”

You clenched around him just as he came, his hips rocking up desperately as if he could reach impossibly deeper, burying himself in you with each pulse. His forehead pressed to your shoulder, his moans muffled against your skin, his whole body trembling as the last of it shuddered through him. 

When his breathing finally slowed, he didn’t let go. If anything, his arms only tightened, keeping you locked against him as if letting you go might break him entirely. 

And yet there was still that glint in his eyes. That thing he wasn’t telling you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The silence felt thick. The only sounds were the fading echoes of your ragged breathing and the faint hum of adrenaline in your ears. 

Yangyang finally loosened his grip enough to let you shift, though his hands lingered like he was reluctant to let you go. His gaze swept over you—messy hair, glowing skin, the faint tremble in your thighs—and his expression softened. 

Without a word, he reached over to your nightstand, pulling a tissue from the box. His touch was careful as he cleaned you, swiping gently at the warmth spilling from between your legs. You shivered, not from the chill, but from the way he was looking at you, like you were something precious he didn’t want to lose. 

When he finished, he tossed the tissue aside and sat back, searching your face. “Do you…want me to go?”

The question was quiet, but it made something twist in your chest. “No.” 

He eased, just a fraction, but it was enough for you to see. He lay down beside you without another word. 

You turned toward him, reaching out until your fingers found his shoulder. You tugged lightly, and he came willingly, tangling his body with yours. His warmth bled into you, steady and grounding. 

Your eyes grew heavy almost immediately. The last thing you felt before sleep pulled you under was the slow rise and fall of his chest, his breath ghosting over the curve of your neck. 

It must have been moments, or centuries, until you opened your eyes. The room was still yours, but not. The walls looked softer, shadowed in a different century’s dust. 

You blinked, and the ceiling curved into an unfamiliar arch. Candlelight spilled across the floorboards, the faint scent of incense threaded through the air. 

A single chair sat by the bed, and in it, Yangyang, dressed in white so pale it seemed to ward away the dark. His hair fell loose, catching the light. There was something unearthly in the way he looked at you, as if he had been watching for days, afraid to leave. 

Your chest ached—not from illness, though your breath came shallow—but from the weight in his eyes. You saw it then, the knowledge that this was the end of this version of you. 

When he spoke, his voice was both a prayer and a rebellion. “I’ll find you again.” 

Your vision flickered. Candlelight fractured into shards, as though the room were made of glass and someone had tapped it. 

In one shard, you saw yourself lying in a hospital bed, plastic tubes whispering in and out of your skin. His hair was shorter there, his hands trembling as he smoothed a blanket over you. In another, you were beneath an oak tree, your blood blooming into the dirt while he knelt beside you, feathered wings curled tight to hide you from the sky. 

In every vision, the ending was the same. His hand on yours. His eyes lit with something stubborn and breaking. And then—

The punishment. 

Wings torn away. A body cast down. A life stripped to begin again in a different shape. 

The shards kept turning, each one another life, another loss. The pattern was so clear it hurt. Love, separation, the slow, relentless finding of each other. Always too late. Always in pieces. 

Somewhere between the shifting visions, you felt his real hand—the one in this life—tighten over yours. A tether. A vow that even if the glass broke a thousand more times, he’d step through every shard to reach you.

The images in the shards shifted. No longer ancient lives, but your own streets. Your own nights. 

You saw yourself walking home last winter, hands buried in your coat pockets, snow grinding under your boots. A shadow trailed a few steps behind, a stranger whose pace matched yours. But then Yangyang was there, slipping between you and them, his head tipped just enough for the stranger to falter. You couldn’t hear the words, but you saw the fear in their movements before they turned and left. 

In another shard, it was the night you left the school library well after the sun had set, your phone buzzing with messages from an ex who had never taken ‘no’ very well. You were convinced you were alone on the walk home, until the faint rustle of leaves behind you. You remember dismissing it as the wind. But here, in the vision, you saw Yangyang emerge from the shadows, his hands balled into fists. And behind him, white feathered figures, too bright to be human.

The visions came faster. Yangyang’s palms slamming into your bathroom mirror so hard the glass cracked into spiderwebbed pieces, leaving two burned handprints searing into the surface as a winged figure dragged him back. White feathers drifted from them onto the floor of your bathroom, your bedroom, and out onto the windowsill. 

Yangyang’s eyes had always been on you. Not in the way of someone watching from afar, but in the way of someone holding a line that no one else could see. Fighting things you didn’t know existed. Bleeding for a life you didn’t know was in danger. 

Your throat tightened, the truth crystallizing in you like ice spreading through glass. You weren’t just meeting Yangyang now. You had always known him. In every version. Every city. Every life. And every time, the end had found you. 

And it was finding you now. 

The last shard shivered, edges glowing like embers. You leaned closer without meaning to, pulled toward the vision as if it could burn its way into you. The image swelled, filling your sight until there was no edge, no glass, only your bedroom. The present. 

You were there, lying tangled in the sheets, your skin bare against Yangyang’s. His breath moved over your shoulder, his hand still clasping yours. Outside the window, the sky boiled with light, a golden storm swallowing the horizon filled with silhouettes of wings—dozens, maybe hundreds—-closing in. 

Then you blinked, and the vision was gone. 

The heat of Yangyang’s hand on yours was real. The smell of candle smoke was real. Yet as you looked around, the ceiling above you pulsed, breathing like a living thing. Your apartment was folding in on itself, the walls bending as if trying to push toward him. 

Yangyang’s skin caught the shifting light, and for the first time, you saw the mark below his collarbone, faint but unmistakable. A brand, shaped like the summoning circle from that night with your friends, glowing through his skin as though it had been carved into his soul. 

The truth settled over you heavy and undeniable. You weren’t drunk that night. The candle hadn’t been an accident. You were always going to call him. 

You understood now what he was, and what he had done. He was a guardian angel. Yours. Who had broken rules to save you, not once, but over and over, until heaven itself had torn him from its ranks. 

“I told you I wasn’t scared,” you whispered, the memory tasting different now, less naïve, and more like a dare you hadn’t known you were making. 

His gaze met yours, something in it sharp and unbearably tender. “That,” he began, “was your first mistake.” 

The walls trembled. A feather drifted through the window, not white, but blackened at the edges. 

He drew you in closer, the mark on his chest burning brighter between you. “I didn’t fall for power. I fell so I could stay.” 

Your lips parted to answer, but fate beat you to it. A crack split the room, not in the floor or the walls, but in the very air between you. The sound was sharp, like ice breaking on a frozen lake. 

The red candle on the nightstand stretched upward, its flame elongating into a twisting column of gold and shadow. The scent of lightning threaded through the smoke, stinging the back of your throat. Shadows moved along the walls, whispering in a language you didn’t know, yet the syllables felt like they belonged to your bones. 

“You feel it,” Yangyang murmured, his voice tight. He wasn’t looking at the candle, or the walls, or the crackling light flooding in through the window. He was watching you. As though if he kept his gaze steady enough, it could hold you in this moment, in this room, in this life.

He closed his eyes briefly, like the words he would say next hurt him to do so. “You’re breaking us apart.”

“Me?”

“You’ve always been my constant,” he began, almost a confession, almost an apology, “but it’s not supposed to be like this. You’re torn between timelines. Your lives are stacking, bleeding into each other. The more you remember me, the faster it unravels. And if I don’t go back—”

His voice faltered, and for the first time, you saw fear in his eyes. 

“If you don’t go back, what?” you demanded. 

“Then I’ll finish what I started, but we won’t survive it.” 

Another crack tore through the walls. This time, you saw a fissure of light, widening, pulling at the room like a tide. The ceiling sagged toward it, then the walls, the floorboards, even the bed frame groaning as though gravity itself was changing direction. 

You clutched his arm, nails digging into his skin. “Don’t you dare—”

“I have to,” he cut in, his voice breaking around the edges. “I have to go back to the celestial plane. I have to fix what I broke when I fell for you.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, almost tender. “They’ll assign you a new guardian. One who won’t…” His jaw clenched. “On who won’t fall in love with you.” 

The words hit you like a physical blow. “No.” You shook your head, as if the sheer motion could stop him. “No, I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want—”

He smiled then, and it was the most devastating thing you had ever seen. Gentle. Resigned. “You were worth it,” he assured. “Every time.” 

The fissure above you cracked wide open like lightning. The room convulsed, shadows on the walls screaming now, the candle flaring high enough to lick the ceiling. The mark on his chest blazed like a star about to collapse. 

You barely had time to breathe before they came—white-winged silhouettes pouring through the rift in a flurry of blinding light and rushing wind. Their faces were hidden behind veils, but their presence pressed against you like the weight of an ocean. 

Yangyang’s arms encircled you, holding you tight for a second, then two until they were pulling him away. Not cruelly, but with the inevitability of the tide reclaiming what had strayed too far from shore. 

You fought to hold on, nails scraping on him, your voice breaking. “Yangyang—”

His forehead pressed to yours, shaking with something more than fear. “Maybe in another version, I get to stay.” 

The light claimed him, peeling him away from your grip, from your bed, from this life. You watched as he unraveled into golden dust, scattering into the rift as it closed until there was nothing left but the echo of his warmth on your skin. 

And then—

Silence. 

Your ceiling was still, your apartment whole again. No wings, no rift, no trace of him. For a moment, you almost believed you had dreamt it all. That it had been nothing more than exhaustion, too many nights away studying, too much loneliness bleeding into your imagination. 

Almost. 

Because on the floor was a faint patch of burned carpet in the shape of the mark on his chest. Because the scent of smoke lingered, warm and metallic. And because, on your nightstand, the red candle finally went out, wax finally melting down, wick finally charring. 

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