Clouds ☁️

But as both of us are scared of her shouting and making the house a circus, I decided to give it.

And so here we are, sitting inside one of the classrooms on the ground floor. My classmates were there, as well as students from other schools.

The walls here are really old, covered in writings that stretch across the walls, doors, and windows. It feels so different from my school, and I can’t help but find it a bit strange.

Time passed and we were just chatting when all of a sudden there was this commotion in the corridor.

Us being curious little kids we went outside. We somehow got to know that a boy has been found sneaking in the canteen and going through the food stash.

I don't know why, but all of us went there. Why? To see the commotion there? Tsk, kids.. where is the canteen?

Reaching the canteen, we saw that the child who had dared to sneak in was being scolded. The teacher was saying something about punishing the kid. The kid, no older than 10, looked traumatized by the screaming teacher.

They are pretty strict with this" I asked one of my friends.

"I wouldn't last a day here" she replied with a chuckle.

I heard one of my other classmates say something but before that a high pitched sound pierced my ears.

My hands instinctively flew to my ears as black spots began to creep into my vision. And then, everything went dark.

Aw come on I came here to give a test not to pass out. Get up you weak ass bitch.

You do wake up, but not where you expect. This isn’t The Ideal. It’s your school. The one four stations away.

What. The. Hell.

The bell rings. The freaking bell.

You try to calm yourself, but panic bubbles up. You’re in your classroom, lying on one of the benches. Groggily, you push yourself up using your elbows and glance around.

Beside you, someone stirs.

“Wake up,” you mutter, shaking her.

“Five more minutes,” she grumbled.

“This isn’t your house! We’re at school!”

“School?!”

She bolt upright, eyes wide and frantic, looking more like a confused puppy than anything else.

The two of you quickly realize you’re in your classroom. Familiar, but something about it feels… off.

“Should we go out?” she ask softly, looking at the door.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

You peek out first. The hallway is unsettlingly quiet. Too quiet. Something feels very, very wrong.

The two of you head to the neighboring classroom, where your other friends sit cluelessly at their desks.

“Surprise, motherfuckers,” you announce.

“Ah!”

“So, what’s the deal?” you ask, ignoring their startled expressions.

“The stork?” one of them jokes, earning her a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

You sigh. "We need to figure this out. Let’s go.”

As the defacto leader of your little group, your friends all look at you for guidance. You don’t remember volunteering for the job, but it’s become second nature by now.

The layout of the school flashes in your mind—there’s the main building, the field, the stage at the far end, and the smaller two-story building beside it, home to the singing room. It’s always been your favorite spot.

Stepping outside, you’re greeted by chaos.

No, worse than chaos. Something you can’t explain.

Students, rows upon rows of them, march silently across the school grounds like lifeless puppets. Their faces are blank, their movements robotic.

And suddenly, you’re alone.

You whirl around. Where are they? Your friends who were just right here. You rack your brain, desperate to remember, but all you get are fragments: the classroom, the field, the students, their uniforms.

But the uniforms are wrong. These kids aren’t wearing your school uniform. They’re dressed in plain white—head to toe.

A chill runs down your spine.

You look down at yourself. Your uniform’s still intact: white shirt, blue skirt, tie. No jacket, though. Why the hell didn’t the school provide winter coats? It’s freezing.

Your breath comes out in shaky puffs as you call out for your friends.

Nothing.

The silent students turn to look at you, their blank faces unnerving.

“What are you looking at?” you mutter, backing away instinctively.

Before you realize it, you’re standing in the middle of the field. How did you get here? Your legs feel like they’re moving on their own.

Your mind races. This has to be a nightmare. Right?

Your feet carry you toward the singing room, up the stairs of the two-story building. Maybe it’s your love for music—or the connection you’ve always had with the music teacher—but something about this place feels… safe.

The door to the music room looms in front of you, larger than usual. Slowly, you push it open.

Inside, your teacher sits at the piano, but something is horribly wrong.

He’s completely black. Not in a racial sense—his entire body is an inky void, like a shadow brought to life. The contrast is so stark it makes your chest tighten.

You stagger back, trying to be as silent as possible, but the universe seems to hate you. Your shoe scrapes against the floor.

The shadow turns to face you.

Your breath catches. For a moment, it doesn’t move. Slowly, you back away, step by step, until you’re near the stairs.

And then, it bolts toward you.

Your legs carry you down the stairs, sprinting as fast as they can. The ‘krt krt’ sound of the thing chasing you sends shivers down your spine.

You run across the field, not daring to look back. The students don’t react, as if this is all normal to them.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you collapse onto the stairs, exhaustion seeping into your bones. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shield your face as if it’ll protect you from whatever is coming. The sound of your own ragged breathing fills your ears, but it’s soon overtaken by another noise.

It’s faint at first—a low, guttural growl, followed by the unsettling ‘krt krt’ sound that echoes in your mind. Your chest tightens. You don’t dare look up.

It’s here.

You brace yourself, every nerve in your body screaming for you to move, but your muscles refuse to obey. Your breath catches as the sound grows louder, closer, until you swear you can feel its presence looming over you.

This is it.

And then, it happens.

A sharp, metallic sound slices through the air, followed by an agonized screech that makes your blood run cold. You flinch, instinctively pulling your arms tighter around your head. The screeching stops abruptly, replaced by silence so heavy it feels like the world itself is holding its breath.

When you dare to look up, your eyes widen.

There, standing a few feet away, is someone you’ve never seen before.

The first thing you notice is the knife in his hand—long, sleek, and dripping with blood. The blade glints faintly under the dim light, a cruel contrast to the dark substance staining it.

Then your gaze travels upward.

His silhouette is sharp and commanding, radiating a quiet intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. He's tall, with a posture that exudes confidence and danger all at once. But it’s his face that steals your breath away—delicate yet fierce, almost otherworldly. His features are so striking it’s hard to tell if he's beautiful or terrifying.

But the most jarring detail is his hair.

Bright fiery red with black highlights, with contrast to his pale face, the colors clash in a way that should look ridiculous but instead feels hauntingly perfect. The contrast is mesmerizing, drawing your eyes like moths to a flame. You don’t even like red, but on them, it feels… powerful.

He glanced down at the lifeless black figure sprawled across the ground, his expression unreadable. Blood pools beneath it, the deep crimson stark against the pale concrete.

For a moment, it’s like time itself has frozen.

Your savior turns, his piercing gaze finally meeting yours.

It’s only for a second, but it’s enough to knock the air out of your lungs. His eyes—sharp, unyielding—cut through you like the blade they wield. There’s something chilling about the way he looks at you, as if he's staring straight into your soul.

You open your mouth to speak, but no sound comes out.

Before you can process what’s happening, he turns away.

“Wait!” you call out, scrambling to your feet despite the ache in your legs.

He doesn't stop.

You stumble forward, your mind racing with a thousand questions. Who is he? How did he know you were here? What even was that thing he just killed?

But before you can take another step, something cold wraps around your ankle, yanking you down with a force that sends you crashing to the ground.

The floor wasn’t soft, and neither was your chin. Pain radiated through your jaw as you lay there, groaning. “It hurts like a bitch,” you muttered, clutching your face.

When you glanced down, though, any complaints about the fall evaporated.

There, gripping your ankle, was a dismembered hand.

Cold, pale fingers dug into your skin, unmoving, yet somehow alive.

A guttural scream tore from your throat, raw and uncontrolled. You kicked instinctively, but it held firm. Panic rose, choking you, as you clawed at the ground to pull yourself away.

Before you could react further, like a thunderbolt, the guy reappeared. He raised the blade high and brought it down with a sickening crunch.

Again.

And again.

The hand was reduced to a mushy, unrecognizable mess as he hacked at it relentlessly. Blood splattered across the floor and your legs, and the wet, squelching noise made bile rise in your throat.

“Stop! Stop, it’s gone!” you wanted to scream, but your voice refused to come.

Finally, he crouched down, prying the mangled remains from your ankle. His fingers worked quickly, efficiently, peeling the cold digits away.

He stood up, wiping the blood from his hands on his pants, and turned to leave without a word.

“Wait!”

Your voice cracked, desperate, but it was enough to make him stop.

He froze, mid-step, but didn’t turn around.

Scrambling to your feet, you dusted yourself off and stumbled after him.

“Excuse me, mister!” you called, your voice trembling. “Can you please tell me how to get out of here?”

He turned then, slowly, and his gaze locked onto yours. He was taller than you by at least half a head, and his dark eyes bore an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

“You…” His voice was deep, rough around the edges. “How are you talking?”

You blinked. Is he high or something?

“What?”

“And your clothes,” he continued, as if you hadn’t spoken. “They’re different. Have you… escaped the process?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snapped, your frustration mounting. “I just want to get out of here.”

“Are you from this school?” His tone sharpened, almost accusing. “Answer me.”

“Yes, but—”

Before you could finish, his hand shot out and grabbed your arm.

His grip was like iron, unyielding, and he started dragging you forward without hesitation.

“Hey!” you yelped, tugging at his hand. “Let me go! What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you struggled against his hold. “Listen, mister! I don’t know what’s going on, okay? I just woke up here, and I don’t know what the hell happened! Please, let me go!”

He stopped abruptly, spinning around to face you. His piercing gaze made your stomach churn.

“So…” He spoke slowly, as if piecing something together. “You haven’t been processed.”

“I don’t know what that means!”

His eyes raked over you, up and down.

Did he just check me out? you thought, outraged. Whoop, whoop, that’s the sound of the police!

“Follow me,” he said curtly, turning away.

You stood your ground. “No. How do I know I can trust you?”

He chuckled, the sound low and humorless. “Do you see anyone else here you trust more?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Damn. He had a point.

“My name is San,” he offered. “What’s yours?”

You hesitated.

“It’s fine if you don’t trust me yet,” he added, almost kindly. “But if you want to survive, you’ll follow me.”

Against your better judgment, you nodded. Your questions could wait—surviving took priority.

As you walked behind him, you glanced down at your legs and winced. Blood streaked your socks and shoes, the sticky warmth making your stomach churn.

Noticing your hesitation, San spoke without looking back. “Where’s the nearest bathroom?”

“Huh? Oh, the men’s bathroom is—”

“Does gender matter?” he interrupted. “Just tell me the closest one.”

You sighed and led him to the bathroom in the main building. He pushed the door open and strode inside, heading straight for the sink.

“Come here,” he said, gesturing at the ground in front of him.

You hesitated. “Me?”

“Yes.”

Reluctantly, you stepped closer.

“Take off your shoes and socks,” he instructed.

“What? Why?”

“They’re covered in blood,” he said simply. “And if ‘they’ track us by your bloody footprints?”

You swallowed hard. “who are they?”

His lips quirked, almost amused. “You really have no idea, do you?”

You shook your head, confused and unnerved.

“Take them off,” he said again. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

Grumbling under your breath, you crouched down, slipping off your shoes and socks, your fingers trembling slightly. San grabbed them and rinsed the shoes under the tap.

“The socks are ruined,” he muttered, tossing them aside.

He straightened up and glanced at you. “Wait here.”

Before you could protest, he was gone.

As the silence pressed down on you, the weight of your situation finally hit. You slumped onto the edge of the sink counter, your legs weak.

What if you never got out of here?

“Are you okay?”

San’s voice startled you, and you looked up to see him holding a pair of sneakers.

“They’re not your size, but they’ll have to do,” he said, handing them to you.

You slid off the counter and slipped them on. They were too big, but at least they were clean.

“Let’s go,” he said, heading for the door.

Something about him felt off—his protectiveness, his calm demeanor in the face of chaos. Why was he helping you?

You didn’t know, but for now, you decided to trust him. You didn’t have much of a choice.

San was overjoyed. Even the strongest word for happiness couldn’t capture the overwhelming elation surging through him.

He had found a human. A real, living human—someone other than himself. And not just any human, but a student from the very school they stood in.

Finally, he could go back to his family.

Well, a makeshift family, but a family nonetheless.

A group of people who had taught him that the blood of the covenant truly was thicker than the water of the womb.

He cherished them, loved them, and would do anything to protect them. Most of all, he missed them.

Every fiber of his being screamed for him to grab this girl and force her to unlock the path. He could taste freedom—it was right there within his grasp.

But San was no brute. He prided himself on being patient and calculating. He’d use this girl the right way, ensuring they both got out safely.

Still, a pang of guilt gnawed at him. She wasn’t just a tool; she was just as lost as he was, maybe even more so. Her confusion and fear were written all over her face.

But a man had to do what a man had to do.

“Hongjoong hyung,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible, “I’m coming home. Just wait a little longer.”

The sound of his own voice brought a small chuckle to his lips. Damn, I must sound like a lunatic, talking to myself like this. But it didn’t matter. He had a plan, and nothing would stop him now.

---

I had been walking for what felt like an eternity. Either this guy was playing some elaborate prank on me, or he really did live on the other side of the universe.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, we stopped in front of a room.

I recognized it immediately—this used to be the teachers’ lounge.

Now, though, it looked like he had claimed it as his own.

The room was cluttered but strangely organized. In one corner, several of those stark white uniforms the kids outside were wearing hung in neat rows.

The shelves, once filled with papers and notebooks, were now stocked with weapons and strange equipment I couldn’t identify.

A large table occupied one corner, covered in maps, papers, and a small computer that looked like it had been swiped from the computer lab.

On the opposite side, there was a pile of clothes and a small mattress on the floor. A mattress. Since when did our school have those? Where did he even get it?

“It’s getting late. You should sleep,” he said, his tone casual.

I stayed rooted at the doorway. The thought of sleeping in the same room as a man—a man I had just met—made my skin crawl.

“I don’t want to,” I replied, crossing my arms.

“Okay, then don’t,” he said, shrugging as he made his way to the mattress.

And that was it. Just like that.

Feeling slightly foolish, I shuffled over to a chair by the table and sat down. That’s when I realized just how cold it was. My legs were freezing, and my arms weren’t faring much better.

I curled up in the chair, hugging my knees in a futile attempt to stay warm.

I just wanted to sleep—sleep and maybe never wake up.

“You can wear my jacket,” his voice broke the silence.

Startled, I glanced at him. He wasn’t even looking at me, his arm draped over his eyes as he lay on the mattress.

“Is it washed?” I asked skeptically.

He let out a low chuckle. “Seriously? That’s your first concern? You’re freezing, and you’re worried about whether it’s clean?”

“Well, yeah,” I muttered.

“Do you want it or not?”

“Fine, I’ll take it,” I said, too cold to argue further.

Wrapped in his jacket, I was finally warm. The thick material cocooned me, and the lingering scent of something earthy—him—filled my senses.

It was so comforting that, before I knew it, I had passed out, slumped over the table with my arms folded under my head.

"Bro, I think San has company."

"What the fuck do you mean?"

Inside a makeshift room—cramped and chaotic with tables, equipment, holo screens, and all the clutter that a group of overgrown boys would gather—two figures were hard at work.

One of them, silver-haired and deeply focused, sat hunched over his task. Across the room, a black-haired guy with glasses was multitasking, eating a chocolate bar while working with one hand.

"Geez, stop eating while working, Wooyoung."

"I do what I fucking want, Yunho."

Yunho rolled his eyes, muttering a quiet "whatever" before cupping his hands around his mouth like someone yelling into a canyon.

"I think San has companyyy!" he sang in a childish tone.

Immediately, there was the sound of something crashing. Yunho looked up to see Wooyoung scrambling over boxes to get to him.

“What the fuck do you mean, bro?"

"Don't believe me? Just watch."

Wooyoung peered at the hologram and saw it: a red dot labeled "San," but beside it, another red dot marked "Unknown."

"You think it's a processed kid?" Wooyoung asked hesitantly.

"Doesn't seem like it. If it was processed, San wouldn’t let it stay in his room for long."

"True..."

"Hello, hello."

The two boys turned toward the door, where two figures entered the room. The first, a man with brown hair in a suit, strode in confidently. Behind him, a taller man with black hair streaked with light brown highlights followed, also suited up, both with guns in hand.

"Did you kill them, Mingi?" Yunho asked.

"Ask the maknae."

"For the love of god, hyung, I’m old enough! Stop babying me," the younger one whined, despite his protests sounding anything but mature.

"Jongho-ya, did you kill them like Hongjoong hyung asked?" Wooyoung teased, giggling.

"Yes," Jongho replied proudly.

"Aww, our Jongho’s all grown up! Come here and give hyung a hug!" Wooyoung exclaimed opening his arms and skipping toward the youngest.

"Nuh-uh, hyung. I’ve got a gun in my hand. I will rat ta-ta-ta you up."

"Wooyoung, calm down!" Yunho scolded.

While the three bickered, Mingi moved to the hologram and stared at it.

"Um, I don’t know much about your holo stuff, but I’m pretty sure someone’s in San’s room right now."

The three of them stopped, looking at him in disbelief.

"What? Am I not allowed to be smart?"

"No, it’s not that, hyung. It’s just...you were never smart to begin with," Jongho muttered, earning nods of agreement from Yunho and Wooyoung.

"Wow, the disrespect! I just helped you kill those players!"

"Okay, but jokes aside," Yunho said with urgency, "San really does have someone in his room. Should we tell Hongjoong hyung and Seonghwa hyung?"

"Tell me what?"

Speak of the devil.

Hongjoong entered the room, light brown hair slightly tousled. Though shorter than the others, his aura made it impossible to underestimate him. He was flanked by Seonghwa, the group’s oldest and de facto mom, and Yeosang, who had green hair with black stripes. Although he looked like a Greek statue, his strength is not to be underestimated.

"Tell me what, Yunho?" Hongjoong asked again, his voice firm.

"San has some company," Wooyoung blurted out.

"Ooh, really?" Yeosang chimed in, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Yes," Yunho confirmed, walking toward the hologram and shooing Mingi aside as the others crowded around him. "If you look at this red dot, you’ll see it says 'Unknown,' which means there’s an unidentified entity with San. It could be someone processed, but honestly, I doubt it. San’s not that reckless."

"I mean, he kinda is," Seonghwa remarked dryly.

"Aren’t you all?" Jongho muttered, earning glares.

"Enough, everyone," Hongjoong commanded. "Let’s focus. Wooyoung, Yunho, can we contact San right now?"

"We could," Wooyoung said hesitantly, "but wouldn’t that alert the other person?"

"Wooyoung," Hongjoong said slowly, "our priority is to ensure San comes back safely, whatever it takes. Let’s not overthink it."

"Okay, then I’ll—"

A sudden piercing sound emanated from the hologram. Yunho’s fingers flew over the controls as he opened a new tab, revealing San’s face. He was trying to contact them.

When San woke up, it was dark outside. He looked around, and the girl was still fast asleep, slumped over the table like a rock.

He walked toward the table and sat across from her, then grabbed the computer and started typing away quickly. He had recently found a way to communicate with his family, but it was only for a limited time.

"Hello?"

"Oh, hello San! Got company?"

Straight to the point, just like his best friend.

"Kinda, yeah."

"Who is it, San?" came the voice of the leader, one of his hyungs.

"A girl."

"OoooOooo—"

"Please shut up wooyoung"

"San, why do you have a random girl in your nook?" Seonghwa, the oldest, asked, his voice stern.

"Hyung, guys... she’s from this school."

A brief silence followed. No one spoke, waiting for their captain's response. Soon, a sinister grin spread across the captain's face, sending an eerie vibe through the room.

"Well, tell me more about her, San."

---

Ugh, I hate waking up.

I stirred awake to the sound of rustling clothes. Looking up, I saw, surprise, surprise, that guy again.

San. I still don’t trust him. At least he didn’t do anything while I was asleep.

He was rummaging through the white outfits stacked in the corner.

He suddenly turned, as if he could sense me watching him. "You should wear this," he said, holding up one of the outfits.

"What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?" I replied, feeling petty.

"Sure, if you want to get attacked by a processed, be my guest." He put the outfit back in its place.

Ever since I met this guy, he’s been going on and on about these “processed” things. What the hell even are they?

"I mean to ask… what is this processed thing you keep mentioning?"

He stared at me for a few seconds, then said, "Wear this. I’ll tell you as we venture out."

---

The outfit turned out to be surprisingly comfy. It was flexible and looked good too.

It was basically a white shirt, with a white jacket and a hood over it, paired with white trousers. Pretty neat.

We were walking down the stairs when he suddenly started speaking.

"This world is a post-apocalyptic world."

Well, that’s one way to start a conversation.

"The government wants to create emotionless puppets to work for them. This world is basically full of puppets—no talking, no expressing, and most importantly..."

I looked at him, waiting. What was he going to say?

"...no music or dance."

If this was a text conversation, I would’ve sent the crickets emoji. There’s no way in hell this man just said that.

"No… music?" I asked, my voice timid.

"Yes, no music. No dance either. My family and I have been trying to bring fun back into this world. But because of some technical issues, I had to stay here."

"So, you’re staying here for a reason?"

"Yes," San said, the lies sliding off his tongue. He didn’t have a choice. To go back, he had to lie. For his plan to work, he had to lie. Did he feel bad? Who knew. The process had almost taken his emotions away, but he escaped at the right time. "And since you’re here alone, why don’t you help me with my task?"

Okay, so he sounds sketchy, but it makes sense. Damn, this is harder than choosing which album to buy, and that shit is hard...

Okay, maybe he’s starting to become a little more tolerable.

"What kind of help?"

"For now, stop being a whiny kid and listen to me."

I take back everything I just said—this guy is still a bitch.

"I’m not whiny."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

I looked around and realized we were on the ground floor, near the gate of the field. It felt so strange to see it so empty.

The emptiness of the field stretched out before you, its silence almost deafening. The once-familiar grounds now felt like a foreign, lifeless expanse, devoid of the chatter, laughter, and energy that used to fill it.

San kept walking ahead, his posture straight and his steps confident, as though he had a destination in mind. You, however, lingered near the gate, staring at the field, a strange ache forming in your chest.

"Keep up," he called over his shoulder, his tone clipped. "We don't have time to waste."

Reluctantly, you followed, your footsteps echoing against the eerily quiet surroundings.

"So," you began, your voice breaking the silence. "This whole 'no music, no dance' thing... It sounds ridiculous. How does anyone even live like that?"

"They don’t. They survive," San replied without looking back.

The words hit harder than you expected. "What do you mean?"

He stopped abruptly, turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes seemed to hold a depth of pain that made your stomach churn.

"I mean exactly that," he said. "The processed aren’t alive. They’re shells of people, controlled, used. No thoughts of their own, no emotions. Just... tools."

You shivered, though it wasn’t cold. "That’s horrifying."

"It is." His voice softened, just slightly. "That’s why my family and I were trying to change things. Music and dance... they’re not just entertainment. They’re freedom. Expression. Resistance."

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. For the first time since meeting him, you saw a glimpse of something more—a passion, a purpose that made him seem less like a cold, calculated stranger and more like someone who truly cared.

"But why you?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it. "Why stay behind? Why not someone else?"

San hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer.

"It wasn’t supposed to be me," he admitted quietly. "But plans don’t always work out. Someone had to stay, and I was the only one who could.”

San lied straight through his teeth, the words slipping out with practiced ease. But deep down, a twinge of guilt gnawed at him. He hated deceiving you, especially when you looked at him with cautious curiosity, as though weighing whether to believe him.

He justified it to himself—he didn’t have a choice. If he told you the truth, that he was here because of a mishap, because things hadn’t gone according to plan, you’d never trust him. And trust was what he needed from you. Without it, his chances of getting back to his family, his real purpose, would slip away.

So, he buried the guilt and steeled his resolve.

You didn’t notice the flicker of hesitation in his gaze as he spoke, his voice steady and unwavering. "Helping me is the only way to survive here," he said. "Together, we can fix this world, bring back what’s been lost."

He sounded convincing, even to himself. And when you nodded, still wary but willing to listen, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

But as the two of you walked through the quiet expanse, San’s mind drifted back to the faces of his family, their smiles, their laughter. He thought of the nights spent planning, dreaming of a world where music and dance weren’t forbidden.

He clenched his fists. Lying to you wasn’t just for him—it was for them, for everything they were fighting for. He couldn’t afford to feel guilty. Not yet.

San’s mind was racing as he led you through the eerily quiet halls of the school. He knew one thing, which was informed to him prior by the captain. The principal’s office held the item he needed—the key to returning to his realm, to his family. But there was one problem: he couldn’t enter it himself. The rules of this world were annoyingly rigid—only a student or a staff member of the school could access the office.

And that meant he needed you.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye as you followed, your expression a mix of confusion and determination. You had no idea how critical you were to his plan. Yet, despite his guilt over using you, there was no other choice.

“The principal’s office…” he began, breaking the silence. “Do you even know where it is?”

You nod your head.

San looked relieved “That'll make things easy”

You look at him, gesturing around. “Half of here looks like it’s been taken over by… whatever you call those things.”

“Processed,” San corrected. “And they’ll make reaching the office more complicated.”

You stopped walking, folding your arms as suspicion flickered in your eyes. “Why do you even need to go there? What’s so important that it can’t wait?”

He hesitated, weighing his words carefully. “It’s something that could help us. Something that might give us a chance to survive in this place.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either.

After a few minutes of standing in silence he breaks it “We need to go somewhere to get a little information first. It's for me if you're wondering”

“Library, maybe?” you suggested.

“Good idea,” he agreed. “But the library is likely crawling with processed. We’ll have to be careful.”

The path to the library wasn’t easy. Shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally along the walls, and faint, distorted murmurs echoed through the corridors. San moved with sharp, calculated precision, motioning for you to stay close.

At one point, you almost stepped on a loose tile, but San’s arm shot out, pulling you back just as a processed shuffled by, its vacant eyes scanning the hall. The two of you froze, your breath shallow as you pressed against the wall.

The position was simply vulnerable. San’s back pressed against the wall, while yours was pressed against his chest. His one hand wrapped tightly around the front of your shoulders. Another hand held onto the knife.

Once the danger passed, you whispered, “How do you know so much about avoiding them?”

San hesitated for a moment, then replied smoothly, “I’ve been here long enough to learn their patterns. Stick with me, and you’ll be fine.”

Finally, you reached the library. The massive double doors loomed before you, slightly ajar. Inside, the faint glow of flickering lights revealed rows of dusty shelves and scattered books.

But you both knew it wouldn’t be that simple. San stepped forward, scanning the room. “Stay alert,” he warned. “The processed aren’t the only thing to worry about in places like this.”

“What else is there?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Let’s hope we don’t find out,” he muttered, his hand subtly resting on the dagger strapped to his side.

The moment you entered, the library twisted into a neon-lit maze of mirrors, the air turned cold, suffocating, like the maze itself was alive and hostile. The mirrors stretched endlessly, reflecting an infinite number of you—and none of them felt right.

“San?” you called out, panic lacing your voice.

No response.

“SAN!” This time, your voice cracked, raw and desperate.

Then you heard it—a low, guttural hiss, like the sound of something primal awakening. Your heart leapt to your throat as a shadow shifted in the reflection, something dark and unnatural slithering behind the glass.

The black void creatures emerged, their shapeless forms twisting grotesquely as they crawled from the reflections into your reality. Their hollow, inky eyes locked onto you with an intensity that froze your blood.

Your legs moved before your mind could catch up, adrenaline flooding your system. You bolted down the corridor of mirrors, each step echoing with a deafening clarity. The neon lights flickered erratically, casting jagged shadows of the creatures chasing you.

Behind you, the whispers started—low, distorted murmurs that seemed to claw at your sanity. They grew louder, overlapping, forming a cacophony of voices that sent shivers down your spine.

The maze twisted and shifted with every step you took, the mirrors rearranging themselves as if mocking your attempt to escape. You turned a corner and nearly collided with a reflection of yourself. But it wasn’t you—it was something else, something hollow-eyed and smiling eerily.

You screamed and turned the other way, but the creatures were gaining on you, their movements unnaturally fluid, like shadows dragged against their will.

“SAN!” you screamed, your voice cracking as tears streamed down your face.

“I’m here!” His voice rang out, faint and distant, but it was there.

Your chest heaved as you pushed forward, your feet pounding against the mirrored floor. You glanced back and instantly regretted it. The creatures were right behind you, their forms flickering and writhing like living nightmares. One of them lunged, its clawed appendage slicing through the air just inches from your shoulder.

A burst of neon light blinded you as you stumbled forward, crashing into a mirrored wall. The surface rippled under your touch, distorting your reflection. You turned, back pressed against the glass, as the creatures closed in.

The largest of them, a towering mass of void and shadow, loomed over you. Its hollow eyes burned with a hunger you couldn’t comprehend. Its whispers turned into a deafening roar as it lunged.

“NO!” you screamed, bracing for the impact.

But then the mirror behind you shattered, and an arm shot through the jagged shards, yanking you back with a force that knocked the breath out of you.

You tumbled to the ground, landing hard on the other side of the mirror. The air was different here, colder but less oppressive.

“Got you,” San’s voice came, low and fierce. His grip on your wrist was unyielding, and his eyes burned with determination.

“San!” you gasped, tears blurring your vision.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, his tone sharp and commanding.

The creatures weren’t done. They began slipping through the shattered mirror, their forms reforming with a horrifying fluidity. San pulled you to your feet, his gaze darting around, calculating.

“We’re not safe yet,” he said, his voice tight. “Run!”

He pulled you along as the creatures poured into the new corridor, their shrieks echoing through the maze. You ran as fast as you could, San leading the way, his grip never faltering.

Suddenly, you both turned a corner and saw it—a door at the far end of the maze. Relief surged through you, but your hope was quickly dashed. The door wasn’t ordinary; it was made entirely of thick, reinforced glass.

San stopped beside you, his face set in grim determination. "We’re almost there. Keep moving!" he barked, grabbing your wrist and pulling you along.

The creatures shrieked behind you, their distorted forms growing closer with every second. You both skidded to a halt in front of the glass door, and San quickly examined it.

“It’s locked!” you gasped, panic rising in your throat.

“Not for long,” San muttered.

“Huh?”

Without hesitation, he stepped back, his fists clenching. Then, with a guttural yell, he slammed his fist into the glass. A web of cracks splintered across its surface, but it didn’t shatter.

The creatures were nearly upon you, their whispers turning into a deafening roar. San didn’t stop. He struck the glass again, this time with everything he had, and the door exploded into shards with a thunderous crash.

“Go!” he shouted, grabbing you by the waist.

“Wait—what are you—”

Before you could protest, San lifted you effortlessly and hurled you through the opening. You landed on the other side with a thud, scrambling to your feet just in time to see him climb up the jagged edges of the broken door, the neon lights behind him casting an almost heroic glow around his figure.

San leapt through, landing in a crouch beside you as the creatures clawed at the shattered remains of the glass. He grabbed your hand and pulled you up.

“Run,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Together, you sprinted away from the maze, the sounds of the creatures fading behind you as the two of you finally escaped its horrifying grasp.

Both of you stumbled out of the maze, panting heavily. The moment your feet hit solid ground, the mirrors behind you shimmered and collapsed inward, dissolving into nothingness. The silence that followed was deafening, the only sound being the ragged rhythm of your breathing.

San slammed his fist against the nearest wall, his jaw clenched tight. “Damn it! We failed!” His voice echoed through the empty library.

You flinched at his tone, but you didn’t blame him. After everything you had been through, it was hard to come to terms with failure.

San ran a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. “All of that, and we still don’t know what I needed to know. We’re wasting time we don’t have!” His eyes darkened, a rare glimpse of despair flashing through them.

You were about to try and console him when something caught your attention—a slight weight in your pocket that wasn’t there before. Your hand slipped inside, and your fingers brushed against the edges of a piece of paper.

“What the…” you murmured, pulling it out. It was old, almost fragile, the edges yellowed as if it had existed for decades. Strange symbols and scrawled writing adorned its surface.

“San,” you called softly. He didn’t respond, too busy pacing angrily.

“San,” you repeated, more firmly this time.

“What?” he snapped, turning to you, his eyes sharp.

You held up the paper. “I found this in my pocket.”

His expression shifted from irritation to confusion. He stepped closer, snatching the paper from your hand and scanning it quickly. His eyes widened as he read, his grip on the paper tightening.

“This… this is it,” he breathed, almost disbelieving.

“What is it?” you asked, peering over his shoulder.

San pointed to a phrase written in bold near the bottom of the page: “The Key to Realms: Chromer.”

“It says the key we’re looking for isn’t a traditional key. It’s a sand clock,” San explained, his voice filled with sudden urgency. “A sand clock called Chromer. And it’s in the principal’s office.”

Your brows furrowed. “A sand clock? Why would something like that be the key to anything?”

“It’s not just any sand clock,” San replied, his tone deadly serious. “The Chromer is a relic that connects dimensions. It’s what I need to go back to my realm. This is the information we were searching for.”

You both stared at the paper, the weight of its significance settling over you.

“But how did it get in my pocket?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

San shook his head, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know. Someone—or something—wanted us to have this. Whatever force controls this place isn’t done with us yet.”

The two of you exchanged a glance, the reality of the situation sinking in. The journey was far from over. If anything, it had just begun.

The hallways stretched endlessly ahead, dim and cold, as if life had been sucked out of the building. The air felt heavier with every step, and the faint echoes of your hurried footsteps reverberated eerily. San walked ahead, his shoulders tense but his movements calculated and sure.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop glancing nervously over your shoulder. The memory of those void-like attackers from the maze haunted you, and your gut told you they weren’t done yet.

“Stay close,” San said over his shoulder, his voice low.

You nodded, clutching your jacket tighter as if it could shield you. Suddenly, a shiver ran down your spine—an unnatural chill that made your skin prickle. Before you could react, a guttural sound tore through the silence.

They were back.

Out of the shadows, black void-like figures materialized, their featureless forms surging toward you. But this time, something was off. They weren’t even glancing at San. All their focus was on you.

“San!” you screamed, backing up instinctively.

San turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. “Why the hell are they only after you?” he muttered, stepping in front of you.

One of the figures lunged, and he swatted it away effortlessly with his arm. “Just stay behind me!”

“I’m trying!” you yelled, dodging another swipe from one of the creatures.

Despite his best efforts, they kept finding ways around him, their movements unnervingly quick and calculated. San could only defend so much, and his frustration was mounting.

“You need to fight back!” he barked, slashing through one of the attackers with a weapon he’d conjured from seemingly nowhere.

“I don’t know how to fight!” you snapped, ducking as another creature swiped at your head. Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of your chest.

“Then run smarter!” San shouted, his voice strained. “Don’t just run blindly—watch their movements!”

Easy for him to say. You scrambled to your feet after nearly tripping over yourself, your breaths coming in short, panicked gasps. The creatures weren’t slowing down. One lunged at you from the side, and you barely managed to dodge, crashing against the wall.

“Damn it!” San growled. He lunged forward, grabbed your arm, and yanked you toward him. “Stay close—closer!”

He practically dragged you down the hallway, his speed making it hard for you to keep up. His movements were fluid, each strike precise as he knocked away the attackers that got too close.

Still, they came.

Another void-like figure lunged directly at you, faster than the others. You couldn’t move in time. But just as its claws were about to reach you, San spun around, shielding you with his body. The creature’s attack hit him squarely in the back.

San didn’t even flinch.

“San!” you gasped.

“I’m fine,” he gritted out, slashing the creature to nothingness. “But you won’t be if you don’t stop being a damn target.”

“I’m not trying to be a target!” you shot back, the fear making your voice crack.

San sighed heavily, glancing at the path ahead. “We’re almost there. You just have to survive a little longer.”

“That’s not very comforting!” you hissed.

He didn’t respond, instead focusing on cutting a path through the swarm of attackers. The principal’s office was just up ahead, its door faintly illuminated like a beacon.

“Run!” he commanded, pushing you forward.

With every ounce of strength you had, you sprinted toward the door. The attackers closed in, but San was right behind you, clearing a path and yelling for you to keep moving.

You reached the door, slamming your hands against its cold surface. It wouldn’t budge.

“It’s locked!” you shouted, panic surging.

“Move!” San barked, his voice sharp. He didn’t hesitate, driving his fist into the glass pane. It shattered instantly, the shards spraying everywhere. Without a second thought, he gripped you around the waist and hoisted you up.

“Go through!” he demanded, lifting you through the broken opening and onto the other side.

You scrambled over, your heart still racing. San quickly followed, vaulting through the broken glass. He landed beside you, his chest heaving.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the chaos behind you finally falling silent. Then San glanced at you, his expression unreadable.

“You’re alive,” he said simply, his tone more relieved than he let on.

“Barely,” you muttered, collapsing against the wall.

He smirked faintly, brushing glass dust off his clothes. “Good enough.”

Your legs felt like jelly, your lungs burned from the constant running, and every part of you was screaming to stop. The fear, the chaos—it was all too much. You pressed your back against the wall, glaring at San as he dusted himself off like nothing had happened.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you snapped, your voice trembling with exhaustion and frustration. “This is insane, San! I’m not some fighter, I’m just... I’m just a student who got stuck in this nightmare!”

San turned to you, his sharp gaze softening ever so slightly. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, as if weighing his words.

“I didn’t ask for this either,” he finally said, his voice calm but firm. “But we don’t have a choice. You’re my only shot at fixing this mess, and I’m your only shot at surviving it.”

You scoffed, throwing up your hands. “Great pep talk, really. But I’m done, San. I can’t keep running and almost dying every five minutes!”

Instead of arguing, he pulled out his watch. The faint, flickering blue light of the device illuminated his face as he fiddled with it.

“What are you doing now?” you asked, exasperated.

“Calling my family,” he said simply, his tone uncharacteristically soft.

The watch buzzed faintly, then a holographic screen popped up, displaying blurry but familiar faces. You recognized one of them immediately—the leader, Hongjoong, with his sharp eyes and commanding presence.

“San,” Hongjoong’s voice came through, clear and steady. “You’re still alive.”

“Barely,” San muttered, glancing at you. “I’ve got her with me. We made it out of the maze, but things are getting worse. The attackers are targeting her now.”

“Why her?” Seonghwa’s voice chimed in, his tone calm but laced with concern.

“I don’t know,” San admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But it’s making everything ten times harder.”

Another voice cut in—Wooyoung’s. “Maybe she’s got something they want? Or maybe she just smells like fresh prey.”

“Wooyoung, not helpful,” Yunho interjected.

You felt scared. Being in the mercy of these unknown and certainly shady men. He can do whatever he wants to you. It all came down like a mirror shattering. Ironic

“Look,” San continued, ignoring the bickering, “we’re on our way to the principal’s office. We think the key—the Chromer—is there. But it’s getting harder to move without drawing attention.”

“You need to keep her safe, San,” Hongjoong said, his voice firm but an underlying meaning present. “Whatever it takes.”

San’s jaw tightened. “I know that, hyung.”

You sat quietly, watching the exchange. It was clear that these people weren’t just his team—they were his family, and their concern for him was genuine.

“San,” a new voice broke in, deeper and more commanding. It was Jongho. “Do you think she can handle it?”

San glanced at you, his eyes searching your face. “She’ll have to.”

Your heart sank at his words. He wasn’t wrong, but the weight of it felt crushing. You wanted to argue, to tell them all that you weren’t cut out for this. But something about the way San looked at you—determined yet oddly reassuring—made you hold your tongue.

“Stay in contact,” Hongjoong said. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

The hologram flickered and disappeared, leaving you and San in the dim light of the hallway.

He slipped the watch back onto his wrist and turned to you. “I know this is hard,” he said quietly, his voice softer than before. “But we’re almost there. Just a little longer, okay?”

You looked at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt. But all you saw was determination—and maybe, just maybe, a hint of trust.

“Fine,” you muttered, pushing yourself off the wall. “But if I die, I’m haunting you forever.”

San smirked faintly. “Fair deal.”

As San and you finally found the door to the principal's office, you both stopped in front of it. The door was large, dark, and imposing, a heavy weight hanging in the air as you both stared at it.

San’s eyes locked onto you, his face tense. “You need to go in there. The Chromer is in that office, and it’s the only thing that can get me back to my realm. You have to do this.”

You hesitated, feeling the fear creep into your chest. “I... I can’t, San. What if something happens to me in there? I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not like you. I can’t fight.”

San’s frustration was palpable, his fists clenching as his tone grew more urgent. “We don’t have time for hesitation. You have to go in there and get it. Do you understand?”

You took a step back, heart pounding. “I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough. I’ve never been strong enough.”

Before San could reply, the watch on his wrist buzzed, and Hongjoong’s calm voice came through.

“Hey,” Hongjoong said, his tone reassuring yet firm, “we know you’re scared. But you have to do this. San needs you.”

Next, Seonghwa spoke up, his voice gentle but steady. “You might not think you’re strong, but you are. You’ve already done more than most people could ever imagine. You’ve come this far, haven’t you? That’s strength.”

You felt a sense of warmth from their words, but the fear still held you tight. Then you heard Jongho’s voice, clear and strong, cutting through the fog of doubt in your mind.

“Listen to me,” Jongho said, his voice carrying that same unwavering confidence. “You’re not alone. We’re all right here, cheering you on. I know it’s scary, but I believe in you. We all do.”

A slight shift in San’s demeanor caught your attention as he stared at you. His frustration softened, replaced by a look of understanding.

"Jongho's right," San added, his voice quieter now, tinged with sincerity. “I wouldn’t be asking you if I didn’t believe in you too. You’ve got this.”

The weight of their words, their unwavering belief in you, was enough to start dissolving the fear. You didn’t want to disappoint them—especially not San.

Yeosang’s voice cut in next, surprising in its warmth. “You’re stronger than you think. You can do this. We’re right here with you. One step at a time. Just trust yourself.”

Mingi chimed in with his usual confidence, “And if you need any backup, we’ve got your back. We’re with you every step of the way.”

Wooyoung added his usual teasing tone, “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, trust me. Now go show us what you’ve got.”

With each of their voices echoing in your mind, you felt the weight of your fear start to lift. You weren’t alone in this. They were all behind you.

You took a deep breath, summoning the courage you didn’t even know you had. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice steadier than before. “I’ll do it. I’ll go in.”

San’s expression softened, a quiet gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, his voice sincere. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

You gave him a small nod, looking back at the door. The fear was still there, but now there was determination too. You weren’t just doing this for yourself—you were doing it for San and his family. And that made all the difference.

You stepped up to the door, your hand shaking slightly as you reached for the cold handle. Before you could second-guess yourself, you turned it, pushing the door open slowly. With one last glance at San, you stepped into the unknown, ready to face whatever waited inside.

San and you stood in front of the principal’s office. It looked imposing, with dark, heavy wooden doors that had a strange energy about them. The air felt thick, as if something was lurking just beyond those doors.

San, his face tense with anticipation, turned to you. “You have to go in. We don’t have time to waste.”

You took a step back, shaking your head. “I can’t... What if something happens to me? What if I get caught?” Your heart raced, fear creeping up your spine. You didn’t want to be the weak link, but the thought of stepping into that office alone was overwhelming.

San’s jaw clenched, frustration flickering in his eyes. His patience, usually so steady, was starting to crack. “We don’t have a choice! You’re the only one who can get in there. You’re the student. I’m not allowed in.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you muttered, looking away, unable to meet his gaze.

The tension in the air thickened. San’s hands clenched at his sides, his fingers twitching as if he was on the verge of snapping. But before he could say anything, his watch buzzed to life, and the voice of his captain echoed in the silence.

“San, calm down,” Hongjoong’s voice came through, cool and authoritative. “Let her breathe. You know she’s scared.”

San’s eyes hardened as he spoke through clenched teeth. “But we need this, hyung. We can’t afford to fail now.”

“I know,” Hongjoong responded. “But you can’t push her. You’ve trained with her, you know what she’s capable of. Give her a moment. We can’t force her to go in, but we can help her understand why it’s important.”

San's gaze softened slightly as he looked at you, seeing the fear written all over your face. He let out a slow breath and then spoke, his tone more gentle this time. “Look, I know it’s terrifying. But you’re not alone. We’re all here, and we won’t let anything happen to you. You just have to trust me, and trust yourself.”

You felt the weight of his words, but still, doubt lingered in your mind. “What if it’s too dangerous?”

Hongjoong’s voice came again, more insistent. “It is dangerous, but do you want to know what’s even more dangerous? The alternative. We don’t know how much time we have. You’re the key to all of this, and you can’t let fear stand in the way now.”

San stepped closer, his eyes unwavering. “We’ll get through this together. But you need to go in. Do it for us. For you. And for what’s right.”

You hesitated, but then San’s words sunk in. He was right. The fear that had held you back was still there, but so was the determination. You had come this far. You couldn’t turn back now.

Taking a deep breath, you nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

San’s expression softened with relief, but there was a hint of pride in his eyes. “Thank you.” He stepped back, his eyes fixed on the door. “I’ll be right here. Just get what we need.”

With a final look at him, you reached for the door handle, your fingers trembling slightly as you pushed it open. The darkness inside was almost suffocating, but you stepped in, ready to face whatever came next.

As the door clicked shut behind you, you could hear San’s voice, faint but comforting, echoing through the hallway. “You’ve got this.”

You pushed the door open, the sound of it creaking in the silence. Inside, the room was dimly lit, with rows of old bookshelves lining the walls. A desk stood in the center, cluttered with papers and objects that looked ancient and important. The air felt heavy with a strange energy, the kind that made your skin tingle and your heart race.

Your eyes scanned the room, and that’s when you saw it—the sand clock, sitting on a pedestal in the far corner. The chromer. It glowed faintly, its sands moving impossibly slow inside the glass.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breath as you walked towards it. Each step felt like it was pulling you deeper into the unknown. This was it. This was the key. You could feel its power, like it was calling to you, urging you to take it.

You reached the pedestal, hesitating for just a moment. Was this really happening? Was this how you were going to help San? You had no idea how this sand clock worked, but you didn’t have a choice. You picked it up gently, feeling the cool glass under your fingers. The sand inside swirled, almost like it had a life of its own.

Just as you turned to leave, you heard a faint creak of the floor behind you. Your heart skipped a beat, and you spun around, instinctively clutching the chromer tighter. But it was only the wind. There was no one else in the room, nothing to worry about—at least, for now.

You breathed a sigh of relief and made your way back to the door, keeping a sharp eye on the room around you. With one final glance at the sand clock in your hands, you pushed open the door and stepped out.

San was standing there, his back to the wall, waiting. His expression softened when he saw you holding the chromer. Without a word, he walked towards you, his hand outstretched.

“We did it,” you said, holding it out to him.

San nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes were full of concern. “You’re alright?”

You nodded back, still a little shaken but relieved to be out of there. “I’m fine.”

He reached for the chromer, taking it from your hands. As his fingers brushed against it, he let out a quiet sigh, as if the weight of the moment had finally caught up with him. “This is it,” he said softly. “With this, I can go back.”

You both stood in the hallway, the weight of your mission heavy in the air. It wasn’t over yet, but at least you had what you came for.

San gave you a long look, his eyes filled with gratitude. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

San’s arms suddenly wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground effortlessly. You gasped, your heart racing as you instinctively tried to push away, but his grip was firm, secure.

“Wait—San!” you stammered, panic rising in your chest. “What are you doing?! Put me down!”

His smile was wide, his eyes shining with pure relief and joy. “We did it,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “I’m not letting you go yet. You helped me get this, and you’re going to be safe with me.”

You squirmed slightly in his arms, but the more you tried to pull away, the tighter his grip seemed to become. The sensation of being carried—of someone else having complete control over you—was overwhelming, and you couldn’t quite figure out why it made you feel so vulnerable. You had always been independent, had always taken care of yourself. No one had ever carried you before.

“San, I—” You trailed off, trying to calm your racing thoughts. His steady heartbeat echoed against your back, reminding you how close you were to him. “Please, I’m not used to this.”

He slowed his pace slightly, as if sensing your discomfort, but he didn’t stop. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.”

Despite his words, a knot of unease twisted in your stomach. Your chest tightened, and your hands instinctively gripped his jacket, as if trying to steady yourself. You couldn’t explain it—the way he was holding you felt so... foreign. So intimate.

You swallowed, attempting to push the discomfort aside, but the fear still lingered. The feeling of being completely at his mercy, so exposed in his arms, made your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

“San, I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice small.

His steps faltered, and he looked down at you, his expression softening. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said gently. “I won’t hurt you. I’ll get you to safety.”

But the truth was, you weren’t just scared of being in his arms—you were scared of what this might mean. You weren’t sure how to handle the feeling of being cared for, of being protected in such an overwhelming way.

You didn’t know what to say, how to react to all of it, so instead, you stayed quiet, allowing him to carry you. You didn’t want to seem weak, didn’t want to burden him with your confusion.

And yet, despite your unease, a part of you felt comforted by his hold. Part of you felt... safe.

San adjusted his jacket as he stood in the middle of the chromer's glowing circle. The energy buzzed around him, and his mind was calm yet excited. This was the moment he'd been planning for days. He was going to ensure everything was set right — that you would go back to your world, and he would return to his with his friends.

As the chromer activated, the world blurred and spun, the familiar hum of its power resonating in his chest. Then, everything stopped abruptly. He felt solid ground beneath his feet, and as his vision cleared, a grin spread across his face.

He was back. The comforting sight of his realm and his friends standing nearby filled him with relief. "Finally," he muttered, stepping forward. But then, a small movement behind him made him freeze.

He turned his head slowly, and there you were, standing wide-eyed and just as disoriented as him. San’s smile faltered, replaced by a mix of confusion and disbelief. His friends, who had started to approach him with cheers of welcome, suddenly stopped in their tracks. Their gazes darted between him and you, their expressions mirroring the bewilderment in his heart.

“San…” Wooyoung was the first to break the silence, his tone tinged with disbelief. "Who’s… she?"

San opened his mouth, closed it again, then ran a hand through his hair in frustration. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to be here. He had been sure the chromer would teleport you back to your world, far away from his chaotic reality. But somehow, you were here, standing in his realm, right next to him.

“I—uh—this wasn’t supposed to happen,” San stammered, glancing at you and then at his friends.

You looked at him, your voice soft but steady despite the strangeness of it all. “San… why am I here?”

Before he could answer, Yunho stepped forward, his tall frame imposing but his tone kind. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me this is the girl you’ve been talking about?” He gave San a knowing look, a sly smirk tugging at his lips.

San groaned inwardly. “Yes, but—listen, this wasn’t the plan. She wasn’t supposed to come here.”

“Well, she’s here now,” Seonghwa chimed in, crossing his arms. His gaze flickered to you, assessing but not unkind. “What are you going to do about it?”

San’s mind raced. He turned to you, his tone softening. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how this happened. I thought the chromer would send you back to your world.”

You blinked, taking a hesitant step closer to him. “So… this is your world? Your realm?”

San nodded slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line. He could see the questions swirling in your eyes, but what caught him off guard was the faint flicker of awe. You weren’t panicking; instead, you were looking around with cautious curiosity.

“Okay, hold up,” Wooyoung interrupted, stepping between the two of you with a playful grin. “This is kind of amazing. She’s here, Sannie. Isn’t that… good?”

San shot him a glare. “That’s not the point.”

“So what are we gonna do now?” Mingi piped up, his voice heavy. He gestured at you dramatically, “we have a child with us”

You look at him with an offended face “I'm not a child. Just because you got an extra 1ft up your butt doesn't mean I'm a child”

San sighed, rubbing his temples. This was a problem. But atleast his friends were enjoying this more than they should, but deep down, a part of him couldn’t deny the strange sense of relief. You were here. With him. It wasn’t what he had planned, but maybe… just maybe, this wasn’t a bad thing.

“I don't know,” San muttered, glancing at you. “You’re here now. We’ll figure this out together.”

“i don't trust any of you, just take me somewhere safe”

San flinched slightly at your blunt tone. His friends exchanged amused glances, but there was a hint of curiosity in their eyes as they sized you up.As you walked, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of their gazes—some curious, others amused—but it was San's quiet presence beside you that gave you a strange sense of reassurance. Maybe, just maybe, you could trust him. For now.

"Safe?" Wooyoung echoed, placing a hand dramatically on his chest. "You wounded me! We are the definition of safe."

You crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, sure. If safe means being surrounded by a bunch of guys who probably argue over who gets the last slice of pizza."

Wooyoung gasped in mock outrage while Yunho let out a deep chuckle. "She’s not wrong," Yunho admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

"Guys, can we focus?" San snapped, rubbing his temples again. He turned to you, his expression softening despite the frustration evident in his voice. "Look, I understand this is overwhelming. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. But I promise, no one here is going to hurt you. You’re safe with us."

You glanced around at the group, noting the mix of playful energy and genuine care in their faces. Still, the situation felt too surreal, and trust wasn’t something you handed out easily.

"Fine," you said reluctantly, though your posture remained guarded. "But if anyone tries anything funny, I’ll…" You trailed off, looking down at your empty hands. "I’ll… figure something out," you finished awkwardly.

Seonghwa smirked, his voice calm and teasing. "Noted. No funny business."

Behind you, Mingi whispered loudly to Jongho, "She’s feisty. I like her."

San shot him a glare over his shoulder. "Not helping, Mingi."

Hongjoong and yeosang, who had been quietly observing from the back, finally decided to chime in.

Hongjoong adjusted his captain’s hat and gave a dramatic sigh. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, stepping forward and crossing his arms. “San accidentally brought you here, and now we’re babysitting?”

"Not a child," you snapped again, glaring at him.

Yeosang tilted his head, his calm demeanor in stark contrast to the chaos around him. “She has a point,” he said simply. “But the bigger question is, what are we going to do now? We don’t even know how she fits into this.”

You frowned, feeling like you were being talked about like some kind of puzzle piece. “I’m standing right here, you know. Maybe ask me instead of acting like I’m some sort of problem.”

San sighed, clearly at his wit’s end. “Hongjoong, Yeosang, can we not make this worse? She’s already stressed out enough.”

“Worse?” Hongjoong raised an eyebrow. “You mean worse than accidentally dragging someone into our realm? Yeah, okay, San, sure. Not worse at all.”

Yeosang shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Well, she’s here now. Might as well make the best of it.”

You glanced between them, trying to gauge if they were as unpredictable as the others. "Are these two always this cryptic?" you asked, pointing at Hongjoong and Yeosang.

“Cryptic?” Yeosang repeated, almost amused. “No. I’d say I’m more… realistic.”

“And I’m the strategist,” Hongjoong added, smirking. “Which is why I’m asking the important questions. Like what exactly you plan to do while you’re here.”

You sighed, exasperated. “I didn’t plan anything! I didn’t ask to be here!”

San, sensing the tension rising again, stepped in quickly. “Okay, that’s enough. We can figure everything out once we’ve all calmed down.”

Hongjoong shrugged, falling back into step with the group. “Fair enough. But don’t think I’m letting this slide, San. We’re going to need answers.”

Yeosang gave you a small nod, his calm gaze meeting yours. “You’ll be fine. We’re not as bad as we look.”

You weren’t entirely convinced, but something about Yeosang’s steady demeanor was oddly comforting. Still, as you followed the group deeper into the unknown, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something much bigger.

The tent was much larger on the inside than it seemed, a testament to the strange realm you’d been dragged into. The small room San and Wooyoung led you to was simple but cozy—there was a bed with neatly folded blankets, a small wooden table, and a lantern casting a soft glow across the space.

“Here,” San said, gesturing toward the bed. “It’s not much, but you’ll be comfortable.”

Wooyoung grinned, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Don’t get used to the royal treatment, though. We’re only doing this because someone—” he threw a pointed look at San, “—messed up.”

San rolled his eyes, clearly ignoring Wooyoung’s jab. “Get some rest. We’ll figure everything out tomorrow.”

The two of them left, closing the door behind them. You sat on the edge of the bed, sighing as the muffled voices of the group reached you. They were having a meeting about you, their tones ranging from curious to concerned.

It was only then that you noticed something odd about this room. It felt… lived in. A small detail here, a personal touch there. Then it hit you—this was San’s room.

The realization was confirmed when you heard Wooyoung loudly teasing San outside.

“You’re really giving up your room for her? You’re softer than I thought,” Wooyoung said, cackling.

“Shut up,” San replied, sounding exasperated. “I brought her here. It’s my responsibility to make sure she’s okay.”

“You could’ve just given her my room,” Mingi’s voice chimed in, indignant.

“No way,” San shot back. “She’s my problem. I’ll crash with Yeosang.”

“I didn't ask for this, why does my consent not matter?”

Everyone ignored yeosang.

You blinked, surprised by the admission. He was going out of his way to make you comfortable, even at his own expense. Despite everything, a small part of you felt… touched.

Back in the main area, the conversation continued.

“So, what’s the plan?” Hongjoong asked, his voice sharp and commanding.

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” San said firmly. “She’s been through enough for one day.”

“You’re taking this pretty seriously,” Yeosang observed, his tone neutral but laced with curiosity.

“Because I’m the one who messed up,” San replied.

You lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was strange being in this world, surrounded by people who were so different yet oddly familiar. You couldn’t help but wonder how long this would last—and what San’s words really meant.

As the muffled voices outside the room grew louder, it became apparent that San's friends were thoroughly enjoying the situation at his expense.

You soon realised that wooyoung guy would not leave San alone about the fact that he has brought you here.

"San," Wooyoung's teasing tone cut through the chatter, "what’s the deal with you and the girl, huh? She gets your room and your undivided attention. Should we start planning a wedding?”

San groaned audibly, likely rubbing his temples again. "Wooyoung, shut up."

Mingi jumped in with a laugh. "Nah, but seriously, you’re awfully protective, don’t you think? I’ve never seen you this flustered."

“Maybe San has a crush,” Seonghwa chimed in, his usually composed voice dripping with amusement.

“I do not have a crush,” San snapped. "I’m just trying to fix my mistake. That’s it."

Hongjoong chuckled, crossing his arms. "You know, San, your ‘mistake’ is starting to feel less like an accident and more like fate."

Even Yeosang, who rarely joined in on teasing, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You did seem pretty quick to give up your room for her. Very... gallant of you.”

Jongho grinned, leaning back against the tent wall. "Should we be worried? What if this becomes a thing? Next thing we know, he’s ditching missions to hang out with her."

“Guys,” San groaned, his voice rising in frustration, “I swear, if you don’t stop—”

“San and the mystery girl sitting in a tree—” Wooyoung started singing obnoxiously, only to be interrupted by Seonghwa laughing so hard he had to lean on Mingi for support.

“Alright, enough!” San finally snapped, his face undoubtedly red from a mix of anger and embarrassment. “She’s not a child, she’s not my crush, and she’s not my girlfriend. She’s just—she’s here because of me, okay? I’m taking responsibility!”

His declaration only earned him a chorus of exaggerated "ooohs" and smirks from his friends.

“Whatever you say, Romeo,” Hongjoong said, winking.

From inside the room, you couldn’t help but overhear every word. You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. These guys might’ve been a handful, but there was something oddly comforting about the way they teased San. And for some reason, knowing he was defending you—even against his friends—made your heart flutter just a little.

The next morning, the sound of a light knock on the door pulled you from sleep. As you groggily opened your eyes, Jongho stood at the entrance, arms crossed, his usual stoic expression softening ever so slightly.

“Get up,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “I’m in charge of you today. San’s orders. We’re starting with shooting practice.”

Still half-asleep, you blinked at him. “Shooting?”

Jongho nodded, walking over to a corner where a small handgun rested in a holster. “This world isn’t safe. You need to know how to defend yourself. If you’re going to stick around, you can’t be useless.”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” you muttered under your breath, dragging yourself out of bed.

Once outside, Jongho led you to an open field near the camp, where targets had been set up against a cluster of trees. He handed you the gun, explaining the basics of safety and handling in his usual no-nonsense manner.

“Okay,” he said, stepping back. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Aim at the target.”

You took a deep breath, gripping the gun tightly and lining up the shot. To your surprise—and his—you hit the target on your first try.

Jongho raised an eyebrow. “Not bad,” he admitted, a flicker of surprise in his tone. “But your stance is all wrong. You’re gripping it too hard, and your feet are too close together.”

Before you could react, you fired again. This time, the recoil sent you stumbling backward, nearly losing your balance. Jongho caught you by the arm, steadying you with ease.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” he said, his expression softening just a little. “You’ve got good aim, but if you don’t fix your posture, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

He stepped closer, adjusting your grip and positioning your arms with surprising patience. His hands were firm but careful as he guided you.

“Feet shoulder-width apart,” he instructed, nudging your leg with his boot. “And don’t lock your elbows. Let the gun’s recoil flow through you, not against you.”

You followed his instructions, firing again. This time, the shot landed perfectly, and you barely felt the recoil.

Jongho nodded approvingly. “Better. Keep practicing like that, and you might actually survive out here.”

A small smile crept onto your lips. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

As the morning went on, the two of you continued practicing. While Jongho’s usual stoicism remained, you couldn’t help but notice the faint glimmer of pride in his eyes every time you improved. Despite his tough exterior, there was something reassuring about his presence, and for the first time, you felt like you could truly hold your own in this strange, dangerous world.

Later that day, as the group gathered around their makeshift campfire, Jongho casually brought up the morning’s events.

“She’s good at aiming,” he said simply, crossing his arms as he leaned back against a log.

Yunho immediately seized the opportunity, his face lighting up with a mischievous grin. “Oh, I bet she is. She already pierced San’s heart.”

The group erupted into laughter, a mix of playful jabs and exaggerated gasps.

“Classic Yunho,” Mingi chuckled, nudging San with his elbow. “You gonna deny it?”

To everyone’s surprise, San didn’t snap back or brush it off like he usually did. Instead, he glanced down at the fire, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.

“I—” he started, but then shook his head, letting out a small, almost shy laugh. “I’m not even going to argue with you guys.”

The laughter paused for a moment as everyone processed what he’d just said.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Wooyoung leaned forward, his eyes wide. “Did San just admit to something? Did I hear that right?”

“Mark this day,” Hongjoong said dramatically, pretending to jot something down. “The day San didn’t deny his feelings.”

Yeosang smirked, his usual quiet demeanor replaced by a rare glint of amusement. “Looks like someone’s getting soft.”

San groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You’re all insufferable.”

“But you love us,” Seonghwa teased with a knowing smile, earning more laughter from the group.

Jongho, watching the chaos unfold, couldn’t help but smirk. “All I said was she’s good at aiming. You guys took it and ran.”

“Yeah, but you have to admit,” Yunho said, still grinning, “jongho said she hit the most important target without even trying.”

San rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. As much as his friends teased him, there was no denying the truth they’d managed to uncover so easily.

As you sat on the edge of the camp, your eyes drifted to where Wooyoung, San, and Yeosang were huddled together. The way they bantered and laughed, their easy camaraderie so natural, made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t expected.

They were teasing each other relentlessly, Wooyoung doubling over in laughter while Yeosang calmly delivered a comeback that made San groan dramatically.

You sighed, pulling your knees up to your chest. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. Not because you didn’t like them being close, but because you wished you had something like that—best friends who knew you so well, who could make you laugh even in the most stressful situations, who felt like home.

The loneliness you’d carried for so long suddenly felt heavier. You tried to push it away, but the thought lingered. What would it feel like to be part of something like that?

Wooyoung caught your gaze first, his playful smile faltering when he noticed your expression. Nudging San with his elbow, he nodded in your direction.

San followed his glance, his brows furrowing when he saw you. Without hesitation, he stood up and motioned for Yeosang and Wooyoung to follow him.

“Hey,” San called out as they approached. “What are you doing all the way over here?”

You shrugged, forcing a smile. “Just sitting.”

Wooyoung plopped down next to you, resting his chin in his hand. “You looked like you were deep in thought. Care to share with the class?”

Yeosang sat on your other side, his calm presence immediately grounding. “Something bothering you?” he asked softly.

You hesitated, not wanting to admit what you were feeling. “It’s nothing. Just… thinking about stuff.”

The conversation earlier left you feeling a little lighter, but not entirely. As the evening rolled in and everyone busied themselves with their tasks, you retreated to the small room San had given up for you. Sitting on the bed, you stared at the wall, lost in thought.

A soft knock on the door broke the silence. “It’s me,” San’s voice came through. “Can I come in?”

You hesitated, then called out, “Yeah, sure.”

The door creaked open, and San stepped inside, closing it gently behind him. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly. “I’m fine.”

San raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You didn’t seem fine earlier. You’ve been quiet ever since. What’s going on?”

You looked away, gripping the edge of the bed. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t pull that with me,” he said, his tone soft but firm. “You can talk to me. I won’t judge you.”

Something about his sincerity broke through the wall you were trying so hard to keep up. With a sigh, you finally admitted, “I felt jealous earlier. Watching you and your friends… I don’t have anything like that. I never did.”

San’s brows furrowed as he moved closer, sitting down across from you. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “I don’t have those kinds of bonds. Not with my family, and definitely not with friends. I’ve always been… on my own. Watching you all laugh and support each other just made me realize what I’m missing.”

The room went silent for a moment. San’s gaze softened, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something more serious. “You’ve been carrying that around all this time?”

You shrugged, trying to brush it off. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve managed this far.”

San shook his head. “No, it is a big deal. You shouldn’t have to feel that way.”

You looked down, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just how it is. I’ve learned to deal with it.”

San reached out, gently placing a hand over yours. “You don’t have to deal with it alone anymore. You have us now. You have me now.”

His words made your chest tighten, but this time, it wasn’t out of sadness. It was the comfort you hadn’t realized you needed.

“You really mean that?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

San smiled, a warmth in his eyes that made you feel a little less alone. “I do. We’re here for you. And I’m here for you, no matter what.”

San's words lingered in the air, heavy with sincerity, but you couldn’t bring yourself to fully accept them. You’d heard promises like that before—words meant to comfort, to soothe—but they rarely held up. People always said they’d be there, and yet, when it mattered most, they disappeared.

You offered him a faint smile, hoping it was enough to convince him you were okay. “Thanks, San. I appreciate it.”

But deep down, the wall you’d built around yourself refused to budge. You couldn’t afford to let it down, not when experience had taught you that trust came with consequences.

San tilted his head, studying you for a moment. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

Your breath hitched, but you quickly shook your head. “It’s not that. I just… I’m not used to this. It’ll take time.”

He frowned, leaning forward slightly. “I get it. I can’t change what’s happened to you before. But I want you to know I’m not like that. None of us are. When we say you’re part of this now, we mean it.”

You wanted to believe him, wanted to let those words sink in, but the scars of broken trust ran too deep. Instead, you nodded, giving him another polite, distant response. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

San’s shoulders slumped slightly, like he knew he hadn’t quite reached you. But he didn’t push further. Instead, he stood, looking at you with a quiet determination. “Alright. Take your time. I’ll just have to prove it to you.”

You nod your head hesitantly. Doubts still circling your mind.

“You keep saying that, but I know you’re not gonna. You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I wish you would.”

For a long moment, the room was silent. Finally, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to do this, San. Trust people. Believe that they’ll stay. I’ve been let down too many times.”

San’s gaze softened, and he leaned forward slightly. “I get it. I do. But… not everyone is going to hurt you. Not me.”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “How can you say that? You don’t know what the future holds. People change, San. They leave.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his tone steady. “But I’m here now, and I’m not planning to go anywhere. I mean it.”

You looked at him, searching his face for any sign of insincerity. There was none. Still, you shook your head, your walls refusing to come down. “You don’t understand, San. I’ve heard those words before.”

He stayed quiet for a moment, then stood and extended a hand toward you. “Come with me.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Just… trust me. For tonight,” he said, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.

Hesitant, you took his hand. He led you out of the room and through the quiet camp, eventually stopping in a small clearing lit by the moon. The rest of the group was nowhere in sight, leaving the two of you surrounded by stillness.

“I wanted to show you something,” San said, letting go of your hand and stepping back. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, worn object—a charm.

You tilted your head. “What’s that?”

“It’s something my mom gave me before I left home,” he explained, his voice carrying a mix of nostalgia and warmth. “She told me to hold onto it whenever I felt lost or unsure. And I wanted you to have it.”

Your eyes widened. “San, I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted gently, stepping closer. “You’re not alone anymore. And even if you don’t believe me now, I’ll keep proving it until you do.”

The sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes—it broke something in you. Tears welled up despite your efforts to hold them back.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, your voice trembling.

“Because you matter to me,” he said simply. “More than you know.”

The walls you’d built so carefully began to crack. Slowly, you nodded, accepting the charm. “Okay,” you whispered. “I’ll try. For you.”

San smiled, his relief palpable. “That’s all I ask.”

As the night stretched on, the two of you stayed there, talking quietly under the stars. And for the first time in a long time, you felt a spark of hope—a belief that maybe, just maybe, you’d finally found someone who wouldn’t leave.

In the weeks that followed, something began to shift. San kept his promise, showing up in ways you hadn’t expected. Whether it was a warm cup of tea when you couldn’t sleep, a steadying hand during training, or simply sitting beside you in silence when you needed it most, he proved his words with actions.

The group noticed, of course. Wooyoung teased San relentlessly, while Yunho and Mingi exchanged knowing looks. Even Yeosang, usually reserved, smiled faintly when he caught you two sharing quiet moments.

Slowly but surely, you found yourself opening up—not just to San, but to the rest of the group. Hongjoong taught you about navigation, Jongho helped you refine your aim, and Seonghwa shared stories of his childhood that made you laugh until your sides hurt. For the first time in your life, you felt like you belonged.

One evening, after a long day of training, you sat with San on a hill overlooking the camp. The sky was painted in hues of orange and pink, the sun dipping low on the horizon.

“You’ve changed,” San said softly, his gaze fixed on you.

You raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Oh? How so?”

“You’re smiling more,” he said, his own lips curving into a grin. “And I think you’re starting to trust us.”

You looked out at the horizon, the warmth of his words settling in your chest. “Maybe I am,” you admitted. “It’s… nice, having people to rely on.”

San chuckled, leaning back on his hands. “Well, you’ve got us now. And we’re not going anywhere.”

You turned to him, your heart swelling with something you hadn’t felt in a long time: gratitude. “Thank you, San. For everything.”

He met your gaze, his eyes soft and sincere. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad you’re here.”

As the sun set and the first stars began to appear, you realized something profound. This wasn’t just a group of people who had taken you in. They were your family now—a family you’d fought to find, and one you knew would stand by you no matter what.

And as for San? Well, maybe—just maybe—he was your beginning, the start of a life you never thought you’d have.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t looking back at what you’d lost. Instead, you were looking forward—to a future filled with hope, laughter, and the people who made your heart feel whole.

But then,you felt it. The warmth of him moving closer. You hated that you liked the way he moved around you like he belonged there. Like he owned the whole place, including you.

“You’re doing great,” he said, voice low by your ear, “But you know I don’t like it when you stress over this stuff alone.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine.”

But then,betrayal. Your stomach growled. Loud. You froze. Yeosang’s smirk grew wider, the audacity dripping from every inch of him. “Are you, though?”

“Don’t.”

“I will.”

You elbowed him half-heartedly, cheeks warming, but he caught your arm gently before you could fully pull away.

“Sit,” he said, soft but final. “I’ll finish stirring. You explain your homework to me. Win-win.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious. “Since when do you cook for me?”

“Since I got tired of watching you nearly pass out before dinner.”

Cocky and caring. Disgusting.

So, you sat. Let him take the wooden spoon like it was his birthright, sleeves already rolled, rings catching the light. And there he was, stirring like he was born to be a husband, stealing glances at you every few seconds like you wouldn’t notice.

You hated how good this felt. You hated that it didn’t feel forced. You hated that you almost wanted to lean your head on his shoulder right then and there.

But most of all,you hated that you were starting to love being his. And he knew it.

The bastard knew.

You glanced down at your phone, thumb scrolling lazily until the notification popped up,buried in your notes app, wedged between grocery lists and half-done assignments.

Dad’s birthday. Mom invited us.

A pause.

A day before. Both of us. Why.

The reminder sat there like an unwanted guest in your head. Ironic, really. They never celebrated his birthday before. Never a cake, never a dinner, never a mention. And now suddenly they were throwing a get-together with invitations and everything,right after you got married.

It didn’t take a genius to piece it together. You could almost feel it under your skin. Like this wasn’t a celebration,it was a statement. Their way of parading you around, showing people that you were finally “settled,” finally doing something they could brag about at family gatherings. Finally being useful.

Gross.

You glanced up from your screen, the bitter thought still lingering, just in time to see Yeosang walking back into the living room, rolling the sleeves of his black button-up further up his forearms as he moved. His watch caught the light when he adjusted it, veins on the back of his hand standing out in that stupid way that made you look even when you didn’t want to. Shirt slightly untucked like he’d gotten home from work and didn’t care to fix it. Slacks loose but perfect on him, casual yet expensive. His hair was still slightly messy from running his hands through it, a habit you noticed when he was thinking too hard,or irritated,or, worse, watching you.

Effortlessly hot. The kind of hot that made you annoyed on principle. He didn’t even try. It wasn’t fair.

He sat on the edge of the couch, spreading his legs slightly without meaning to, long fingers lazily undoing the first button of his shirt. Comfort. Casual. Not for show. Just him existing, unaware that it made your throat go dry for no reason other than spite.

You swallowed, tried to act normal, even though normal around him was becoming increasingly difficult.

“So,” you finally broke the silence, tossing your phone onto the cushion beside you. “Did she invite your dad?”

He tilted his head a little, processing, eyes on yours now. Sharp. Heavy. “Yeah. On the day itself.”

“But she asked us to come earlier.”

“Apparently.”

You hated how even his voice was hot. Low, smooth, slightly raspy at the edges like he hadn’t spoken much today. Like he saved his words for you and you alone. The worst part? He wasn’t even doing it on purpose. Just existing like that.

“And do you know why?”

He shrugged lazily, thumb brushing his lower lip for a second as he thought. “Maybe they wanna parade us around early. Maybe they wanna test me.” He glanced at you, one brow barely lifting. “Maybe they’re just bored.”

You sighed. “Or maybe they just wanna show off that they finally got rid of me.”

His gaze sharpened,not with pity, not with softness. Something else. Something sharper. Like he was filing the information away somewhere deep. You were used to people looking at you like you were fragile glass. Yeosang didn’t do that. He just listened, stored it, remembered.

“You’re not something to ‘get rid of,’” he finally said, steady. Quiet. “They’re stupid if they think that.”

You looked away, feeling the sting of those words, not because they were sharp,but because they were gentle in a way you didn’t expect from him.

“I don’t care what they think,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the coffee table.

And maybe you were telling the truth. Maybe you weren’t. Didn’t matter.

Yeosang leaned back against the couch like he had all the time in the world. Long legs, sleeves rolled, one hand resting against his stomach, fingertips idly brushing his rings. The picture of relaxed power. “Doesn’t matter what they think,” he said again, slower this time. “You’re with me now.”

Not possessive. Not demanding. Just a fact he laid out like gravity, like physics, like it couldn’t be argued with. He wasn’t claiming you.

He was reminding you.

And you hated,hated,how much that stupid, effortless heat of his made your heart betray you. Just a little more. Just enough to make you feel the slow burn starting to creep under your skin again.

You both went. Bags packed neatly, yours folded properly, his thrown together last minute like he didn’t care, but of course he did, you knew by now that he cared about everything. Before you left, Yeosang had held up the necklace and the rings, both matching, both expensive, both screaming his. He didn’t even argue, didn’t raise his voice, didn’t try to sweet-talk you into it. He just looked at you. And with him, that was enough.

“I don’t like wearing so much-”

“Wear it,” he cut you off softly, standing close enough that you could smell his cologne, expensive and warm. “Trust me.”

So you did.

Hair done. Jewelry on. Wearing the cardigan he got you last week because he knows you fidget with sleeves, layered over the designer dress that fit too well to be coincidence. Rings catching the sunlight. Necklace resting against your collarbone, delicate but clearly worth more than your dad’s entire car. Everything about you said: untouchable.

But the real final touch?

Yeosang’s hand. Wrapping around yours, warm, steady, undeniable. Like a quiet statement.

When you walked into your family’s house, you didn’t have to say a word.

The look on your mother’s face was priceless. The pause. The flicker of disbelief behind her carefully practiced smile. She didn’t expect this. Not the jewelry. Not the designer clothes. Not the calm way you carried yourself like you belonged in that skin now. And certainly not the way Yeosang stood beside you like you were his entire world on display. Not proud, not showing off, just present. Solid. Real. Someone no one could touch.

It wasn’t just the clothes or the money, it was the weight behind it.

He wasn’t showing you off. He was protecting you. Dressing you in armor you didn’t even realize you’d been missing your whole life.

You didn’t need him to tell you why anymore.

You saw it written all over your mother’s face: this was a game she wasn’t winning anymore.

And when Yeosang squeezed your hand gently, not too hard, not too soft, you finally understood:

He wanted them to see.

Your mother greeted you with that smile, the one she wore to every social event, every uncomfortable conversation, the one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Like clockwork, the passive-aggressive commentary started before you’d even set your bags down.

“Well,” she hummed, eyeing the necklace around your throat, “finally wearing something proper now, aren’t you? Marriage must be doing you well.”

You swallowed. Familiar sting. Same routine. You were used to it. You braced yourself, ready to just nod and let it slide, like always.

But then, Yeosang spoke.

“Yeah,” he said smoothly, like honey with a sharp edge. “She always looks good. But I guess money makes it easier to see, doesn’t it?” You blinked.

Your mom’s smile tightened, sharp as glass. “Of course. Not everyone’s used to that kind of lifestyle.”

Yeosang let out a soft hum, nonchalant, barely acknowledging the insult. “True. But I like giving her things. Makes up for the years she didn’t get them.”

You felt it then, that shift in the air. Like someone opened a window in a stale room. Fresh, biting, unexpected. Your mom’s eyes flickered to yours like she wanted backup, but you weren’t giving it. Not now. Not with him standing next to you like that, calm, sharp, dangerous without even raising his voice.

“Oh, well, we managed just fine before,” she tried again, tone syrupy sweet, eyes narrowing slightly.

Yeosang’s lips twitched,bnot a smirk, just something close. Something controlled. “Yeah. I saw.”

That was it. No yelling. No scenes. Just a few precisely chosen words, placed like knives on fine china. Clean. Silent. Lethal. And you? You were standing next to him, trying to remember how to breathe, because, God, how was he this hot right now? Not just physically, though the rolled sleeves, the watch, the perfectly tailored black slacks were not helping, but mentally. Emotionally. Intellectually. Attractive in the way that made your knees weak because he was on your side. Not just tolerating you. Defending you. Matching every jab with ease, making it seem effortless, like he’d been trained for this.

Because he had. And that’s when it hit you like a punch to the gut—

Oh no. You were in trouble. Real, real trouble.

Because you were falling for this man.

Your mother, visibly swallowing her pride, gave one last flicker of that brittle smile before waving you both off with a tight, “You know the way. Your room’s ready.” Defeated. For the first time, she didn’t have the last word. And that alone felt like fireworks under your skin.

You both went upstairs. Same old room. Same faded wallpaper, same creaking door, same window with the view of nothing in particular. It felt smaller now, too small with him standing there, tall, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled up, the sharp line of his jaw set like stone, rings glinting on his fingers as he tossed the bags down like he owned the whole damn town.

You didn’t even look at him as you spoke, folding your arms awkwardly, eyes locked on the carpet. “It’s… not as big as your place. Sorry.”

You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe some old leftover habit from constantly apologizing for things that weren’t your fault. You hated that it slipped out.

Yeosang tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was studying a new painting. And then, cool as ever, voice low, warm, dangerous in that stupid effortless way—

“I don’t need the room to be big,” he murmured. “I just need you in it.”

And just like that, oxygen left the room. No teasing, no cocky smirk. Just facts. Solid. Like of course that’s what he thought. Why wouldn’t he?

You wanted to punch something. Mainly because, why the hell did that sound the most genuine and hottest than anything you’d ever heard in your entire life?

You stared at him, heat rising to your cheeks, half from embarrassment, half from pure rage. “Don’t-don’t say shit like that!” you snapped, voice a little louder than you intended, biting at the edges.

Yeosang just lifted his hands like he was fending you off, palms up, rings catching the light. “I said what I said,” he answered, completely unbothered. No teasing grin, no cocky expression, just plain honesty delivered like a punch straight to your throat.

Infuriating.

You stomped off toward the bathroom before you said something stupid, muttering curses under your breath as you went. The old door creaked as you shut it, hands gripping the sink like you could squeeze your irritation into the porcelain. You washed your feet quickly, letting the cold water ground you, but the second you stepped back into the room, something was different.

The suitcases.

Yours, unzipped neatly, placed by the old dresser like it belonged there. His already halfway unpacked, shirts folded sharp, belts coiled perfectly. Like he hadn’t just been flirting with you five minutes ago, like he wasn’t casually flipping your entire life inside out.

You blinked, standing there awkwardly with wet feet on the faded carpet. He didn’t even look at you. He was by the suitcase, rolling his sleeves back down now, slowly, like this was some kind of ritual.

Effortlessly hot. Domestic. Dangerous.

“Didn’t ask you to unpack,” you muttered, feeling small.

“I was doing mine anyway,” he replied simply, folding another black shirt and sliding it into the drawer like he’d done it a thousand times. “And besides, you looked tired.”

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t kind. It was matter-of-fact, like the sky being blue or the floor being under your feet.

And God,why did that make your stomach twist more than anything else?

You never really expected to marry someone. The idea of sharing your life, your space, your routines, it never felt real. Not because you hated love or feared commitment or any of that dramatic nonsense. No. It just… never seemed like you. You were the quiet one. The invisible daughter. The one people forgot to ask opinions from. The one who learned to thrive in silence. You were used to shrinking into spaces, not opening them up for someone else to walk into. And yet, here you were.

Married to a man who didn’t just walk into your life, he walked in, kicked the door open, threw a damn rug down and started rearranging furniture. Not loudly. Not rudely. Just… unapologetically. Existing in your space like he belonged there.

And worse? He fit. Too well.

You didn’t know what kind of divine comedy this was, but it was definitely messing with your heart. Because that dumb organ was doing little flips and somersaults every time he folded your clothes without being asked, or poured water into your cup before filling his own, or carried your bag like it was an extension of his arm. He never made a show of it. Never called it out.

He just did things. Like you mattered. Like he noticed you. And maybe that scared you more than anything else ever had.

But if he was going to do this,this husband-thing, then maybe, just maybe, he deserved a little space in your world too. Not the one built by your family. Not the name they tried to carry like a badge of shame. Your world. The one you made with your tiny comforts, your small joys, your quiet favorite places.

So, after unpacking, you stood in the middle of the room, fingers brushing over the rings he told you to wear. Still warm from your skin. Still heavy with meaning.

“I want to take you somewhere,” you said quietly, barely above a whisper.

Yeosang, who had just set down his cologne bottle onto the dresser, paused. Then turned to face you fully. “Yeah?” he asked, voice calm but something sparking behind his eyes.

You nodded, awkwardly playing with your sleeve. “Just… somewhere I go when I need to breathe.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just studied you with that unreadable expression, the one that made it feel like he was seeing parts of you even you didn’t know existed. Then, slowly, his lips tugged into something small. Not a smirk. Not a grin. Just, soft. Warm.

“I’d like that.”

You weren’t ready for how much those three words meant. For the way they made your chest feel tight. He didn’t ask where. Didn’t demand an explanation. He just grabbed a jacket, slung it over one arm, and said, “Lead the way.”

And you knew.

You knew at that moment, he wasn’t just some random name attached to your family’s pride. He wasn’t just a title, or a deal, or a man with money and power.

He was someone who, whether you liked it or not, had already started building a room inside your life.

The cold air bit at your nose as you stepped out, jacket wrapped around you tightly. You didn’t say much on the way, just gave Yeosang a look when he asked where you were taking him, and he didn’t push. Just followed behind you with steady footsteps, jacket slung casually over his arm, black boots echoing on the pavement like something out of a drama.

He looked so out of place in your world.

In his all-black outfit, hair styled just enough to look like he didn’t try, cologne subtle but warm—he was the kind of man who belonged in sleek lounges or high-rise penthouses. Not on this quiet street with chipped sidewalks and flickering neon signs. But you didn’t tell him that. Because a part of you wanted to see if he could fit here too.

You stopped in front of a small corner building, glass windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. A sign above the door, painted in soft pink and cream:

Whiskers & Tails Café.

He raised a brow. “A pet café?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Yeah.”

Then pushed open the door and stepped in.

Warmth greeted you instantly, both from the heaters and from the familiar scent of fur, coffee, and the faintest trace of vanilla-scented candles. The bell jingled above as you walked in, and the moment your face appeared, a sleepy golden retriever in the corner perked up, tail thudding against the floor.

It wasn’t just any pet café. It was yours. You volunteered here when you could. Cleaned kennels, fed them, played with them, sometimes just sat with the animals when the world outside was too loud. This place had always been your safe space.

And now… he was here.

You didn’t look at him as you unwrapped your scarf. Just mumbled, “I come here sometimes. Help out. Thought I’d check on them since we’re in town.”

Yeosang stood at the entrance for a moment, hands in his coat pockets. You expected him to make a comment. Something dry or sarcastic. Something about you being secretly soft-hearted.

But instead—

A small kitten, tabby with white paws, padded up to his feet. He knelt down. Not just crouched, fully knelt. One knee on the floor, hand out gently, voice soft.

“Hey, little guy.”

The kitten mewed and immediately rubbed its face against his fingers. Yeosang chuckled.

You blinked.

Then watched, absolutely dumbfounded, as the man you thought only cared about suits, expensive watches, and control, started going around the café… greeting every animal.

One by one.

Petting the large dogs with careful hands. Letting a sleepy cat climb onto his lap like it owned him. Even playing tug-of-war with a tiny puppy who definitely wasn’t winning, but Yeosang still made it feel like it was.

You didn’t know what to do with that information.

You sat down on the sofa and let the old Pomeranian you always fed climb onto your lap. You watched him, arms crossed, as he laughed when a kitten climbed into his coat. He made himself at home like he’d been there a hundred times.

You narrowed your eyes from your seat on the couch. “You good down there or are they starting a coup?”

Without looking up, he deadpanned, “I think this one’s the leader,” pointing to the tiny kitten who had now decided to nap on his thigh. “She’s got the eyes of a war general.”

You snorted, petting the sleepy Pomeranian curled into your lap. “Didn’t peg you for an animal person.”

“I’m not,” he said, while simultaneously adjusting the kitten’s head so she was more comfortable. “I’m just very approachable, apparently.”

“Oh yeah, that resting mafia face is super welcoming.”

He finally looked up at you, one brow raised. “Says the woman who stomps like a ghost when she walks and never makes eye contact.”

“That’s stealth,” you argued. “That’s a skill.”

“Sure,” he said dryly. “That’s exactly why the cat followed you the moment you walked in. Real ninja energy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe I smell like food.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” he replied, brushing fur off his pants. “You were navigating my kitchen like it owed you rent.”

“I was cooking, not robbing it.”

“You even found where I hide the sugar.”

“…You hid the sugar?”

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation. “You don’t need that much caffeine.”

You stared at him, offended. “You don’t even live in your kitchen!”

“And yet somehow, you’ve claimed it. Like it’s your natural habitat.”

A kitten chose that exact moment to sneeze on his hand, making him flinch slightly. You burst out laughing. “Oh yes, very majestic. You’re really commanding the animal kingdom right now.”

He shook his head, trying not to smile. “I literally own weapons and yet I’m being taken hostage by a two-pound furball.”

“Whiskers is the boss around here,” you said, pointing at the kitten in his lap. “Bow to her or be banished.”

Yeosang let out a soft laugh, real, low, warm, and scratched Whiskers under her chin. “At least she’s nicer than your mom.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh my God.”

“What?” he shrugged. “Whiskers didn’t say I was a waste of good suits.”

You tried to look scandalized, but you couldn’t help the laugh bubbling out of you. It was rare, laughing like this. Laughing with him. You weren’t supposed to be this comfortable. This… normal.

Yeosang glanced at you then, just briefly. “You laugh more when we’re not in your house.”

You blinked. “You notice that?”

He looked back down at the kitten, brushing his fingers through her fur. “I notice everything.”

And there it was. That stupid warmth again.

The air was cool and quiet as you and Yeosang walked down the familiar streets back home, the sun dipping just low enough to wash everything in that soft golden haze. Your feet were starting to ache, but you didn’t say anything. Mostly because Yeosang was already holding your bag, slung effortlessly over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

You did huffed, but didn’t argue. And maybe, just maybe, you liked the way it felt. Having someone quietly notice the things you struggled with and not making a big deal about helping.

You reached your house just as the golden light began to fade, the front porch casting long shadows. Yeosang’s grip on your bag shifted slightly as he pushed the door open for you, and the moment you stepped inside—

There she was.

Your mother. Standing there like she’d been waiting. That same tight-lipped smile that somehow looked more like a challenge than a greeting. “Where have you both been?” she asked, voice dripping with sweetness that somehow stung more than actual venom.

You shrugged off your shoes. “Places.”

She blinked. “Places?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

That smile wavered for just a second. “Well, as long as you’re not wandering around wasting time. Married life shouldn’t distract you from your responsibilities. Your husband might not always be so forgiving.”

You opened your mouth, ready to respond, or maybe just sigh, but Yeosang beat you to it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, setting your bag down gently, tone sugary-sweet and razor-sharp. “I’m more than forgiving. I even let her choose the restaurant today. Can you imagine?”

Your mom blinked. “Oh?”

“Crazy, right?” he continued, peeling off his jacket slowly, casually. “Letting her make her own decisions? Next thing you know, she’ll have opinions.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

Your mom’s smile dropped just a millimeter.

“And besides,” Yeosang added, voice light but eyes cold, “it wasn’t wasting time. We were at a place that made her happy. Which, I assume, isn’t a common theme around here.”

Dead. You were dead. He did not just say that.

Your mom blinked at him, clearly stunned for a half second, then let out a tight chuckle. “Well, I’m glad she has such a... supportive husband.”

Yeosang smiled. “Me too.”

You were just about to make your escape up the stairs, Yeosang right beside you, your bag now resting by the steps, when her voice cut through the air. "YN, come help me in the kitchen."

Your feet froze mid-step.

Yeosang slowed too, looking down at you with a glance so subtle no one else would’ve noticed. But you did. His eyes scanned your face, taking in the shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers tensed slightly. You didn’t even look at him, just nodded once and turned back. Because at the end of the day, no matter how many rings you wore or necklaces draped around your neck or husbands stood beside you,

She was still your mother.

You stepped into the kitchen like a soldier walking onto familiar, scorched battlefield. The air was already heavy with the smell of oil and something boiling, but you knew that wouldn’t be the thing to make your stomach turn.

“Wash those vegetables,” she said without even looking up. You did. Quietly. Mechanically. You always did. Then it began.

“I see you’ve gotten used to letting someone else speak for you now.” You kept washing the spinach. “Can’t even answer a simple question earlier. Just ‘places,’ huh?” You didn’t reply. Not yet.

“Not surprised. You were always a bit slow to speak. Just like your father.” The knife clinked a little harder against the cutting board. You knew that trick. Cut someone else down so you forget the weight of your own bruises.

You placed the spinach in the bowl. She turned to you, eyes narrow. “He must’ve spoiled you real quick. Is that why you’re suddenly standing up like a big girl now? His money made you bold?”

You finally looked at her. “No,” you said. Calm. Sharp. “I think I just stopped being afraid.”

She stared at you like you’d grown two heads. “Excuse me?”

You held her gaze. “You heard me.”

Her lips curled. “He’s not going to protect you forever. He’ll get bored of you. They always do.”

Your stomach twisted. “He’s not like that.”

She rolled her eyes. “You think he married you out of love? You’re not even that special. Don’t let some designer label fool you, girl.”

You felt it. That slow-burning heat, shame and anger tangling like wires in your chest. But this time, it didn’t silence you. This time, you said, “Maybe he didn’t marry me for love. But he treats me better in months than you have my whole life.”

And that’s when it happened.

Her hand was faster than your eyes. A crack of palm against cheek, the sound almost louder than the pain.

Almost.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. You just stood there. Frozen.

Because the sting on your cheek wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was how familiar it felt. That helplessness. That silence. That deep ache of being reduced to a child who didn’t have the right to speak.

You thought you had outgrown this. You thought you were healing.

But the tear that slid down your cheek wasn’t from the slap, it was from the sudden, brutal realization that a part of you was still that girl. Still folding napkins at dinner. Still flinching at footsteps. Still pretending it didn’t hurt.

And you hated it.

You hated that she could still reach inside you and drag that little girl out. Just with a few words. A raised hand. A name that still had power, even if you tried to forget.

The moment the slap landed, you dropped everything. The vegetables, the bowl, the knife. You didn’t even flinch at the sound of it clattering to the ground. Your hands trembled, not from the sting but from the crushing wave of emotions that surged through you, humiliation, fury, sadness, and something deeper. Something rotten that had been buried for too long. You didn’t say a word. Not to her. Not to yourself. You just turned, eyes burning and steps heavy, and walked. No…ran.

Up the stairs. Past the photos on the wall. Past the familiar scent of a house that never really felt like home. Your feet hit the last step and you all but burst through the door of your old bedroom.

Yeosang looked up just as you entered. He had his jacket in his hands, half off, like he’d just finished fixing his hair in the mirror. The casual, effortless way he looked, black sleeves rolled to the elbows, shirt fitted perfectly across his shoulders, it should’ve made your heart do those little flips again. But right now, you were too full. Too heavy. You didn’t even speak to him. You just locked eyes for half a second, long enough for him to see it. The tightness in your jaw. The gleam of tears unshed. The way your hands were clenched like you were holding on to the last strand of composure.

You walked past him, your steps unsteady but fast, and went straight into the bathroom. Yeosang didn’t move for a second. He didn’t need to ask. He didn’t need to guess. He knew.

He knew your face by now, every flicker, every twitch. He knew the storm behind your silence. You weren’t just tired. You weren’t just overwhelmed. You were hurt. And he didn’t need to hear it from your mouth to understand the source of it. His jaw tightened as he slowly placed his jacket on the hook, not saying a word. But his mind was loud.

Of course that woman did something. He knew this was more than just a fight. This was history. Years of belittling. Years of you being told you weren’t enough. Years of silence and shame so normalized it felt like air in this damn house. And even now, even with the jewelry he gave you on your skin, even with him standing next to you as your husband, she still saw you as that same small girl she could bend and break.

His fists clenched at his sides as he exhaled slowly. He had known you longer than you thought. Maybe you didn’t know that part yet. Maybe you never noticed how often he showed up where you were before this marriage. How much he had watched, not in a creepy way, but like someone fascinated by a person who moved quietly through the world and still held so much within her. He remembered the way you used to fidget with the ends of your sleeves when walking alone. He had always noticed you. And that’s why it burned so much now. Because even after all that time, you still had to deal with this.

He took a slow step toward the bathroom door, didn’t knock, didn’t call out. He just stood there.

When you came out of the bathroom, the air in the room felt heavier. Your face was washed, but the redness around your eyes betrayed you. Yeosang didn’t look up right away; he was lying back against the headboard, one arm folded under his head, the picture of composure. But he was watching. Not obviously, not directly, but every flicker of your movement was caught in the corner of his gaze.

You didn’t say a word. You walked over and sat at the very edge of the bed, your back stiff, your hands folded tightly in your lap as if keeping yourself from falling apart depended on it. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until his voice cut through it, low, steady, but gentle in a way that disarmed you instantly.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, not even shifting his posture. “You don’t have to explain. But if you need me,” his eyes flicked toward you, softer than you’d ever seen them, “I’ll be here.”

That was it. No lecture. No questions. No demanding answers you weren’t ready to give. Just that.

Your throat closed up before you could even think of a reply. The kind of ache that doesn’t warn you, it just rises. Your eyes blurred, and before you could stop it, tears began slipping down silently, trailing hot down your cheeks. You never were the kind of person to cry out loud—your pain had always been quiet, tucked away where no one could see. But the tears betrayed you now, your shoulders trembling, your chest rising unevenly as you tried to hold the pieces of yourself together.

Yeosang didn’t say anything else. He just moved. Slowly, steadily, he sat up, closed the small distance between you, and pulled you into him. His arms wrapped around you, firm but not suffocating, the way someone holds something fragile but refuses to let it break. He didn’t shush you, didn’t tell you to stop. He just held you because he knew you needed it more than anything.

And in that moment, with your forehead against his chest and his steady heartbeat under your ear, you realized he wasn’t here to fix you. He was here to stand with you while you broke, and to make sure you didn’t have to do it alone anymore.

The words slipped out of you before you could even stop them. You weren’t planning to tell him, weren’t planning to open your mouth at all, but it came so naturally, like a reflex, like breathing. “She slapped me,” you said quietly, staring at your hands in your lap.

Yeosang froze. His entire body went still, like a string pulled taut. His voice came next, sharp but measured, carrying a weight that told you he already knew but wanted to hear it confirmed. “Who?”

You swallowed, the word barely leaving your lips. “Mom.”

It sounded almost childish, almost like a confession you’d make as a kid when you ran to a grown-up, expecting them to fix it. But with Yeosang, it felt different. It wasn’t childish. It wasn’t weak. It felt like you were telling someone who had the power to take that weight from you, someone who wouldn’t just sit by. It felt like complaining to a guardian who could shield you, who could make the world’s cruelty back off.

Yeosang didn’t speak right away. He was still, utterly still, except for the tightening of his jaw. His eyes darkened, not in sadness, but in fury, an anger that sat deep in his chest and burned hot in his veins. He rarely felt it, and even more rarely let it show. But now, he was furious.

How dare someone touch you? His wife. His partner. The thought alone made his stomach knot and his blood hum with rage. He could hear his father’s voice in the back of his mind, the lessons drilled into him since boyhood: You protect the women in your family. And if anyone dares to lay a hand on them, you crush them. Especially your partner. She is your shield and your heart. No one touches her and walks away unscathed.

Yeosang’s fists curled into the blanket, his breath steady but heavy. It wasn’t just anger. It was something deeper, more dangerous. The kind of fury that demanded action. The kind that could dismantle a person piece by piece without even raising his voice.

The house was oddly quiet, you and Yeosang were tucked away in your room, standing in front of the mirror as you fixed the last bit of your hair. The soft glow of the lamp lit your face, but there was something about your eyes, dimmed, distant. No matter how carefully you blended your eyeliner or how well you draped your outfit, the shadow of what had happened earlier still lingered behind your expression.

Yeosang noticed. He always noticed. Even if you smiled, even if you tried to tuck it away, he could read you like lines written across his own palm. Adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, he leaned slightly toward you, catching your reflection in the mirror. “Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly, almost like a command but softened for you. His tone carried that steady confidence of his, the kind that made you feel like maybe he really could shoulder it all for you. “She’s not worth your thoughts tonight.”

You glanced at him, your lips twitching as if you wanted to respond but couldn’t quite bring yourself to. Instead, you smoothed the fabric of your dress, pushing away the heaviness for the moment. If he said not to worry, maybe you could trust him enough to try.

The venue was only a short walk away, near the house, and the sound of music and chatter already carried through the air when you both stepped outside. The street was glowing with lanterns and fairy lights, the venue itself dressed in bright colors and flowers that looked extravagant, too extravagant. You frowned slightly, tilting your head. Where did all this money come from? When you lived under this roof, the only thing you ever heard was how broke they were, how sacrifices had to be made, how you were a burden on the household. Yet suddenly, for this celebration, there was no shortage of decorations, food, and flair.

Your stomach twisted with the bitterness of it, but you kept walking. Yeosang, carrying himself with a calm sharpness beside you, noticed the way your lips pressed into a thin line. Without asking, without prying, he slipped your bag from your arm to his. “Clumsy hands,” he teased lightly, the same excuse he’d given earlier. But it wasn’t just that, he wanted to ease the weight you carried, even if it was something small.

Inside, the venue gleamed with people bustling, laughter rising, and the smell of food filling the air. And though your chest felt tight, you held your chin a little higher. Yeosang was beside you, his presence steady, and that alone felt like armor.

Yeosang had told you earlier, almost in passing while straightening his cufflinks, that his father was also on his way to the venue. The words had been simple, but they left a strange warmth in your chest. For some reason, knowing that man would be there settled you, as if the ground beneath your feet felt a little sturdier. His father had always been kind to you, genuinely kind, not the hollow politeness you were used to from others. He treated you like you were someone worth noticing, worth listening to. And it made you wonder, in the quiet corners of your mind, why your own father never looked at you that way. Why he never thought his daughter deserved the same softness a stranger could offer.

You didn’t say any of this out loud, of course. Words had always felt like a battlefield to you, every sentence a risk. So you kept them tucked behind your lips where they belonged, only giving Yeosang a small nod when he mentioned his father’s arrival. You knew he would catch it, knew he would read that tiny movement like it was a whole paragraph. That was the thing about him, he never needed your explanations to understand you.

His father had only been there for a few minutes, but the difference in the air was impossible to ignore. He carried himself with the kind of ease that drew people in, that quiet authority that made others soften just by being near him. After greeting your parents politely, your father stiff and formal, your mother forcedly cheerful, he drifted toward where you and Yeosang stood, positioning himself naturally by your side as though he belonged there.

The flow of relatives and family friends soon began, trickling into the venue in groups, all smiles and curious glances. One by one, you found yourself being tugged forward into the routine of introductions. You barely managed the words, your voice soft and clipped, but it didn’t matter. Yeosang filled in every gap you left, his hand at the small of your back, his responses smooth and respectful, his presence a shield more than anything. His father was no different, gracious, warm, steady. He didn’t just stand there like an ornament, he engaged, asked small questions, even made sure to include you when others seemed to gloss past your presence.

You could feel the eyes of your relatives lingering longer than they should. These were the same people who had sighed in pity when your marriage had been announced, whispering behind your back about how unfortunate it was to be bound to the Kang family. You remembered their voices, their sideways glances, their rehearsed sympathy. And now? Now you could see the jealousy simmering beneath their skin, their smiles stretched too tight, their words stumbling when they realized Yeosang wouldn’t stop orbiting around you.

He didn’t hide it. He didn’t play it down. He stayed close, adjusted the edge of your sleeve when it slipped, handed you a glass of water before you could even think to ask, leaned in to answer questions for you when your throat locked up. He didn’t do it to make a show of it, it was simply how he treated you. And the envy in your relatives’ eyes was so sharp it was almost laughable. You could see it in the stiffness of their shoulders, in the way they exchanged looks with each other, as though each glance was a needle pricked against their skin.

They had pitied you once. Now, standing there with Yeosang’s easy devotion surrounding you and his father’s steady presence at your side, you almost wished you could hand them a mirror so they could see themselves, jealousy dripping from their faces like pins stuck carelessly in cloth.

The chandelier light glowed soft golden, laughter bouncing around the decorated hall, but for Yeosang and his father this was nothing more than the perfect stage. The world thought they were here for your father’s birthday. They weren’t.

You stood beside Yeosang, your hand loosely in his, when his father leaned closer with a faint smile that only the two of you could read.

“So,” his voice was smooth, carrying easily over the chatter, “this is the family that thought they could treat my daughter-in-law so carelessly.” His eyes flicked toward your mother across the hall, who was busy playing hostess, and then to your father, stiff in his seat as relatives crowded around him. “I must admit, Yeosang, I expected… better.”

Yeosang’s hand tightened slightly around yours, grounding you, his lips curving into a smile that looked charming to the outside world but was laced with quiet malice. “That’s why I told you not to hold back tonight. Let them see what respect really looks like.”

You blinked up at him, confusion stirring, but neither man looked at you with pity. Yeosang’s father’s gaze softened for a brief second as he glanced at you, almost as if telling you silently: This isn’t your burden to carry anymore. This is ours.

A group of relatives approached them, gushing over the Kang family name, trying to curry favor. One of them made a passing remark, tone sly, “Ah, Yeosang, we heard it was quite the surprise, wasn’t it? A rushed marriage, hm?” The words were meant to sting, meant to remind you of how they once pitied you.

Yeosang’s father chuckled, rich and deliberate. “Surprise, yes. But only for those who didn’t realize what a treasure she is. You see, my son chose well. He could’ve had anyone, but he wanted her. And after seeing how she’s been treated before?” His gaze, sharp as steel beneath his smile, landed on your father briefly. “Let’s just say the Kang family makes sure no one forgets her worth again.”

There was a subtle shift in the air, whispers starting among the group. Yeosang didn’t let the moment linger too long—he smoothly added, his tone deceptively light, “People don’t often realize how cruel words can be behind closed doors. But I think she deserves a room full of people knowing she’s valued. Don’t you agree, Father?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” his father replied smoothly, raising his glass. To outsiders it looked like casual praise, but the bite in his words was unmistakable to the ones who knew. Your father shifted uncomfortably across the room, and you caught it.

And then, like a knife slicing clean through the tension, Yeosang’s father announced it. Loud enough for the nearby relatives, your parents, and soon the entire hall to hear:

“Speaking of surprises, we Kang men don’t come empty-handed. Tonight, I am pleased to announce that we are in the final stages of acquiring the very company your father works at.” He turned deliberately, his smile kind but razor-edged, to face your father. “Which means, from now on, he’ll be working directly under us.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Your relatives’ eyes widened, their envy morphing into disbelief, then thinly veiled glee at your father’s humiliation. You felt your stomach drop, a dizzying mix of shock and something dangerously close to satisfaction.

Yeosang’s hand found yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. He didn’t even look at your father, he only looked at you, his eyes calm, his voice low so only you could hear. “You don’t ever have to bow your head to them again.”

Your father’s face had gone red, your mother’s forced smile faltering as the murmurs grew louder. And you? For the first time in years, standing between Yeosang and his father, you didn’t feel small in that house of shadows.

You felt untouchable.

The hall was glowing with lights, laughter, and clinking glasses, but for Yeosang and his father, it was all just a stage. Neither of them cared for the decorations or the false pleasantries exchanged across the room. This wasn’t a celebration. This was their battlefield.

Yeosang stood close to you, his hand brushing against yours as if grounding you in place. His gaze, however, was sharp, scanning the room like he was calculating every move before it happened. His father leaned against the tall glass table beside him, his expression calm, even casual, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You were right,” Mr. Kang said under his breath, his voice low enough that only Yeosang caught it. “They treat her like a stranger in her own family. Look at her mother, she smiles at me but she won’t even look at her daughter. Pathetic.”

Yeosang’s jaw clenched, his eyes flicking to you for a moment. You were fidgeting with the rings you had on, shoulders tense, trying to appear small in the crowd. He hated it. He hated that this house, these people, made you shrink yourself.

“They’ll learn tonight,” Yeosang replied, his tone colder than ice. “You’ve always told me, never let anyone lay a hand on the woman of my family. And she’s mine. They think they can treat her like she’s nothing. Let’s see how they handle when the room starts whispering about them instead.”

His father chuckled, that low dangerous sound. “That’s my son.” He straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. “I’ll handle the first strike. Subtle. Sharp. I’ll make them bleed without realizing they’re cut.”

Yeosang’s lips curved, though it wasn’t a smile—it was a warning. “And I’ll finish it. Once we announce the company, there’ll be nothing left of his pride.”

A waiter passed, and Mr. Kang smoothly lifted a glass of champagne. He didn’t drink it, simply held it as though it were a prop in his act. His eyes found your father across the room, laughing too loudly with his friends, chest puffed with fake importance.

“Enjoy your last night of dignity,” Mr. Kang murmured, almost to himself, but Yeosang heard. “By the time we’re done, everyone in this room will know exactly what kind of man you really are.”

Yeosang’s hand brushed against yours again, this time firmer, more deliberate. You glanced up at him, confused by the look in his eyes, fierce, unyielding, protective. He didn’t say a word to you, but you didn’t need him to. You could feel it. Tonight, he wasn’t just standing by your side. Tonight, he was fighting for you.

And the Kangs never fought to lose.

Your father stood near the center of the room, chest out, soaking in the attention of his colleagues and relatives. He thrived in this spotlight. He always had.

Mr. Kang made the first move. He stepped forward with ease, smile warm enough to seem genuine yet sharp enough to cut. Holding his champagne glass, he spoke loud enough for nearby guests to hear.

“Your daughter is precious, you know.” His voice was smooth, conversational, yet it carried. “Yeosang told me how strong she had to be while living here. Not every girl can survive such… strict households.”

The people around them stilled. Some glanced toward you, then at your parents. Your mother’s smile faltered, the corners of her lips twitching nervously. Your father’s eyes flickered, just for a moment, but he covered it with a strained laugh.

“Oh, you know how kids exaggerate, Mr. Kang,” he said, voice overly cheerful. “We raised her well, didn’t we?”

Yeosang, standing tall beside you, let out a low chuckle, soft but audible. It wasn’t amusement, it was mockery. His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you closer into his side like he was shielding you from them all. His words cut like a blade, smooth and deliberate.

“She doesn’t exaggerate,” he said calmly. “I’ve seen enough to know what she’s been through. She deserved kindness, not… discipline masked as care.”

The crowd’s silence was heavy now, whispers beginning to stir like embers catching flame. Your relatives’ faces were pale, their envy earlier replaced by shock.

Your father’s jaw worked, his smile twitching. “Yeosang-ah, don’t misunderstand—”

“Misunderstand?” Yeosang interrupted, his tone still respectful yet laced with steel. “No, I don’t misunderstand. I protect what’s mine. And when I see the woman I love flinch in her own home, when I hear she’s been struck…” His gaze sharpened, his voice lowering dangerously. “That isn’t misunderstanding. That’s truth.”

Your breath hitched. His words weren’t shouted, yet they echoed louder than any scream could have.

Before your father could sputter out another excuse, Mr. Kang stepped forward, commanding the room with practiced authority. He clinked his glass gently, drawing all attention to himself.

“On another note,” he began, smiling as though nothing heavy had been said, “I’d like to share something important. My company will officially be acquiring the firm your dear host here works for.” He gestured politely to your father, whose face drained of color. “I believe that makes him… well, my employee now.”

A ripple of gasps ran through the hall. Some guests exchanged stunned looks, others covered their mouths with their hands. Your father’s pride shattered right before their eyes.

Mr. Kang’s smile was razor sharp. “I do hope you all continue to support him in this new… position.”

Yeosang didn’t gloat. He didn’t need to. He simply stood tall beside you, his hand steady on your back, his expression unreadable but victorious. And for the first time in years, you weren’t the one shrinking under everyone’s gaze. It was your father.

The hall buzzed with whispers, your relatives’ envy twisting into something else entirely, fear, awe, regret. You felt your chest tighten, tears prickling at your eyes, but not from sadness this time. For once, someone had stood up for you. For once, you weren’t alone.

And as the chandeliers glowed brighter, it didn’t feel like your father’s celebration anymore.

It felt like Yeosang’s victory.

Yeosang’s grip on your hand was steady, too steady. It wasn’t the kind of handhold you could slip out of, not the kind where he gave you space to hesitate. It was firm, grounded, the kind that said we’re leaving, and I won’t let you look back.

The hall’s murmurs still rang in your ears as the three of you walked out. People parted in silence, unsure whether to whisper or bow, and you could feel their stares clinging to your back. You didn’t dare turn around.

Your heart twisted. Part of you wanted to breathe, wanted to smile, wanted to lean into the warmth of his hand and the comfort of finally being defended. But another part of you, the part that had been trained to obey, to fear, to seek approval, ached at the thought of leaving your father standing there in the ruins of his pride.

The cold night air hit your face before you even realized you’d stepped outside. Yeosang didn’t slow, didn’t falter. By the time you blinked, you were standing at the car, his father quietly instructing the driver. You hadn’t even noticed the suitcases being loaded into the trunk.

Your throat went dry. When did he-?

And then, just like that, the car door was opening for you. Yeosang guided you in with that same unshakable grip, sliding in right after you. His father took the seat in front. The door shut, muffling the noise of the party, muffling your father’s world.

Only then did the silence crash down.

You stared at the window, watching the house fade in the distance. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your mind torn between relief and guilt, freedom and grief.

Yeosang’s hand was still over yours. Warm. Steady. He hadn’t let go. Not once.

“You’re not going back there,” he said finally, his voice quiet but absolute. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

You didn’t know whether to cry or to thank him. Maybe both. But all you managed was a small nod, your fingers curling back into his, hesitant, trembling, but holding on.

The soft click of the penthouse door echoed in the quiet, and the only light spilling in was from the city skyline, gold and silver scattered like stars against the glass. The hum of the city felt so far away compared to the heavy silence between you and Yeosang.

He didn’t even bother turning on the lights. Instead, he turned to you the moment the door locked behind him. His hands were on your shoulders, steady but gentle, anchoring you in place. He lowered himself just enough so his eyes caught yours, dark and unrelenting.

“YN,” he said, voice low, careful, “don’t do that.”

You blinked at him, startled. “Do what?” Your voice cracked despite you trying to make it sound even.

His grip on your shoulders tightened, firm, not harsh. “Keep it all inside. Pretend you’re fine when I know you’re not.” He searched your face like he was trying to read every thought you refused to say out loud. “I can see it. I’m not blind. Don’t hide from me.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. That familiar instinct clawed at you, to shake your head, to stay quiet, to keep the ache bottled where no one could touch it. But Yeosang wasn’t letting you get away with it.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping softer, almost a whisper now. “You don’t have to say it pretty. You don’t have to explain it right. Just- say something. To me. Please.”

Your throat tightened. His eyes didn’t waver, not once. He wasn’t angry, wasn’t demanding, it was something worse. He was begging you to let him in. And for the first time that night, you felt your chest crack open.

Your words came out like they belonged to someone much younger, someone small and fragile,

“I don’t know what I’m feeling, Yeosang…”

It cracked at the end, sharp and thin, and you hated how childlike you sounded. But it was the truth, the rawest thing you could give. Yeosang didn’t flinch. He didn’t let go. He only guided you to the couch, slow and deliberate, his hand still steady on your shoulder as if he was afraid you’d crumble if he moved too quickly.

“Sit down first,” he murmured.

You obeyed, sinking into the cushions, your body heavier than you realized. But his hand never left you, it was still there, grounding, firm and warm against your shoulder. You stared at your knees, at your trembling fingers, at the floor, anywhere but him.

“It’s okay,” Yeosang said, voice like velvet over steel. “Take your time.”

That was when it slipped. One tear, hot and stubborn, slid down your cheek before you could stop it. You didn’t even wipe it away. You just let it fall, your eyes slowly lifting to meet his again.

His gaze softened the moment he saw it. No mockery, no impatience. Just this unbearable tenderness, like the sight of you breaking, was breaking him, too.

You finally let it out, the words shaky and bitter, like they’d been rotting in your chest for years.

“I feel horrible… like a horrible daughter.”

Your lip trembled as you forced yourself to keep speaking. “That was his party, Yeosang. And I ruined it. For me, for us, he had to…” your throat caught, “it was supposed to be a celebration, and I—”

“Yn,” Yeosang’s voice cut through, low but firm. He crouched in front of you, catching your eyes even when you tried to look away. “Don’t you dare put this on yourself.”

You shook your head, whispering, “But I feel like the worst—”

“You’re not.” He reached up, brushing away the tear sliding down your left cheek. The gentleness of it made your chest ache even worse. Another tear slipped from your right eye, and this time, his thumb caught it before it could fall. He held your face carefully in both hands, like you were glass.

“They were never parents to you, Yn,” he said, steady but sharp, as if each word was a truth he needed you to believe. “They were owners. They treated you like something they could control, not someone they could love. Parents don’t raise their hands on their child. Parents don’t make their daughter cry herself to sleep.”

Your shoulders shook, your voice small. “Then why… why do I still feel guilty?”

“Because you’ve been made to feel guilty your whole life.” His thumb traced lightly across your cheek, drying the wet trail left behind. “But listen to me, none of this is your fault. Not tonight, not ever.”

His gaze softened, his voice lowering into something almost pleading.

“You didn’t ruin his party. He ruined you. And I won’t let him, or anyone, touch you again.”

Your breath hitched when the image of your mother’s face flashed across your mind, the cold, unmoving stare she gave you as if you were nothing. It twisted in your chest, and before you could stop it, a sob broke free. You dropped your gaze, ashamed of the sound, but Yeosang didn’t let you hide.

Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest. His hand threaded through your hair, slow and steady, while the other rubbed circles on your back. His voice hummed low above you, calm, protective.

“It’s okay. Cry if you need to.” His chin rested lightly against your head. “You don’t have to hold anything in with me.”

You clung to his shirt, your voice muffled against him. Another sob wracked through you, but his arms only tightened, grounding you.

“They don’t deserve your tears, Yn. Not one of them,” he whispered, stroking your hair like he was trying to smooth away every scar left behind. “You’ve carried this weight alone for too long. Let me carry it now.”

You lifted your head slowly, eyes swollen, lips trembling, and met his gaze. He looked softer than you had ever seen him. There was no sharp edge, no cool distance, just warmth. His thumb brushed your cheek again, so carefully it made your chest ache.

“You’re safe now. With me, you’re safe,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “No one can hurt you here.”

Something shifted inside you then. The safety in his arms was foreign, almost overwhelming, but it wrapped around you like a blanket you’d never had before. It felt intimate, terrifyingly so, like he was peeling back all the layers you’d built to protect yourself. And still, he didn’t flinch.

For the first time in years, you let yourself lean into someone. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like weakness.

His thumbs were still brushing away your tears when he suddenly froze, staring at you with an intensity that made your heart skip. He didn’t know what possessed him, maybe the sight of your trembling lips, maybe the ache in your eyes, but his hands rose, cupping your face gently, like you were something fragile he couldn’t let slip through his fingers.

Your lips parted slightly, pouting as if they were begging to be soothed. Without thinking, Yeosang leaned down and pressed the softest kiss against them. Just a fleeting touch. You blinked in surprise, but you were too buried in sadness to fully react.

He pulled back, searching your face, and whispered, almost as if he was testing the words on his own tongue.

“I don’t know why, but I felt like you needed that.”

Before you could even process it, he kissed you again. This time slower, lingering, like he wanted you to feel it.

“Yeosang” your voice cracked, fragile.

“I’m right here, Yn,” he murmured, his forehead leaning against yours. “I’ll always be here, whether you’re crying, whether you’re silent, even when you don’t know what you’re feeling, I’ll stay.”

Your breath shook as more tears fell, though not all from sadness this time. He wiped them away again, his palms still warm against your cheeks.

“You don’t have to pretend around me,” he said softly. “Not strong, not perfect, not unbothered. Just… you. That’s all I want. Now do you want me to remove your makeup? Cause your mascara is going all over the place.”

A shaky little laugh slipped out of you, surprising even yourself. It wasn’t loud, but it was there, soft, real, and it broke through the heaviness in the air.

His chest loosened at the sound, and his lips curved into something more genuine. “There it is,” he whispered, almost in awe. “You’re laughing while crying. Do you know how beautiful that is?”

You wiped the corner of your eye, still sniffling, and muttered, “That sounds ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he chuckled, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “But it’s you. And right now, I’ll take any excuse to see you smile.”

For a moment, the silence felt lighter. He exhaled slowly, still keeping his hands near your face, as if he couldn’t quite let go. Then he leaned back a little, his voice calm but certain.

“It’s late. We should get ready for bed.”

He said it not as an end to the moment, but as if he was carrying you forward away from the weight of the night, and into something safer.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside the tall windows. The penthouse was dark, only the silver glow of the moon spilling in through the curtains. Yeosang lay on his back, one arm resting against his stomach, the other draped lazily over the sheets. It was a familiar sight, he always slept like that, still and calm, like the world couldn’t touch him.

You, however, couldn’t sleep. Your mind wouldn’t stop turning. The images of the evening, your father’s expression, your mother’s silence, the weight of everything that had been said and done, kept replaying behind your eyes. But more than that, the way Yeosang had been with you. The way he held you together when you were falling apart. The way he hadn’t let go once.

“Yeosang?” your voice came out softer than you intended, almost childlike.

He turned his head immediately, eyes sharp even in the low light. “Hm?” he hummed back, voice deep and steady, like he’d been waiting for you to call him.

You hesitated, then slowly shifted onto your side, facing him. He mirrored you without even thinking, his body turning to you, as if his instincts wouldn’t let him do anything else.

For a second, you just looked at him, the relaxed set of his jaw, the way his hair was a little messy against the pillow, the quiet warmth in his eyes. And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could let the nerves crawl in, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his.

It was small, delicate. A flutter of a kiss. Barely there, but it still made your chest tighten like you’d leapt off a cliff.

When you pulled back, his eyes were wide, but not with shock, more with a kind of wonder, like he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming.

“…Thank you,” you whispered, your voice cracking just slightly.

His brows softened. “For what?” he asked quietly, almost afraid to break the fragile moment.

“For tonight. For being here. For… everything,” you breathed, your eyes flickering away.

And then, almost like it slipped out of you before you could stop it, you whispered, “I love you.”

The words hung between you for only a beat before you quickly turned around, facing the other side of the bed. Your heart was pounding in your ears, your fists curled in the sheets. You didn’t want to see his reaction. You didn’t think you could handle it.

Yeosang just lay there frozen for a moment, staring at the dark ceiling, his mind spiraling faster than it ever had in battle. He didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or jump up and run around the entire penthouse like a lunatic. His chest felt tight, but in the best way, like his heart was too big for his body.

You. The one he had quietly, obsessively, devoted himself to. The one he’d spent months trying to read, trying to break through, trying to protect without scaring away. You, the girl who always kept her feelings locked away, who never let anyone know what was going on inside, just said you loved him.

If anyone else had said it, he would’ve dismissed it, maybe even laughed. But from you? His wife? The girl who could barely admit when she was hurt? It was everything.

Yeosang pressed a hand over his face, trying to smother the stupid grin threatening to spread. Get a grip, man, he scolded himself, but his body wasn’t listening. His stomach was a mess of nerves, his throat tight, his heart thundering like he was some lovesick teenager, not the cold, calculating Yeosang that people feared.

Butterflies. Actual butterflies. This is humiliating.

But then his eyes flicked to your back, your shoulders rising and falling as if you were trying to pretend you hadn’t just dropped a bomb on him.

The second Yeosang realized you were faking sleep, something inside him twisted. He had been patient for so long, silent when you avoided, soft when you broke down, careful when you were fragile. But now? Now you had kissed him, whispered those three words that had haunted his dreams, and then had the audacity to turn away as if nothing happened.

Not on his watch.

Without warning, his arm clamped tighter around your waist. You barely had time to register before he tugged you back with such strength that the air hitched in your throat. The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he rolled you toward him, his grip unyielding, caging you against him.

“Yeosang!” you gasped, startled, your hands instinctively pushing against his chest. He didn’t budge. He was solid, immovable, like marble brought to life. His dark eyes locked on you, sharp and burning, and the look on his face made your protest die in your throat.

“No.” His voice was low, firm, but there was fire simmering beneath it. “That’s not how it’s gonna be.” His hand at your waist tightened, pulling you impossibly closer until you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your palm. “You can’t just kiss me, drop that on me, and then run away. No, YN. Not tonight.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You were trapped, not by force, but by the sheer weight of him. By the intensity in his gaze. By how he looked at you like you were the only thing in his universe.

He leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice a demanding whisper. “Look at me. Say it to my face. If you’re gonna love me, then don’t you dare hide it behind your back.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt. His words weren’t cruel, but they shook you to your core, cracking the walls you’d built. You could feel his fingers at your side, strong and steady, like he was anchoring you in place, refusing to let you escape not this time.

“Yeosang…” your voice cracked, small and trembling.

He softened for only a second, his thumb brushing gently against your side, but his eyes never wavered. “Say it.”

You wanted to bury your face, to hide like you always did, but his grip wouldn’t let you. And maybe— maybe that was exactly what you needed. His strength wasn’t a prison, it was a reminder that someone, finally, wanted you to stop running.

“I-” You hesitated, the lump in your throat making it nearly impossible. But his gaze, unrelenting yet patient, drew the truth out of you. “…I love you, Yeosang.”

The moment the words slipped from your lips a second time, clear, certain, undeniable, Yeosang couldn’t hold himself back anymore. His arms wrapped around you with a force that knocked the breath right out of you, pulling you into him so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse you together.

You froze, startled by the sudden intensity, but then you heard him. His voice was muffled against your chest, raw and unguarded in a way you had never heard before.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, his words trembling with emotion, “you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Your hand, almost on instinct, found its way to the back of his head. His soft dark hair tickled your fingers as you cradled him close, your palm resting against him like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go. He pressed his face harder against your chest, almost desperate, as if trying to drown in the sound of your heartbeat.

And you, you didn’t expect to feel it. That sudden warmth blooming in your chest, spreading through your veins like sunlight breaking into a dark room. Happiness. Pure, unexplainable, bone-deep happiness.

You didn’t know why it felt so overwhelming, but it did. Maybe because for the first time, the weight you had been carrying alone didn’t feel so heavy. Maybe because the walls you had built weren’t protecting you anymore, they were finally coming down. Or maybe because the man everyone else feared was clinging to you like you were his entire world.

Slowly, tenderly, you wrapped both arms around his head, holding him as if you could shield him from everything. His breath hitched against you, and you felt his shoulders loosen, the tension he always carried melting away in your embrace.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world outside the bed didn’t exist,the creak of the ship, the salt of the sea, the dangers waiting in every corner, none of it mattered. It was just you, him, and this fragile, breathtaking truth between you.

It felt like the beginning of something new. A chapter neither of you had dared to dream of, now written in the quiet safety of a shared embrace.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe it, this was the start of your life with him.

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But then,you felt it. The warmth of him moving closer. You hated that you liked the way he moved around you like he belonged there. Like he owned the whole place, including you.

“You’re doing great,” he said, voice low by your ear, “But you know I don’t like it when you stress over this stuff alone.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine.”

But then,betrayal. Your stomach growled. Loud. You froze. Yeosang’s smirk grew wider, the audacity dripping from every inch of him. “Are you, though?”

“Don’t.”

“I will.”

You elbowed him half-heartedly, cheeks warming, but he caught your arm gently before you could fully pull away.

“Sit,” he said, soft but final. “I’ll finish stirring. You explain your homework to me. Win-win.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious. “Since when do you cook for me?”

“Since I got tired of watching you nearly pass out before dinner.”

Cocky and caring. Disgusting.

So, you sat. Let him take the wooden spoon like it was his birthright, sleeves already rolled, rings catching the light. And there he was, stirring like he was born to be a husband, stealing glances at you every few seconds like you wouldn’t notice.

You hated how good this felt. You hated that it didn’t feel forced. You hated that you almost wanted to lean your head on his shoulder right then and there.

But most of all,you hated that you were starting to love being his. And he knew it.

The bastard knew.

You glanced down at your phone, thumb scrolling lazily until the notification popped up,buried in your notes app, wedged between grocery lists and half-done assignments.

Dad’s birthday. Mom invited us.

A pause.

A day before. Both of us. Why.

The reminder sat there like an unwanted guest in your head. Ironic, really. They never celebrated his birthday before. Never a cake, never a dinner, never a mention. And now suddenly they were throwing a get-together with invitations and everything,right after you got married.

It didn’t take a genius to piece it together. You could almost feel it under your skin. Like this wasn’t a celebration,it was a statement. Their way of parading you around, showing people that you were finally “settled,” finally doing something they could brag about at family gatherings. Finally being useful.

Gross.

You glanced up from your screen, the bitter thought still lingering, just in time to see Yeosang walking back into the living room, rolling the sleeves of his black button-up further up his forearms as he moved. His watch caught the light when he adjusted it, veins on the back of his hand standing out in that stupid way that made you look even when you didn’t want to. Shirt slightly untucked like he’d gotten home from work and didn’t care to fix it. Slacks loose but perfect on him, casual yet expensive. His hair was still slightly messy from running his hands through it, a habit you noticed when he was thinking too hard,or irritated,or, worse, watching you.

Effortlessly hot. The kind of hot that made you annoyed on principle. He didn’t even try. It wasn’t fair.

He sat on the edge of the couch, spreading his legs slightly without meaning to, long fingers lazily undoing the first button of his shirt. Comfort. Casual. Not for show. Just him existing, unaware that it made your throat go dry for no reason other than spite.

You swallowed, tried to act normal, even though normal around him was becoming increasingly difficult.

“So,” you finally broke the silence, tossing your phone onto the cushion beside you. “Did she invite your dad?”

He tilted his head a little, processing, eyes on yours now. Sharp. Heavy. “Yeah. On the day itself.”

“But she asked us to come earlier.”

“Apparently.”

You hated how even his voice was hot. Low, smooth, slightly raspy at the edges like he hadn’t spoken much today. Like he saved his words for you and you alone. The worst part? He wasn’t even doing it on purpose. Just existing like that.

“And do you know why?”

He shrugged lazily, thumb brushing his lower lip for a second as he thought. “Maybe they wanna parade us around early. Maybe they wanna test me.” He glanced at you, one brow barely lifting. “Maybe they’re just bored.”

You sighed. “Or maybe they just wanna show off that they finally got rid of me.”

His gaze sharpened,not with pity, not with softness. Something else. Something sharper. Like he was filing the information away somewhere deep. You were used to people looking at you like you were fragile glass. Yeosang didn’t do that. He just listened, stored it, remembered.

“You’re not something to ‘get rid of,’” he finally said, steady. Quiet. “They’re stupid if they think that.”

You looked away, feeling the sting of those words, not because they were sharp,but because they were gentle in a way you didn’t expect from him.

“I don’t care what they think,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the coffee table.

And maybe you were telling the truth. Maybe you weren’t. Didn’t matter.

Yeosang leaned back against the couch like he had all the time in the world. Long legs, sleeves rolled, one hand resting against his stomach, fingertips idly brushing his rings. The picture of relaxed power. “Doesn’t matter what they think,” he said again, slower this time. “You’re with me now.”

Not possessive. Not demanding. Just a fact he laid out like gravity, like physics, like it couldn’t be argued with. He wasn’t claiming you.

He was reminding you.

And you hated,hated,how much that stupid, effortless heat of his made your heart betray you. Just a little more. Just enough to make you feel the slow burn starting to creep under your skin again.

You both went. Bags packed neatly, yours folded properly, his thrown together last minute like he didn’t care, but of course he did, you knew by now that he cared about everything. Before you left, Yeosang had held up the necklace and the rings, both matching, both expensive, both screaming his. He didn’t even argue, didn’t raise his voice, didn’t try to sweet-talk you into it. He just looked at you. And with him, that was enough.

“I don’t like wearing so much-”

“Wear it,” he cut you off softly, standing close enough that you could smell his cologne, expensive and warm. “Trust me.”

So you did.

Hair done. Jewelry on. Wearing the cardigan he got you last week because he knows you fidget with sleeves, layered over the designer dress that fit too well to be coincidence. Rings catching the sunlight. Necklace resting against your collarbone, delicate but clearly worth more than your dad’s entire car. Everything about you said: untouchable.

But the real final touch?

Yeosang’s hand. Wrapping around yours, warm, steady, undeniable. Like a quiet statement.

When you walked into your family’s house, you didn’t have to say a word.

The look on your mother’s face was priceless. The pause. The flicker of disbelief behind her carefully practiced smile. She didn’t expect this. Not the jewelry. Not the designer clothes. Not the calm way you carried yourself like you belonged in that skin now. And certainly not the way Yeosang stood beside you like you were his entire world on display. Not proud, not showing off, just present. Solid. Real. Someone no one could touch.

It wasn’t just the clothes or the money, it was the weight behind it.

He wasn’t showing you off. He was protecting you. Dressing you in armor you didn’t even realize you’d been missing your whole life.

You didn’t need him to tell you why anymore.

You saw it written all over your mother’s face: this was a game she wasn’t winning anymore.

And when Yeosang squeezed your hand gently, not too hard, not too soft, you finally understood:

He wanted them to see.

Your mother greeted you with that smile, the one she wore to every social event, every uncomfortable conversation, the one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Like clockwork, the passive-aggressive commentary started before you’d even set your bags down.

“Well,” she hummed, eyeing the necklace around your throat, “finally wearing something proper now, aren’t you? Marriage must be doing you well.”

You swallowed. Familiar sting. Same routine. You were used to it. You braced yourself, ready to just nod and let it slide, like always.

But then, Yeosang spoke.

“Yeah,” he said smoothly, like honey with a sharp edge. “She always looks good. But I guess money makes it easier to see, doesn’t it?” You blinked.

Your mom’s smile tightened, sharp as glass. “Of course. Not everyone’s used to that kind of lifestyle.”

Yeosang let out a soft hum, nonchalant, barely acknowledging the insult. “True. But I like giving her things. Makes up for the years she didn’t get them.”

You felt it then, that shift in the air. Like someone opened a window in a stale room. Fresh, biting, unexpected. Your mom’s eyes flickered to yours like she wanted backup, but you weren’t giving it. Not now. Not with him standing next to you like that, calm, sharp, dangerous without even raising his voice.

“Oh, well, we managed just fine before,” she tried again, tone syrupy sweet, eyes narrowing slightly.

Yeosang’s lips twitched,bnot a smirk, just something close. Something controlled. “Yeah. I saw.”

That was it. No yelling. No scenes. Just a few precisely chosen words, placed like knives on fine china. Clean. Silent. Lethal. And you? You were standing next to him, trying to remember how to breathe, because, God, how was he this hot right now? Not just physically, though the rolled sleeves, the watch, the perfectly tailored black slacks were not helping, but mentally. Emotionally. Intellectually. Attractive in the way that made your knees weak because he was on your side. Not just tolerating you. Defending you. Matching every jab with ease, making it seem effortless, like he’d been trained for this.

Because he had. And that’s when it hit you like a punch to the gut—

Oh no. You were in trouble. Real, real trouble.

Because you were falling for this man.

Your mother, visibly swallowing her pride, gave one last flicker of that brittle smile before waving you both off with a tight, “You know the way. Your room’s ready.” Defeated. For the first time, she didn’t have the last word. And that alone felt like fireworks under your skin.

You both went upstairs. Same old room. Same faded wallpaper, same creaking door, same window with the view of nothing in particular. It felt smaller now, too small with him standing there, tall, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled up, the sharp line of his jaw set like stone, rings glinting on his fingers as he tossed the bags down like he owned the whole damn town.

You didn’t even look at him as you spoke, folding your arms awkwardly, eyes locked on the carpet. “It’s… not as big as your place. Sorry.”

You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe some old leftover habit from constantly apologizing for things that weren’t your fault. You hated that it slipped out.

Yeosang tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was studying a new painting. And then, cool as ever, voice low, warm, dangerous in that stupid effortless way—

“I don’t need the room to be big,” he murmured. “I just need you in it.”

And just like that, oxygen left the room. No teasing, no cocky smirk. Just facts. Solid. Like of course that’s what he thought. Why wouldn’t he?

You wanted to punch something. Mainly because, why the hell did that sound the most genuine and hottest than anything you’d ever heard in your entire life?

You stared at him, heat rising to your cheeks, half from embarrassment, half from pure rage. “Don’t-don’t say shit like that!” you snapped, voice a little louder than you intended, biting at the edges.

Yeosang just lifted his hands like he was fending you off, palms up, rings catching the light. “I said what I said,” he answered, completely unbothered. No teasing grin, no cocky expression, just plain honesty delivered like a punch straight to your throat.

Infuriating.

You stomped off toward the bathroom before you said something stupid, muttering curses under your breath as you went. The old door creaked as you shut it, hands gripping the sink like you could squeeze your irritation into the porcelain. You washed your feet quickly, letting the cold water ground you, but the second you stepped back into the room, something was different.

The suitcases.

Yours, unzipped neatly, placed by the old dresser like it belonged there. His already halfway unpacked, shirts folded sharp, belts coiled perfectly. Like he hadn’t just been flirting with you five minutes ago, like he wasn’t casually flipping your entire life inside out.

You blinked, standing there awkwardly with wet feet on the faded carpet. He didn’t even look at you. He was by the suitcase, rolling his sleeves back down now, slowly, like this was some kind of ritual.

Effortlessly hot. Domestic. Dangerous.

“Didn’t ask you to unpack,” you muttered, feeling small.

“I was doing mine anyway,” he replied simply, folding another black shirt and sliding it into the drawer like he’d done it a thousand times. “And besides, you looked tired.”

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t kind. It was matter-of-fact, like the sky being blue or the floor being under your feet.

And God,why did that make your stomach twist more than anything else?

You never really expected to marry someone. The idea of sharing your life, your space, your routines, it never felt real. Not because you hated love or feared commitment or any of that dramatic nonsense. No. It just… never seemed like you. You were the quiet one. The invisible daughter. The one people forgot to ask opinions from. The one who learned to thrive in silence. You were used to shrinking into spaces, not opening them up for someone else to walk into. And yet, here you were.

Married to a man who didn’t just walk into your life, he walked in, kicked the door open, threw a damn rug down and started rearranging furniture. Not loudly. Not rudely. Just… unapologetically. Existing in your space like he belonged there.

And worse? He fit. Too well.

You didn’t know what kind of divine comedy this was, but it was definitely messing with your heart. Because that dumb organ was doing little flips and somersaults every time he folded your clothes without being asked, or poured water into your cup before filling his own, or carried your bag like it was an extension of his arm. He never made a show of it. Never called it out.

He just did things. Like you mattered. Like he noticed you. And maybe that scared you more than anything else ever had.

But if he was going to do this,this husband-thing, then maybe, just maybe, he deserved a little space in your world too. Not the one built by your family. Not the name they tried to carry like a badge of shame. Your world. The one you made with your tiny comforts, your small joys, your quiet favorite places.

So, after unpacking, you stood in the middle of the room, fingers brushing over the rings he told you to wear. Still warm from your skin. Still heavy with meaning.

“I want to take you somewhere,” you said quietly, barely above a whisper.

Yeosang, who had just set down his cologne bottle onto the dresser, paused. Then turned to face you fully. “Yeah?” he asked, voice calm but something sparking behind his eyes.

You nodded, awkwardly playing with your sleeve. “Just… somewhere I go when I need to breathe.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just studied you with that unreadable expression, the one that made it feel like he was seeing parts of you even you didn’t know existed. Then, slowly, his lips tugged into something small. Not a smirk. Not a grin. Just, soft. Warm.

“I’d like that.”

You weren’t ready for how much those three words meant. For the way they made your chest feel tight. He didn’t ask where. Didn’t demand an explanation. He just grabbed a jacket, slung it over one arm, and said, “Lead the way.”

And you knew.

You knew at that moment, he wasn’t just some random name attached to your family’s pride. He wasn’t just a title, or a deal, or a man with money and power.

He was someone who, whether you liked it or not, had already started building a room inside your life.

The cold air bit at your nose as you stepped out, jacket wrapped around you tightly. You didn’t say much on the way, just gave Yeosang a look when he asked where you were taking him, and he didn’t push. Just followed behind you with steady footsteps, jacket slung casually over his arm, black boots echoing on the pavement like something out of a drama.

He looked so out of place in your world.

In his all-black outfit, hair styled just enough to look like he didn’t try, cologne subtle but warm—he was the kind of man who belonged in sleek lounges or high-rise penthouses. Not on this quiet street with chipped sidewalks and flickering neon signs. But you didn’t tell him that. Because a part of you wanted to see if he could fit here too.

You stopped in front of a small corner building, glass windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. A sign above the door, painted in soft pink and cream:

Whiskers & Tails Café.

He raised a brow. “A pet café?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Yeah.”

Then pushed open the door and stepped in.

Warmth greeted you instantly, both from the heaters and from the familiar scent of fur, coffee, and the faintest trace of vanilla-scented candles. The bell jingled above as you walked in, and the moment your face appeared, a sleepy golden retriever in the corner perked up, tail thudding against the floor.

It wasn’t just any pet café. It was yours. You volunteered here when you could. Cleaned kennels, fed them, played with them, sometimes just sat with the animals when the world outside was too loud. This place had always been your safe space.

And now… he was here.

You didn’t look at him as you unwrapped your scarf. Just mumbled, “I come here sometimes. Help out. Thought I’d check on them since we’re in town.”

Yeosang stood at the entrance for a moment, hands in his coat pockets. You expected him to make a comment. Something dry or sarcastic. Something about you being secretly soft-hearted.

But instead—

A small kitten, tabby with white paws, padded up to his feet. He knelt down. Not just crouched, fully knelt. One knee on the floor, hand out gently, voice soft.

“Hey, little guy.”

The kitten mewed and immediately rubbed its face against his fingers. Yeosang chuckled.

You blinked.

Then watched, absolutely dumbfounded, as the man you thought only cared about suits, expensive watches, and control, started going around the café… greeting every animal.

One by one.

Petting the large dogs with careful hands. Letting a sleepy cat climb onto his lap like it owned him. Even playing tug-of-war with a tiny puppy who definitely wasn’t winning, but Yeosang still made it feel like it was.

You didn’t know what to do with that information.

You sat down on the sofa and let the old Pomeranian you always fed climb onto your lap. You watched him, arms crossed, as he laughed when a kitten climbed into his coat. He made himself at home like he’d been there a hundred times.

You narrowed your eyes from your seat on the couch. “You good down there or are they starting a coup?”

Without looking up, he deadpanned, “I think this one’s the leader,” pointing to the tiny kitten who had now decided to nap on his thigh. “She’s got the eyes of a war general.”

You snorted, petting the sleepy Pomeranian curled into your lap. “Didn’t peg you for an animal person.”

“I’m not,” he said, while simultaneously adjusting the kitten’s head so she was more comfortable. “I’m just very approachable, apparently.”

“Oh yeah, that resting mafia face is super welcoming.”

He finally looked up at you, one brow raised. “Says the woman who stomps like a ghost when she walks and never makes eye contact.”

“That’s stealth,” you argued. “That’s a skill.”

“Sure,” he said dryly. “That’s exactly why the cat followed you the moment you walked in. Real ninja energy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe I smell like food.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” he replied, brushing fur off his pants. “You were navigating my kitchen like it owed you rent.”

“I was cooking, not robbing it.”

“You even found where I hide the sugar.”

“…You hid the sugar?”

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation. “You don’t need that much caffeine.”

You stared at him, offended. “You don’t even live in your kitchen!”

“And yet somehow, you’ve claimed it. Like it’s your natural habitat.”

A kitten chose that exact moment to sneeze on his hand, making him flinch slightly. You burst out laughing. “Oh yes, very majestic. You’re really commanding the animal kingdom right now.”

He shook his head, trying not to smile. “I literally own weapons and yet I’m being taken hostage by a two-pound furball.”

“Whiskers is the boss around here,” you said, pointing at the kitten in his lap. “Bow to her or be banished.”

Yeosang let out a soft laugh, real, low, warm, and scratched Whiskers under her chin. “At least she’s nicer than your mom.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh my God.”

“What?” he shrugged. “Whiskers didn’t say I was a waste of good suits.”

You tried to look scandalized, but you couldn’t help the laugh bubbling out of you. It was rare, laughing like this. Laughing with him. You weren’t supposed to be this comfortable. This… normal.

Yeosang glanced at you then, just briefly. “You laugh more when we’re not in your house.”

You blinked. “You notice that?”

He looked back down at the kitten, brushing his fingers through her fur. “I notice everything.”

And there it was. That stupid warmth again.

The air was cool and quiet as you and Yeosang walked down the familiar streets back home, the sun dipping just low enough to wash everything in that soft golden haze. Your feet were starting to ache, but you didn’t say anything. Mostly because Yeosang was already holding your bag, slung effortlessly over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

You did huffed, but didn’t argue. And maybe, just maybe, you liked the way it felt. Having someone quietly notice the things you struggled with and not making a big deal about helping.

You reached your house just as the golden light began to fade, the front porch casting long shadows. Yeosang’s grip on your bag shifted slightly as he pushed the door open for you, and the moment you stepped inside—

There she was.

Your mother. Standing there like she’d been waiting. That same tight-lipped smile that somehow looked more like a challenge than a greeting. “Where have you both been?” she asked, voice dripping with sweetness that somehow stung more than actual venom.

You shrugged off your shoes. “Places.”

She blinked. “Places?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

That smile wavered for just a second. “Well, as long as you’re not wandering around wasting time. Married life shouldn’t distract you from your responsibilities. Your husband might not always be so forgiving.”

You opened your mouth, ready to respond, or maybe just sigh, but Yeosang beat you to it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, setting your bag down gently, tone sugary-sweet and razor-sharp. “I’m more than forgiving. I even let her choose the restaurant today. Can you imagine?”

Your mom blinked. “Oh?”

“Crazy, right?” he continued, peeling off his jacket slowly, casually. “Letting her make her own decisions? Next thing you know, she’ll have opinions.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

Your mom’s smile dropped just a millimeter.

“And besides,” Yeosang added, voice light but eyes cold, “it wasn’t wasting time. We were at a place that made her happy. Which, I assume, isn’t a common theme around here.”

Dead. You were dead. He did not just say that.

Your mom blinked at him, clearly stunned for a half second, then let out a tight chuckle. “Well, I’m glad she has such a... supportive husband.”

Yeosang smiled. “Me too.”

You were just about to make your escape up the stairs, Yeosang right beside you, your bag now resting by the steps, when her voice cut through the air. "YN, come help me in the kitchen."

Your feet froze mid-step.

Yeosang slowed too, looking down at you with a glance so subtle no one else would’ve noticed. But you did. His eyes scanned your face, taking in the shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers tensed slightly. You didn’t even look at him, just nodded once and turned back. Because at the end of the day, no matter how many rings you wore or necklaces draped around your neck or husbands stood beside you,

She was still your mother.

You stepped into the kitchen like a soldier walking onto familiar, scorched battlefield. The air was already heavy with the smell of oil and something boiling, but you knew that wouldn’t be the thing to make your stomach turn.

“Wash those vegetables,” she said without even looking up. You did. Quietly. Mechanically. You always did. Then it began.

“I see you’ve gotten used to letting someone else speak for you now.” You kept washing the spinach. “Can’t even answer a simple question earlier. Just ‘places,’ huh?” You didn’t reply. Not yet.

“Not surprised. You were always a bit slow to speak. Just like your father.” The knife clinked a little harder against the cutting board. You knew that trick. Cut someone else down so you forget the weight of your own bruises.

You placed the spinach in the bowl. She turned to you, eyes narrow. “He must’ve spoiled you real quick. Is that why you’re suddenly standing up like a big girl now? His money made you bold?”

You finally looked at her. “No,” you said. Calm. Sharp. “I think I just stopped being afraid.”

She stared at you like you’d grown two heads. “Excuse me?”

You held her gaze. “You heard me.”

Her lips curled. “He’s not going to protect you forever. He’ll get bored of you. They always do.”

Your stomach twisted. “He’s not like that.”

She rolled her eyes. “You think he married you out of love? You’re not even that special. Don’t let some designer label fool you, girl.”

You felt it. That slow-burning heat, shame and anger tangling like wires in your chest. But this time, it didn’t silence you. This time, you said, “Maybe he didn’t marry me for love. But he treats me better in months than you have my whole life.”

And that’s when it happened.

Her hand was faster than your eyes. A crack of palm against cheek, the sound almost louder than the pain.

Almost.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. You just stood there. Frozen.

Because the sting on your cheek wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was how familiar it felt. That helplessness. That silence. That deep ache of being reduced to a child who didn’t have the right to speak.

You thought you had outgrown this. You thought you were healing.

But the tear that slid down your cheek wasn’t from the slap, it was from the sudden, brutal realization that a part of you was still that girl. Still folding napkins at dinner. Still flinching at footsteps. Still pretending it didn’t hurt.

And you hated it.

You hated that she could still reach inside you and drag that little girl out. Just with a few words. A raised hand. A name that still had power, even if you tried to forget.

The moment the slap landed, you dropped everything. The vegetables, the bowl, the knife. You didn’t even flinch at the sound of it clattering to the ground. Your hands trembled, not from the sting but from the crushing wave of emotions that surged through you, humiliation, fury, sadness, and something deeper. Something rotten that had been buried for too long. You didn’t say a word. Not to her. Not to yourself. You just turned, eyes burning and steps heavy, and walked. No…ran.

Up the stairs. Past the photos on the wall. Past the familiar scent of a house that never really felt like home. Your feet hit the last step and you all but burst through the door of your old bedroom.

Yeosang looked up just as you entered. He had his jacket in his hands, half off, like he’d just finished fixing his hair in the mirror. The casual, effortless way he looked, black sleeves rolled to the elbows, shirt fitted perfectly across his shoulders, it should’ve made your heart do those little flips again. But right now, you were too full. Too heavy. You didn’t even speak to him. You just locked eyes for half a second, long enough for him to see it. The tightness in your jaw. The gleam of tears unshed. The way your hands were clenched like you were holding on to the last strand of composure.

You walked past him, your steps unsteady but fast, and went straight into the bathroom. Yeosang didn’t move for a second. He didn’t need to ask. He didn’t need to guess. He knew.

He knew your face by now, every flicker, every twitch. He knew the storm behind your silence. You weren’t just tired. You weren’t just overwhelmed. You were hurt. And he didn’t need to hear it from your mouth to understand the source of it. His jaw tightened as he slowly placed his jacket on the hook, not saying a word. But his mind was loud.

Of course that woman did something. He knew this was more than just a fight. This was history. Years of belittling. Years of you being told you weren’t enough. Years of silence and shame so normalized it felt like air in this damn house. And even now, even with the jewelry he gave you on your skin, even with him standing next to you as your husband, she still saw you as that same small girl she could bend and break.

His fists clenched at his sides as he exhaled slowly. He had known you longer than you thought. Maybe you didn’t know that part yet. Maybe you never noticed how often he showed up where you were before this marriage. How much he had watched, not in a creepy way, but like someone fascinated by a person who moved quietly through the world and still held so much within her. He remembered the way you used to fidget with the ends of your sleeves when walking alone. He had always noticed you. And that’s why it burned so much now. Because even after all that time, you still had to deal with this.

He took a slow step toward the bathroom door, didn’t knock, didn’t call out. He just stood there.

When you came out of the bathroom, the air in the room felt heavier. Your face was washed, but the redness around your eyes betrayed you. Yeosang didn’t look up right away; he was lying back against the headboard, one arm folded under his head, the picture of composure. But he was watching. Not obviously, not directly, but every flicker of your movement was caught in the corner of his gaze.

You didn’t say a word. You walked over and sat at the very edge of the bed, your back stiff, your hands folded tightly in your lap as if keeping yourself from falling apart depended on it. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until his voice cut through it, low, steady, but gentle in a way that disarmed you instantly.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, not even shifting his posture. “You don’t have to explain. But if you need me,” his eyes flicked toward you, softer than you’d ever seen them, “I’ll be here.”

That was it. No lecture. No questions. No demanding answers you weren’t ready to give. Just that.

Your throat closed up before you could even think of a reply. The kind of ache that doesn’t warn you, it just rises. Your eyes blurred, and before you could stop it, tears began slipping down silently, trailing hot down your cheeks. You never were the kind of person to cry out loud—your pain had always been quiet, tucked away where no one could see. But the tears betrayed you now, your shoulders trembling, your chest rising unevenly as you tried to hold the pieces of yourself together.

Yeosang didn’t say anything else. He just moved. Slowly, steadily, he sat up, closed the small distance between you, and pulled you into him. His arms wrapped around you, firm but not suffocating, the way someone holds something fragile but refuses to let it break. He didn’t shush you, didn’t tell you to stop. He just held you because he knew you needed it more than anything.

And in that moment, with your forehead against his chest and his steady heartbeat under your ear, you realized he wasn’t here to fix you. He was here to stand with you while you broke, and to make sure you didn’t have to do it alone anymore.

The words slipped out of you before you could even stop them. You weren’t planning to tell him, weren’t planning to open your mouth at all, but it came so naturally, like a reflex, like breathing. “She slapped me,” you said quietly, staring at your hands in your lap.

Yeosang froze. His entire body went still, like a string pulled taut. His voice came next, sharp but measured, carrying a weight that told you he already knew but wanted to hear it confirmed. “Who?”

You swallowed, the word barely leaving your lips. “Mom.”

It sounded almost childish, almost like a confession you’d make as a kid when you ran to a grown-up, expecting them to fix it. But with Yeosang, it felt different. It wasn’t childish. It wasn’t weak. It felt like you were telling someone who had the power to take that weight from you, someone who wouldn’t just sit by. It felt like complaining to a guardian who could shield you, who could make the world’s cruelty back off.

Yeosang didn’t speak right away. He was still, utterly still, except for the tightening of his jaw. His eyes darkened, not in sadness, but in fury, an anger that sat deep in his chest and burned hot in his veins. He rarely felt it, and even more rarely let it show. But now, he was furious.

How dare someone touch you? His wife. His partner. The thought alone made his stomach knot and his blood hum with rage. He could hear his father’s voice in the back of his mind, the lessons drilled into him since boyhood: You protect the women in your family. And if anyone dares to lay a hand on them, you crush them. Especially your partner. She is your shield and your heart. No one touches her and walks away unscathed.

Yeosang’s fists curled into the blanket, his breath steady but heavy. It wasn’t just anger. It was something deeper, more dangerous. The kind of fury that demanded action. The kind that could dismantle a person piece by piece without even raising his voice.

The house was oddly quiet, you and Yeosang were tucked away in your room, standing in front of the mirror as you fixed the last bit of your hair. The soft glow of the lamp lit your face, but there was something about your eyes, dimmed, distant. No matter how carefully you blended your eyeliner or how well you draped your outfit, the shadow of what had happened earlier still lingered behind your expression.

Yeosang noticed. He always noticed. Even if you smiled, even if you tried to tuck it away, he could read you like lines written across his own palm. Adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, he leaned slightly toward you, catching your reflection in the mirror. “Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly, almost like a command but softened for you. His tone carried that steady confidence of his, the kind that made you feel like maybe he really could shoulder it all for you. “She’s not worth your thoughts tonight.”

You glanced at him, your lips twitching as if you wanted to respond but couldn’t quite bring yourself to. Instead, you smoothed the fabric of your dress, pushing away the heaviness for the moment. If he said not to worry, maybe you could trust him enough to try.

The venue was only a short walk away, near the house, and the sound of music and chatter already carried through the air when you both stepped outside. The street was glowing with lanterns and fairy lights, the venue itself dressed in bright colors and flowers that looked extravagant, too extravagant. You frowned slightly, tilting your head. Where did all this money come from? When you lived under this roof, the only thing you ever heard was how broke they were, how sacrifices had to be made, how you were a burden on the household. Yet suddenly, for this celebration, there was no shortage of decorations, food, and flair.

Your stomach twisted with the bitterness of it, but you kept walking. Yeosang, carrying himself with a calm sharpness beside you, noticed the way your lips pressed into a thin line. Without asking, without prying, he slipped your bag from your arm to his. “Clumsy hands,” he teased lightly, the same excuse he’d given earlier. But it wasn’t just that, he wanted to ease the weight you carried, even if it was something small.

Inside, the venue gleamed with people bustling, laughter rising, and the smell of food filling the air. And though your chest felt tight, you held your chin a little higher. Yeosang was beside you, his presence steady, and that alone felt like armor.

Yeosang had told you earlier, almost in passing while straightening his cufflinks, that his father was also on his way to the venue. The words had been simple, but they left a strange warmth in your chest. For some reason, knowing that man would be there settled you, as if the ground beneath your feet felt a little sturdier. His father had always been kind to you, genuinely kind, not the hollow politeness you were used to from others. He treated you like you were someone worth noticing, worth listening to. And it made you wonder, in the quiet corners of your mind, why your own father never looked at you that way. Why he never thought his daughter deserved the same softness a stranger could offer.

You didn’t say any of this out loud, of course. Words had always felt like a battlefield to you, every sentence a risk. So you kept them tucked behind your lips where they belonged, only giving Yeosang a small nod when he mentioned his father’s arrival. You knew he would catch it, knew he would read that tiny movement like it was a whole paragraph. That was the thing about him, he never needed your explanations to understand you.

His father had only been there for a few minutes, but the difference in the air was impossible to ignore. He carried himself with the kind of ease that drew people in, that quiet authority that made others soften just by being near him. After greeting your parents politely, your father stiff and formal, your mother forcedly cheerful, he drifted toward where you and Yeosang stood, positioning himself naturally by your side as though he belonged there.

The flow of relatives and family friends soon began, trickling into the venue in groups, all smiles and curious glances. One by one, you found yourself being tugged forward into the routine of introductions. You barely managed the words, your voice soft and clipped, but it didn’t matter. Yeosang filled in every gap you left, his hand at the small of your back, his responses smooth and respectful, his presence a shield more than anything. His father was no different, gracious, warm, steady. He didn’t just stand there like an ornament, he engaged, asked small questions, even made sure to include you when others seemed to gloss past your presence.

You could feel the eyes of your relatives lingering longer than they should. These were the same people who had sighed in pity when your marriage had been announced, whispering behind your back about how unfortunate it was to be bound to the Kang family. You remembered their voices, their sideways glances, their rehearsed sympathy. And now? Now you could see the jealousy simmering beneath their skin, their smiles stretched too tight, their words stumbling when they realized Yeosang wouldn’t stop orbiting around you.

He didn’t hide it. He didn’t play it down. He stayed close, adjusted the edge of your sleeve when it slipped, handed you a glass of water before you could even think to ask, leaned in to answer questions for you when your throat locked up. He didn’t do it to make a show of it, it was simply how he treated you. And the envy in your relatives’ eyes was so sharp it was almost laughable. You could see it in the stiffness of their shoulders, in the way they exchanged looks with each other, as though each glance was a needle pricked against their skin.

They had pitied you once. Now, standing there with Yeosang’s easy devotion surrounding you and his father’s steady presence at your side, you almost wished you could hand them a mirror so they could see themselves, jealousy dripping from their faces like pins stuck carelessly in cloth.

The chandelier light glowed soft golden, laughter bouncing around the decorated hall, but for Yeosang and his father this was nothing more than the perfect stage. The world thought they were here for your father’s birthday. They weren’t.

You stood beside Yeosang, your hand loosely in his, when his father leaned closer with a faint smile that only the two of you could read.

“So,” his voice was smooth, carrying easily over the chatter, “this is the family that thought they could treat my daughter-in-law so carelessly.” His eyes flicked toward your mother across the hall, who was busy playing hostess, and then to your father, stiff in his seat as relatives crowded around him. “I must admit, Yeosang, I expected… better.”

Yeosang’s hand tightened slightly around yours, grounding you, his lips curving into a smile that looked charming to the outside world but was laced with quiet malice. “That’s why I told you not to hold back tonight. Let them see what respect really looks like.”

You blinked up at him, confusion stirring, but neither man looked at you with pity. Yeosang’s father’s gaze softened for a brief second as he glanced at you, almost as if telling you silently: This isn’t your burden to carry anymore. This is ours.

A group of relatives approached them, gushing over the Kang family name, trying to curry favor. One of them made a passing remark, tone sly, “Ah, Yeosang, we heard it was quite the surprise, wasn’t it? A rushed marriage, hm?” The words were meant to sting, meant to remind you of how they once pitied you.

Yeosang’s father chuckled, rich and deliberate. “Surprise, yes. But only for those who didn’t realize what a treasure she is. You see, my son chose well. He could’ve had anyone, but he wanted her. And after seeing how she’s been treated before?” His gaze, sharp as steel beneath his smile, landed on your father briefly. “Let’s just say the Kang family makes sure no one forgets her worth again.”

There was a subtle shift in the air, whispers starting among the group. Yeosang didn’t let the moment linger too long—he smoothly added, his tone deceptively light, “People don’t often realize how cruel words can be behind closed doors. But I think she deserves a room full of people knowing she’s valued. Don’t you agree, Father?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” his father replied smoothly, raising his glass. To outsiders it looked like casual praise, but the bite in his words was unmistakable to the ones who knew. Your father shifted uncomfortably across the room, and you caught it.

And then, like a knife slicing clean through the tension, Yeosang’s father announced it. Loud enough for the nearby relatives, your parents, and soon the entire hall to hear:

“Speaking of surprises, we Kang men don’t come empty-handed. Tonight, I am pleased to announce that we are in the final stages of acquiring the very company your father works at.” He turned deliberately, his smile kind but razor-edged, to face your father. “Which means, from now on, he’ll be working directly under us.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Your relatives’ eyes widened, their envy morphing into disbelief, then thinly veiled glee at your father’s humiliation. You felt your stomach drop, a dizzying mix of shock and something dangerously close to satisfaction.

Yeosang’s hand found yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. He didn’t even look at your father, he only looked at you, his eyes calm, his voice low so only you could hear. “You don’t ever have to bow your head to them again.”

Your father’s face had gone red, your mother’s forced smile faltering as the murmurs grew louder. And you? For the first time in years, standing between Yeosang and his father, you didn’t feel small in that house of shadows.

You felt untouchable.

The hall was glowing with lights, laughter, and clinking glasses, but for Yeosang and his father, it was all just a stage. Neither of them cared for the decorations or the false pleasantries exchanged across the room. This wasn’t a celebration. This was their battlefield.

Yeosang stood close to you, his hand brushing against yours as if grounding you in place. His gaze, however, was sharp, scanning the room like he was calculating every move before it happened. His father leaned against the tall glass table beside him, his expression calm, even casual, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You were right,” Mr. Kang said under his breath, his voice low enough that only Yeosang caught it. “They treat her like a stranger in her own family. Look at her mother, she smiles at me but she won’t even look at her daughter. Pathetic.”

Yeosang’s jaw clenched, his eyes flicking to you for a moment. You were fidgeting with the rings you had on, shoulders tense, trying to appear small in the crowd. He hated it. He hated that this house, these people, made you shrink yourself.

“They’ll learn tonight,” Yeosang replied, his tone colder than ice. “You’ve always told me, never let anyone lay a hand on the woman of my family. And she’s mine. They think they can treat her like she’s nothing. Let’s see how they handle when the room starts whispering about them instead.”

His father chuckled, that low dangerous sound. “That’s my son.” He straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. “I’ll handle the first strike. Subtle. Sharp. I’ll make them bleed without realizing they’re cut.”

Yeosang’s lips curved, though it wasn’t a smile—it was a warning. “And I’ll finish it. Once we announce the company, there’ll be nothing left of his pride.”

A waiter passed, and Mr. Kang smoothly lifted a glass of champagne. He didn’t drink it, simply held it as though it were a prop in his act. His eyes found your father across the room, laughing too loudly with his friends, chest puffed with fake importance.

“Enjoy your last night of dignity,” Mr. Kang murmured, almost to himself, but Yeosang heard. “By the time we’re done, everyone in this room will know exactly what kind of man you really are.”

Yeosang’s hand brushed against yours again, this time firmer, more deliberate. You glanced up at him, confused by the look in his eyes, fierce, unyielding, protective. He didn’t say a word to you, but you didn’t need him to. You could feel it. Tonight, he wasn’t just standing by your side. Tonight, he was fighting for you.

And the Kangs never fought to lose.

Your father stood near the center of the room, chest out, soaking in the attention of his colleagues and relatives. He thrived in this spotlight. He always had.

Mr. Kang made the first move. He stepped forward with ease, smile warm enough to seem genuine yet sharp enough to cut. Holding his champagne glass, he spoke loud enough for nearby guests to hear.

“Your daughter is precious, you know.” His voice was smooth, conversational, yet it carried. “Yeosang told me how strong she had to be while living here. Not every girl can survive such… strict households.”

The people around them stilled. Some glanced toward you, then at your parents. Your mother’s smile faltered, the corners of her lips twitching nervously. Your father’s eyes flickered, just for a moment, but he covered it with a strained laugh.

“Oh, you know how kids exaggerate, Mr. Kang,” he said, voice overly cheerful. “We raised her well, didn’t we?”

Yeosang, standing tall beside you, let out a low chuckle, soft but audible. It wasn’t amusement, it was mockery. His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you closer into his side like he was shielding you from them all. His words cut like a blade, smooth and deliberate.

“She doesn’t exaggerate,” he said calmly. “I’ve seen enough to know what she’s been through. She deserved kindness, not… discipline masked as care.”

The crowd’s silence was heavy now, whispers beginning to stir like embers catching flame. Your relatives’ faces were pale, their envy earlier replaced by shock.

Your father’s jaw worked, his smile twitching. “Yeosang-ah, don’t misunderstand—”

“Misunderstand?” Yeosang interrupted, his tone still respectful yet laced with steel. “No, I don’t misunderstand. I protect what’s mine. And when I see the woman I love flinch in her own home, when I hear she’s been struck…” His gaze sharpened, his voice lowering dangerously. “That isn’t misunderstanding. That’s truth.”

Your breath hitched. His words weren’t shouted, yet they echoed louder than any scream could have.

Before your father could sputter out another excuse, Mr. Kang stepped forward, commanding the room with practiced authority. He clinked his glass gently, drawing all attention to himself.

“On another note,” he began, smiling as though nothing heavy had been said, “I’d like to share something important. My company will officially be acquiring the firm your dear host here works for.” He gestured politely to your father, whose face drained of color. “I believe that makes him… well, my employee now.”

A ripple of gasps ran through the hall. Some guests exchanged stunned looks, others covered their mouths with their hands. Your father’s pride shattered right before their eyes.

Mr. Kang’s smile was razor sharp. “I do hope you all continue to support him in this new… position.”

Yeosang didn’t gloat. He didn’t need to. He simply stood tall beside you, his hand steady on your back, his expression unreadable but victorious. And for the first time in years, you weren’t the one shrinking under everyone’s gaze. It was your father.

The hall buzzed with whispers, your relatives’ envy twisting into something else entirely, fear, awe, regret. You felt your chest tighten, tears prickling at your eyes, but not from sadness this time. For once, someone had stood up for you. For once, you weren’t alone.

And as the chandeliers glowed brighter, it didn’t feel like your father’s celebration anymore.

It felt like Yeosang’s victory.

Yeosang’s grip on your hand was steady, too steady. It wasn’t the kind of handhold you could slip out of, not the kind where he gave you space to hesitate. It was firm, grounded, the kind that said we’re leaving, and I won’t let you look back.

The hall’s murmurs still rang in your ears as the three of you walked out. People parted in silence, unsure whether to whisper or bow, and you could feel their stares clinging to your back. You didn’t dare turn around.

Your heart twisted. Part of you wanted to breathe, wanted to smile, wanted to lean into the warmth of his hand and the comfort of finally being defended. But another part of you, the part that had been trained to obey, to fear, to seek approval, ached at the thought of leaving your father standing there in the ruins of his pride.

The cold night air hit your face before you even realized you’d stepped outside. Yeosang didn’t slow, didn’t falter. By the time you blinked, you were standing at the car, his father quietly instructing the driver. You hadn’t even noticed the suitcases being loaded into the trunk.

Your throat went dry. When did he-?

And then, just like that, the car door was opening for you. Yeosang guided you in with that same unshakable grip, sliding in right after you. His father took the seat in front. The door shut, muffling the noise of the party, muffling your father’s world.

Only then did the silence crash down.

You stared at the window, watching the house fade in the distance. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your mind torn between relief and guilt, freedom and grief.

Yeosang’s hand was still over yours. Warm. Steady. He hadn’t let go. Not once.

“You’re not going back there,” he said finally, his voice quiet but absolute. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

You didn’t know whether to cry or to thank him. Maybe both. But all you managed was a small nod, your fingers curling back into his, hesitant, trembling, but holding on.

The soft click of the penthouse door echoed in the quiet, and the only light spilling in was from the city skyline, gold and silver scattered like stars against the glass. The hum of the city felt so far away compared to the heavy silence between you and Yeosang.

He didn’t even bother turning on the lights. Instead, he turned to you the moment the door locked behind him. His hands were on your shoulders, steady but gentle, anchoring you in place. He lowered himself just enough so his eyes caught yours, dark and unrelenting.

“YN,” he said, voice low, careful, “don’t do that.”

You blinked at him, startled. “Do what?” Your voice cracked despite you trying to make it sound even.

His grip on your shoulders tightened, firm, not harsh. “Keep it all inside. Pretend you’re fine when I know you’re not.” He searched your face like he was trying to read every thought you refused to say out loud. “I can see it. I’m not blind. Don’t hide from me.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. That familiar instinct clawed at you, to shake your head, to stay quiet, to keep the ache bottled where no one could touch it. But Yeosang wasn’t letting you get away with it.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping softer, almost a whisper now. “You don’t have to say it pretty. You don’t have to explain it right. Just- say something. To me. Please.”

Your throat tightened. His eyes didn’t waver, not once. He wasn’t angry, wasn’t demanding, it was something worse. He was begging you to let him in. And for the first time that night, you felt your chest crack open.

Your words came out like they belonged to someone much younger, someone small and fragile,

“I don’t know what I’m feeling, Yeosang…”

It cracked at the end, sharp and thin, and you hated how childlike you sounded. But it was the truth, the rawest thing you could give. Yeosang didn’t flinch. He didn’t let go. He only guided you to the couch, slow and deliberate, his hand still steady on your shoulder as if he was afraid you’d crumble if he moved too quickly.

“Sit down first,” he murmured.

You obeyed, sinking into the cushions, your body heavier than you realized. But his hand never left you, it was still there, grounding, firm and warm against your shoulder. You stared at your knees, at your trembling fingers, at the floor, anywhere but him.

“It’s okay,” Yeosang said, voice like velvet over steel. “Take your time.”

That was when it slipped. One tear, hot and stubborn, slid down your cheek before you could stop it. You didn’t even wipe it away. You just let it fall, your eyes slowly lifting to meet his again.

His gaze softened the moment he saw it. No mockery, no impatience. Just this unbearable tenderness, like the sight of you breaking, was breaking him, too.

You finally let it out, the words shaky and bitter, like they’d been rotting in your chest for years.

“I feel horrible… like a horrible daughter.”

Your lip trembled as you forced yourself to keep speaking. “That was his party, Yeosang. And I ruined it. For me, for us, he had to…” your throat caught, “it was supposed to be a celebration, and I—”

“Yn,” Yeosang’s voice cut through, low but firm. He crouched in front of you, catching your eyes even when you tried to look away. “Don’t you dare put this on yourself.”

You shook your head, whispering, “But I feel like the worst—”

“You’re not.” He reached up, brushing away the tear sliding down your left cheek. The gentleness of it made your chest ache even worse. Another tear slipped from your right eye, and this time, his thumb caught it before it could fall. He held your face carefully in both hands, like you were glass.

“They were never parents to you, Yn,” he said, steady but sharp, as if each word was a truth he needed you to believe. “They were owners. They treated you like something they could control, not someone they could love. Parents don’t raise their hands on their child. Parents don’t make their daughter cry herself to sleep.”

Your shoulders shook, your voice small. “Then why… why do I still feel guilty?”

“Because you’ve been made to feel guilty your whole life.” His thumb traced lightly across your cheek, drying the wet trail left behind. “But listen to me, none of this is your fault. Not tonight, not ever.”

His gaze softened, his voice lowering into something almost pleading.

“You didn’t ruin his party. He ruined you. And I won’t let him, or anyone, touch you again.”

Your breath hitched when the image of your mother’s face flashed across your mind, the cold, unmoving stare she gave you as if you were nothing. It twisted in your chest, and before you could stop it, a sob broke free. You dropped your gaze, ashamed of the sound, but Yeosang didn’t let you hide.

Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest. His hand threaded through your hair, slow and steady, while the other rubbed circles on your back. His voice hummed low above you, calm, protective.

“It’s okay. Cry if you need to.” His chin rested lightly against your head. “You don’t have to hold anything in with me.”

You clung to his shirt, your voice muffled against him. Another sob wracked through you, but his arms only tightened, grounding you.

“They don’t deserve your tears, Yn. Not one of them,” he whispered, stroking your hair like he was trying to smooth away every scar left behind. “You’ve carried this weight alone for too long. Let me carry it now.”

You lifted your head slowly, eyes swollen, lips trembling, and met his gaze. He looked softer than you had ever seen him. There was no sharp edge, no cool distance, just warmth. His thumb brushed your cheek again, so carefully it made your chest ache.

“You’re safe now. With me, you’re safe,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “No one can hurt you here.”

Something shifted inside you then. The safety in his arms was foreign, almost overwhelming, but it wrapped around you like a blanket you’d never had before. It felt intimate, terrifyingly so, like he was peeling back all the layers you’d built to protect yourself. And still, he didn’t flinch.

For the first time in years, you let yourself lean into someone. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like weakness.

His thumbs were still brushing away your tears when he suddenly froze, staring at you with an intensity that made your heart skip. He didn’t know what possessed him, maybe the sight of your trembling lips, maybe the ache in your eyes, but his hands rose, cupping your face gently, like you were something fragile he couldn’t let slip through his fingers.

Your lips parted slightly, pouting as if they were begging to be soothed. Without thinking, Yeosang leaned down and pressed the softest kiss against them. Just a fleeting touch. You blinked in surprise, but you were too buried in sadness to fully react.

He pulled back, searching your face, and whispered, almost as if he was testing the words on his own tongue.

“I don’t know why, but I felt like you needed that.”

Before you could even process it, he kissed you again. This time slower, lingering, like he wanted you to feel it.

“Yeosang” your voice cracked, fragile.

“I’m right here, Yn,” he murmured, his forehead leaning against yours. “I’ll always be here, whether you’re crying, whether you’re silent, even when you don’t know what you’re feeling, I’ll stay.”

Your breath shook as more tears fell, though not all from sadness this time. He wiped them away again, his palms still warm against your cheeks.

“You don’t have to pretend around me,” he said softly. “Not strong, not perfect, not unbothered. Just… you. That’s all I want. Now do you want me to remove your makeup? Cause your mascara is going all over the place.”

A shaky little laugh slipped out of you, surprising even yourself. It wasn’t loud, but it was there, soft, real, and it broke through the heaviness in the air.

His chest loosened at the sound, and his lips curved into something more genuine. “There it is,” he whispered, almost in awe. “You’re laughing while crying. Do you know how beautiful that is?”

You wiped the corner of your eye, still sniffling, and muttered, “That sounds ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he chuckled, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “But it’s you. And right now, I’ll take any excuse to see you smile.”

For a moment, the silence felt lighter. He exhaled slowly, still keeping his hands near your face, as if he couldn’t quite let go. Then he leaned back a little, his voice calm but certain.

“It’s late. We should get ready for bed.”

He said it not as an end to the moment, but as if he was carrying you forward away from the weight of the night, and into something safer.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside the tall windows. The penthouse was dark, only the silver glow of the moon spilling in through the curtains. Yeosang lay on his back, one arm resting against his stomach, the other draped lazily over the sheets. It was a familiar sight, he always slept like that, still and calm, like the world couldn’t touch him.

You, however, couldn’t sleep. Your mind wouldn’t stop turning. The images of the evening, your father’s expression, your mother’s silence, the weight of everything that had been said and done, kept replaying behind your eyes. But more than that, the way Yeosang had been with you. The way he held you together when you were falling apart. The way he hadn’t let go once.

“Yeosang?” your voice came out softer than you intended, almost childlike.

He turned his head immediately, eyes sharp even in the low light. “Hm?” he hummed back, voice deep and steady, like he’d been waiting for you to call him.

You hesitated, then slowly shifted onto your side, facing him. He mirrored you without even thinking, his body turning to you, as if his instincts wouldn’t let him do anything else.

For a second, you just looked at him, the relaxed set of his jaw, the way his hair was a little messy against the pillow, the quiet warmth in his eyes. And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could let the nerves crawl in, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his.

It was small, delicate. A flutter of a kiss. Barely there, but it still made your chest tighten like you’d leapt off a cliff.

When you pulled back, his eyes were wide, but not with shock, more with a kind of wonder, like he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming.

“…Thank you,” you whispered, your voice cracking just slightly.

His brows softened. “For what?” he asked quietly, almost afraid to break the fragile moment.

“For tonight. For being here. For… everything,” you breathed, your eyes flickering away.

And then, almost like it slipped out of you before you could stop it, you whispered, “I love you.”

The words hung between you for only a beat before you quickly turned around, facing the other side of the bed. Your heart was pounding in your ears, your fists curled in the sheets. You didn’t want to see his reaction. You didn’t think you could handle it.

Yeosang just lay there frozen for a moment, staring at the dark ceiling, his mind spiraling faster than it ever had in battle. He didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or jump up and run around the entire penthouse like a lunatic. His chest felt tight, but in the best way, like his heart was too big for his body.

You. The one he had quietly, obsessively, devoted himself to. The one he’d spent months trying to read, trying to break through, trying to protect without scaring away. You, the girl who always kept her feelings locked away, who never let anyone know what was going on inside, just said you loved him.

If anyone else had said it, he would’ve dismissed it, maybe even laughed. But from you? His wife? The girl who could barely admit when she was hurt? It was everything.

Yeosang pressed a hand over his face, trying to smother the stupid grin threatening to spread. Get a grip, man, he scolded himself, but his body wasn’t listening. His stomach was a mess of nerves, his throat tight, his heart thundering like he was some lovesick teenager, not the cold, calculating Yeosang that people feared.

Butterflies. Actual butterflies. This is humiliating.

But then his eyes flicked to your back, your shoulders rising and falling as if you were trying to pretend you hadn’t just dropped a bomb on him.

The second Yeosang realized you were faking sleep, something inside him twisted. He had been patient for so long, silent when you avoided, soft when you broke down, careful when you were fragile. But now? Now you had kissed him, whispered those three words that had haunted his dreams, and then had the audacity to turn away as if nothing happened.

Not on his watch.

Without warning, his arm clamped tighter around your waist. You barely had time to register before he tugged you back with such strength that the air hitched in your throat. The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he rolled you toward him, his grip unyielding, caging you against him.

“Yeosang!” you gasped, startled, your hands instinctively pushing against his chest. He didn’t budge. He was solid, immovable, like marble brought to life. His dark eyes locked on you, sharp and burning, and the look on his face made your protest die in your throat.

“No.” His voice was low, firm, but there was fire simmering beneath it. “That’s not how it’s gonna be.” His hand at your waist tightened, pulling you impossibly closer until you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your palm. “You can’t just kiss me, drop that on me, and then run away. No, YN. Not tonight.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You were trapped, not by force, but by the sheer weight of him. By the intensity in his gaze. By how he looked at you like you were the only thing in his universe.

He leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice a demanding whisper. “Look at me. Say it to my face. If you’re gonna love me, then don’t you dare hide it behind your back.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt. His words weren’t cruel, but they shook you to your core, cracking the walls you’d built. You could feel his fingers at your side, strong and steady, like he was anchoring you in place, refusing to let you escape not this time.

“Yeosang…” your voice cracked, small and trembling.

He softened for only a second, his thumb brushing gently against your side, but his eyes never wavered. “Say it.”

You wanted to bury your face, to hide like you always did, but his grip wouldn’t let you. And maybe— maybe that was exactly what you needed. His strength wasn’t a prison, it was a reminder that someone, finally, wanted you to stop running.

“I-” You hesitated, the lump in your throat making it nearly impossible. But his gaze, unrelenting yet patient, drew the truth out of you. “…I love you, Yeosang.”

The moment the words slipped from your lips a second time, clear, certain, undeniable, Yeosang couldn’t hold himself back anymore. His arms wrapped around you with a force that knocked the breath right out of you, pulling you into him so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse you together.

You froze, startled by the sudden intensity, but then you heard him. His voice was muffled against your chest, raw and unguarded in a way you had never heard before.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, his words trembling with emotion, “you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Your hand, almost on instinct, found its way to the back of his head. His soft dark hair tickled your fingers as you cradled him close, your palm resting against him like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go. He pressed his face harder against your chest, almost desperate, as if trying to drown in the sound of your heartbeat.

And you, you didn’t expect to feel it. That sudden warmth blooming in your chest, spreading through your veins like sunlight breaking into a dark room. Happiness. Pure, unexplainable, bone-deep happiness.

You didn’t know why it felt so overwhelming, but it did. Maybe because for the first time, the weight you had been carrying alone didn’t feel so heavy. Maybe because the walls you had built weren’t protecting you anymore, they were finally coming down. Or maybe because the man everyone else feared was clinging to you like you were his entire world.

Slowly, tenderly, you wrapped both arms around his head, holding him as if you could shield him from everything. His breath hitched against you, and you felt his shoulders loosen, the tension he always carried melting away in your embrace.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world outside the bed didn’t exist,the creak of the ship, the salt of the sea, the dangers waiting in every corner, none of it mattered. It was just you, him, and this fragile, breathtaking truth between you.

It felt like the beginning of something new. A chapter neither of you had dared to dream of, now written in the quiet safety of a shared embrace.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe it, this was the start of your life with him.

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