the first time max hatter met you was on the first day of school at auradon prep. he decided to explore the campus instead of getting lunch with his friends since he didn't feel like eating just yet. he managed to get all the way to where the enchanted lake was but he wasn't quite there. along the path built for said enchanted lake, he noticed that the path deviates into this man-made path going into the forest surrounding the said built path.

curiosity caught him and max ventured into the forest.

there, he saw you.

you laid on a blanket with this basket full of jars. there were jars on the blanket as well in one pile near it. surrounding you were piles of... leaves? plants? flowers? whatever they were, they seemed to be properly sectioned off separately.

max wasn't sure if you were asleep or just taking a break. but he wasn't going to risk being seen looking like some sort of creep.

...although maybe it's best to be seen so that you don't think of it like that.

an alarm ringed. the sound stirred you as you stretched your limbs then slowly sat up. letting out a yawn, you grabbed a pair of scissors then pulled out a bouquet of flowers from... somewhere (max didn't see where you pulled those out of). in one swoop, you cut the buds off the stems—the buds exploding onto your lap.

what the fuck —> max's exact thoughts in real-time.

he was so taken aback that he didn't realize he actually said these words out loud.

looking up, you made eye contact with him. "oh, you're not my cousin..." you monotonically commented then turned back to what you were doing.

this time, max looked taken aback. he walked forward while saying, "woah, woah, woah—you can't just say that i'm not your cousin then go back to... whatever the hex you're doing." he plopped down onto the blanket on the forest floor, taking a seat in front of you.

max invited himself and picked up one of the open jars next to him. "what even are these?" he asked as he raised the jar up to his eye level and peering into it.

you looked up for a split second then turned back to stuffing the buds into one of the jars and bluntly answered, "they're poison."

he dropped the jar he was holding out of shock. your reflexes kicked in and quickly caught the said jar before it crashed into the ground. "...you're lucky i caught that." your deadpanned eyes meeting his confused ones, then the contact went away as quick as it happened.

max didn't know what to understand from you. what kind of person collects poison? on school grounds also no less. it's... it's mad—! and that's already coming from the son of an actual madman (max internally rolled his eyes). he watched as you crumpled each petal into this paste-like powder inside of the jar.

who are you? he can't fathom not knowing who you are nor knowing what legacy you came from. you can't be a vk... he would've known—then again how would he have known even if you were a vk? it's not like he paid much attention to the other vks on the island. but he probably would've remembered someone pretty like you—he shook his head from the thought. an hk then? but... what you're wearing didn't look like something any hk would sensibly wear.

a strapless one piece swimsuit top paired with from what he can see to be a skort? just low enough so that the top of your hips were peeking out from the slit between the swimsuit and the skort. the swimsuit top looked scaly with leaf prints here and there while your skort was just plain black. vines swirled around your legs that came from the straps of the heels you have. long elegant gloves with the same swirling vines around it. your hair a bit wavy with red-orange highlights, obvious and seen from your dark hair.

....max hummed as he thought that you looked more like a vk if anything—poison ivy motif. that mole on your cheek.... who has a mole on their cheek? he wasn't sure if he knew any villain or hero who has moles on their face.

so his question still remained unanswered.

just who are you?

"...and why in the wicked isle are you even collecting poison for?" he managed to ask.

you let out a hum, not looking up at him. "because i want to?" a tilt of your head and the tone of your voice made it sound like that was supposed to be obvious.

max nodded his head at you. "uhuh," he responded sarcastically. "i totally should've known." a deadpan look on his face.

you glanced up at him then let out a chuckle at his face before looking back to another bouquet. at the sound of your chuckle, his face softens. max noticed how monotone you look and sound together with how literal you can get. it's a bit refreshing that you didn't look at him in fear because of who he is. actually, do you even know who he is?

"do you know who i am?" he asked straightforwardly.

you paused after cutting off another set of buds. this time you properly looked up and stared at him. "no," you answered honestly. "...do you know who i am?" your tone a bit soft.

"no," max gave you the same answer with a shook of his head.

"oh."

a comfortable silence envelops the two of you as you continued doing what you were doing while max stayed beside you, hanging out and scrolling through his phone.

as you were walking through the locker hall, you bumped into a familiar person. max caught you in a dip; his arm wrapped around your waist while his other hand caught your arm. you could feel his strong hold on your hip and wrist.

"..it's you," he lets out before pulling you back on your heels. "you good?"

you nodded your head. "thank you," you say.

he shook his head. "don't mention it."

felix lets out a whistle from behind max. "oho, who do we have here?" he says as he laid an arm on max's shoulder. his other hand shuffling a deck of cards—tarot cards.

on the other side of max stood hazel as she looked at you up and down. she then raised one brow like she had recognized you, but wasn't quite sure. "what a princely move there, max," she commented with an elbow nudge. "you pulling them hk moves now?"

max rolled his eyes at his friends. "can you shut up," he says (with affection).

hazel laughs as she lets out, "what?" then she walked towards you, circling you. "she's a fine lass. sweetheart, if you had bumped into me, i would've done more than swept you off your feet."

you shook your head. "no thanks. i'm already familiar with... max. i would've rather him than you."

hazel paused in front of your with an amused yet surprised look on her face before turning to max to laugh at him. "what the hex did you do to her?!" she lets out.

"wow, that's a first," felix lets out next with a cross of his arms. he then walked over to your side to ask, "do you not see the resemblance he has with his father?"

you raised a brow at his question, but before you could answer, max placed a hand on hazel's and felix's shoulder. "okay!" he exclaimed. "enough! let's go. we got a class to catch." then started pushing them away from you. the two of them started laughing at his embarrassment.

as he passed by you, you turned back to him. "max," you called.

the three of them paused as max turned back to you. "what?"

with a stretched hand, you called, "give it back."

felix and hazel looked at each other as max looked a bit impressed. "give what back?" he says with a smirk.

wordlessly, you pulled out a jagged wallet with you other hand. "let's do a trade then." a similar smirk forms on your face.

"no hexing way!" hazel lets out in surprise while felix lets out a low whistle. "she done you good, max!" she then points at you. "you and i need to hang out—i don't care if you're an hk. you're wicked in my book."

max groans as he took out your own wallet from his back pocket and places it on your open palm as he swipes back his own wallet. "i'll see you some time," he whispered out to you.

you watched him walk away.

"so what's your deal with her?" hazel asked immediately after departing with you. the group stopped in the hallway inside the building by the wall.

max shrugged. "i don't know what you want from me," he says. "i just met her... like a few weeks back. i caught her in her business and i just... we ended up just hanging out then."

hazel slightly reeled her head back as she stared at him with squinted eyes. "the hex do you mean "cause her in her business"?" her fists on her hips.

"wait—!" max palmed his face. "i mean, she was collecting some herbs or plants or flowers or stuff out in the forest in the enchanted lake. and i somehow found her."

"was this when you ditched us from lunch?" felix asked to which max nodded at. "so then y'all just... there in the forest alone?" max nodded again. "... do you know who she is?" felix pointed a finger towards the direction where they bumped into you.

max shook his head. "she looked really vk—i mean, you guys saw what she's wearing! but i don't remember a vk like her, so i just defaulted to maybe she's an hk that i don't know."

"an hk you don't know?" hazel repeated. "max, she's a madrigal."

felix nodded. "y/n madrigal, daughter of... isabela? the one with the flowers," he added.

it felt like max's head just exploded right there.

felix shook his head at hazel. "no, who cares if he didn't know—i mean, we all saw what she was wearing!" he repeated. "i wanna know if she knew who you were."

max shook his head. "no, she said she didn't know who i was—i literally asked her—and then she asked me if i knew who she was... i said no, duh. and then.... and then i don't know?! something changed after that and we were just... comfy.... in silence. it wasn't even awkward! we just hang around for a few hours together with silence and some talking here and there." he blinked a few times. "we never actually asked for each other's names."

"max, i don't think i ever saw you this down bad before," felix mentioned.

hazel nods her head at that. "yeah, no, you're wickedly down bad."

max blushed at his ears. "what! no, no, no, no," he denied. "this is just the first time someone ever... not been afraid of me because of my father!"

felix and hazel looked at each other before turning back to max.

"right, right," hazel says.

"whatever you say, bud," felix says.

"guys!" max exclaimed.

you watched as the trio go inside, heading for whatever class they have next. that was then luis drops by next to you. "are you good, prima?" he asked.

you turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "yes?" you answered, confused.

"no, 'cause you bumped into... them of all people," he told you with a slight glare towards the direction where they left.

you tilted your head at him. "luis... prejudice, really?" you stated at him. "there's a reason why the borders are down for the vks... it's because they're not like their parents—!" at this point, you tried to walk away from him.

luis winced at your harsh words as he catches up to you and stops you once again. "but he's a hatter! maddox is one of the most feared villains! and that's his son, max. and he's friends with a hook and a facilier." he sighs. "look, i'm just trying to protect mi familia."

"look, it's the madrigals!" someone squealed from the side as a small crowd eventually forms.

luis was quick to act—a smile on his face as he flaunts off his muscles. you rolled your eyes at him before forcefully shoving your way out of the crowd. he saw and immediately caught you by the wrist. "sorry about my prima here guys! she's a bit in a bad mood right now," he apologized on your behalf. "we'll hang out next time?"

the crowd then slowly dispersed.

you sighed in relief. you then turned to luis with a glare. "you of all people should know just how much i hate our family name," you stated firmly. "why am i given this pressure of morals and comparisons all because i was bestowed the title of an hk."

luis stayed silent. his brows furrowed at your statement.

"i know you agree with me to a certain degree, luis," you tell him. "you don't have to do the things i've done to rebel. you just have to not fall for the stereotypes of others and act on it. i bet they're nice—i know max is—and you'd know it too if you try to befriend them."

you turned on your heel and stomped off.

max managed to find you once again, this time, at the greenhouse which was located in one of the corners of auradon prep. a rather isolated area due to the magical plants it posses and the size of the greenhouse. a fairly big building that feels like the size of a cottage, albeit a bit bigger.

it was by chance that max stumbled upon it. he just felt like walking around and he managed to see the spacious area. the greenhouse was surrounded by a garden—smaller compared to the one behind the school.

there you were, inside the greenhouse watering some plants. max watched you from the entrance. after a few more seconds, he then decided to wordlessly look around. he wasn't sure if you knew he was here, but decided not to announce his presence.

he appreciated how organized the area was. each section was categorized into certain kinds of plants and then each plant was also named. he didn't know much about botany but this system made it easy to know which is which and under what.

max stared at the section with just a bunch of leaves. none of it was labelled—he looked for one. was it a new section? maybe since it didn't have any labels at all even a hanging sign above the section wasn't there. he crouched down to look at the said leaves. he slowly reached out to touch—

"don't touch that."

he froze mid-air as he turned to the sound of your voice.

"all of those leaves are poisonous to the touch. i was just about to pick up the labels i printed over at the library," you told him as you stood next to him. "it's a good thing you found this place before i left."

max sighed in both relief and annoyance as he stood up. "wouldn't it be better to have the labels ready first and then plant them?" he asked.

you shrugged turning to the sectioned leaves. "i was excited," you honestly told him. "besides, fairy godmother said no one really drops by here and is only weekly maintained, so i called dibs and it's technically my territory now."

he hummed. "you..." he stuttered. "you know who i am now, huh?"

you turned to him with a raised brow. "...and you know who i am also," you mentioned.

silence engulfed the two of you. a silence that felt one of you had to disturb it, but the hesitation was evident. words hung on the tip of the lip, but nothing comes out.

max swirled in his anxiousness. in his head, you were already afraid of him. in his head, it's over. in his head... in his head, he actually wanted to get close to you. letting out a sigh, he walked towards the door of the greenhouse, carefully swerving around you, and not bumping his shoulder into yours.

he didn't dare look back.

you dumped books into your locker as you were done with classes for the day. lost in your thoughts, you didn't notice someone closing your locker door for you. a loud bang gets your out of your thoughts.

turning to one hazel hook, leaning against the lockers. you raised a brow at her and said, "hello, hazel."

"what did you do to max?" she asked straightforwardly with a glare on her face.

taken aback, you didn't respond in time.

"he's been sulking for months!" she exclaimed. "and i've thought about it"—her hook pointing at you—"and i've concluded that the only person who could be sulking at is you."

you opened your mouth, but nothing comes out. "i..." you stammered. "i don't know what to tell you. he..." your eyes flickered.

"well, maybe i can give an old facilier special," felix spoke up from behind you.

three cards floated from his hands. a mist of green surrounded the cards. the first card flipped over showing a reversed major arcana, the hermit.

"she's lonely, hazel. whatever happened between the two of them, she's also suffering."

the next card showed a reversed five of pentacles.

"and she's regrets it wholeheartedly. regret what though? not talking? not interacting? not stopping him when he walked away that day?"

the final card flipped over showing a four of wands.

"and so, there's only one thing left to do." felix moved the last card up to your face, emphasizing it. "you either take back the words you couldn't say or live in your grief forever."

he closed his fists, making the card in front of you disappear.

hazel stared at felix with a deadpan. "you faciliers and your pazazz," she says with a roll of her eyes. "but you know what, it worked." she turned to you.

your face looked as if you were a kicked puppy.

hazel looked amused as she wrapped an arm around your shoulder. "awe, sweetheart, i can't help but pity you too if you looked like that," she says.

"okay, enough bullying the youngin," says felix to which hazel rolled her eyes at as she lets go of you. "max is a total avoidant—he's gonna shut down or even run away the moment his mind overthinks. he doesn't like being compared to his dad and his mind runs in circles, then..."

hazel sighs at felix's explanation. "yeah, he's just gonna assume the person already hates or is afraid of him because of his name," she added.

"and i know you're exactly like him," felix added with a confident smirk and a snap of his fingers.

"is this about what luis said when we finally got him and max to be civil?" hazel asked to which felix nodded.

"your cousin told us—announced, really—that you think max is nice," he says. "and that you're the reason why he's being open-minded with being buddy buddy with us vks.

"in other words, you're exactly like max"—he stared at you like he figured everything out—"you act vk and look vk. we saw evidence of this from when you stole back max's wallet when he tried to steal yours."

hazel raised a finger. "which was wicked by the way," she commented. "where'd you learn how to do that?" felix hit her shoulder to which she stared at him with a stink eye. "what? valid question by the way."

"anyways, you two need to have a good proper talk," felix then concluded.

hazel then started moving you towards inside the building. "c'mon, let's get you some good food to cheer up with."

"and maybe talk about a plan to get you and max to bump into each other again," added felix to which hazel nods at.

"right, of course, that too."

the three of you head towards the cafeteria.

max laid on his bed in his dorm that he shared with felix. the said facilier was currently in class while hazel was off with the smees getting lunch—he didn't want to do anything plus he didn't have class, so here he was. there was nothing in his head but silence and regret. a sense of shame in him too. a part of him wanted to see you, but you know who he is now so what's the point.

he sighed out loud once again.

"you know, that sounds really like a lovesick sigh."

"yup, it really does and i wonder for who—?"

"what the hat?!" max jumped from his bed and turned to see both red and pink in his dorm room, standing by his bed. red chuckled at his reaction while pink let out a giggle. "what are you guys doing here?" he then asked as he sat up on his bed.

"hazel won't stop complaining to chloe and by association, us, about you sulking," red announced as pink nodded her head.

"yeah and hazel slipped that it was about y/n madrigal," pink added.

red turned to pink with a shocked look on her face. "woah, what's with y/n?" she asked.

pink turned to red this time. "you didn't know?" she lets out. "hazel and felix mentioned that they have something going on."

"woah, woah, woah"—max held both his palms up at the two hearts—"there's nothing going on with y/n and i. we just hanged out a few times."

red then turned back to max with a raised brow. "you? hanging out with another hk?" she pointed out. "it took you a wicked long time to get comfy with luis."

"well~" pink spoke up. "luis did kept provoking max so i'd say that's on him." she gave a tight nervous smile.

max pointed at pink with an "exactly" look on his face. red shrugged, agreeing with the argument.

"okay, besides the point," red says. "my point is: you didn't become this anxious loser around her that had to act every second—and don't deny it. hazel and felix told me everything." she crossed her arms on her chest.

max groaned at being exposed by his two friends. "okay, look!" he exclaimed. "she didn't know who i was when we first met."

pink squealed. "awe max! that's like all you ever wanted," she commented.

red let out a hum. her brows furrowed like she was connecting some dots. "did you know who she was?" she asked.

"no..."

"i see," she replied. "i see that you're an idiot."

"what?!" max exclaimed in aghast as he stood up from his bed. "what'd i do?!"

"y/n's exactly like you, you know?" she emphasized. "she doesn't want to be known by her family name; she wants to be known for who she is. you're being a huge hypocrite for not even hearing her out." red jabbed a finger on max's chest.

"max," pink called out nicely. she signaled red to move a bit to the side with a touch of her shoulder and stood in front of max. "i have no right to say this as an hk myself and i can truly never know what you've been through due to your father's status, but i think you need to hear it anyways.

"there's a reason why king ben and queen mal brought down the barriers—and it's for us! the future of auradon, the next generation. yes, your title as a vk and my title as an hk will always stay, but we can write our own destiny now!"

pink then gave a glance at red. "red literally chose to be both a vk and an hk," she added.

"yeah, because i act too much like a vk—said fairy godmother."

"i don't even know how you turned out like that overnight. we grew up with the same mother!"

"...that's what you think."

"what?"

"nothin'"

pink turned back to max. "anyways, max, you two should talk."

max turned his head away and said, "yeah, maybe."

you slid off the skort you wore with a sigh of relief. though you'd much rather only wear the one piece swimsuit you have, your mama threatened to burn it down if you didn't wear at least bottoms paired with it. sighing, you slid off the gloves you wore—

"pink! i know you took my—"

the loud slam of the door hitting against your dorm room walls echoed in the room. your eyes made contact with max's eyes as the two of you froze at the situation. at the sight of max, that talk you had with hazel and felix lingered in your mind even though it's been a few weeks since then.

"i'm so sorry," max immediately blurts out at the sight of you in just oyur swimsuit.

you shook your head. "no worries. i'm still clothe. you're looking for something? you can come inside," you tell him with no malice.

max awkwardly closed the door behind him. he made sure to stay as far as away from you as possible. "so, uh," he stammered as he looked everywhere but you. "pink took this... formula that i've been working on for a while and i really need to update it before i forget."

as he talked, you took off the tights you wore as well. "i don't think i've seen something like that around here," you say. "i haven't seen pink since this morning, actually." standing up, you placed the tights into the basket next to your closet and pointed at pink's desk on the other side of the room. "you can look through pink's stuff."

max nodded his head. "yup, uhuh, i'll... i'll go do that," he stammered you watched as he walked over, sat on the chair, and rummaged through pink's things.

staring at his back, you felt a bit... mischievous. a shy smile formed on your face as you silently walked towards his back. the sound of things clanking together and shuffling was the only thing heard in the room. you slammed your hands onto his shoulders in a quick flick.

max jumped out of his seat from the second of your touch and turned to you with wide eyes as one of his hands laid on his chest. "holy hex, y/n, you scared the absolute hat outta me!" he exclaimed.

you stepped away from the chair as it fell to the floor. you laughed with your arms over your stomach. the laughter then falls from the sight of the uncomfortable tone on his face. the light mood that once surrounded the two of you turned awkward.

"i don't hate you, max," you told him honestly. "why can't we be friends again?"

max picked up the fallen chair and put it aside. he then turned to stare at you with this longing in his eyes but his eyes also held sadness. "i don't hate you, y/n. i could never hate you," he tells you honestly. "aren't you afraid? ...of what others think?" he whispered with a soft tone.

you stepped closer towards him as he stepped closer to you as well. "who cares about them, max." your voice wavered. "the only thing that matters is what we think."

a sense of hope lights up inside of you.

"do you really not care?" he asked once again. a hand slowly raising almost like he wanted to reach out to you. "that you'll be... with me?"

your hand shot to his own, holding his fingers between your own. "i never once cared."

"oh."

max always wore long sleeves and coats before, keeping that mysterious vibe, but on that scorching summer day he ditched them for a simple t-shirt. the second you spotted those defined biceps and veiny forearms, your jaw dropped. be caught you staring and just smirked like he knew exactly what he was doing

you couldn’t resist pressing your cheek against his arm the first time you saw him like that. max chuckled low in his throat, flexing just a little so you could feel the muscle shift under your skin. “didn’t know my arms were that interesting, sweetheart,” he teased, voice dripping with playful arrogance

max has started flexing on purpose when he feels your face against his arm. the muscle swells under your skin and he reaches over with his free hand to gently squish your cheeks together, making your lips pout while he watches with that smug little grin. “look at you, princess” he teases

he started wearing short sleeves on purpose after that. every time you clung to him, squeezing and rubbing your face against his bicep like it was your favourite pillow, max would tilt his head and ask if you needed a minute or if you were planning to stay attached all day

max loves catching you off guard. he’ll suddenly lift his arm and rest it on top of your head like an armrest, your cheek still glued to his bicep. “comfy?” he asks, all fake innocence while you blush and nod

max loves the attention. he’ll casually stretch or roll his shoulders just to watch your eyes follow the movement. when you get all flustered and try to play it cool, he leans down and murmurs, “you’re not subtle at all, you know that, princess ?”

on lazy afternoons he lets you trace the veins on his forearms with your fingertip while he scrolls on his phone.he pretends to ignore it, but the tiny smirk on his lips gives him away every single time

max has this habit of ruffling your hair with one big hand after you’ve been clinging to him the casual dominance of it always makes your stomach flip, and he knows it

your mind wanders constantly when you’re pressed against him. you imagine those strong hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks, or wrapping around your throat while he whispers filthy things in your ear about how obsessed you are with his strength

he loves manhandling you in private. one arm hooks around your waist and lifts you onto his lap like you weigh nothing. the other hand tilts your chin up so you have to look at him while he teases you for being so weak for him

sometimes he playfully puts you in a loose headlock, pulling you close against his chest while his lips brush your ear. “pay attention to me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, exactly the way your dirty thoughts predicted.

your mind drifts constantly when your cheek is against his forearm. you picture those same muscles flexing while he pins your wrists above your head, or while one big hand covers your mouth to keep you quiet. max notices the way your breathing changes and gives your face a little squeeze between his fingers, voice dropping. “what are you thinking about right now, hm?”

you’ve started playfully biting his forearm when you’re feeling bold, teeth sinking in just enough to make him hiss through his teeth. max’s eyes darken instantly.he flexes hard under your bite and mutters, “careful, sweetheart. keep that up and I’ll give you something bigger to sink your teeth into.”

he gets off on how small your hands look when you try to wrap them around his forearm. he’ll guide your fingers over his muscles and ask if you’re imagining them holding you down or spreading you open

max has a thing for making you admit how much you love his arms. he’ll have you straddle his thigh, one hand gripping the back of your neck, and won’t let you move until you tell him exactly what you want those hands to do to you

MASTERLIST

It all began when one day you bumped into Max as you hastetly rushed out of the art classroom. All of your art supplies fell to the ground, exposing a sketch you did of him earlier today.

You felt like sinking into the ground as he reached for the sketch faster than you could. He just started at the picture before turning a little pinkish.

"Why did you draw me?", was all he asked as you snatched that book out of his hands.

"Because-"

Nothing. There was nothing coming to your mind.

He just watched you struggle, rising one of his eyebrows.

"I wanted to," you finally gave up and said the truth. Or at least some of it.

"You know, I don't mind. It's just... a bit creepy," he said with a playful smirk.

Your heart started to feel easy with that.

It was probably then that you realized, he is actually who you hoped he would be. And nothing like the rumors or accusations.

"Fair," you said as you finally met his gaze.

"I'm Y/N, by the way. Y/N Fitzherbert," you nicely introduced yourself as you held out your hand.

For a moment he glanced at your hand funny. Not expecting you to greet him this way. But he admired how you were not judging him for being a VK when you're so obviously a HK.

"Max Hatter," he said, returning the favor of a handshake.

"I know," you blurred out but instantly pulled your hand back, "uh- in a not creepy kind of way."

He couldn't help but let out a sharp scoff, a smirk appearing on his face, "Got it."

Immediate a smile spread on your face.

Quickly he gathered all of your thinks and got up, holding out his free hand to help you up.

Accepting it you let him help you up easily. The moment you held his hand again, something inside the both of you switched.

"Thank you," you softly said as he let go of your hand and gave you your things back.

"Don't mention it. Seriously," he replied in a haste and looked around nervously. "I- I gotta go," he mumbled as giggles of the Smee's and Hazel's yells could be heard.

His friends. Of course. He took off just after his words.

You thought after that interaction you'd never talk to him again. Turns out the odds were in your favor.

A little over a week later you bumped into him again. Just no things to drop this time.

"We gotta stop doing that," you said with a giggle after you two bumped shoulders near the art classroom, again.

He just scoffed and adjusted his hat, "Yeah... at least there were no things you could drop this time."

You gasped as you put your hand on your chest dramatically, "What?- You were the reason I dropped them!"

"Just because you couldn't hold on to your things," he said, pointing at you.

For a moment you felt your heart ache, thinking he was actually like his father. But then a smirk appeared on his face. You were relieved to say the least.

You couldn't help but nudge his shoulder, "That was mean."

"Guess I'm living up to what they say about me then," he said with a sad shrug.

You immediately felt bad, putting your hand on his shoulder, "Not true. Well... they do say those things about you, but I can't believe that's who you are."

Your words were true. That's what you truly believe. That he is good.

"You don't even know me," he snapped, jerking his shoulder back to let your hand drop.

Sighing you pouted slightly, "But maybe I want to."

Your truth hung heavy in his head. No HK said those words to him, ever.

It was odd but he believed you. Every word.

"Okay," he mumbled. The only agreement and validation you'd get out of him, for now.

It was all you needed.

You wanted to jump up from joy so much but you knew better.

"Great. So... let's meet here after school. It should be empty today," you suggested.

He swallowed as he nodded, "I'll be there."

He confirmed with a smile before going off again. You wondered why but then you heard his friends. That explains it.

After school you both met in the art room as promised. At first it was a little awkward but you were quick to come up with some conversation.

Initially it was just you talking but after a while he got familiar and comfortable with you.

Not only you, but he felt that comfort too. Like you two understand each other.

A weird thing for a VK and HK, he thought.

You didn't. After all it's the same for King Ben and Queen Mal.

The conversation flowed so easily at some point, that the natural light turning the room suddenly a bit darker made you conscious about your surrounding.

Surprised by that fact you two checked the clock and realised it was getting late.

"Wait, is it so late already?", he asked as he jumped to his feet.

Checking the clock on the wall a little closer you were quick to add, "Yeah. We should get going."

"Felix will be asking questions," he said nervously as he picked up his bag.

"So will Pink," you added as you grabbed your things.

"Roommates," you both sighed simultaneously, which made the two of you giggle.

Walking towards the door of the classroom, Max gracefully held the door open for you.

You couldn't help but smile to his gentleman manors.

"Thank you very much," you playfully said, but the gratitude was real.

He picked up to it and gave you a playful grin, "You are more than welcome, princess."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his comment.

Walking side by side for a while you eventually had to part ways. Not wanting to get caught.

"We should repeat that... like.. hanging out... talking- Alone," Max finally blurred out.

You were quick to agree with a nod, "We'll find each other."

"Yeah," the Hatter easily agreed, "we always seem to do, huh?"

"Yup," you replied smiling. "See ya then, Hatter," you added with a pretend hat bow as you started skipping away. Like literally doing happy jumps. You just couldn't help yourself.

Luckily he loved it, with a fake annoyed eye roll and a heavy sigh he started walking towards his dorm, thinking of an excuse for Felix.

Days turned into weeks where you two have been repeating this.

Meeting in secret.

Moving into smaller places, like the broom closet, due to almost getting caught in the art classroom one day.

Casual conversations turning into more serious ones.

And just conversation turning into being awfully close.

A brush of a hand turned into comforting hugs which eventually led to...

A random Wednesday you were meant to meet in the broom closet again, but you had to bring some art supplies back to the art classroom first. Coincidentally he had to pass the room, but as he realized you were in there alone, he made it his mission to scare you.

Max carefully closed the door behind him as he sneaked up to you.

You were humming songs to yourself as you put the things away. Totally unaware of your surroundings.

Just after you put some acrylic colors down, he snuck up on you and-

"BOO!", he yelled as she squeezed your sides.

He scared you so bad that you literally jumped up, turned around and slapped him.

"Ouch, princess. That's a bit much," he said in a whiney tone as he rubbed his cheek.

"Max! Sorry, reflexes," you tried to justify your reaction.

"You scared the living hex out of me," you said with a giggle as you finally hugged him. "Never do that again."

"Alright. I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself," he reasoned as he hugged you back.

He wouldn't admit it to anyone but your hugs make him actually feel good.

Slowly pulling back you still held on to one another, just looking at each other.

"I get it," you eventually said.

This proximity was driving you nuts. Your heart started beating faster and you kept catching yourself looking at his lips.

Obviously he noticed and dared a look at yours too.

"Can I kiss you?", you eventually blurred out as he looked at your lips for like the third time.

"Yes," Max whispered before getting closer to kiss you first.

As your lips connected you felt over the moon. It was more than you could have imagined.

But as soon as the kiss started you two ended it. The chance of getting caught flood your two minds.

Surprisingly he smiled widely at you. You couldn't help but do the same.

"I don't want to ruin this but... we probably should leave," he said as noises could be heard from the outside.

"You're right," you agreed.

Max was the first one to leave the room. That gave you time to let all the joy out. Jumping up and down and squealing out of happiness.

This moment. It probably was your favorite one ever.

After that day you two have changed, but neither of your friends or your parents seemed to have realized. Maybe they did but didn't say anything. It was for the best because they couldn't know. Not yet at least.

But this feeling and connection grew. It got stronger and stronger and all you thought about was making this official.

Because the kisses have gotten more frequent. Which made passing in the halls and in class a living hell.

You knew you'd have to ask him to make this official eventually. Because you couldn't keep on going on like this. And you sure as hex didn't want to lose him.

It's already have been months.

One day you walked into the broom closet where you two said to meet first. Hearing the door open and seeing him step through you felt your heart racing.

"Hi," you mumbled as he stopped in front of you after closing the door behind him.

"Hey," he mumbled back as his hand snaked to your neck.

Absentmindedly he played with your hair, "You look pretty today."

"Just today?", you joked with a scoff. "Thank you."

It was pretty dark in there. Just a small window that barely let any light in.

"Did I ever tell you how adorable you look in your little hat?", you complimented him back as you adjusted his hat. That way you could see him better.

And even though it was dim in the broom closet you could see him blush.

"Thank you," he partly sarcastically snapped back at you as he brushed your arm away from his hat.

Catching his wrist you guided his hand to your hip. Holding it in place.

"You know I mean it, right?", you wanted to make sure he knows. Because he still has this reputation of the bad guy at Auradon prep due to his father. But he is nothing like him.

You wanted him to know that you think nothing of those rumors. After all, you know the real Max Hatter.

He looked down shyly, letting go of your neck to scratch his own.

"I guess... it's just still hard to believe.. that a princess ... likes me."

You scoffed as you reached out for his other hand to place it on your hip now, mirroring what you did earlier. Moving your own hands to wrap around his neck. Intentionally you pulled him a little bit closer.

"Not just any princess. I'm the princess who's dad was a well known thief and who's mother has magical hair, you know. There are huge rumors about me too, in case you forgot. And high expectations everyone seems to have about me," you said a little sad now thinking of it.

"I know it's not easy. But I know better than anyone that you are not your dad. And I love you, for just who you are, Max."

Suddenly everything went still.

Your confession slipping your lips.

Neither of you dared to go down this path. Even though you really wanted to. But not like this. Not just slipping it out.

Panic started to rise inside of you.

"I- I mean- I didn't mean to- I-," you stumbled over your words and thoughts as you nervously started fidgeting with his hair at the back of his neck.

"It's okay, Y/N," he said, suddenly bursting into a giggle. "Gosh, you're adorable like that."

"But I-", you wanted to start again but he wouldn't let you.

"Shh. You don't need to defend yourself. I'm quite flattered, actually."

Now you were the one blushing.

"I know I am nothing like my dad. And I know, you know that too. I see that... And I also see you. For who you are. And... I love you for being you."

He confessed so easily, at least it seemed like it, because actually he was so nervous inside.

After all, he never felt for anyone this way. So admitting what he feels and actually claiming it as love was so odd to him.

The panic and doubt in your face instantly vanished and happiness filled your body.

"You do?", you wanted to make sure as you stepped even closer, bodies pressing against each other now.

"Yes," he admitted. Making this all oh-so-real.

And that was it. You couldn't hold it in anymore. Just like your mother would in a happy situation, you started to hysterically jump up and down.

"MAX HATTER LOVES ME," you yelped way too loud and way too excited.

As you realised what you were doing you stopped jumping, held his shoulder and looked at him with raised eyebrows and big eyes.

"Hex, I was being way too loud again. I'm sorry."

Max started laughing and pulled you in for a tight hug.

"Oh my hat, don't apologize for being yourself. You're fine," slowly pulling back, he held you tight by your hips, "And I'm really flattered seeing you so happy because of me."

You couldn't help but giggle as you looked at him, scanning every inch of his face, "I want to tell my friends about us. And my parents."

Your exciting and eager demeanor was almost intoxicating to him. He thought about it. Not just now but a few weeks ago already. It's a kind of scary thought. But he wanted so too.

"Okay. Fine. We can tell them," he carefully but surely agreed.

You couldn't help yourself but finally crush your lips on his. It made you feel like fireworks were exploding in your tummy.

After you pulled back you softly squeezed his face.

"I can't wait to walk hand in hand with you publicly."

Max couldn't help but roll his eyes at you, "I can't with you enthusiasm sometimes."

But honestly? He loved it. You were the energy that was missing in his life. And soon everyone would know.

a/n - Quick thanks to everyone who has already shown interest! I’ve tried to get this part done as soon as I could, it is on the shorter side BUT, I still think you will all enjoy it - emi🌑

Wonderland had never been known for its hospitality.

Not in this timeline. Not in any.

"We're never going to make it back to my dad's workshop in time," Max muttered, kicking at a loose stone in the path.

"We need to go somewhere to stay until morning, and fast it’s getting dark," Chloe replied matter-of-factly.

Silence settled over the group.

"The White Rabbit's?" Pink suggested. "He’s gone for the winter, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind!"

Max stopped walking.

"...Actually."

Everyone turned to him. He let out a slow breath.

"I know someone closer."

Red frowned. "You've been keeping that to yourself?"

"It's a last resort," he said quickly. "Trust me."

Hazel folded her arms. "Why is everything so dramatic here?"

Max ignored the comment, his mind somewhere completely different.

"Also just someone?" Red scoffed. "You'd better not be taking us to some creepy guy's house, or I swear-"

"Oh my God, would you just trust me for one second?" Max cut in, exasperated.

He continued forward, leading the group toward this so-called person he knew with a confidence so uncertain it left Red more worried than reassured.

He eventually slowed to a stop as an old, weathered cottage came into view. It looked impossibly small, tucked between twisted trees and curling vines, its crooked chimney leaning just enough to make anyone question how it was still standing.

Everyone stared at it in disbelief.

Everyone except Pink.

"Are you insane? No, scratch that, you have to be if you think we're all going in there," Hazel barked.

Max rolled his eyes.

"It's bigger inside idiot."

Chloe immediately replied. "...That's not how houses work."

Max just turned to her.

"We're in Wonderland now, Princess."

Nobody moved.

"...Well?" Hazel asked.

Max looked at the front door as though it might bite him.

"...I'm not knocking."

Pink sighed dramatically before stepping past him with a grin.

"Honestly, you all make everything so difficult. She won't bite!"

"I wouldn’t be so sure..", Max muttered under his breath.

Red caught the comment, raising an eyebrow at him.

In her memories, Max would've been the first one at that door.

But her memories belonged to a timeline that no longer existed.

Pink knocks.

"Kitty?"

...

Nothing.

Chloe whispers,

"...Maybe she isn't home."

"...She's home.", Max said.

Before anyone could question how he knew, the front door swung open.

"...Pink."

Your gaze drifted over the rest of the group.

"...You brought guests."

Pink gave an apologetic grin.

"Surprise?"

"Yeah it’s a surprise all right, I mean who even are half of these people?"

“Right sorry, introductions! You know me, obviously. This is Chloe, Hazel, Luis, Felix,Robbie, the Smee’s of course oh, and Red and Max, but you know them already!”

You hum in acknowledgment, "Unfortunately."

"You know you’re happy to see me.", he replied

"Annoying as ever, Hatter?"

You then turn, grin and gasp in mock admiration, "the princess Chloe?”

"Yeah?" She replied in slight confusion.

“My father told me never to get involved in Auradon politics...”

You paused, looking Chloe up and down thoughtfully.

“But I suppose you can come in."

You turned on your heel and walked back inside, only to realize nobody had followed.

You glanced over your shoulder.

“You know, I heard the Jabberwock roams these parts at night.”

You didn’t even have to finish the sentence before everyone started pushing past each other to get through the door.

Everyone except Max.

You giggle to yourself.

"Classic."

"You know damn well the Jabberwock isn’t out there."

You smiled and shrugged.

"Who knows?"

He rolls his eyes at you, before turning his gaze to the impossibly long looking corridor.

You raise a brow.

"You coming in, Hatter?"

Tag list - @maggiecc @vipxl

@i-am-fork @lllsrfm

@diobolicaldinosaur

@hamilronweasley

@ariesxmoonn @cardboard1789

@tranquilautomatondetective

@lainlovelain @venusthelibrafairy-blog

Fred Weasley was an observer by nature. To be a successful prankster, one had to understand the intricate, shifting dynamics of Hogwarts better than the professors did. He knew which stairs skipped, which portraits gossiped, and, most importantly, he knew the people.

He knew you.

Before the whispers started, Fred knew you as Luna Lovegood's older sister. You were a seventh-year Ravenclaw, a girl with a brilliant, effortless laugh and a habit of leaving sketches of magical creatures on the library tables. You were bright, radiating a warm, quiet gravity. Fred had always thought you were breathtakingly pretty. He'd thrown a few casual, roguish winks your way in the corridors over the years, enjoying the pretty blush that used to dust your cheeks.

But that was before.

He vividly remembered a cold night last spring. He had been sneaking back from the kitchens when he saw you sprinting through the Entrance Hall. Your dress had been torn at the shoulder, your hair a chaotic mess, and you were sobbing so hard you couldn't catch your breath. Fred had stepped out of the shadows, his hand reaching out, asking if you were alright, but you had flinched violently away from him as if he were made of fire, disappearing into the dark.

Fred hadn't understood it then— he thought about that a lot, once he understood. Wondering if stopping you that night would have changed anything at all. Probably not. But it sat with him anyway, a small, useless guilt he never quite mentioned to you, folded into the deeper reason he found himself unable to look away once he finally noticed what the following year had done to you.— When the new term started, the pieces violently snapped together.

The boys spun a tale of a wild night, twisting the narrative until you were the villain, the "easy" girl, the homewrecker. And the school, hungry for scandal, swallowed it whole.

You didn't let yourself think about that night in whole pieces anymore. What remained were fragments, disconnected and strange, surfacing without warning: the particular feeling of not controlling your body. Music too loud. Voices and laughs. Hands all over your body. A door that wouldn't open the way you needed it to. After that, mostly static, the specific gray nothing of a memory your own mind had decided you weren't ready to hold whole.

Warrington and Higgs told their version quickly, before you'd found your footing enough to tell your own. Said you'd wanted it and cornered them. And because their version required nothing uncomfortable from anyone who chose to believe it, most of the school simply believed it. Both of them had girlfriends throughout — kept them after, too, walked the corridors with their arms slung easy around two Slytherin girls who either didn't know or didn't care, while you walked those same corridors alone. Nobody's mouth curled with disgust at their names. That imbalance felt like its own separate injury, layered on top of everything else.

There were photographs. You never let yourself look, couldn't have made yourself look even if someone had asked, but you knew they existed, knew some fraction of every stranger's face might have seen something you never agreed to show anyone.

The cruelty that followed took every shape that usually takes — group projects where you were quietly excluded, your things going missing with casual regularity, notes appearing on your desk with words you'd stopped letting yourself really read, more lies spread with your name.

Luna was the only steady thing through all of it, from the very first night onward and every night after. She'd climbed uninvited into your bed that first night and simply stayed until morning, offering nothing but her presence. She hexed exactly one person badly enough to earn a month's detention and never once regretted it. In the weeks that followed, she rearranged her entire schedule without telling you, appearing at your side between nearly every class, walking you the long way around whatever corridor had grown unsafe that week, sitting with you at meals when you couldn't face the Ravenclaw table, simply there, endlessly, unconditionally, the one fixed point in a world that had rearranged itself overnight into something unrecognizable. She never once made you explain yourself, never once looked at you like you were something broken, and you spent that whole terrible year understanding, more clearly than you'd ever understood anything, that you had a sister who would choose you over and over, forever, without needing to be asked.

You'd rebuilt something out of the wreckage, slowly. Not the girl you used to be — she felt unreachable and dangerous now, a stranger you remembered with rage and distant fondness. You became something new instead: quieter, sharper at the edges, careful in ways you hadn't needed to be careful before.

Now, you were a ghost. You wore oversized, heavy sweaters that swallowed your frame. You kept your head down. When you walked into the Great Hall, a localized winter seemed to follow you; girls would pull their bags closer, and boys would laugh behind their hands, both saying snarky comments about you.

She got a bad reputation

She takes the long way home

Fred watched you from the Gryffindor table, his eyebrows were so furrowed they looked as if they were about to leave a crease. He watched a passing student deliberately knock your books out of your hands. You didn't argue. You just knelt on the stone floor, quietly gathering your scattered, beautiful charcoal drawings, your hands trembling.

"Why are you staring at the Ravenclaw girl so much? She's the definition of trouble, dude." Lee Jordan warned softly, noticing the look on his friend's eyes. "She's got a bad reputation, besides she was pretty, now- i don't know Fred, she has been with half of the school they say, you don't want to get dragged into her mess. It'll ruin you"

Fred slowly turned his head to look at Lee. The easy-going, laughing joker was entirely gone. Now there was a curiosity, an itch that Fred couldn't scratch as he looked in your direction; how had you ended up like this? You looked so...alone, so scared all the time. What was the point of that in light of the rumors and 'truths' being said about you? He didn't understand.

"I don't know, man, it's just... Is she really a problem? Or did everyone just decide that? She seems scared of her own shadow, I don't think so, none of that," the redhead commented, his eyes fixed on you crouching on the ground, gathering the things that fell.

Fred stood up, ignoring George's sharp, evaluating look, and walked straight across the Great Hall. He didn't care who was watching. He crossed the floor, knelt down perfectly in front of you, and began picking up your charcoal pencils.

You flinched. It was a tiny, heartbreaking movement, your eyes darting up to his face with pure panic. Up close, Fred was massive. He was well over six feet, broad-shouldered and strong from years of Beater practice, and he saw the exact moment your brain registered him as a threat.

It broke his heart.

Fred immediately made himself smaller, dropping his shoulders and offering a soft, completely unthreatening smile. "You dropped your Niffler sketch," Fred murmured gently, holding the paper out to you. "It's brilliant, by the way. The shading on the snout is perfect."

You snatched the paper from his hand, your chest heaving. "Leave me alone, Weasley," you whispered harshly, your voice raw. "Don't you have a prank to do? People are staring. It doesn't suit you to be seen with me."

"I like the attention," Fred says smoothly, keeping his voice impossibly gentle. "Let me walk you to Charms and we can talk about-."

"I said leave me alone!" you snapped, your survival instincts kicking in. You bit back hard, trying to drive him away before he could hurt you. "I don't need you to do anything for me, and I don't want to be one of your jokes!"

You practically sprinted out of the Great Hall. Fred stayed kneeling on the floor for a long moment, watching you go. You were terrified, bruised, and lashing out at everything. But Fred Weasley was nothing if not patient.

He didn't know the whole story yet. He only knew he didn't like watching someone go dim who used to be so bright, and that dislike, small and stubborn, was the seed of everything that came after.

And all of my friends seen her naked

Or so the story goes

He watched you for weeks before he ever worked up a proper reason to talk to you again after that fiasco.

He told himself, at first, it was simple curiosity — the same instinct that made him notice any injustice worth noticing. But if he was honest with himself, alone at night with nothing but the truth for company, it was more than that. You were pretty. You'd always been pretty, in the easy way he'd noticed and half-forgotten a while ago, but there was something else now too, something that pulled at him harder than simple attraction — the specific ache of watching someone hold themselves together by sheer will, refusing to fully break even while an entire school seemed determined to push.

He caught himself looking for you in the library some evenings, in the Great Hall, in the gaps between classes, always at a careful distance, never quite finding the right moment to actually approach. He noticed the particular way you tucked yourself into the smallest available space in any room, the way your shoulders came up around your ears whenever someone laughed too loud nearby, the careful blankness you wore like a second uniform.

"What's with that red hair head of yours? You look...too level-headed to be Fred Weasley," George's girlfriend remarked, pointing at him with her fork. She was good at reading people—especially the Weasleys.

"I just don't like seeing her look like that" he told, watching you eat alone at the end of the Ravenclaw table one evening, and it was true, even if it wasn't the whole truth. He wanted to see you laugh again — the real kind, loud and startled out of you, the kind he half-remembered from years ago and hadn't seen since. He wanted, more than he examined closely at the time, simply to be near you.

"Do something about it then, mate, change things," George said, patting his brother on the back; knowing that look on Fred's face meant much more than he intended.

Mistakes we all make them

But they won't let it go, no

The courtyard confrontation was the thing that finally gave him his opening.

He heard them before he saw them. Warrington's voice —One of your attackers—, low and mean, pitched just loud enough to be heard by the people he wanted to hear it, cutting across the courtyard where you'd been sitting alone with a book.

"Oi. Heard you've been keeping to yourself this week, Bit late for that, isn't it? Many guys have already been through you"

Higgs —the other attacker— laughed, that ugly, easy laugh boys like that always seemed to have ready.

You didn't look up from your book, You were sadly used to it. After the incident and the stupid and cruel version they peddled about what happened, the rumors only escalated. From taking something that was partially true—in In the sense that they were the ones who did that to you—and twisted it to their advantage by saying you wanted it, the rest just...created lies about you; guys you didn't even know saying they were with you, they paid you for services, girls swearing they saw you flirting with their boyfriends, people even implying you were probably with teachers. Your life became a circus of lies and distortion.

Fred, watching from the covered walkway, saw the way your hand had gone very still on the page, the only sign the words had landed anywhere at all.

He crossed the courtyard before he'd fully decided to.

"Something funny?" Fred said, dropping onto the bench directly between you and them, uninvited and entirely unbothered about it.

Warrington's grin faltered slightly. "This isn't your business, Weasley."

"Funny, I thought harassing someone in a public courtyard sort of made it everyone's business. Sort of the whole point of doing it in public, isn't it — wanting an audience." Fred's voice stayed light, almost pleasant, which somehow made it worse for the two of them than if he'd shouted. "Though I notice you didn't say anything remotely clever. Bit of a letdown, honestly. All that reputation for being such a laugh, and this is the material you've got. Does your girlfriend know this is how you spend your free periods, by the way? Might be worth mentioning."

Something flickered across Warrington's face — real discomfort, quickly buried.

"Watch it."

"Or what?" Fred tilted his head, genuinely curious. His large body shielding you from their view, intimidating them at the same time without needing to make an effort. "You'll say something else cruel to a girl who's done nothing except sit here reading? Terrifying stuff. I'm shaking."

The two of them muttered something unintelligible and moved off, and Fred watched them go with his jaw tight before he let himself relax.

He turned to you then, and you'd gone back to staring at your book, though your eyes hadn't moved down the page in several minutes.

"You didn't have to do that," you said, not looking up. "It's not your problem and I didn't ask for help.

"I know I didn't have to and you didn't ask" Fred shrugged, easy. "Wanted to, though. There's a difference."

"They'll just say something else next time. This doesn't fix anything."

"Probably not," Fred agreed. "But it's mildly satisfying watching them fumble for an insult and come up empty. I'll take the small wins where I can get them."

You looked up at him properly then, for the first time, something wary and assessing in your expression, like you were trying to work out what angle he was playing. He was close enough now that you registered, distantly, how much taller he was than you'd remembered — broad through the shoulders in the way boys got from years of Quidditch, tall enough that he'd had to fold himself down slightly to fit comfortably on the bench beside you. It should have been intimidating. Somehow, sitting there with his easy, unhurried posture, it wasn't.

"I'm not a joke or a charity project" you said finally. "In case that's where this is going. I don't need rescuing."

"Wasn't under the impression you did," Fred said, unbothered. "You handled yourself fine before I sat down. I just don't love watching people be cruel to someone for sport, and I had five minutes free, so." He shrugged again. "No joke. No project. Just didn't feel like doing nothing."

You studied him a moment longer, and something in his easy honesty seemed to land somewhere real, because the wariness eased, just slightly, at the edges.

"We haven't spoken in a while.," you said. "Since the divination substitute joke, it got us detention."

"You remember that." Fred looked genuinely pleased. "I'm flattered."

"You were memorably annoying," you said, and the corner of your mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close enough that Fred noticed it, and filed it away, and decided, with an unexpected certainty, that he very much wanted to see the whole thing someday. "Did the stories about me keep you away? Now you want a taste of my mouth too? Leave me alone, Weasley. I don't believe your words." You snapped again, getting up abruptly and walking away from him, leaving Fred with the bitter feeling of having lost his recent victory.

Now, it was clear to him that his words weren't something you could easily trust, but he was determined.

The campaign to earn your trust was agonizingly slow, and Fred had to unlearn everything he knew about flirting. His usual method—loud, boisterous, invading personal space—would only terrify you. He needed to be a safe harbor, not a storm.

You thought that was the end of your encounters with Fred Weasley, but you couldn't have been more wrong. He kept appearing in your life, over the following weeks.

You ignored him in the library twice, burying yourself in a book and not looking up even when he sat two tables away, clearly hoping to be noticed. You gave him one-word answers in the corridors, sharp and final, designed to end conversations rather than continue them. Once, when he offered to carry a stack of books that had slipped from your arms, you snatched them back before he could touch them, muttering something about not needing help, and walked off without a backward glance.

Cause she's got a bad reputation

But I know what they don't,

"She hates me," Fred told George one night, more bewildered than discouraged.

"She doesn't hate you," George said, not looking up from the parchment he was scribbling on. "She's protecting herself. Different thing entirely, even if it looks the same from where you're standing."

"Feels the same, some days."

"Give it time. People who've been hurt that badly don't just decide to trust someone because he's persistent and reasonably charming. They test. They push. They see if you'll actually stick, or if you're just another person who'll get tired of the difficulty eventually." George glanced up. "You planning on getting tired?"

"No," Fred said, immediately, with more certainty than he'd expected from himself.

"Then keep showing up. Eventually the testing runs out before you do."

And I don't care what they say about you baby

They don't know what you've been through

Being interested in you, Fred discovered quickly, came with unsolicited advice attached, from nearly everyone who considered themselves entitled to offer it — which, given how many people considered themselves Fred's friend, turned out to be a great many people.

"You want to be careful there," a Hufflepuff boy said, catching him in a corridor with an expression of grave concern. "That one's — well. You know."

"I don't, actually. Enlighten me."

The guy had the decency to look uncomfortable and moved on without finishing the thought.

Alicia Spinnet cornered him with something closer to genuine worry. A seventh-year he barely knew delivered an entire unsolicited lecture about reputation. A girl from his own year, someone he'd always considered a friend, pulled him aside with misguided delicacy. "There are plenty of girls who'd be thrilled to have your attention, Fred. Girls without all that complication attached."

"Complication," Fred repeated, flat. "That's an interesting word for surviving something horrific and then getting punished for it by an entire school too lazy to check their facts."

It didn't stop there. Over the following weeks, the rumors reaching him multiplied and mutated, each one uglier and more inventive than the last, as though the school had turned cruelty into a competitive sport. He heard, from three different people in the space of a single day, that you'd been caught with a seventh-year Slytherin in a broom cupboard, that you'd slept with half the Quidditch team, that you'd once shown up to a professor's office hours wearing considerably less than the dress code required. He heard that you were a boyfriend-stealer, that you'd gone after someone's fiancé, that the whole 'victim act' was a performance you put on whenever you got caught.

"She seduces them and then plays scared when it doesn't work out the way she wanted," a Ravenclaw prefect told him once, with the particular authority of someone repeating something they'd heard exactly once and decided to believe completely. "Ask anyone."

"I have asked people," Fred said, sharp. "Nobody's ever given me a single fact. Just secondhand stories from someone who heard it from someone else. That's not information, that's just cruelty with extra steps."

He denied every single one, out loud, whenever he had the chance — not gently, not diplomatically, but with a flat, immovable certainty that left no room for negotiation. It cost him some goodwill. A few people stopped inviting him to things, uncomfortable with how forcefully he pushed back. He found he didn't particularly care.

What wore on him more than the rumors themselves was the sheer volume of unsolicited opinion attached to caring about you at all — as if his affection for you had become public property, something everyone felt entitled to weigh in on, correct, or warn him away from. He hadn't asked a single person for their thoughts. He got them anyway, constantly, from people who'd never once bothered to actually speak to you.

"I didn't ask," he told Katie Bell once, more tired than angry. "I never asked any of you what you thought about this. I don't need the opinion. I need people to stop treating a story they made up as something they're entitled to keep repeating at me."

But the warnings outnumbered the encouragement, and Fred found something clarifying in that — every warning only confirmed how wrong the whole situation was.

When people said no, he only found more desire to say yes, always having a taste for the complicated and impossible.

It was in the middle of all this that he made another mistake with you; Not thinking about the repercussions of their actions on you, how they were going to affect YOU.

He was crossing the courtyard with a knot of friends — Lee, Angelina, a couple from the Quidditch team — mid-conversation, laughing at something, when he spotted you passing at the edge of the crowd, alone, moving quickly the way you always moved now, trying not to be noticed.

He left mid-sentence. Didn't even finish the joke he'd been telling, just peeled off from his own friends without explanation and jogged to catch up with you, easy and unthinking, the way he'd have done for anyone he liked.

"Hey. Where are you headed? I'll walk with you."

You stopped, and your whole body went tight, eyes darting past him to where his friends stood watching, openly curious, then back to him.

"Don't," you said, low, urgent. "Please. Just — leave me alone."

"I don't mind the company, if you—"

"It's not about whether you mind." Your voice cracked slightly, frustration and fear tangled together. "Everyone's watching. It doesn't help you to be seen with me, Fred. It just makes you the next thing people talk about. Go back to your friends."

You walked away before he could answer, faster now, and Fred stood there in the middle of the courtyard, his friends' curious eyes still on him, understanding for the first time just how carefully you'd learned to calculate the cost of every interaction, and how little any of it had to do with whether you actually wanted him gone.

"You alright, mate?" Lee asked, once he'd rejoined them, glancing between Fred and the direction you'd disappeared.

"She seems to hate you, don't you think?" Angelina assessed, looking in the direction you had gone; unsure which version of events was correct, but always choosing to side with women until proven otherwise with compelling evidence.

"She was just in a hurry, I'll see her later," Fred murmured, embarrassed and confused, scratching the back of his neck uncertainly.

He didn't see what happened next. You did.

You'd barely made it two corridors away before a cluster of girls fell into step around you, boxing you in against the wall with the casual, practiced cruelty of people who'd done this before. You recognized a few of them — girls who'd never spoken a single word to you before that moment, girls who'd apparently decided your business was suddenly, urgently theirs.

"What was that, then?" one of them said, arms crossed, blocking your path forward. "Fred Weasley, chasing after you across the courtyard? Bit desperate, isn't it, even for you."

"Move," you said, low, tired, wanting nothing more than to disappear.

"Or what?" Another girl pushed your shoulder, not hard, but enough to make the point. "Are you trying to get your claws into him too? Heard you'll go after anyone these days. Is that the plan? Land yourself a Weasley so you've got someone to defend you?"

"You're disgusting, you know that?" the first girl added, shoving you again, harder this time. "Following him around like that. Does he know what you actually are?"

Something in you, worn thin by over a year of exactly this, finally cracked.

"I didn't follow him anywhere," you snapped, and your voice came out louder and steadier than you expected, surprising even yourself. "He came to me. I told him to leave me alone. Maybe if any of you spent five seconds actually asking me a question instead of deciding you already know the answer, you'd know that. But that would require you to care about the truth instead of the story, and clearly none of you do."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." You straightened, spine locking, something old and buried finally finding its voice. "I'm so tired of all of you. Tired of being shoved into walls by people who've never spoken a single kind word to me. Tired of being a story you get to tell instead of a person you bothered to know. So move, or don't, but I'm done apologizing for existing near your precious Weasley."

"What's going on here?"

Angelina's voice cut through the group like a blade, sharp and unimpressed, George's girlfriend appearing right behind her, both of them taking in the scene — you boxed in, the cluster of girls around you — with immediate, unmistakable understanding.

"We were just talking," one of the girls said, already backing off.

"Doesn't look like talking to me,it does to you angie?" the Hufflepuff girl said, mild and dangerous all at once. "Looks like five of you cornering one of her. Very brave. Very fair fight."

"She's clearly obsessed with Fred, we were just—"

"You were just leaving," Angelina cut in, flat, daring any of them to argue. "Go on. Before I decide this is worth reporting properly."

The group dispersed, muttering, and you were left standing there, still shaking slightly, adrenaline and old fear tangled together in your chest.

"You didn't need to do that," you told them both, once the corridor had emptied. "Any of it. I could have handled it."

"You were handling it," Angelina said, something like respect in her voice. "Better than most people would've, honestly. We just didn't feel like watching you finish handling it alone."

"Thank you," you said, and meant it more than the words could properly carry. "Both of you."

"Anytime," they say, easy, warm. "Seriously. Anytime at all."

Angelina and George's girlfriend found Fred later that same evening, and didn't bother softening the account.

"You made her life harder today," Angelina told him, bluntly, watching his face fall. "Chasing after her in front of an audience like that. A whole pack of girls cornered her not ten minutes after you walked off, wanting to know if she was trying to get her claws into you. She stood up for herself, she impressive btw— but she shouldn't have had to. That's the cost of you doing something that felt completely normal to you, Fred. It wasn't normal for her. It never will be, not the way things are right now."

Fred sat with that for a long time after they'd gone, something heavy and new settling into his chest — the first real understanding that even his kindness, offered carelessly, could cost you something he'd never had to pay himself.

Trust me, I could be the one to treat you like a lady

Let me see what's underneath, all I need is you

With his observant nature, Fred decided to change his approach to you, to try another angle;

It started with a nickname.

You were easily startled, hyper-vigilant in the corridors. Whenever someone walked up behind you, your shoulders would instantly lock. Fred noticed. So, he developed a system.

"Morning, Angel," Fred's low, warm voice rumbled from a safe three feet behind you in the library.

You stopped sorting your Arithmancy charts. Angel. It was a quiet, affectionate little nickname he had randomly used one day, and it had stuck. Now, whenever he approached, he made sure to say it before he entered your peripheral vision. It was a verbal knock on the door. It told you exactly who was behind you, ensuring you never had to panic.

"What do you want, Fred?" you asked, though the biting edge in your voice had dulled considerably over the last three weeks.

"Just delivering the post," Fred said cheerfully. He didn't sit down. He respected the invisible boundary you kept around yourself. He simply dropped a small, expertly folded origami bird onto your textbook, gave you a bright, soft smile, and walked away.

You watched his broad back disappear behind the bookshelves before cautiously tapping the paper bird with your wand.

The origami bird sprang to life, fluttering its paper wings. It didn't explode. It didn't shout a joke. Instead, it unfolded itself into a small, neat square of parchment, bearing Fred's slanted handwriting:

'Your hair catch the light when you read by the window, You look like you're on fire, you just look so beautiful today, Angel. — F.'

A hot, involuntary flush crept up your neck. It wasn't the first note. Over the past month, Fred had been slipping these quiet, magically folded compliments into your life. He noticed your drawings. He noticed the way you helped elves. He noticed the slight change on the color of your eyes. He was systematically attempting to rebuild the self-worth that the castle had tried to strip away from you.

You quickly folded the note and shoved it into your pocket, fighting the terrifying, dangerous warmth blooming in your chest.

Luna, your lovely sister, was watching all of this unfold from her own quiet vantage point, never once intervened directly. She never pushed you toward him. She simply, patiently, made room for things to happen and stay close to it to see your reaction.

You caught her watching the two of you that same day, when Fred had tried and failed, again, to coax more than three words out of you.

"You could tell him to stop," Luna observed, not looking up from the copy of the Quibbler she held upside down. "If you actually wanted him to, he would stop if you properly say it"

"I don't— i know—it's just…complicated, but I don't want him to."

"I know," Luna said, simply, and went back to her magazine, and you found, not for the first time, that your sister always seemed to know things about you before you'd finished admitting them to yourself.

Fred kept trying, undeterred by rejection, though he adjusted his tactics as the weeks wore on — less direct approach, more sideways offering, small kindnesses left where you'd find them without an audience attached. He was really trying.

You hated how much you noticed him.

Not just the obvious things — though those were hard to ignore too, the sheer, absurd size of him folding himself into library chairs built for smaller people, the easy warmth in his voice even when he was being ridiculous. It was smaller than that, quieter. The way he still made you want to laugh, even now, even guarded as you'd become. The way some worn-down, stubborn part of you lit up, just slightly, every time his voice found you in a crowded room.

You remembered him from before, if you let yourself. Not in any grand, significant way — just ordinary fragments, the kind that only became significant in hindsight. A detention in third year you'd both been given for an entirely unrelated prank gone sideways, the two of you trading increasingly ridiculous excuses while scrubbing trophies, until Filch had to separate you for laughing too loudly. A running joke about a hopeless divination substitute that had somehow lasted two entire terms. A wink thrown your way in a crowded corridor once, casual and easy, that had made you blush for reasons you hadn't examined closely at the time.

You'd liked him. Quietly, the way you liked a lot of things back then, without needing to make a production of it. He'd been funny in a way that felt effortless rather than performed, kind in the small unremarkable ways that never asked for credit. If things had gone differently — if April had never happened, if the person you used to be had gotten to stay — you thought, sometimes, that you might have let yourself want this a long time ago, simply and without all the fear currently wrapped around it.

That was exactly why you couldn't let it happen now.

She got a bad reputation

Nobody gets too close

You knew, with a clarity that frightened you, precisely what it would cost him to be seen with you — the whispers, the warnings, the slow erosion of a reputation he'd built without ever needing to fight for it. You'd already watched it happen once, that very day, his friends' curious eyes following him across the courtyard. You didn't want to be the reason people looked at Fred Weasley differently. You didn't want to drag someone that bright down into the same grey, suffocating hell you'd been living in for over a year.

It would be so much easier, you told yourself, to simply keep him at a distance. Safer for him. Safer for you, too — wanting something you couldn't have was its own particular cruelty, and you'd had quite enough cruelty for one lifetime already.

But some stubborn, unconvinced part of you kept hoping he wouldn't listen to any of that. And that frightened you more than anything else.

You tried to talk to Luna about it, one evening, in the roundabout, careful way you talked about anything that mattered now.

"Sometimes I think about who I used to be," you admitted, staring at your hands rather than at your sister. "The loud one. The one who wore whatever she wanted and laughed too easily and didn't calculate every single interaction before she had it. And I think — if she'd just been quieter. Smaller. Less obviously happy. Maybe none of it would have happened. Maybe they wouldn't have looked twice."

Luna went very still, the way she did when something mattered enough to warrant her full, uninterrupted attention.

"You're angry at her," Luna said. Not a question.

"I don't know what I am. I just — I resent her, sometimes. That girl. For being so careless with herself. For not seeing it coming. And then I hate myself for resenting her, because none of it was her fault, and I know that, logically, I do — but knowing it and feeling it aren't the same thing, and I can't seem to make the feeling catch up."

"That's the cage," Luna said, quiet, certain. "The one I keep telling you that you built, and let other people help build. You resent the girl you used to be, and you can't forgive yourself for surviving what happened to her, and you won't let either feeling go, because letting go would mean admitting neither of them was ever fair to hold onto in the first place."

"It wasn't my fault," you said, though it came out smaller than you meant it to, like you were still convincing yourself.

"I know it wasn't. You know it wasn't, somewhere underneath all of this. But you don't talk about any of it — not to me, not really, not even now. You've gotten so good at protecting everyone else from the weight of it that you won't even let yourself feel it properly. You're so afraid of becoming her again — loud, open, easy to hurt — that you've stopped letting yourself be anyone at all. You avoid yourself, sister. That's the real problem. Not what happened. What you've done to survive it."

You didn't have an answer for that, not right away. But you sat with it, turning it over, and something in you recognized, with quiet horror, exactly how true it was.

"I don't know how to stop," you admitted finally.

"You don't have to know yet," Luna said, gentle now, reaching for your hand. "You just have to stop pretending you don't need to. That's usually where it starts."

The turning point in the Gryffindor dynamic happened on a rainy Tuesday in the common room.

Fred was reviewing a prototype for a new joke, while Lee Jordan and a few other seventh-years were chatting near the fire. The conversation drifted to the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend, and inevitably, to the gossip.

"I heard that she actually asked a guy to make out in a teacher's office! " Lee remarked casually, tossing a piece of popcorn into the air. "I mean, look at her. She looks miserable now, but she still keeps doing those things, just—No smoke without fire, right?"

Fred's patience snapped.

The sound was like a gunshot. Fred stood up, kicking his chair back so violently it crashed into a table. In two strides, he was across the room, grabbing the front of Lee's robes and slamming him hard against the stone wall.

"Say another bloody word about her," Fred snarled, his face twisted in absolute, blinding rage, his broad shoulders completely boxing Lee in. "Say it, Jordan. I'll break your jaw."

George caught his arm before the fist could land, hauling him back a step. "Fred. Stop." He turned to Lee, voice calm but serious. "You know that's not on, right?"

"Everyone says stuff like that about her—"

"That's exactly the problem." George's tone made the whole common room go quiet. "You've got a mum, Lee. Cousins. Probably a daughter someday, if that's the life you want. Would you want anyone talking about them the way you just talked about her? Fred and I have a sister. If i heard someone talk about Ginny like that, I'd swing first too. The only difference is you don't think it counts because she's not someone you care about. That's the thing that needs to stop being true. What we let slide is the world we're building for every woman who matters to us down the line."

Lee sat with that, discomfort plain on his face. "I didn't think about it like that. That was out of order."

The incident shifted everything.

The next day in the Great Hall, when a Slytherin girl muttered a slur as you walked past, Hermione loudly slammed her textbook shut and publicly threatened to hex the girl into oblivion.

You didn't thank her, you couldn't; you were still afraid to express anything and that it would all end up being an elaborate joke against you. But at the same time, something inside you screamed that that wasn't the intention and then for the first time in months, you weren't entirely alone with your sister, there were finally more people who saw you...as you were and not what others said.

Hermione found you in the library not long after, sitting down across from you without waiting for an invitation.

"I've been meaning to properly introduce myself," she said. "I don't think we've ever actually talked. I'd like to, if you're amenable."

You were wary, at first, the way you were wary of everyone new, but Hermione's directness made it hard to stay guarded for long — she asked real questions, listened properly to the answers, never once tiptoed around your history but never pried into it either.

"I like your theory about why Nifflers are drawn to anything shiny rather than anything valuable specifically," Hermione said, once, examining one of your sketchbook pages you'd left open by accident. "Most people assume it's about worth. I think you're right that it's actually about attention — they want the thing that catches the eye, not the thing that's technically precious. That's rather clever, actually."

Nobody had complimented your thinking that specifically in longer than you could remember, and you found yourself, slowly, looking forward to Hermione's company in a way you hadn't expected to.

Ron and Harry followed Hermione's lead within weeks, folding you into their orbit with the same easy, undemanding welcome — Ron greeting you as you enter the great hall with the same blunt enthusiasm he have with everyone, no careful edges, which felt, oddly, like a relief after months of people treating you like poison; Harry, quieter, sharing a knowing look with you sometimes that suggested he understood something about being defined by a story you never chose, though neither of you ever needed to say it outright.

It became a habit, over the following weeks — Hermione seeking you out, pulling you gently into her orbit, and the group along with her. And one time when she overheard two Ravenclaw girls repeating an old, ugly joke about you in the corridor, she didn't hesitate.

"That's not funny, and it's not true, and I'd genuinely like to know why either of you think repeating it makes you clever," Hermione said, stopping directly in front of them, immovable. "You don't know her. You've decided something about her based on a story two idiots made up to protect themselves. I'd think a bit harder about that, if I were you."

The girls didn't have a response. Word of the exchange spread, as these things did, and slowly, deliberately, Hermione's clear, public loyalty became one more thread in the growing web of people who'd decided, out loud and without apology, that you were worth defending.

"Thank you," you told her afterward, still a little stunned by the directness of it. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did," Hermione said, simply. "Quiet kindness is lovely, but it doesn't undo a year of public cruelty on its own. Sometimes the correction has to be just as visible as the original unfairness, or it doesn't actually shift anything."

It was around this same period that Fred learned something uncomfortable about himself, entirely by accident.

He'd fallen into step beside a Hufflepuff girl in the corridor one afternoon, out of pure habit — an easy, flirtatious opening line, the kind of thing Fred had said to a dozen girls without a second thought over the years, harmless in his own mind, just the ordinary currency of teenage flirtation.

He didn't notice anything wrong until your reaction later that day, in the library, when he tried the same easy, teasing register with you — some light joke about your reading choices, nothing unusual for him — and watched something flicker across your face that he'd never seen there before. Not annoyance. Something closer to alarm, quickly smoothed over, the kind of flinch a body makes before the mind catches up to explain it.

"What was that? " Fred asked, gentle, immediately abandoning whatever joke he'd been building toward.

"Nothing."

"It wasn't nothing. You went somewhere else for a second, Angel."

You were quiet for a long moment, weighing whether to say it.

"That thing you do," you said finally, careful. "The easy charm. The teasing, confident thing you do with girls, like it's just automatic and.. normal but when you did it just now, with me, it landed differently than I think you meant it to."

Fred sat with that, uncomfortable in a way he wasn't used to sitting with things.

"I didn't mean anything by it," he said. "It's just how I talk. Harmless, I always thought."

"I know you didn't mean anything. I'm not accusing you of anything." You picked at the corner of your book. "It's not really about you specifically. It's that easy confidence — the assumption that a girl's going to enjoy the attention, that flirting is just something owed, automatic, no real thought behind whether she wants it in that particular moment — that's part of what got twisted into something much worse for me. Not by you. But it's close enough to the shape of it that it catches me off guard sometimes."

Fred didn't say anything defensive. He let the discomfort of it actually land.

"I think I've never really had to think about that," he admitted, slowly, working it out as he said it. "Whether the girl actually wants the attention in that specific moment, or whether I'm just assuming she does because most of them seemed to, before. That's not really fair, is it? Assuming."

"It's not really about fair and isn't your fault. You don't do it with bad intentions, it's simply society that...makes assumptions about what women want or don't want, and somehow that scares me, it disgusts me now, I can't help it…I-i think that things have to be about paying attention. Actually checking, instead of assuming."

"I'll pay more attention," Fred said, and meant it with a seriousness that surprised even him. "To you. And I think — probably to everyone else too, from here on."

He got the chance to prove it a few weeks later, in a corridor near the Charms classroom, when a group of younger girls stopped him with the particular giggling boldness of fourth-years testing out flirtation for the first time, one of them clearly working up the nerve to ask him something.

The old Fred would have played along without a second thought — easy, charming, harmless fun, exactly the kind of interaction he'd never once questioned before. Instead, he found himself pausing, actually reading the room, checking whether the attention he was about to offer was wanted or simply assumed, and in turn, questioning whether he wanted to do it or was simply going to answer out of pure reflex.

"Sorry, I'm a bit behind for class," he said, kind but definite, not performing the flirtation the moment seemed to be angling for. "Another time, maybe."

He caught George watching the exchange afterward, eyebrows raised.

"You've gone quiet with the flirting lately."

"Not quiet. Just — i don't want it, i thinking about it first. Turns out that's a step I used to skip entirely."

"Huh," George said, considering. "Suits you, honestly. Didn't expect falling for someone to turn you thoughtful, but here we are; You're becoming just like me!" George joked at the end, earning complaints from his brother and a couple of laughs.

You didn't say anything else about it that day in the library, months earlier, when the conversation first happened. But something shifted between you, some small, real trust earned in the space of that uncomfortable, honest exchange, and Fred carried the lesson forward more carefully than he'd carried most lessons in his life — not as a single correction, but as an ongoing practice, tested and retested, month after month, until it simply became part of who he was rather than something he had to remember to do.

But these changes couldn't stop the memories or the actions of others.

A sight of a soul when it's breaking

Making my heart grow cold

It happened during a crowded period between classes. A group of older Slytherin boys pushed past you in the corridor. One of them—Warrington—deliberately he moved his hand over your butt. He leaned in, whispering something filthy in your ear, before laughing and walking away with his friends cheering him.

Your vision tunneled. The air in the corridor evaporated. The walls of Hogwarts suddenly felt like they were crushing your ribs.

You stumbled backward, gasping for air, your hands flying to your ears as you slid down the stone wall in a secluded alcove. The panic attack hit you with the force of a physical blow. You were back in that dark room. You could feel his hands on you. You couldn't breathe.

"Angel?"

The voice was alarmed, but it stayed exactly where it was. Fred rounded the corner, his eyes widening as he saw you curled into a ball on the floor, hyperventilating.

He moved toward you instinctively, but as his large, imposing shadow fell over you, you shrieked, pressing yourself harder against the stones. 'Too big. He's too big. He's a man.'

Fred understood instantly.

He threw himself backward, putting a solid five feet of distance between you. He dropped to his knees, making himself as small as physically possible, keeping his hands flat on the floor where you could see them.

"I'm right here, Angel," Fred said, his voice a low, steady rumble, stripped of all its usual volume. He didn't approach. He didn't try to touch you. "You're safe. You're in the corridor. It's Tuesday. I'm not going to touch you. I'm just going to sit right here on the floor until you can catch your breath."

You sobbed, your chest heaving, your eyes locked onto his face. Fred kept his gaze perfectly steady, radiating an absolute, unshakeable calm that he definitely didn't feel. He stayed on the cold stone floor for twenty minutes, talking to you about nonsense—about George's newest invention idea, about his mother's knitting, about anything that would anchor you to the present.

Slowly, the tunnel vision receded. Your breathing hitched, slowing down to a shuddering rhythm.

Fred didn't move until you finally leaned your head back against the wall, exhausted. Only then did he slowly slide his Gryffindor hoodie off over his head. He tossed it gently so it landed next to your knee.

"It's cold," Fred whispered. "Put that on. Nobody's going to bother you while you're wearing my colors and my name, darling."

You looked at the oversized, worn red hoodie.

You and Fred both knew it was a lie—a harmless little lie—that as soon as other people saw you, there would be more rumors and sharp comments about you, but you chose to believe him. You chose to feel comforted by his warmth and pretend that, if nothing had happened to you, you would just be two young people flirting and sharing a nice moment.

You chose to live that little fanciful lie.

Your hands were shaking as you pulled it over your head. It swallowed you whole, smelling fiercely of cinnamon and safety. You looked at Fred, still kneeling five feet away, giving you all the power, all the control.

"Thanks...for the patience and the chat-and-and the hoodie"

The silence between you stretched for a few moments.

"It smells better than I expected from you," you teased softly, the curve of your mouth rising.

Fred feel it like a victory and for the first time since the assault, you didn't want to run away from a man. You wanted him closer.

That slow progression of you relying on him was agonizing, beautiful, and deeply confusing for Fred. It started with proximity — sitting close enough in the library that your shoulders brushed, neither of you moving away. Then it became a habit — Fred's arm slung loosely along the back of whatever bench you shared, not quite touching you, close enough that you could lean into it if you wanted to, which, eventually, you did. Then it became something closer to comfort. But there was always a barrier, a flinch, a hesitation.

He was enormous, up close — taller than you by a full head, broad enough through the shoulders that his jumper swallowed you whole, strong enough that you'd watched him lift furniture other boys needed to be two for. Most days, you found you liked it — liked the solid, unhurried warmth of him, the way he never seemed to notice or mind his own size, just took up space easily and let you borrow some of that ease when you needed it.

Over the following weeks, it became something you both reached for more readily: his fingers, absent and easy in your hand; your head resting against his chest while he explained some ridiculous new joke-shop idea; his hand finding yours under a table, thumb tracing slow circles against your knuckles, an anchor rather than a demand.

None of it was romantic in the traditional sense, not yet — nothing that asked anything of you beyond comfort freely given and freely received. But it built, patient and constant, into something that felt, increasingly, like the safest place you had.

There were still moments, even if you tried to avoid them, when his size did something else entirely — a hand closing too fast around your arm to steady you on an uneven step, and your whole body locking rigid before you recognized who it was. Fred let go immediately every time, adjusting without complaint, always announcing himself now before closing any distance, making himself smaller in all the ways that mattered without ever once making you feel guilty for needing it.

Fred didn't know what he was doing.

One weekend, Fred cornered George and his girlfriend (a sweet, brilliant Hufflepuff pureblood who George had been entirely obsessed with for two years before she finally gave in), in the common room.

"I need advice," Fred muttered, rubbing his face. "I don't want to mess this up, George. I really don't."

The girl offered a warm, empathetic smile. "She's trying, Fred. I think —From what you're saying— that she likes you. But her body doesn't know it's fully safe yet. You have to let her lead."

"Took me two years to get Sunshine to look at me and leave that bloke, Freddie," George said quietly, clapping his twin on the shoulder.

"And i didn't go through half the hell that girl went through. You have to be patient. You can't pretend to fix her. You just have to love her while she fixes herself." She added kindly.

But Fred, in his fierce protectiveness, inevitably messed up.

A week later, you found out Fred had actively threatened a group of Ravenclaws who had refused to partner with you in Potions. You were furious. You dragged him into an empty classroom, your eyes blazing.

"I didn't ask you to fight my battles, Fred!" you shouted, the oversized sleeves of his hoodie pulled over your hands. "I am not a broken toy for you to fix! I am not your property for you to be a caveman resorting to violence over me! You stepping in and threatening people just makes me look horrible! It makes it look like I need a big, strong man to survive!"

"You needed someone in your corner!" Fred yelled back, his own frustration and desperation boiling over. "I can't just stand by and watch them tear you apart, Angel! It kills me!"

"Then look away!" you cried, tears of pure frustration spilling over. "Because you can't erase what happened! You can't beat up the past, Fred! You can't solve this for me, and if you think you can, then you don't understand it at all!"

You stormed out, leaving Fred entirely gutted for days.

He sought Molly out the following weekend, home for a visit while the others sat in the kitchen with hot drinks — George and his girlfriend close together on one bench, Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione deep in their own conversation.

Fred found his mother alone by the sink.

"Mum. Can I talk to you about someone?"

Molly set down the cup she'd been drying. "Of course love."

"There's a girl—actually — you might've heard Ginny or some of the girls mention her. She's amazing, Mom, she has eyes that— I don't know, Just when they look at you they make you feel 'wooow' and it's sweet, kind, brave because—well, you know?" Fred paused, a silly smile spread across his face, ignoring Molly's mental effort to follow her son's strange and lovestruck explanation. "She makes me want to be a better man, a better person; she's everything that's right, and I don't think I've ever wanted to do things right with a girl so much. Besides, did I tell you she draws? she's properly talented, though she'd never say so herself. She's got this laugh that used to fill up whole rooms before this year, and getting even a piece of it back out of her feels like the best thing I've ever managed to do with my time. I think about her constantly, Mum. Not in the fun way, either — I mean I actually worry, all the time, whether I'm doing right by her."

Fred's voice drops to something more restrained; a mixture of sadness and anger. His brows furrow as he tries to find a way to express a pain that isn't his own.

"Something enormous happened to her last spring; Two boys disrespected her and—and took advantage of her… that wasn't her fault, not even slightly, and instead of the people responsible facing any of it, she's the one who's spent over a year paying for it, They all chose to blame her! Spreading stupid rumors and treating her badly when she doesn't deserve it."

He raised his eyes, meeting his mother's warm and understanding gaze. "I care about her more than I've ever cared about any girl, and I don't know how to help her properly. I keep getting it wrong — trying to fix things that aren't mine to fix."

Molly's whole expression had softened, listening. "That sounds like a great deal to be carrying, both of you."

"How do I help her, Mum? Properly. Not just showing up angry and throwing punches, though apparently I've been doing plenty of that."

"Helping looks like listening more than you speak," Molly said. "It looks like asking what she needs instead of guessing. It looks like being steady on the days she's not, without needing credit for the steadiness. You can't love someone healed, Fred. You can only love them exactly as they are, and trust that your presence matters even when it's not fixing anything at all."

"That's harder than throwing a punch."

"Infinitely harder," Molly agreed, smiling. "That's what being a good man actually looks like, more often than the dramatic version you probably picture." She studied her son for a long moment, something proud and a little misty in her expression. "You've grown up a great deal this year, you know. I don't say that lightly. Bring her round sometime! I'd really like to meet her."

Fred apologized the next time he saw you. It was a sincere, ego-less apology that melted the remaining ice around your heart. He promised to let you handle your own battles.

"You keep trying to solve this," you said, sharper than you meant, when Fred suggested going to Dumbledore together, already having drafted most of what he wanted to say. "You've decided you're going to fix this for me, and that's not your decision to make. You can't help by deciding what I need before I've decided it myself. I am grateful for the fury and the fists — but none of it helps me sit with the parts I haven't processed. It just gives me one more enormous thing to process on top of everything else."

Fred looked stricken. "I didn't think about it that way."

"Loving me isn't the same as managing this for me. I need you to be here. Not in charge of fixing what happened to me, because you can't, and every time you try, it makes even my own healing feel taken out of my hands."

"You're right," Fred said, finally. "I've been so angry on your behalf that I've been treating it like something I could solve with enough force. It's yours. All of it. Not mine."

"I need you to just be here. Steady. Not fixing. Just staying."

"I can do that," Fred said. "I promise."

And into the deeper she's sinking

I'm begging her please don't let go

There was a week late, not long after that you and Fred work things out, when you disappeared almost entirely — skipping meals, skipping the library, answering nothing, not even Luna's careful, persistent knocking in your door. It wasn't one single trigger. It was the accumulation of everything, finally too heavy to carry through another ordinary day — the anniversary of the party creeping closer on the calendar, a fresh round of whispers that had started up again for no reason and at the same time for being too close to fred, the exhausting, endless work of holding yourself together in front of people who'd decided, long ago, that you didn't deserve the effort.

Fred found you on the fourth day, curled in the farthest corner of an unused classroom, the one you'd once shared laughter in, now sitting in it alone in the dark.

"Hey," he said, quiet, not moving too fast, not crowding the doorway. "Angel, finally I have the privilege of seeing your face," he joked softly, then tentatively said "Can I come in?"

You didn't answer, just nod and he took that as permission, sitting down a careful distance away, close enough to be present, far enough to leave you room.

"You've been gone a few days," he said, gently. "I've been worried. Luna and the other ones have been worried. I'm not here to make you talk if you're not ready. I just — I needed to see you were alright. Or as alright as you can be today."

"I'm tired," you whispered, finally, voice hollow. "I'm so tired of holding all of it up. Some days I think it would just be easier to stop trying so hard to be okay. To just let myself sink, instead of fighting to stay afloat every single day."

Something in Fred's chest went cold and urgent at that, though he kept his voice steady, refusing to let his own fear show in a way that might frighten you further.

"Don't," he said, low, and it came out rawer than he meant it to, something close to pleading. "Please don't let go of this. Of any of it — of Luna, of me, of the people trying to hold on with you. I know it's exhausting. I know you're so tired of fighting a battle nobody else seems willing to fight alongside you. But I'm not asking you to be okay today. I'm just asking you not to disappear. There's a difference, and I need you to hear it." He approached and gently took your hands, caressing them in yours. "You don't have to be strong for one more single day. You just have to let us stay close enough to help carry some of this, instead of shutting the door and carrying it entirely alone."

Neither of you spoke for a while, letting the quiet settle into something less raw. Then Fred, apparently unable to stay serious for longer than strictly necessary, cleared his throat.

"You know," he said, thoughtfully, "if you really wanted to disappear properly, you should've picked a better hiding spot. This classroom's got terrible acoustics. I could hear you mising my jokes and or presence. Very unprofessional sulking, honestly. I'd give it a four out of ten."

"I wasn't sulking."

"Course not. You were doing advanced, silent brooding. Very different discipline. Requires years of training." He nudged your shoulder with his, gentle. "Next time, at least pick a classroom with better echo. I nearly walked into the wrong one twice looking for you. Gave Peeves a proper fright, actually, bursting in like that."

"You did not."

"I absolutely did. He called me 'overly dramatic,' which, from Peeves, is genuinely rich."

You're laughing at the absurdity of his joke, leaning forward; close enough now that the distance between you become charged, suspended, the kind of quiet neither of you rushed to break. Fred's hand came up, gentle, to brush something imaginary from your cheek, and for one long moment, his eyes dropped to your mouth and held there, and you felt yourself lean in, almost without deciding to.

Then some old, reflexive fear flickered across your face — nothing dramatic, just a half-second of hesitation, your body's old habit of bracing before your mind caught up to explain there was nothing to brace against.

Fred noticed immediately, and pulled back, gentle, unbothered.

"Hey, pretty girl, easy there yeah? We don't have to rush things—although I understand you're eager to taste this mouth ." He smiled and joke, easy, warm. "We'll kiss when you feel completely safe. I'm not going anywhere in the meantime don't worry; we'll have plenty of kisses when you really want them."

His body leaned down, kissing your forehead for a moment, a gesture that made tears sting behind your eyes.

You could have cried, a little, at how easily he let the moment go, how entirely unoffended he seemed by your own body's betrayal.

"Thank you," you said, quietly.

"Nothing to thank me for. I meant what I said. I'm patient, angel. More patient than I ever knew I had in me, if I'm honest, and I'm finding I quite like finding out."

As the moment faded and you gathered your things to go to your common room accompanied by Fred, he murmured something in your direction.

"I don't care what any of them think of you," he explained, noticing how you looked around, judging those who passed by. "Not one word of what they've decided. I only care about this —" He pointed his index finger at you and him. "about you still being here, tomorrow, and the day after, however slow that has to go. Don't let go, love. Whatever it takes. I'll be right here, holding on with you, for as long as you need me to."

You leaned into him, finally, silent tears slipping free, and he wrapped an arm around you without hesitation, and the two of you walk Until they arrived at your common room where Fred left you under some bad joke and the promise to see each other tomorrow that managed to make you smile.

It wasn't a fix. It was just a hand extended into the dark, and you took it, and that, that year, was enough to keep you from sinking any further.

She's got a bad reputation

But she's all that, all I want though,

Fred After that day he decided he was finally going to ask you out on a date and that made him lose his mind.

He found George and his girlfriend in the common room on a Tuesday evening, deposited himself directly across from them with the particular urgency of a man in genuine crisis.

"I need help. Both of you. Immediately."

George didn't even look up from his homework. "Let me guess."

"I want to ask her to go to Hogsmeade. And i have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, and you two are apparently the resident experts on making a hopeless, terrified declaration of feelings work out, so."

George's girl bit back a laugh. "This feels remarkably familiar."

"Doesn't it just," George agreed, setting down his quill with theatrical patience. "Alright. What's the actual crisis?"

"Everything. Where do I take her. What do I say. Do I bring flowers, is that too much, is it not enough—"

"Merlin, listen to yourself!" George said, though not unkindly. "This is exactly what I sounded like a year ago. Word for word, practically."

"It's a bit unsettling, honestly," his girlfriend added, grinning. "Like watching a play I've already seen and with another version of the cast!"

"A less handsome version, right Sunshine? I'm your favorite twin," George asked his girlfriend with a lopsided, flirty smile.

"You're obviously my favorite twin, you idiot." She answered by rolling her eyes.

"You're both being extremely unhelpful." He complained, burying his face in his hands.

"Fine, fine." George relented, actually thinking about it now. "Something simple. Somewhere quiet. Show her you thought about it without making it a production she has to perform gratitude for. And for Merlin's sake, don't bring flowers you didn't pick yourself. Effort matters more than expense."

"I don't have the money for expense anyway."

"Even better. Use that!" The girl leaned forward. "Ask her real questions. Actually listen. Let her talk more than you do, which I know is a genuine struggle for you specifically, and fred—"

The redhead looked up from his agenda—where he was writing down all the advice.

"Don't scare her off, make her your girlfriend so I have a sister-in-law!" George joked, amused, watching his brother practically turn bright red.

Fred left the conversation only slightly less panicked than he'd arrived, but armed, at least, with something resembling a plan.

He found you the next afternoon in the library, and lost every scrap of the composure George had helped him rehearse within about four seconds of sitting down.

"Right. So. I've been thinking," Fred started, then stopped, then started again. "That is — I wanted to ask you something, and I've had this whole speech planned, and I've apparently forgotten every word of it, which is deeply embarrassing, so you'll just have to bear with me."

"That's an alarming opening."

"It's going somewhere, I promise." He dragged a hand through his hair, uncharacteristically flustered. "I wanted to know if you'd let me take you to Hogsmeade. Properly, I mean. An actual date, not just us wandering around like usual pretending it isn't one. I have some money saved up and i borrowed a bit from Mum, which I'm slightly ashamed of but not ashamed enough to not mention it, apparently — and I just. I'd like to take you somewhere nice, if you'd want that. No pressure at all if you don't. I just wanted to actually ask instead of hoping you'd assume."

You looked at him — flushed, rambling, entirely undone by his own nerves — and found something in your chest loosen at the sheer, earnest effort of it.

"I'd want that," you said, and watched relief and delight war for control of his whole face.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Brilliant." He grinned, wide and a little disbelieving. "Right. Good. I'm going to go tell George immediately, purely so he can stop asking me about it every four minutes."

The date itself was, for the first hour, exactly what he'd promised — easy, warm, ordinary in a way you were slowly learning to trust. He bought you a hot chocolate with the careful pride of someone spending money he'd genuinely worked for, made you laugh twice loud enough that people at nearby tables glanced over, walked close enough that your shoulders brushed the whole way down the high street.

He'd clearly planned it in more detail than he let on — steering you past Honeydukes because he remembered, from some offhand comment months earlier, that you preferred the sour sweets to the sweet ones; stopping at the stationer's because he'd noticed your sketchbook was nearly full and pretended, badly, that buying you a new one was an impulsive decision rather than the entire reason he'd suggested that particular street.

"You're not subtle," you told him, watching him fumble an explanation for why you absolutely needed a new sketchbook right that moment.

"I never claimed to be." He grinned, entirely unrepentant. "Subtlety's overrated. I'd rather you know exactly how much thought went into this."

"I forgot what this felt like," you admitted, a little later, threading your arm through his without quite deciding to. "Just being normal."

"Get used to it," Fred said. "I intend to keep giving you normal, boring, lovely afternoons for as long as you'll let me."

But Hogwarts was a small world.

As you were walking back toward the castle, the path narrowed near the Shrieking Shack. And there they were. The two Slytherins.

They blocked the path, smirking as they looked at you, then at Fred.

"Well, well," one of them sneered, looking you up and down with an expression that made you violently nauseous. "Looks like the pleasure hole found a Weasley! Tell me, Fred, are you just waiting for your turn? Because you don't have to buy her butterbeer for that. If you just want to see what she looks like under that coat, me and the lads still have the photographs from that night."

The world stopped.

The words landed like a physical blow. Shame rose fast and total, your whole body wanting to disappear.

Fred didn't shout. He didn't say a word. He dropped your hand. With a terrifying, deadly silence, Fred lunged.

He crossed the distance in two strides, the first punch connecting solid with Warrington's jaw, and then Higgs was on him too, chaos, fast and furious.

He tackled the boy to the snowy ground, his massive fist coming down with bone-shattering force across the other Slytherin jaw. Blood sprayed onto the snow.

The second boy reached for his wand, but before he could cast a hex, a blur of motion slammed into him from the side.

George, passing by with his girlfriend on his arm, took one look, sighed heavily, and waded directly into the fight beside his brother without a second's hesitation. George didn't need to ask questions. He joined the fray instantly.

The two Weasley twins were an unstoppable, brutal force of protective rage. They beat the two boys until they were bloody, bruised, and begging for mercy in the snow.

"Delete them," Fred said, breathing hard, voice low and dangerous. "Now. Every copy."

They deleted them, hands shaking, face covered in blood.

"Get on your knees," George snarled at the other one, kicking him down. "Apologize to her. Now."

The two boys, bleeding and terrified, crawled in the snow toward you, stammering out pathetic, fearful apologies.

You stood there, shaking violently. You should have felt vindicated. You should have felt relieved. But as you looked at the two boys cowering in the snow, you felt a massive, suffocating wave of anger. They weren't apologizing because they were sorry for destroying your life. They were apologizing because two bigger, stronger men had beaten them into submission.

You turned and ran all the way back to the castle, your mind a churning mess — grateful for Fred's fury, ashamed of the scene, moved by feelings you weren't ready to examine, and underneath it all, a harder, colder anger: that they'd only apologized because two much larger boys forced them to their knees, not because they'd ever once felt genuine remorse. The apology changed nothing, not really. It left you hollow rather than avenged.

And there was Luna; as always, at the right moment.

"I don't know what I'm feeling," you admitted. "Grateful, and furious, and humiliated, and something about Fred that terrifies me more than any of it. It's too much all at once."

She gently I take some blankets, wrap you up, and sit down next to you. Her wide, pale eyes were filled with a profound, ancient wisdom.

"You're think that you are angry at Fred for fighting," Luna said softly. "But you're really angry at yourself."

"I am weak, Luna," you sobbed, burying your face in your hands. "I am broken. I couldn't even defend myself. Fred had to do it. I'm just a victim. That's all I'll ever be."

"No," Luna said firmly. She reached out, tilting your chin up. "The problem isn't what happened to you. What happened was a tragedy, and it wasn't your fault. But the problem now, sister, is that you never allowed yourself to grieve. You let them build a cage of shame around you, and then you locked the door from the inside to stay safe."

Luna brushed a tear from your cheek. "Fred didn't fight them to save you. He fought them because he loves you. But only you can save yourself. You have to accept the pain, mourn the girl you used to be, and step out of the cage. You are so much stronger than the worst thing that ever happened to you."

Her words cracked the foundation of your trauma. You wept—not tears of panic, but tears of profound, shattering grief. You grieved the loss of your innocence. You grieved the pain. And slowly, the cage door swung open.

"Thank you," you said, once the worst of it had passed, voice raw. "For staying. That whole first night, and every night since. I don't think I ever properly thanked you for that."

"You don't have to thank a sister for loving you," Luna said, and the simplicity of it undid you all over again.

Nobody knows the way that I know her, said

Nobody knows the weight that's on her shoulders, said

Nobody knows the way that I know her, said

She got it bad, she got it bad

It was past midnight when you finally walked into the Gryffindor common room. Hermione had given you the password while ago.

The room was deserted, save for the dying embers of the fire. And Fred.

He was sitting on the rug, staring into the flames. His knuckles were bruised and bandaged. He looked up when he heard your footsteps, his brown eyes filled with an anxious, desperate hope. He immediately stood up, making sure not to crowd you.

"Angel," Fred whispered. "I'm sorry. I lost my temper. I couldn't hear him talk about you like that."

"I know," you said softly. You walked closer. You didn't stop at the safe three-foot perimeter. You walked right up to him, until you had to tilt your head back to look into his face. "I'm not mad at you, Fred. I was just... I was mourning. But I'm done hiding now."

Fred let out a shaky breath, his eyes tracing your features as if you were a miracle.

"Good," he murmured. A small, tentative version of his usual cocky grin touched his lips. He gestured to the quiet room. "Since we're both awake and you made a super brave decision, like the wonderful woman you are...we have to celebrate! care to dance?"

You laughed, a genuine, bright sound. "There's no music, Fred."

"I'll hum," he offered perfectly seriously.

He held out his hand. He didn't grab yours; he gave you the power to choose. Slowly, you placed your hand in his. His fingers were warm and rough. He pulled you gently closer, his other hand resting lightly on your waist.

You swayed together in the quiet, firelit room. Fred's humming was terrible, off-key, and wonderfully endearing. You laughed, resting your forehead against his chest. You could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

An then you stopped swaying, looking up at him.

The firelight danced across his freckles. Fred stopped humming and looked down at your lips, his breathing shallow.

He clearly, desperately wanted to kiss you. The longing in his eyes was almost painful. But he stayed perfectly still, as if it was waiting for you.

He was giving you complete control over your own body.

You took a deep breath and let go of the fear.

You got up on your tiptoes, your hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck, and pressed your lips to his.

Fred let out a deep, ragged groan—a sound of absolute, starved devotion. His arms wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He kissed you back with a gentleness that broke your heart and mended it all at once. It was a soft, perfect, completely safe kiss.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless. Fred rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a smile of pure, unadulterated joy spreading across his face.

"Be my girl, Angel," Fred whispered into the quiet room, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. "Let me be yours. I promise I'll always wait for you."

"I'm yours, Fred," you whispered back. "I'm right here."

For a moment, Fred simply stared at you, like he hadn't quite let the words land yet. Then, all at once, they did.

"YES!" He shouted it, loud enough that it echoed off the common room's stone walls, both fists thrown into the air as he spun in a full, delighted circle. "Merlin's beard — YES. Finally. Thank Merlin, thank Godric, thank whoever's listening—"

"Fred, it's past midnight—"

"I don't care! I have never cared less about anything in my entire life!" He grabbed you by the waist and spun you once, laughing, before setting you back down, slightly dizzy and laughing yourself despite every instinct telling you to shush him. "You said yes! You're my girlfriend! I'm going to go wake George up and tell him, actually, no — better idea — I'm going to tell the whole common room in the morning, very loudly, possibly with a banner—"

"Please don't make a banner."

"No promises." He was still grinning, entirely too pleased with himself, when he suddenly dropped to one knee in front of you with theatrical seriousness, taking both your hands in his. "Actually — wait. Before the banner. I have one request. One incredibly important, life-altering request."

"That's an ominous amount of buildup for a request."

"It's very important, I promise." His eyes were bright with mischief, though something more sincere sat underneath it. "Come to my match against Slytherin this weekend. Sit where I can see you. Cheer for me, embarrassingly loud, so the whole pitch knows exactly who my girlfriend is."

You hesitated, the old fear rising automatically — a crowd, all those eyes, the murmurs that would inevitably follow you to the stands. But something steadier rose up beneath the fear this time, something that had been growing in you for months now, patient and quiet and finally strong enough to answer back.

"Okay," you said, and watched his whole face light up like you'd handed him the sun.

You went. You sat in the stands with Luna on one side and Hermione on the other, and when the murmurs started — they always did — you felt the old urge to disappear, to make yourself small, to let the whispers win the way they always had.

You didn't.

Instead, halfway through the first half, you made a different decision entirely. You excused yourself from the stands, And you walked towards the section where the teachers were watching the game, with your heart hammering the whole way, and looked for Professor McGonagall.

"I need to tell you something," you said, when she approached you , voice steadier than you expected. "About last spring. About what actually happened, not the version everyone decided to believe."

You told her everything — carefully, in pieces, your voice cracking more than once, McGonagall listening without a single interruption, her expression growing sharper and more furious with every sentence. When you finished, she didn't offer empty comfort. She stood and pulled you into a brief, fierce hug that startled you both.

"Thank you for telling me," she said, quiet and utterly sincere. "I am so sorry it took this long for someone to properly ask. This will be investigated thoroughly, I promise you that. You have been remarkably brave, both in surviving this and in choosing to speak now. I want you to know that."

You returned to your place with your hands still shaking, but lighter than you'd felt in over a year — the specific, enormous relief of having finally, truly been heard.

Griffyndor win the match no long after, Fred was diving in a spectacular blur of scarlet and gold, and when he landed, he searched the stands immediately, found your face, and grinned so wide it looked like it might genuinely hurt.

The celebration that night in the common room was loud and chaotic in exactly the way Gryffindor common rooms were built for. Fred, still flushed from the match, climbed onto a table without warning, silencing the room with a piercing whistle.

"I have an announcement," he declared, entirely too pleased with himself. "This absolutely brilliant woman right here" — he pointed at you, and you felt your whole face go hot — "has agreed to be my girlfriend. I am the luckiest man in this castle. Possibly the luckiest man in Britain. I intend to be insufferable about it for the foreseeable future, so you should all prepare yourselves accordingly!"

The room erupted into cheers and good-natured groaning in equal measure, George whooping loudest of all, and you stood there in the middle of it, thoroughly embarrassed and thoroughly, undeniably happy, thinking that you couldn't remember the last time you'd let yourself be celebrated like this — loudly, publicly, without flinching once.

The weeks that followed were, by Fred's own cheerful admission, "a proper campaign of showing off."

He carried your bag whenever you'd let him, which was often, mostly because he made such a production of the martyrdom involved. He introduced you to strangers in corridors with unnecessary flourish — "this is my girlfriend, yes, the talented one, the one who draws" — until you started swatting his arm every time, which never once stopped him.

McGonagall's investigation moved faster than either of you expected. Within a month, the truth had been thoroughly, officially established — testimonies gathered, the timeline reconstructed, the photographs finally, properly accounted for and destroyed under supervision rather than simply threatened out of existence in a muddy street. Warrington and Higgs were expelled before the term's end, their names quietly, permanently removed from the school roster, the official record finally, belatedly matching the truth you'd been carrying alone for over a year.

The reaction, when it spread, was its own strange reckoning. Some people had the decency to look ashamed — the Ravenclaw prefect who'd warned Fred off you weeks earlier avoided your eyes entirely for a full month afterward. Others apologized outright, awkward and overdue, and you accepted what felt genuine and let the rest simply exist without your energy attached to it. A few, stubbornly, still doubted — clung to the story that had been easier to believe, unwilling to let a little thing like an official expulsion change their minds. You found, to your own surprise, that you'd made peace with that too. You couldn't force everyone to see the truth. You could only keep living it, loudly, in front of the people who mattered.

Fred, for his part, seemed to consider it a personal mission to make sure you never doubted, for even a moment, exactly how he saw you.

"You're staring again," you told him once, over breakfast, catching him watching you with unguarded, open adoration.

"I'm allowed, right? You're my girlfriend. I intend to stare as much as I like, and you let me, for the rest of my natural life." He stole a bite of your toast, grinning at your protest. "Get used to it, Angel. I've got a whole lot of staring saved up."

The summer sun beat down on the sprawling, chaotic garden of The Burrow.

You were sitting on a woven blanket under the shade of the apple orchard, a sketchbook balanced on your knees. You were wearing a light summer dress, your shoulders bare, the sun catching the healthy, golden glow of your skin. The shadows were gone. The heavy, oversized sweaters were packed away.

A few yards away, George and his girl were laughing as they tried to de-gnome a particularly stubborn patch of rosebushes. Harry and Ron were flying above the pitch.

Suddenly, a pair of large, warm hands covered your eyes from behind.

"Guess who," a low, rumbling voice murmured in your ear.

"The most irritating Beater in Great Britain?" you teased, leaning your head back against his chest.

Fred chuckled, dropping his hands and sliding down onto the blanket beside you. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you tightly against his side. He pressed a kiss to your temple, looking down at the detailed sketch of a Niffler on your page.

"Beautiful," Fred said softly. He wasn't just talking about the drawing.

You leaned your head on his broad shoulder, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of cinnamon and summer grass. You weren't entirely cured; some days were still hard, and some nights you still woke up panicking. But you weren't fighting alone anymore.

"Dinner's ready!" Molly Weasley called out from the back porch, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes crinkling with joy as she looked at the two of you sitting under the tree.

Fred stood up, offering you his hand. You took it, letting him pull you to your feet. As you walked back toward the warm, noisy, beautiful chaos of the Weasley house hand-in-hand, you knew that your reputation didn't matter.

You love your life. 

You love that you can wake up whenever you want, and that you have no set schedule to live by. The only deadlines you have to worry about are the ones you make for yourself. You love your beautiful apartment that you didn’t need anyone else’s help to get, and that it is so close to everything in the city. You love not worrying about money anymore. You get to live however you deem fit, taking life one day at a time. Everything in your life is by your own design. Honestly? It’s a dream. 

And it’s easy money, giving men a fantasy for the night. 

That’s what you sell, the idea of you. In everyday life, you don’t pout nearly as much as you do on camera, nor do you talk as sweetly to strangers. Some of them, though, aren’t strangers to you anymore. You recognize their usernames and their donations, especially the ones who have been fans of yours since you started, and the ones who pay for your highest tiered subscription. Twenty-five dollars a month just to jerk off to your exclusive content. Ah, men. 

Your fanbase has grown and grown, skyrocketing somewhat recently when you convinced Yeosang, your hot guy friend, to join you in one of your videos. He’d worn a face mask to protect his identity, but it had been so obvious that he’s attractive even with it on. The black tank top left little to the imagination as your audience watched the muscles in his arms flex as his strong hands fingered you over and over again while he talked you through each orgasm. It was a rather simple video, with no actual sex. Regardless, that became one of your most viewed videos even though it was an exclusive, and the video that ended up paying for this apartment. Men and women alike scrambled to type in their credit card information to see it, boosting not only your ego, but your bank account as well. You gave Yeosang a decent sized chunk of your earnings, seeing as he was in the video too.  

His whole face had turned red when you showed him the number of views, hiding behind his hands for good measure. He’s always been shy, it was a damn miracle you even got him to do it in the first place. 

Since then, you’ve been living quite comfortably. Yeosang, too. Despite your efforts to convince him to create his own account for people to subscribe to, he’s maintained his ‘innocence’. However, recently he’s been asking you more and more about the details and dynamics of running an account like yours. You’re almost afraid to jinx it, like if you ask him outright if he’s thinking about it, he’ll forget the whole thing and never do it. Who are you to potentially accidentally deny the general paying population of your hot friend? 

He may become even more popular than me, you think to yourself, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. 

You glance at your laptop, its camera trained at a specific angle towards your empty bed, and you peek at how many people are waiting for your livestream to start. Friday nights are always good to pull in larger crowds, and tonight is no different. 

Nine hundred, and climbing. 

Whoa.

You let out a low whistle at the number, the highest you’ve ever seen it just for the amount of people waiting. You’re not even due to start for another ten minutes. The number shifts around a couple times, losing some, and gaining more every minute. For the first time in a while, you start to feel a little self-conscious. This newfound fame is still just that: new. Even though you can’t see the audience you’ve gathered, you still feel that there are nine hundred pairs of eyes on you in your bedroom. There’s a nervous flutter in your chest that you can’t seem to shake off in the dwindling minutes before your stream begins. 

With only two minutes left, you flit around your room, double checking how you look in your mirror, fixing your hair and makeup, and adjusting one of the straps to the lingerie you picked out for the evening. You sit prettily on the bed, taking a few moments before you start to center yourself, taking deep breaths and focusing on getting your head clear for tonight’s performance. 

A ‘performance’ is basically all it is.   

Your fingers hover over the trackpad of your laptop, counting down the seconds until there are none left, and you click “Go Live”. 

As usual, you allow about ten seconds to go by, waiting for more to join once they get the notification that the stream has started. You read the sudden influx of chat, smiling when you see familiar usernames and knowing that rent will be covered for the next couple of months, just by their presence here. If you wanted something, all you had to do was ask for it. Someone in the chat will gladly donate however much you need – and then some – just for the chance to hear you read their username and thank them in your sweet voice. 

So easy.  

You saturate your greeting with honey, looking up into the laptop camera, eyes round and innocent. 

“Hi, everyone,” you sing, giggling for all of the people vying for your attention. Each comment is sent with the hope that you’ll read it out. Some send tips already, small amounts mostly in the single digits, but there are a couple of doubles sent your way already. The tip counter in the upper corner of the screen increases steadily with each donation as they come. Compliments, questions, requests, and general niceties move up the screen in a constant staccato, making room for the next. 

You lean back on your hands, pretending that you don’t know what you’re doing with this angle. The camera is angled down, providing an almost perfect POV shot for the audience. The fantasy begins immediately. You uncross your legs, feigning shyness. 

“My day was okay, thank you,” you purr, knowing you just made someone nearly cream their pants by answering their question. “But… I’ve just been so lonely.” 

You pout, right on cue to accompany your words. Instantly, the comment section floods with volunteers to cure you of your loneliness. Each one promises they can fix it, that they’ll be there for you, that they’ll never leave. It’s flattering, but none of them really mean it. Maybe they think they do, but again none of them really know you. You doubt most of them want to get to the very root of you and figure you out. No, most if not all just want to get into your pants to say that they have. Bragging rights. 

[user75846] will yeo be joining you?

You read the comment aloud, shaking your head in quiet defeat. “No, it’s just me tonight.” 

Some comments beg for his return, others are happy that it’s just you – the jealous types – and the rest are simply impatient to see your body. Your hand trails across the hem of your flimsy, sheer tank top you chose to wear for the evening. It leaves little to the imagination. The quiet pinging of more money being donated motivates you further. You sigh, looking up into the camera again. 

“I’ve been so sad and lonely all day… you guys will help me, right?” 

You pull your shirt down just a little more, showcasing your cleavage while keeping your face as innocent as possible. The comments spike again, but you don’t pay attention to them anymore. Your hand travels farther up to your mouth, fingers threatening to slip between your glossy lips. Twelve hundred people watch and wait. You hum, parting your lips slightly but not quite giving them the visual they want. Not yet. There’s no rush – not for you, at least. But one comment catches your eye because of its impatience.   

[mntn3000]: start.

Very blunt. You don’t recognize the username as one of your regulars or subscribers. Whoever this is must be new. You’ve run and maintained a rather strict program with your subscribers when it comes to what they say in the live chat – politeness being one of the main rules. The lack of a ‘please’ to sweeten the demand nearly twists your face into something less angelic. Maybe whoever this user is is already close, unable to finish his sentence before he finishes himself. You bet once you take your shirt off he’ll blow his load and leave. It happens. For now, you’ll have fun with him. Teach this newcomer some manners. 

You dip your fingers in, tongue peeking out to greet them into your mouth. The amount of comments slows just a little, silently telling you that some of your viewers are beginning to work themselves up along with you. 

“Oh dear… ‘mntn3000’ just said ‘start’. No ‘please’? Will someone let him know how this works?” You keep your voice sugary, making sure everyone knows you aren’t hurt or being stuck-up, but that you’re rather amused at the comment. 

Almost immediately, upon request, you see one of your regulars tag the newcomer in a message explaining the chat rules. 

“Thank you, Woo,” you hum, lifting your shirt up even more, just for him, to show your gratitude. Your hand lingers near your breast, a small shudder running through your body as you graze your nipple. 

‘Woo’, your nickname for him from his username, has become somewhat of an anonymous friend to you. He’s subscribed to your highest level tier and the VIP extras that you offer, including private shows and a group chat on Discord. He’s always the first to step in if someone says something out of line or disrespectful in any way. Your own personal guard dog. 

Whoever he is, ‘mntn3000’ doesn’t say anything to Woo’s message. 

Fourteen hundred people now. 

You hum again, resisting the urge to squeeze your thighs together. You love the attention. And after doing a rough estimate in your head how much money you’ll make tonight, it just makes you want to put on an even better show. 

“If you want something…” you purr, taking your shirt off completely. The comments erupt. “Ask nicely~” you tease, giggling to yourself.

A donation pops up immediately, the sum of which nearly makes you gape.   

[mntn3000] has donated $500 

Well… that’s certainly nice. 

[mntn3000]: start, kitten

That’ll do it. 

You’re quick to control your reaction to the generous donation. However, now you can’t help but feel like you’re performing under pressure. Some of your other patrons comment on it, but you’re on autopilot now. 

One more deep breath in and your tight little shorts soon join your shirt on the floor. 

You exhale audibly, turning the breath into a quiet moan as your hand continues to explore your own body. This time, you don’t tease when your fingers come back up to your mouth, accepting them immediately. Your free hand finds its way to your neglected chest, kneading the warm skin. It’s easy to pretend that the touch belongs to someone else’s manipulation. 

It’s more than just a little confusing for you to immediately imagine it’s Yeosang, if not friendship-wise. The two of you have mutually agreed that you’re platonic. The collaboration was just… a friend helping a friend. Moreso than the views and money you earned from it, you’re thankful that there is no awkwardness between you two in the aftermath of it. When you had switched the camera off, he had even joked about graduating to another level of friendship, or something like that. You can’t remember exactly right now, you’re a bit preoccupied. 

You pry your eyes open to read the chat, wanting to know if they’re enjoying the view so far. 

[user92834]: i keep expecting yeo to show up ㅠㅠ  i miss him

You whine, only able to nod once or twice. “I miss Yeo, too.” 

Now you’re playing with fire. Multiple people in the chat remind you of their personal favorite parts of that video, giving you a much needed visual to get yourself off. Is it wrong? To use memories of your best friend ‘platonically’ overstimulating you for the better part of an hour? Maybe. You think you just need to get laid soon. Admittedly, it’s been rather long since you have been. Longer than most of your viewers will ever believe.  

“I wish someone was here to help me,” you blink slowly into the camera, pouting again. 

Your artificial patheticness is like a siren call to these men. It seems that every single one of your viewers suddenly comes alive, flooding the chat and your donations box all at once, each claiming that they should be the one to help you next time. That they have what it takes. 

Except one. 

You haven’t seen that ‘mntn3000’ guy’s username pop up since he sent the generous donation earlier. You wonder if he’s still watching. Maybe he’s embarrassed from earlier. 

Whatever. He’s more likely just another background viewer. You probably won’t hear from him again. 

Pushing the thought away, you start to finally trail your hand down your stomach to lightly circle your clit. Your hooded eyes flicker up to the screen, making sure everything’s in view. Satisfied with what you see, you resume touching yourself, continuing to loudly suck on your fingers for good measure. 

[user82392] has donated $5

[user01743] has donated $20

[puppyu.u] has donated $50

[mars9843] has donated $50 

[puppyu.u] has donated $100

You can’t help but smile, watching the silent competition between your viewers. Every time someone ups the amount they’re willing to drop on you, there’s dozens more who are willing to match it. You feel like you’re at auction. Who will win in the end? Usually, it’s one of your regulars, the ones with access to the private Discord, who come out on top. You’re betting on ‘puppyu.u’ tonight. He seems like he has something to prove. 

No one’s quite willing to match ‘mntn3000’’s five hundred dollar starting offer just yet. 

You get the feeling that everyone who regularly competes here silently agrees to just… ignore it. Everyone here spoils you, of course. But dropping five hundred dollars straight out the gate is a blatant power move that seems intent to undermine most of the others in here in one fell swoop. 

But he’s quiet now. Maybe he spent all he had in one go. It happens sometimes. Rarely, but sometimes. 

You’re not sure why you’re so hung up on this random user. You’re not used to being caught off guard like this. Closing your eyes so no one can see you roll them, you decide to not think about him anymore. 

And you have just the thing for it. 

While they spend money to achieve imagined dominance over the others in the chat, you reach just offscreen to grab your favorite dildo. It’s a fan-favorite as well. You scoot a little farther back on the bed, finally taking your fingers out of your mouth and replacing it with the head of the dildo. You sigh around it, like you’re content, grateful to have something in your mouth again. In reality, this is just so that it goes inside of you easier.   

This time, you don’t make them wait. 

The blunt head of the toy slips inside easily, and you fight to keep your head up so everyone can see your reaction to it. Halfway in, you give up. Head back, a visible shudder runs through your body that has the donation notifications ringing like crazy. Around this point in your little show, you’ll pay less and less attention to the chat, only focusing on the pleasure you’re creating for yourself. 

But this time, something’s off. 

No matter what you do, you can’t seem to find that specific angle that makes you cum. Not even playing with your clit seems to be any help. You try to relax, to see if maybe you’re too tense to feel anything, but it’s quite hard to relax when you’re this frustrated already. You’re not about to let the audience know that, but it’s discouraging. You don’t like to lie, but again, it’s all part of a performance. A fake, tailored show to sell a fantasy version of you. The one who always comes for whoever is watching, the one who is just so insatiable for each individual person watching.  

At one point, you obtain false hope. You hit an angle that nearly does it for you, getting you closer than you were before to that sweet edge. It’s so close you can almost taste it, quickening your pulse and electrifying every vein in your body. There’s an ache in your wrist that is starting to become strained and uncomfortable, and your eyebrows furrow together to try and maybe will an orgasm into existence. And yet the payoff evades you completely.  

You make a sharp, high-pitched noise out of frustration, which hopefully comes across as ecstacy instead. You’re not even enjoying it anymore, and your hand begins to slow down the pumps of the dildo as your fake moans increase again. There’s a trick you know to make your legs look like they’re realistically shaking from an orgasm – learned by ego-boosting one too many failed relationships and one night stands in the past – and you use it now. 

Ugh. 

The toy slips out of you, and you blearily toss it next to you on the bed. You let the audience watch the slowing rise and fall of your chest as your breaths even out. 

What the fuck was that? You think to yourself, tilting your head back to hide your look of confusion. You’re kind of nervous to look at what people are saying in the chat, worried that they somehow caught onto the fact that you faked it. Without any proof, you conjure up images of cancellation, accusations, name-calling, every possible and yet unrealistic bad thing that could potentially happen. 

Steeling yourself as best you can, you straighten and take a look at the chat. 

All worries melt away at once as soon as you notice the heart emojis that flood the comment section. You’re not sure when this started, nor do you know who began the trend, but it has turned into something similar to applause at the end of a stream. A cute signal that they enjoyed the show. You smile at the screen, even laughing a little from relief. Time and time again, you’re proven to be loved no matter what. 

There are a few more donations, although they’ve slowed down now that you’re done. You push your hair back, taking the time to slowly breathe in and out as you read the comments. Most of them tell you how hard you made them bust, which earns you a few more dollars. Still, there’s one username you’re stuck on that you’re not seeing. Not yet. You hope you’re not being obvious, waiting for it to reappear. Maybe with some manners and patience this time. Your eyes stay locked on the corner of the screen.

It’s after you blow a puff of air up towards your hair to move it out of your face that he reappears. Maybe your impatience was received loud and clear to him. 

He only sends one word. Four letters. 

[mntn3000]: cute 

[mntn3000] has donated $1000

[mntn3000] has left the stream

Huh. Your spinning head almost registers that. A good thing about streaming is that you’re not exactly on a time limit. You can take as much time as you need to to calm down and regroup before addressing your audience again. Most will leave during this time, and that’s alright too. Your devoted viewers will stay, still seeking out your attention, praise, and appreciation. You always thank them for watching and of course, donating. 

“There’s thousands of others you could have spent your time with tonight, so thank you for choosing me. I hope I made it worth it.” 

In the middle of catching your breath, you manage a small grin into the camera. With a whispered, ‘goodnight’, and a kiss blown straight to your audience, you end the live and flop backwards on your bed. Another job well done. Another year of rent earned. 

You force yourself to move after five minutes, showering, changing into new, comfier clothes and taking your makeup off in the bathroom until it’s just you in the mirror, and not the character. It’s not until you’re brushing your teeth that you realize how tired you are from that live, nearly drifting off with the toothbrush still in your mouth. Head about to hit the wall, you jerk back to stand upright and finish up quickly. You can practically hear your bed calling your name.   

A text from Yeosang lights up your phone, halfway buried underneath a pillow. You pull it out and stand by your bed to read it. 

[yeoyeo🌻]: another successful day at the office?

You can’t help but grin, burying yourself under the covers and texting him back quickly. 

[y/n🌸]: another small fortune 🥱

[yeoyeo🌻]: still wanna hang out tomorrow?

[yeoyeo🌻]: or is the princess too tired 

[y/n🌸]: stfu 😂

[y/n🌸]: yes pls i miss you :( 

[yeoyeo🌻]: fine fine 

[yeoyeo🌻]: i’ll be over at noon 

[yeoyeo🌻]: you better be awake -.- 

[y/n🌸]: goodnight pretty boy!

[yeoyeo🌻]: 🖕🏻

[yeoyeo🌻]: goodnight 

Exiting the messages app, you reach over to the nightstand and grab your laptop from its perch, keen on transferring your earnings into your bank account as soon as possible. Luckily, the site you use makes it rather easy, just a click of a button, but this time around, you take a second to look at the number in the corner. 

$14,601. 

You whistle lowly at the sight of it. Nearly fifteen thousand dollars for thirty minutes of ‘work’. If you spend and save wisely, you’ll never have to set foot in an office for as long as you live. 

Laptop set aside for the time being, you make a mental note to try and fit in some pilates tomorrow morning before Yeosang comes over. There are certain things you try to do to maintain your beauty and health, especially if the rewards look like this number. The sore muscles, cutting off sugar, and time spent trying to match your wing eyeliner are worth it. Almost… you do miss sugar quite a bit and are prone to cheat if tempted.  

You quickly do the math in the calculator app to see how exponentially your bank account is about to grow once the transfer is complete. The total makes you smile ear to ear. Already, you’re thinking of more ideas, ways to keep everyone interested… but also… maybe a vacation. A first class flight to anywhere in the world seems more than desirable. Maybe tomorrow you’ll ask Yeosang if he’d like to come too. The thought excites you, making you want to stay up and look at potential destinations. 

Closing out of the calculator and banking apps, you’re just about to go on TikTok to look through your ‘dream vacay’ folder, when a notification directs your eyes upward. It’s from your email, but it's no promotional message from one of the many stores you shop at, nor is it spam. 

The sender is simply ‘H.J Kim’, accompanied by three words in the subject line: ‘Exclusive Collaboration Offer’. 

That certainly piques your interest, although it could just be a scam. Since you don’t have an agent, you’ve learned the hard way how to filter out those who just wish to take your hard-earned – well… earned – money away from you. When you were just starting out, you had to change numerous passwords more than once. You’re on a first-name-basis with your bank. Usually, you ignore emails like this, but something draws you to it. In what you can see of the preview, the sender doesn’t use more words than he has to, and the word choice seems rather official. Not as scammy as you’re used to. 

Hesitant, but intrigued at what this offer could possibly entail, you click on it to see what the rest of the email says.

__________________________

Dear Miss Y/N, 

I hope you are doing well. My name is Kim Hongjoong and I am a Talent Agent with Afterdark Productions, representing Choi San. We have been admiring your work for a while now, and would love to extend an offer for a collaboration between the two of you. 

If accepted, I will be more than happy to disclose more information regarding the details of the shoot as well as beginning the process of arranging transportation and accommodation. Please feel free to reach out with any questions or concerns, and I will respond as quickly as I can. 

Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to the possibility of working together. 

Sincerely, 

Kim Hongjoong 

Talent Agent, Afterdark Productions

[email protected]  

__________________________

You sit up, suddenly needing more air. 

Choi San. 

Just his name makes your thighs clench together under the plush comforter.

You make a noise somewhere between an exhalation and a laugh of disbelief. You reread it a couple more times, making sure you’re reading it correctly. There’s simply no way someone like Choi San knows you exist, and if he does, then how? Sure, you’re gaining popularity on cam platforms, but you didn’t think the industry on the other side of the coin would take notice. Maybe you’ve just been naive. It’s essentially the same thing but without a script or team involved. You do everything yourself — the lights, the camera, the action. The idea of even attempting what ‘Afterdark’ is known for is quite daunting. The thought of potentially meeting San even more so. 

Everyone knows Choi San. 

Somewhat of a respected micro-celebrity, he is currently revolutionizing the stigma around adult videos and being an adult actor. Breaking stereotypes, barriers, and backs. Impressive. It also helps that he has adonis-like features and a smile that can universally melt hearts. Very helpful, indeed. 

It’s still not fully clicking that you’ve been offered a chance to work with him. Not yet. Most likely, it’ll hit you in the morning when you check your phone for the millionth time, making sure you didn’t just dream this all up in a post-orgasmic haze. Each time you reread it, the words stay the same. The name jumps out at you. 

“Fuckin’ hell…” you whisper, pressing your palm to your mouth, reading the email over just one more time. That’s what you tell yourself anyway. 

A collaboration… you assume that means on his turf. On his side of the industry, anyway. Your mouth dries. Are you even up for this? 

A visual learner all your life, you find yourself opening a private browser and looking up a porn site you know has posted a couple of San’s videos. For research. Literally. Your thought process is to refresh your memory, imagine yourself in the actress’ place and discern whether or not you think you can handle what this offer entails. You pick the very first result after you enter his name in the search box, and settle back against your pillows, nervously biting your nails as the video begins. 

It starts off like many others of its kind, a flashy montage of what’s to come – pun unfortunately intended – to entice viewers to keep watching. You skip ahead, like many do, not caring for whatever ‘plot’ has been thrown together to justify why these two hot people are sleeping together this time. Although, from the clips you do see as the video jumps ahead, inching closer to the real action, you have to admit he’s a decent actor. You stop skipping through it towards the end of their conversation, landing at the proposition and steadily rising scripted passion. 

San steps closer to the actress, really getting into her space, and holding eye contact the whole time. The type that would make any girl melt. It’s not fiery or intimidating, no, it’s something much worse. 

Desire. 

He mumbles something under his breath that you don’t catch, too focused on how his hands wrap around her waist, pulling her in closer. What startles you is how… almost vulnerable he looks. Attentive. His head tilted down slightly, looking at her through his eyelashes, enchanting her so effortlessly as his hands gently wander. You cross an arm over your chest, eyes still fixated on the phone screen. You’re getting affected this much just watching him look at her like that? How the hell will you possibly be able to handle it in real life? The short answer is: you probably won’t. 

Because the next time you skip, impatience gnawing at you to just see and know what he does, you’re thrown right into the fray. 

The camera is almost cinematic, capturing precise angles where everything can be seen, the lighting low and sensual. They’re on a large bed, and San has taken the time to place one of the pillows under her head as well as her hips. A blindfold covers the actress’ eyes, but you can tell right away she’s been steadily crying through the fabric. Her hands tighten in his hair, his mouth latches onto one of her breasts, and his hand between her legs where quiet, constant, wet sounds are being drawn from. Still, he looks earnest. Genuine. Like he cares about her pleasure, and wants to make sure she’s getting just as much out of this experience as he will. At this point, you’re sure the script is thrown out the window, because the way he talks to her, so soft and sincere, praising her closer and closer to the edge, is something that no scriptwriter could come up with. No, this was pure San. 

When she’s close, she tells him immediately and he changes nothing. He whispers the same praises, keeps his hand at the same pace and angle, reaching deep and curling up over and over, coaxing her body to release. The automated subtitles are no help, so you turn the volume up just a bit more, so you can hear him clearly. He must’ve been edging her because she starts begging him, trying to not pull his hair out at the roots. He simply covers her mouth with a free hand and leans over her, giving her permission to let go for him. 

She shudders violently, thighs pressing into the sides of his body to prevent him from moving. He's not going anywhere, though. That infamous dimpled smile appears as he watches her come undone beneath him. 

Your thighs clench. That’d be you. 

His voice drifts languidly from your laptop speakers, melting your brain even further. “Yes, baby, that’s it. There you go… such a good girl.” 

A girlish squeal gets stuck in your throat and you press your lips together to ensure you don’t let it out. You haven’t even said yes yet. There could be conditions you don’t agree with, payment arguments. He could be an asshole for all you know. Or this could all be a very elaborate and convincing scam. 

Still, just in case it is real, and for the sake of ‘research’, you keep watching. 

He kisses her chest, slowly making his way up her throat, her jaw, until he reaches her lips. He takes his sweet time, like he knows no one would dare look away. She sighs into his mouth, quiet whimpers leaving her every so often while he gently rubs her clit, just enough to keep her stimulated as she gets used to the feeling of being empty once again. You wonder what it’s like to kiss him. Your hands itch to reach for your phone and text Yeosang to tell him everything, however, you’re rather busy holding them still at the moment.  

You appreciate how he doesn’t move onto the next thing immediately. Too many times have you seen other actors in his industry not giving their partner a bit of a breather after such an intense orgasm. Granted, some may like that, the overwhelming and constant stimulation, but the way San allows her to take her time, silently encourages her to follow the deeper rhythm of his breathing, and how he holds her hand and places slow, soft kisses all over her body, it all adds up to make you crave a slower pace. An intimate interaction like this. 

San checks in with her quietly, and with a nod from her and another peck on the lips, he’s positioning himself between her legs. Stars in her eyes, she reaches down and strokes his length, whimpering softly. He gently brushes her hair back, admiring the look of nervous anticipation on her face. When he finally pushes inside, the two of them moan at the same time. Buried the way in, he smiles down at her before kissing her deeply. All dimples. A broken moan of his name tumbles from her lips, and you’re almost sure she didn’t realize she even said anything. She’s staring up at him like he’s a deity. Like he’s come down from heaven just for her. And she’s not acting. 

One thing you know for sure: you’d be stupid to decline the offer. 

You consider your mind made up. 

Reluctantly exiting the video, saving it for later, you reopen your email app. Part of you wonders whether or not two in the morning is an appropriate time to email someone, but another part of you simply doesn’t care. It’ll be in Mr. Kim Hongjoong’s inbox first thing when he wakes up tomorrow. Your reply is enthusiastic yet professional, expressing appreciation for the offer in the first place. You thank him and San for taking notice of you and offer praise of his work as well. Wrapping up with the same politeness the original sender used, you sign off with your name. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a minute before adding a kiss emoji to the side of your name. Before you can second guess that choice, you send it off. 

Needing to expel some of these nerves, you get up out of bed to scavenge your fridge for a well-past-midnight snack. Maybe yogurt or something. Standing in the white light of the fridge, you realize food may not be the best choice. Nothing jumps out at you to want at two o’clock in the morning, stomach already doing flips and tricks as it is. You settle on a mini carton of strawberry milk that you may or may not finish and walk back to bed a little too fast. Quicker than your usual leisurely pace. 

You glance at your phone, laying face down on your bed like what you just watched on it made it shy. You want to text Yeosang so badly, to get his take on all of this, but you should let him sleep. Just because your sleep schedule is fucked doesn’t mean you have to ruin his as well. Your fingers absentmindedly tap the carton, only two sips deep in your drink. Hm. 

You’re just starting to flirt with the idea of calling Yeosang anyway when you get a notification that effectively snaps you out of your thought spiral. Whoever or whatever it is has just unknowingly saved Yeosang’s REM cycle. 

Not expecting a response so soon, your eyes widen a bit when you see that you’ve gotten a response back already. The quickness makes you a little wary. Scams usually are quick to respond back too. 

Or, this ‘Hongjoong’ guy may have a sleep schedule quite like yours. After all, you responded rather quickly to his first email. 

__________________________

Hi Miss Y/N, 

Thank you for getting back to me so quickly. We are thrilled to hear that you are accepting the offer. 

The next steps in moving forward are rather simple. I will ask you to fill out a form – which I have linked to this e-mail – and send that at your earliest convenience. It is your basic questionnaire, really, and a chance for us to get to know you as well as your preferences for the shoot and scene. 

 After you have sent that and we go over it, I would like to meet with you – either in person or through video call – for both our safety and to finalize all arrangements. If you choose to meet in person, I will gladly bring along a female member of my team in an effort to make you feel more comfortable and safe.  

As always, please feel free to reach out if you have any questions, comments, or concerns. Looking forward to hearing from you again. 

-Kim Hongjoong 

Talent Agent, Afterdark Productions

[email protected]  

| Attachment: 1 File

__________________________

‘We’, he wrote. 

‘We are thrilled to hear that you are accepting the offer.’ 

At first, you assumed he was just referencing the production company, but the specific use of it catches and holds your attention. Did San… ask for this collab to happen? Scrolling up to reread it again, the second line of the first e-mail you were sent strikes you: ‘We have been admiring your work for a while now…’ Not just the company. ‘We’ as in… 

You swallow hard, setting the strawberry milk on your nightstand and shrinking back against your pillows again. Your phone burns your eyes in the dark, but you can’t stop reading this new message. There’s so much to unpack, even though it’s so straightforward. As of right now, in regards to meeting with Kim Hongjoong, you’re leaning towards just a video call. You’re still not quite totally convinced this isn’t an elaborate prank of some kind. Maybe a weird fan who wants this to happen but there’s no truth to it. But again… you don’t get that vibe. Not from how professional this seems. And a crazy fan wouldn’t offer to bring along another woman to make you feel more comfortable, he’d insist on meeting alone, under the guise of ‘protecting our privacy’. 

And if it is real… then it is really happening. Moving forward, as the talent agent said, a collaboration in the early stages of planning. With Choi San. 

Dammit, Yeosang, why can’t you be awake right now, you think and you huff dramatically, burying your face in your hands. He’ll certainly get an earful of all of this tomorrow afternoon.   

But you decide you need to talk this through to somebody right now. Or some people. 

Even though you just went live, you’re quick to open your Discord app, not even bothering to send a warning message to tell your exclusive members that you’re going live again. This time, just for them. You know they’ll come. They always do. 

Once you have your laptop adjusted and headphones on, you’re ready to go. You click the microphone button and wait.  

As expected, four of them join immediately. You regularly wonder how they’re all able to drop everything to watch you, no matter what time you go live. Two others join soon after, but they rarely comment in the chat. Silent viewers with open wallets are never unwelcome here. 

“Hi guys! I have big news,” you smile into the camera, reading all the messages as they pop up. 

[woogoesthere]: tell ussssssss!!!!!

[fix0nmi]: 👀?

[mars9843]: what is it cutie?

[puppyu.u]: hi baby why the secret meeting?? 👀

You take a minute to let them get all their guesses out, increasing their desperation to know what you’re hiding from them. Hopefully they’ll take the news well. As far as you can tell, none of them specifically come across as the parasocial jealous type, but you don’t know for certain. However, they seemed to handle your previous collab with Yeosang pretty well. That gives you some more confidence to confide in them about this. 

“I’ve been offered to do a collab with someone from…” You pause before saying the company name for dramatic effect. “Afterdark.”

You’re a little surprised by the lack of comments right away, even worried a little. The thought of them being the parasocial jealous type crosses your mind again. Especially Woo. For a split second, you worry that you may have just angered your most loyal – and charitable – fans. The abrupt absence makes your heart plummet to your stomach. 

It takes a full minute before anyone says anything. The longest minute of your whole life. 

[woogoesthere]: are u telling us ur collabing w choi san?!!??!?!?! :0

Leave it to Woo to ease any worry you may have. You mask your relieved exhale under a light laugh. 

“Should I be worried?” you half joke. 

The immediate responses in the comments are overwhelming and collective:

[puppyu.u]: yes!!!!!! 

[mars9843]: be afraid, be very afraid 

[fix0nmi]: he’s gonna wreck you lmao 

[fix0nmi]: icw to watch 🤪

[puppyu.u]: same 😭😏😭

[mars9843]: if you could barely handle yeo………

Your confident smile fades slightly, the corners of your mouth dropping back down as you read the multiple comments confirming what you’ve been wondering. 

[woogoesthere]: guys stop ur gonna scare her ㅠㅠ

You try to laugh it off, looking off camera to grab your strawberry milk again. The action gives your hands something to do as worry begins to settle in your chest. Of course, Woo tries to ease your growing anxieties in the chat as you lift the bottle to your lips, eyes still scanning the messages… or rather, the warnings. 

[puppyu.u]: well it’s true 

[woogoesthere]: we should be encouraging tho >:( 

[fix0nmi]: yeah or else she won’t do it 👀

[mars9843]: … 

[mars9843]: y/n we’re just kiddinggggg

[fix0nmi]: you’ll be fine~! >:) 

[woogoesthere]: -.- 

[puppyu.u]: drink lots of water beforehand! 

[woogoesthere]: you pervs are so annoying

“I can do it!” You try to regain your previous confidence. 

A shroud of doubt begins to creep up over your shoulders, weighing you down. You’re able to hide it well, but you go quiet. Quieter than usual when you’re live. You don’t like silences that last too long. Unfortunately, your sudden silence is noticeable. 

[puppyu.u]: babyyyyyy 

[puppyu.u]: don’t listen to us we’re just teasing 

[fix0nmi]: haha sorry baby

[mars9843]: you’re gonna be great, pretty girl 

[fix0nmi]: can’t wait to see it ;) 

[woogoesthere]: you ARE gonna be great

[woogoesthere]: choi san has no idea what an honor this is fr ㅠㅠ

That last message brings your smile back, tugging at the corners of your mouth until you give into it. ‘Woo’ is right. You have to remember who the fuck you are. Choi San sought you out specifically. There’s no need to be nervous about anything. It’s a different side of an industry that you’re already accustomed to, that’s all. You just have to adapt to however it operates for one day, and if you hate it, you’ll never have to do it again. And hey, you’ll get to say you’ve had that first and only experience with San of all people. 

What a debut. 

Your loyal fans must notice the confidence boost you’re experiencing because they’re quick to praise it in the chat. 

[fix0nmi]: there she is :) 

[woogoesthere]: ugh ur too cute 

[puppyu.u]: fr that bastard has no idea how lucky he is ㅠㅠ

[mars9843]: he better be nice to u >:( 

“Aww, you guys are so sweet,” you giggle softly, enjoying their attention and their praises. Your nerves are somewhat settled for the time being, though you can’t promise they won’t return once you open your eyes tomorrow morning. You wonder what Yeosang will say about it. 

Leaning back against your headboard, you exhale deeply – maybe even adding a little hint of a whine-like noise to keep them entertained. ‘Pervs’, as ‘Woo’ put it, indeed. Not that you minded. 

You hum to yourself and mention how much better they’ve made your night, and they eat it up. 

“Thank you all for your love and support. Truly.”    

You talk with them for a while longer, reciprocating their interest in you by asking them about their days and what they’re doing tomorrow. One of the silent viewers goes offline, and you can’t say that you blame them – no one should still be awake at this hour. You’re not sure if you’ll fall asleep quickly after you log off, so maybe that’s why you linger here and continue to talk with them. The minutes continue to go by and you start to feel guilty for keeping them all up this late. You know it’s their choice to stay and talk, but still. Odds are that at least one of them has to be up early tomorrow morning. They won’t leave until you do. 

“I’m gonna go to bed, guys. Thank you for staying up and chatting with me.” You smile, watching all of their usernames simultaneously start typing again. 

[mars9843]: goodnight cutie

[fix0nmi]: night babe ;)

[woogoesthere]: aww have a good night jagi <333 

[puppyu.u]: sweet dreams baby <3

[puppyu.u]: <3333

You giggle, noticing ‘puppyu.u’’s competitiveness. Before ‘Woo’ can start a war to see how many 3’s they can add to their hearts, you quickly blow them all a kiss and end the call. 

The silence of your apartment comes back quickly. Naturally, so do your racing thoughts. You place your laptop on your nightstand and crawl back under the covers, hoping against hope that you can smother your thoughts with your pillow. 

Your phone vibrates against your thigh and you sneak a quick glance at it, half-expecting another e-mail, only to find a Venmo notification. It’s from Woo. Your exclusive members have the username of your ‘business’ Venmo account to send you money outside of cams, if they choose to. The message he attaches to the money makes you laugh: ‘i’m not losing to puppyu.u so easily. goodnight<333333333333’ 

Oh, man. 

Make that $14,751 now. 

You wince as you notice the time in the upper lefthand corner of your phone screen. Yeosang was very clear in his text: you better be awake by noon. Knowing how late you usually sleep until, it’s not looking good. Hoping it will help, you set several alarms on your phone. Surely one of them will wake you up. You switch your phone off, refusing to check it again until tomorrow morning. 

Without your phone to distract you though, all you do is replay that video you watched of San and that actress. The memory of it projects against your eyelids and you can’t look away. A shiver runs through you when you picture how his hands held her with such gentle strength, and the addictive moans he wasn’t afraid to let out. The same thought echoes until you finally fall asleep: that’ll be you.  

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

Against all odds, and seven missed alarms later, you manage to wake up – albeit, exhausted – around ten o’clock. Plenty of time before Yeosang is due to come over. 

After you eat breakfast, you decide to spend the morning researching San, watching more of his videos, listening to interviews, stalking his Instagram, anything you can find to get to know him better. Or at least, to get a better grasp on what you should expect. Hongjoong never clarified if it was going to be just you and him at this future meeting or you, him, and San. You want to be ready. 

From what you can find, you’ve come to the tentative conclusion that he appears smart, funny, well-traveled, and handsome. That last one is a given to anyone with eyes, though. It seems like he could’ve succeeded in any field of his choosing, but his candor is notoriously present and blunt whenever he gets asked why he’s gone into this profession: “I like sex. I happen to be good at it, so why not?” 

You get it. Easy money. 

His Instagram is mostly pictures of him in exotic locations. It seems you and him have dream destinations in mind for the future as well. Nine million followers strong – and counting – he has his comments turned off to them on every post. There is also no message option anywhere. He completely cuts himself off from being accessible. A part of you is a little jealous, but at the same time you like the closeness with your fans. It feels more intimate, it gives you a reason to be punctual and come back and care about what you do. Although some, like that ‘mntn3000’ guy, can sometimes be quite rude in the chat. You have your chat open to all, and your public Instagram is the complete opposite of San’s. Thirst traps, a highlight on your profile for song recommendations, and the ability to comment and message you. Not that you answer most of them. Most are gross, obnoxious, frankly misogynistic men who choose the most unhinged, disgusting words to express their… ‘desires’. You’re thankful for Woo and fans like him. Still… you find yourself wondering if you should limit your accessibility as well. Your popularity is rising. Maybe now is the time. 

You still find yourself looking for everything and anything that has to do with him online. Everyone wants to be him or be with him. One of those guys. Of course. 

You rest your head in your hands, groaning to no one in particular. After all the women he’s been with, you hope you can meet his expectations. A worthy costar. Same industry, different department. 

By the time Yeosang knocks on your door at a quarter past noon, your mind is so far away he has to call you to let him in. 

“Hey, sorry.” You apologize, ushering him in and locking the door behind him. 

“I knew you wouldn’t be awake,” he grins, making himself right at home on your couch. “Is going live for thirty minutes really all it takes to make you catatonic the rest of the day?” 

You roll your eyes, swatting his shoulder as you sit down next to him. “Shut up, it’s not because of that. Well… not exactly.” 

Yeosang quirks an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on, then. What’s up?” 

You pull out your phone, ready to show him the evidence to back up what you’re about to say. The original email is still unchanged as you glance down at it, which is encouraging. Another reminder that you didn’t make this all up in your head. It didn’t happen in a dream, there’s hard evidence staring you in the face. 

Well, now or never. Out with it. 

“I, um… I got an offer to work with Choi San.” Your voice toes the line between excitement and cautious optimism. If anyone’s opinion matters to you at all, it’s Yeosang’s. 

Yeosang’s eyebrows raise at the name. “Like… the Choi San?”

“The Choi San, yes.” You nod, confirming it’s exactly who he’s thinking about. 

Handing your phone over to him, email ready to be read by a fresh pair of eyes, you watch his reactions closely. You find yourself biting the side of your thumb nail, a habit you keep thinking you’ve grown out of, only to be proven wrong in times like these. 

Yeosang’s face is serious as he reads it. You can tell he’s searching for any indication of this being a scam first and foremost before he digests the rest of it. Finding no blatant or well-hidden tricks, he pays more attention to the general message.       

“Are you gonna do it?” He asks, handing your phone back to you. His voice holds some reservation to it that you clearly pick up on. You take no offense, though. He’s just worried about you. It’s more… public than you’re used to. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug, answering him honestly. “I’ve done my research on him and already sent them an email back saying that I was interested and wanted to know more, but… do you think I should?”

You truly value his opinion. Yeosang has been such a good friend to you for the past couple of years. The two of you had met in your second year of college and became fast friends. When you moved to the city, about a year after he did, he helped you find your first apartment, got you a job, and checked in on you to make sure you knew you had a friend here. He made everything easier. He still does.  

Yeosang shrugs, “Doesn’t matter what I think. If you feel confident about doing it, then go for it. If something is telling you to not do it, then don’t.”

He makes it sound so easy. Should it be? 

“Yeah, but… I value your opinion.” You mumble, not outwardly saying what you’re thinking. But he reads your mind anyway. 

“Y/N, it’s not gonna change my view of you if you decide to do this. If I had a problem with my best friend being a mattress actress, I would’ve told you a long time ago. Y’know… before I collabed with you.” 

At this, you can’t help but laugh, knowing he’s right. A pressure you didn’t realize was weighing on you is alleviated off your shoulders, making you feel lighter. He grins as you let out a small sigh of relief, glad that he eased some of your worries. Now, to tease you about it. As best friends do. 

“I’m just worried that you won’t survive the experience,” Yeosang says dramatically, covering his eyes with his arm and sneaking a smile your way. 

“Stop, what do you mean?” You push him, playfully. 

“You said you researched him, right?” 

You nod, wondering where he’s going with this. Is there something you’ve missed? You feel like you’re the only one left out of a well-known inside joke. You try to think back to the videos you’ve seen of him. Sure, you haven’t watched his whole filmography, but nevertheless, you’d like to believe you know roughly what to expect of him when the day comes. 

“Did you watch the ones he’s done for ‘Fantasy’?” Yeosang smirks. 

You blink, trying to remember if you did. To be totally honest, you weren’t really paying much attention to which company was posting the videos. Just that San was in them. 

“I don’t know… maybe?” 

Yeosang shakes his head, already seeming to know the answer. “You’d know if you did,” he says definitively. “If you wanna know what he’s really capable of, watch some of those.” 

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes, frustrated that no one will just tell you what they’re talking about. You only have one guess, that it may be due to the fact that you’ve only ever been with two guys before. They each taught you the basics, but everything you bring to your livestreams, you learned all on your own. And it’s not like you’re clueless when it comes to the different kinds of sexual encounters one can experience. You’ve watched porn before – hell, you do a type of it for a living. So why does everyone keep underestimating you? What does San possibly do to make everyone think you won’t survive him? 

A part of you kind of doesn’t want to know. You don’t need to give your creeping self-doubt any more ammo. It had taken you a long time to beat it far back enough in your mind for it to not invade every time you hit a little snag in life. A resurgence would make you question everything, make you back out of this quickly. You don’t want that. No, you’re determined even more so now to see this through. To prove everyone wrong. More importantly, though, to prove it to yourself. 

“Sounds like he sought you out though,” Yeosang says. His words almost make you jolt. Not only do they pull you out of another spiral, it reinforces something you were thinking in passing last night. Maybe you aren’t reading too much into it after all. “Kinda seems like this Hongjoong guy and San are fans of yours.” 

You hide your face in your hands and groan, making Yeosang laugh at your rare display of shyness. It’s frustratingly unclear to you why the idea of him watching your content makes your cheeks burn so much. You’re obviously comfortable with people seeing your body and earning a profit from it, but you like the anonymity of the people watching. You simply don’t want to know. Perhaps it’s because he’s about to not be a faceless viewer anymore. Rather, a colleague of sorts. 

Also, in a way, you tend to view cam’ing as more… intimate than porn. The sole focus of the audience is on you. No fake plot, no costar, no distractions. Just you, reading the chat, and existing and getting off in real time. 

“Sounds like it,” you agree. “I must’ve done something he likes to pique his interest.” 

Yeosang shrugs, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “Or he saw the collab and this is all just an elaborate ruse to get to me.” 

You’re grateful to relax enough to laugh again. “Oh, I bet.” You say, playing along. Though, part of you does wonder for a brief moment if San had watched the collab and that’s why he thought you’d be a good partner for his next project. It’s definitely plausible.    

“So,” Yeosang leans back against the couch, crossing his legs, “what do you have to do now?” 

Remembering the phone in your hand, you look down at it, visualizing that attachment Hongjoong sent you. Yet to be opened. “There’s a form I have to fill out, I think it’s some kind of consent form.” 

He nods, “Yeah, that’d make sense.” 

There’s a small silence between you that follows as he watches you stare down at your phone. You have the most recent email pulled up, analyzing it again. He watches you bite the inside of your cheek, a habit you have that comes up when you’re thinking a little too hard about something.  

“Do you want me to go through it with you?” He asks, though he thinks he knows what you’ll say. 

“No, I’ll do it myself. It’s gonna ask like… in depth questions,” you insinuate, almost shyly. 

Yeosang doesn’t press you on it, which you appreciate. But you know he’s probably thinking there’s not much he doesn’t know about you. After all, he was fingering you to high heaven in front of a camera only a week ago. Still, he doesn’t push your privacy or your boundaries. It’s one of the many things that makes you feel safe with him. 

Breezing past the subject, knowing you probably need to relieve some stress, he picks up one of the gaming controllers on your coffee table. 

“Rematch?” He asks, referring to a game of Mario Kart fairly won by you, though his opinion of the event is rather different. Something to do with you ‘innocently’ bumping into him, causing him to almost drop his controller, and giving you the lead in the race. His win streak is much cleaner than yours. 

“You’re on,” you agree, playfully narrowing your eyes at him as he scoots away from you on the couch. 

There’ll be no ‘accidents’ this time. But maybe you’ll think of something.  

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

The rest of the day is light. 

Little by little, the weight of uncertainty you feel fades into the background, instead transforming into unserious frustration as Yeosang beats you in Mario Kart six times in a row. You win the seventh round, but you highly suspect he let you. He had several speed boosts and red shells that would just disappear from his screen the next time you looked, wondering when he would fire one of those shells at you. 

You order in, opting to stay inside and just be lazy today, and the two of you eat on the couch. When the sun eventually starts to set late in the afternoon, he takes a nap while you scroll on your phone, half-watching a K-Drama on your TV. Neither of you bring up San or the form still laying in wait in your inbox again. He wakes up around eight o’clock, yawning and stretching as he gets up to go home – he mentions that he promised his friend he’d go out with him tonight. Though he extends the offer, and part of you does want to go, you decide to be responsible and take the night to go through the form with a somewhat clearer mind than last night or this morning.   

Almost as soon as Yeosang leaves, you’re back in bed and pulling everything up on your laptop. The attached file on the most recent email takes just a second to load, bringing you to a Google Form sheet, ready to be completed. 

But first, you think about what he said about San. You want to know what everyone else already seems to. At least one video. Just for research purposes again. 

In another tab on incognito mode, you hesitantly type in the search for ‘choi san redfantasy’ and bite the inside of your cheek as the page loads. The typical ads pop up before you’re able to see any actual content, avoiding the scams and viruses with practiced ease. Trying to not overthink it, you just click on the first video that comes up. In fact, you barely look at the title. It’s in all caps, a bunch of buzzwords and tags jammed together to get as many eyes on it as possible, but his name is always put first. That’s the seller right there. Audiences are in the market for Choi San. 

There is no plot this time, at least none that you can discern. The lighting is darker, as well as the mood. There’s less build up, the action begins almost straight away after the company logo screen fades away. 

Your chest constricts at the very first shot. A rather pretty woman, on her knees in the middle of a room. Her bare knees dig into the plush carpet beneath her and she looks up at the man in front of her, tilting her head up with a firm hand in her hair. 

San. 

“...didn’t you?” You barely hear him say to her, and you quickly turn up the volume on your laptop, rewinding the video ten seconds to hear the full question. 

“You misbehaved today, didn't you?” He purrs, nodding once to give her permission to speak. 

“Yes, sir.” She replies, obediently. 

The hand in her hair is taken away, and yet she never takes her eyes off of him. You imagine that’s probably what she was instructed to do… but you’re starting to think a director wasn’t involved in this. Everything seems more intimate, less corporate. Like San just set up a camera in this expensive looking hotel room. A step above amateur porn. 

San stalks around her, humming to himself as if sizing her up. The camera cuts to a slightly different angle, farther away, and you only just now realize that her hands are tied behind her back. The multiple static angles all but confirm your theory: everything in this video is by San’s design. 

He then sits down on a rather large, black leather couch, facing her. The camera caresses his features, letting you see every detail of the tailored suit he’s wearing that fits him perfectly. The suit itself is probably more expensive than five of those couches. Wordlessly, he beckons her closer with two of his fingers. He almost looks bored. But you think bored is the wrong word… curious actually. Like he’s just taking his time, waiting for her to act first. His tempo is carefully curated and well-calculated. He reacts, even though he knows they’re both just enacting what this company wants to see. Like this isn’t just for the cameras. Every scene is serious to him, and yet it doesn’t come across as corny or too much. You wonder why he doesn’t go into acting. He seems more than able to convince people of real chemistry between himself and his co-star each and every time. And with a face card like his, you doubt he would’ve had many rejections. 

Then again, you imagine it’d be rather hard to make a smooth transition into becoming a serious and respected actor after being in adult films. 

She manages to make her way over to him, knelt in between his knees, waiting for further instruction. And he makes her wait. The camera cuts a couple of times, documenting the power dynamic from several angles. It’s evident a long time has passed because she keeps shifting her weight, knees never quite finding relief on the floor.   

A small whimper leaves her, and it earns her a sharp smack across the cheek. You gasp at the same time she does, not expecting that at all for an action so miniscule. In almost the same motion, San’s grip returns to her hair, pulling her closer to his clothed crotch. 

“Be actually useful for once, baby.” He says sweetly, like he’s praising instead of degrading her. “Earn it.” 

You can tell she’s holding back another whimper, trying to be good. San guides her further down, until her face is pressed into the front seam of his tailored pants, and holds her there until she realizes what he wants her to do. Rather pathetically, she mouths at his dick through the fabric. He’s not even hard yet. No, he fully expects her to do all the work for him, including getting him ready. 

While she’s… busy, he lazily takes off his watch, setting it aside and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt to just above his elbows. You’ve seen him naked about a dozen times in these types of videos, and for some reason, this is what sends an uncontrollable shiver down your spine. Almost on sight, you feel how wet you’ve become, panties starting to cling to you. 

His face is stony, refusing to give away what he’s thinking. That’s privileged information. But the harder he gets, the more motivated she becomes, tilting her head to the side to attempt to wrap her lips around his length as best she can. And yet, he never says anything. No praise, no degradation. He lets her actions speak for themselves, lets it burrow into her mind on her own. Pathetic. She doesn’t bother looking up at him for reassurance anymore. He’s not giving her anything to work with. 

Abruptly, he yanks her back by the hair, just to see if she makes a noise. She does. Another sharp crack against her cheek makes you squeeze your thighs together. She takes three more slaps until he stops, his hands leave her entirely and one grips himself through his pants, sighing like he’s bored. Or rather, disappointed. From what you can discern from the print against his pants, he’s only half-hard. 

“You don’t want it that badly, do you?” He asks like he’s already decided her answer. 

Frantically, she shakes her head, denying his assumption. “No, no sir, I do want it. Please, I want it so–” 

Unfortunately for her, his mind is already made up. 

San rises from the couch, picking her up into his arms easily, like she weighed nothing. The camera cuts, now facing the bed, and San lays her down onto it. He then goes about tying her down to it, on all-fours. The girl’s face presses into the pillows, muffling any noise. San ties her ankles to the bedposts, leaving her spread open for him with no chance of closing herself off. Fully exposed, at his mercy. Or lack thereof. 

San then loosens his tie before wrapping it around her throat, fashioning it into a makeshift collar and leash. He tugs it once, testing its reliability. Satisfied, he lets it go for the time being, no doubt planning on using it later. For now, he stalks around the bed, admiring his work, and assessing the best way to deal with the girl tied up in front of him.

“Since you couldn’t wait and just had to touch yourself before you came to me, I’m gonna teach you some patience.” 

As if the last few times weren’t enough, an involuntary sound escapes from her lips. Soon enough, her ass is red and bruised, San’s hand quick to punish her for making noise. 

“Be quiet,” he reminds sternly, “or you get nothing.” 

That’s good motivation. Suddenly, you feel like you can’t make a single noise either. 

He disappears offscreen for a while, the camera cutting a few times to capture how the anticipation makes the girl very nervous and wet at the same time. Impatient, you skip ahead thirty seconds and San pops back into frame, holding something. 

There’s no warning, no telling her what it is. Only he and the audience (you) know. He holds the vibrator wand right up to her pussy, mere centimetres away and pauses. Her toes curl in an effort to stop the rest of her body from squirming. He waits for any minuscule movement. It’s when she cranes her neck, attempting to look back to see what he’s doing, that he turns it onto the highest setting and presses it against her clit in one swift motion. 

Poor thing gasps and screams at the intense, unexpected vibrations, earning her another brutal round of spanks. 

“Shhh,” he hushes her softly, “be quiet. Don’t move.” 

Your pulse stutters, eyes wider than they were before, and your hand starts to drift downwards, underneath your clothes, to find your clit. The relief is immediate, like scratching an itch. You work yourself up alongside her, trying to follow San’s instructions yourself. Breaths turning shallow, you press your lips together to keep from making any sounds. If you really wanted to immerse and challenge yourself, you’d grab your own vibrator from the drawer, but you can’t tear your gaze from the screen. You don’t want to miss anything, and you feel like pausing it would disrupt the experience. If this is potentially what’s in store for you, and she doesn’t get a break, you don’t get one either. 

Her fists tighten and grab at nothing, still bound behind her back. You can tell she’s losing the fight to follow through with his instructions. San notices this too. He moves the vibrator up and down, grinding the head of it harder on her clit before moving it away again. You have no idea how she’s managing to hold on. 

San hears it the same time you do, not a gasp or a noise per se, but a hitch of her breath, just audible enough to hear. At the same time, her legs begin to shake, out of her control to stop them from doing so. 

He takes the vibrator away, switching it off. 

Her toes curl again, burying her face deeper into the pillows to silence any sounds. Your hand stops dead, even though all you want to do is keep circling your clit. 

“See what I have to do?” He sighs, trailing the head of the vibrator down the back of her thighs. “If you just waited for me, I wouldn’t have to do this. I wouldn’t have to waste my time teaching you to be patient.”

Damn. Have you ever heard him talk to any of his scene partners like this? The San from the first video you watched as part of your ‘research’ seems a million miles away. A completely different person. 

Eventually, the vibrator is returned to her clit, humming at full power. You resume your own administrations as well. San kneads her ass with his free hand, eyes glued to her body, waiting for her to fuck up. Any excuse to take the pleasure away again. An excuse comes when she’s forced back onto the brink of an orgasm, and he switches the toy off again. But he keeps it pressed against her pussy. On instinct, her hips rock backwards, trying to chase the pleasure, and you can’t help but groan out of frustration as you take your hand away. This time, he doesn’t administer spanks to her ass, but right on her pussy. And she can’t help the high-pitched yelp that leaps from her throat. San spanks her pussy until she shuts up. You don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing until the uncomfortable pressure in your throat forces you to inhale deeply. 

The girl shudders after the last smack but doesn’t move or say a word. You’re both rooting for her and secretly hoping she’ll screw up again, just to see what he does. Also, you want to see if he’ll actually fuck her. 

Rather impatiently, you skip ahead a couple of minutes, needing to know if he’s the type to punish by leaving her empty the whole time. It takes only a second for the video to buffer and when it does, you see that he’s added another toy, keeping it pressed deep into her pussy, right up to the very base of it. The vibrator never leaves her clit. The skin of her ass is bright red and already bruising in some areas. It looks rather painful. She’s moaning but it’s muffled and barely audible – you can imagine San gagged her in some way to keep her quiet after failing over and over again. Possibly with his tie. He doesn’t move the toy at all, instead just forcing her to feel the thickness and weight of it buried deep inside of her, no doubt pressing right up against her g-spot. 

If he denies her again in this state, you’ll really be scared of him. 

And that, he does. 

This time, she wails through her gag, her whole body locking up and then quickly deflating in defeat. But the time in between denials is no longer merciful. San waits maybe ten seconds before starting again, placing the vibrator back where it belongs. 

God damn– you think, becoming wetter as your fingers find your clit again, your own pleasure building. The poor girl shrieks into the pillows, incoherently pleading with him to stop. Instead of listening to her cries, San taps the vibrator against her pussy, driving her – and you – even more crazy. 

“I’m doing you a favor,” he says flatly, not caring that she’s essentially begging for mercy. “You should be apologizing for making me waste my time to teach you basic manners.” 

Your mouth drops open at that. He’s so mean, and yet if you were in her position – which you may be soon – you’re pretty sure you’d start apologizing right away. But she can’t, at least not properly. Not with a gag in her mouth and her face half-pressed into the pillows. You imagine after being denied what must be nearing ten orgasms at this point, her mind is also going a bit blank. 

He presses the vibrator harder against her, making her back arch. “Tell me how sorry you are and maybe I’ll stop.” 

That grabs her attention. Muffled, garbled, and barely full sentences immediately tumble from her lips, on the off chance that he’ll take pity on her and stop this edging torture. Her body shudders violently, cutting off her voice entirely.  

Rather surprisingly, he does let up. Both toys disappear at once, and he watches her body collapse onto the bed, burning muscles unable to hold herself up any longer. But he doesn’t let the relief stay for long. His hand twists in her hair, yanking her upright until her back is against his chest. With the other, he rips the gag out – which was, in fact, his tie. 

“I’ll give you one chance to tell me the truth,” he mutters in her ear, his other hand lingering dangerously close to her sore mound. “Did you just cum without permission? Yes or no.” 

A sob tears itself from her throat, knowing that she’s been caught. 

San pulls her hair again, causing her to yelp again. “Answer me,” he hisses, “and don’t you dare lie to me.” 

“Y-yes, sir,” she whimpers, honest. 

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t let her go. He just makes her stay with that feeling of guilt, the shame of being caught, and the foreboding knowledge that he’s going to have to punish her again. With his free hand, he runs the pads of his fingers through her soaking wet folds, collecting the evidence for himself. To humiliate her even further, he shoves those fingers into her mouth, pressing on her tongue. She whines around them, which he rewards by shoving his fingers deeper, into her throat. Tears flow down her face and neck, already utterly fucked out and he hasn’t even touched her himself, really. He’s still fully clothed, for fuck’s sake. 

San sighs, thinking aloud, “What should I do with you, hm?” 

Busy choking and spluttering around the intrusion in her throat, she can’t answer him at all. He probably doesn’t want an answer, though. You have a feeling he knows exactly what he’s going to do with her. 

Once again, you’re proven correct when he lets her go and pulls his fingers out of her mouth. He watches her gasp for air and cough violently for a fleeting moment of relative peace before dragging her back towards the edge of the bed. 

“Fucking useless slut…” he mutters to himself, just audible enough for her to hear. “You wanna cum so bad? Fine.” 

A new toy is brought into frame, this one looking more daunting than the other two. You can tell it’s one of those two-for-one types, and your heart goes out to her. It slips inside of her easily, though it’s thicker than the previous dildo, all but confirming once again that she did cum without his permission. This time, there’s no mystery or question about what he’s going to do to her. She knows. The knowing is almost worse than the not-knowing. 

He switches it on without much ceremony. She does her best to not move or make a sound, but another orgasm builds rapidly. Too fast, too soon. 

For seven straight orgasms, he just watches her. He doesn’t even touch himself even though you can tell he’s hard beneath those tailored pants. Her pleas fall on deaf ears, like he’s not even in the room. You’ve barely managed to keep up with her, coaxing two weak orgasms from your own body with just your fingers and already feeling exhausted. Fuck, maybe everyone’s right… 

You tap the screen to see how much more of the video is left, and your eyebrows raise when you see there’s still ten more minutes. You decide to skim through, just curious if he ever does let her have his cock.

Spoiler alert: he does not. 

In reality, the only thing he changes is that he jerks himself off, getting off on her screams and pleas for him to turn the toy off, that she’s had enough. For the last two orgasms he forces her through, he adds his thumb to her clit, circling it mercilessly. 

“One more, come on. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To cum?” 

Through her tears and scratchy voice, she warbles, “W-want– wanted you t-to fuck me…” 

He only laughs at her, and it sends such a blow to your psyche. 

“Did you really think I would?” 

She screams again, mixing with her sobs and choked groans as the final orgasm rips through her worn-out body. The only act of kindness he gives her is removing the toy and kissing her back, in between her shoulder blades. 

He takes his time to untie her ankles from the bedposts, his hands smoothing over the skin where the rope had been. Wrecked and twitching, she curls into a ball on the bed, pussy sore and swollen. Knowing this, San drags her back down towards the foot of the bed, forcing her legs apart again. Her hands weakly try to push him away, but he ducks down, licking a near-fatal stripe up her folds, sucking harshly on her clit. Voice basically gone, her scream is broken and breathy. 

That’s a habit he has, you’ve noticed. Or maybe just a signature thing. No matter what, when he’s done with his scene partner, he gives their pussy one final lick. As if he’s sealing the deal. Something they’ll feel long after the cameras stop rolling, along with the ache of their inner walls. 

San chuckles, patting her inner thigh with his hand before pulling her onto the floor, back down onto her knees. He doesn't say anything more as he jerks off in front of her, aiming his cock right at her face. He lets her suck on it, much to your surprise, and he eventually comes. Some of it inside of her mouth, and the rest, he smears across her face. The final act of humiliation for her. 

You slam your laptop shut. 

Holy. Shit.       

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

You come back to the forms after a cold shower and a half an hour long pacing session in your living room. 

With a somewhat clearer head, you decide to take it one question at a time. 

At first glance, you can’t help but feel like you’re filling out the forms you’d normally get in a doctor’s office. It covers everything. Height, weight, age, consent for Afterdark to inquire upon certain medical history to ensure the prevention of any diseases or illnesses, and payment information. On the next page, it goes deeper, and you almost want to take another lap before you dive in and check off any of the boxes. 

There’s a checklist of kinks, each one with a box to check if any are ‘hard no’s’ or ‘hard yesses’for you. You gotta hand it to Afterdark, they’re very thorough. At the very top, just above this checklist, you notice two more boxes simply labelled ‘Rough’ and ‘Gentle’. 

Ah. 

This must be the reason that every video with San feels different. Not just because of whatever context they provide in the beginning of the video, but he never exactly has the same go-to way of fucking every time. Except of course, that parting move he’s so accustomed to doing. With some women, he takes it very slow, gentle and caring with lots of praise, and with others, like the one you just watched, he is ruthless and mean, denying orgasms and spanking them until their skin turns an alarming shade of red. They’ve tailored their own experience with him. That makes you feel a bit better actually, gives you more of a sense of control. You’re not just walking into this with no say in what he does to you, nor will you be blindsided. Actually, you’ll have a pretty good idea, and no worries that he’ll do something you’re uncomfortable with. 

The empty boxes still taunt you. Which version of him do you want? 

After much consideration, you eventually let fate decide. You pick both options. Rough and gentle. Let’s see what he does with that. 

Moving on, forcing yourself to breathe slower, you continue down the list of kinks. Again, it’s very thorough, even asking for locations that you’d be okay filming in. You check off ‘hard no’ on most, if not all of the ‘bodily fluids’ section of the kink list. All except creampies, crying, and squirting. You wonder if he’ll be able to make you do that. If so, you don’t want to discourage him from it. You’re okay with toys, cunnilingus, fingers in your mouth, body worship, hair pulling, hickies, clothed sex, light bondage, the traffic light system, and spanking, just to name a few. You also mean to check off a hard ‘yes’ to aftercare. Aftercare is a non-negotiable for you. One of your exes never did that for you, and it’s been a dealbreaker ever since you got out of that relationship. You dislike feeling used after-the-fact. Discarded. It’s an ugly shock to your system, one that you’d like to avoid if possible. 

Double checking everything on this page, you go to the third and final page. 

In the top half, there’s an interactive calendar so you can input dates and times when you’re free to do the shoot. You’re pretty much free all the time, if you’re being honest. You just have a family wedding to go to in late August, two months from now. Though you’d rather do the shoot later in the day, not wanting to risk sleeping through it with your terrible sleep schedule. So, you mark every afternoon and evening as ‘available’. 

In the bottom half of the page, there’s just one last question, accompanied by a text box: ‘Tell us about yourself, and what we can do to better tailor this experience for you.’ 

You have to admit, you weren’t expecting this kind of question to come up. They want to know about you? Tailor this opportunity for you? 

Huh. 

Your mind goes blank at first. What could they possibly want to know? What are they actually looking for? There’s really no telling. 

Slowly, you type out a vague summary of where you grew up, why you started doing cam-shows, and that your favorite color is purple. When it comes to writing about how they can improve on this collaboration, your fingers hover over the keyboard. Stuck. You could just straight up not say anything, or just put ‘N/A’. But your inner professional tells you to answer it. You search yourself, wondering if there’s anything that would make you feel a little more comfortable while there. You assume they’ll provide a robe for you, or something to cover you up when you’re not filming, but you’ve also heard how ‘fucking cold’ porn sets are kept. Not exactly wanting to show up with a blanket from home, you decide that’ll be your one request. 

‘If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like a blanket while on set. Thank you! :)’ 

You double – triple – check each form page, making sure you didn’t accidentally check something off or type in your information wrong. After you confirm that everything is accurate and spelled correctly, you click on the ‘submit’ button. A ‘thank you’ screen pops up, and you quickly exit the tab, not wanting to think about it anymore. It’s out of your hands now. 

But speaking of the hands it’s now in, you have to set up a meeting time with this Kim Hongjoong guy.  

Right. Okay, onto the next step. 

In a new email, you type out all the dates and times you’re free – you may have made yourself sound busier than you actually are – and send it off to him. Glad to have everything done, you flop back against your pillows and groan. You replay all the images you’ve seen. All the things he’s done to multiple women. 

You wonder what on earth he’ll do with you. 

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

It’s the next day that ends up being the meeting day. 

You opt for a virtual meeting, reasoning that it’ll probably be quicker and easier for both of you. From what it sounds like, being employed by Afterdark and Choi San keeps Hongjoong rather busy. 

You do your makeup and hair, wanting to look presentable. It’s the shirt that gives you a headache. You’re rather unsure how professional you should look. What does someone wear to a meeting like this? You look down at your chest, trying to mentally calculate how much of it is appropriate to show, and choosing a shirt based on that. Eventually, you just pick a nice triangle lace cami. Kim Hongjoong will just have to excuse the fact that it’s summer and hot in your apartment in the afternoons. You’ve been meaning to figure out how the air conditioning works. It’s hi-tech in a way that truly baffles you. You’ll get Yeosang to figure it out the next time he comes over. 

Moving your laptop into the kitchen for the natural light, you try to shake the nerves out of your hands as you walk around the kitchen island. You grab a cold water from the fridge and drink half of it before forcing yourself to sit down. The meeting is set for two-thirty, just a few minutes away. You kind of want to scream into the pillows on your couch. This will be the final stage until you actually go through with this whole collaboration. The last buffer until it happens. 

In the upper right hand corner, you see an email notification from Hongjoong, providing you with a link to a video chatroom. For a full sixty seconds, you pretend you haven’t seen it yet. But when that minute is up, and you have to be an adult, you take one more sip of water before clicking on the link and sneaking a glance at yourself in the reflection of your laptop as the camera loads. 

There’s a small boop sound from your laptop, signalling that the call has been connected and you brace yourself for a scam. Your hand hovers above the trackpad, ready to hit ‘end call’ at a moment’s notice. When his camera finally loads, you breathe a little easier. He’s in an office based on context clues of what you can see around him, and he’s rather handsome himself. That admittedly takes you aback. He has short, dark brown hair, round eyes, and a charming smile once he sees you on his screen. He pushes his glasses further up his sharp nose, and leans forward in his seat a little bit. 

“Miss Y/N! It’s so nice to talk with you today, how are you?” 

“I’m doing well, thank you. Are you the one I’ve been emailing?” You ask when he doesn’t introduce himself by name. You just want to clarify. 

He laughs to break any awkward tension, “Yes, that’s me. My apologies, I’m San’s agent, Kim Hongjoong.”

“Okay, good.” You smile back, shoulders relaxing a little more. His dress shirt makes you feel a bit… well, underdressed, but when you notice that the top two buttons are undone, it makes you feel a bit better. He’s clearly not going for ultra-professional right now either. Off camera, in your lap, you play with one of your rings, giving your nervous hands something to do. 

Unexpectedly, the first ten minutes are spent just making small-talk, especially after finding out you and him grew up around the same area. He asks you how you like the city, and you find yourself telling him about how much you love it, and that you never want to leave. Turns out he shares the same sentiment. It’s starting to feel less like a rigid job interview and more like a casual interaction. Nothing to be afraid of. You feel much more comfortable than you did ten minutes ago, that’s for sure. 

Hongjoong eventually looks over to the side, where his desktop computer is and starts clicking around, the light reflecting off of his glasses. And you realize that it’s time to actually start talking about the collab. You fix your earring for no real reason, just to give yourself something to do.  

“So, I’ve received the forms you completed – thank you for doing that, by the way – and I was wondering if you have any questions for me about them?” 

You pause before you answer. Now’s the time to ask, and with the right person, too. Humming to fill the silence, you think about a good question to ask first. 

Hongjoong picks up his phone when it starts vibrating incessantly, and looks at the screen for only a few seconds before placing it face down on his desk. Someone must be trying to get in touch with him, but he doesn’t bother with replying right now. You know it must be important, whatever it is, so you appreciate him keeping you the center of his attention right now. 

“I guess I’ve been wondering about… like… if I check off certain boxes will we do all of that? Or…?” 

Very eloquent. 

Luckily, he doesn’t seem to think anything of it. “Oh, no, no. Usually what happens is we take a look at it, figure out which ones would work best together and with you and San, and take it from there. It’s just to see what you’re comfortable with and to see which direction you want this collab to go.” 

That makes sense. And now that you think about it, what if someone puts a ‘hard yes’ next to something that San would check off as a ‘hard no’, obviously they wouldn’t do it. It’s a mutual agreement. They find the things that match between you two and take it from there. 

“Actually,” Hongjoong says with a small grin, still scrolling through the forms on his computer. “You two are pretty similar. It wasn’t hard to match up.” 

You hear it but your brain doesn’t process what it means yet. 

“Oh, really?” You say, not knowing how else to respond. 

Hongjoong just hums, nodding once. He pushes his glasses up again before turning back to you. 

“Regardless of that, though, I wanted to also let you know that if at any point during the shoot you feel uncomfortable and want to leave, you can, and you will be paid in full, no questions asked. Obviously though, if you leave before, or if you don’t show up at all, we can’t really do anything to pay you. We have this in place because we don’t want you to feel trapped once the scene starts. Does that make sense?” 

You nod quickly, “Yes, it does.” 

“Perfect,” he says. “So, with your schedule that you sent me, if you’re okay with it, we can set the date relatively soon. Is this coming Friday, at six o’clock alright?” 

Friday. As in… Friday, two days from now, Friday? Your mouth dries instantly. Two days from now. Is he not busy? You assumed this wouldn’t happen for a couple of weeks, at least. A delusional voice in your head tells you that maybe he cleared his schedule to be with you sooner rather than later. Oh, sure. Yeah, right.

Still, it baffles you. 

And yet you hear yourself say, “Friday’s good for me!” 

Well, now it has to be whether you’re ready or not. Your hands itch for your phone, needing to text Yeosang immediately, even though you know he’ll probably find your dilemma rather entertaining. You also need to book a waxing appointment and get your nails done ASAP. Maybe even a facial, too.

Fucking hell, Y/N, the things you get yourself into. 

Hongjoong lights up, quickly typing something on his keyboard, scrunching his nose once or twice to keep his glasses from moving down again. A few more clicks of his mouse, and it’s done. 

“Okay, perfect. I’ve got you booked for six o’clock this Friday. If you could email me where you’d like our driver to pick you up, that’d be great. Otherwise, do you have any other questions, comments, or concerns for me?” 

Your lips part. Driver? Someone from Afterdark is going to bring you to the set? Your right hand grips your phone, turning it over and preparing to call Yeosang as soon as you hang up with Hongjoong. 

Fuck, okay. Sure, why not? 

“Oh, um–” you suddenly remember one thing he hasn’t mentioned at all. “Is there a script? Like, do I need to know any lines before…?” 

Hongjoong answers right away, “Ah, this shoot will be unscripted. It’ll feel more natural that way.” 

More natural. Your heart feels like a brick in your chest. To be honest though, you’re really glad there is no script. However, a rubric would be helpful as well. You nod, acknowledging that information. So it really will be like the videos you watched. That’s the experience you’ll be getting. 

“Okay, cool,” you reply, desperately needing another drink of water for your dry mouth. “Thank you.” 

Hongjoong smiles politely. “No problem. Alright, well if everything sounds good, we’ll see you on Friday! Thank you for taking the time to speak with me today.”

We. 

Again, he’s probably just talking about the company, but Yeosang’s words from yesterday are stuck in your head. Your secret delusions and Yeosang’s smart mouth are never a good mix. 

“See you Friday! Thank you.” You reply politely, the very picture of calmness and professionalism.  

And once the call disconnects, you’re slamming your laptop shut and calling Yeosang to tell him everything.   

He picks up on the third ring, yawning and obviously not fully awake just yet. You forgot he went out with his friend last night. Still, it’s definitely time for him to be awake now. 

As expected, once you rattle off every detail of the call you were just on, Yeosang laughs his ass off. 

“Oh man,” he says with an audible sigh, “you’re fucked.”      

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

Part of you wishes that the driver will somehow get hopelessly lost on the way to the set. 

You’re sure he’s been there multiple times before, but you pray for a random dose of amnesia anyway. It’s not that you’re second-guessing the decision – not at all – you just weren’t expecting the day to come so soon. It’s crazy how forty-eight hours now seems like no time at all. You shake out your hands as you step out of the car, and look up at the building. It’s rather unassuming, blending seamlessly into the numerous ones around it. Nothing about it screams that this is where adult films are produced. Not that you really expected it to. 

The driver parks with the hazards on, and gets out as well to let you into the building via a keycard. You thank him quietly as he holds the door open for you. He must’ve told you his name, but for the life of you, you cannot remember it. He points you in the direction of the elevators, and confirms that he’ll see you later to drive you home.

Then, you’re alone. He gets back into the car and drives it around the building, to an underground parking garage you assume.

You take a deep breath in the lobby, finding the elevators quickly and starting towards them. Hongjoong said the shoot is on the eighth floor, so you press the ‘8’ button once in the elevator car. 

As soon as the doors shut, the silence and gravity of what you’re there to do settles in immediately. You force yourself to take a deep breath, really dragging out how long you exhale to try and ease your heart rate. The second floor comes and goes, as does the third. But the higher you climb, the tighter your throat becomes. On floor five, you think of bailing. Past the sixth floor, already almost there, Yeosang’s custom text ringtone startles you. Glad to distract yourself, you immediately read the text.  

[yeoyeo🌻]: don’t let him intimidate you, you’re the one he wanted for this 

[yeoyeo🌻]: remember he’s literally just some guy and you’ll be fine 

[yeoyeo🌻]: you’re gonna be great :)    

You can’t help but smile, and you roll your shoulders back to stand taller. He’s right, as always. Choi San is many things, but at the end of the day, he is just a man. You have to view this as a very elaborate hookup rather than a career opportunity, just to calm your nervous system if anything else. 

When the elevator doors open on the eighth floor, someone is already waiting for you on the other side. 

Hongjoong. 

You don’t realize until this moment how relieved you are to see a somewhat familiar face. 

“Miss Y/N,” he greets, extending his hand out for you to shake, “it’s so nice to meet you in person.” 

You smile warmly, returning the greeting and hoping that your handshake is up to par. Before you have time to possibly overthink such a small thing, he asks if you need anything. 

“Oh, um…no, not at the moment, thank you.” 

“Of course,” he nods once. “If you do need something at any time, please let one of us know.” 

You assume that ‘one of us’ probably means the team of people you’re about to meet and be fucked in front of. Forcing another deep breath, you manage another easy smile and thank him again. 

He motions for you to follow him, and you have to look down at your feet to get them to move. You beg yourself inwardly to get a grip and soon. 

Hongjoong leads you down a long hallway, deeper into the Afterdark floorplan. You’re surprised by how nice it smells in here, like someone is burning incense somewhere. The walls are decorated with miscellaneous artworks and some awards, as well as headshots of the actors and actresses signed with them. At the end of the hallway, there are two huge double doors, and he pulls one of them open with ease, letting you walk into the gigantic room it reveals first. 

When you finally enter the large set, you can instantly feel the drastic temperature drop. Just as you had been led to believe, they must have turned down the thermostat in the room, making it several degrees colder than the early summer weather outside, and you rub your arms to try and warm them up. 

No more than five seconds after the two of you enter, Hongjoong is suddenly flanked by a young woman with a clipboard. A sticky note flutters as she keeps pace with you and him, and she mutters something to him that you can’t hear. 

“No, that’s alright,” he says quietly, “I think he’s good without her right now, but double check for me, please.” 

You keep your eyes on the floor, pretending that you didn’t hear anything, but your mind races. Who is ‘she’, you wonder? As quickly as she appeared, the assistant scurries off, past the camera and lighting crews, and over countless miscellaneous wires with practiced ease. 

While the two of you walk, you’re rather relieved that no one is staring at you as you go by. You’re just another actress to them, and right now, that’s okay with you. And luckily, the path Hongjoong is taking you on is relatively close to the perimeter of the set, so you’re not exactly the center of attention right now. A part of the wall juts out, making it look like a closet, but once he opens the door, you see it’s a dressing room. Complete with vanity lights, a full bathroom, and a brand new silk robe for you to wear on set, hanging up by the door. There’s also a small, plush couch up against the wall next to the vanity that you have a feeling you will be texting Yeosang on as soon as you’re left alone. 

“This is all yours for the day,” Hongjoong says, “someone will come around in a minute to help with hair and makeup, and then we’ll start.”

You nod, swallowing down as much of your anxiety as possible. 

“Will you, um–” you ask before you can stop yourself. Hongjoong pauses before he heads out, waiting expectantly for you to finish your question. “Are you gonna be on set the whole time?” 

His expression changes into something akin to surprise. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting you to ask anything about himself. He doesn’t answer straight away, taking a moment to try and understand why you’re asking that. You can almost see the professional within him piecing together a corporate response in real time.

“We try to limit how many people are in the room to those who are absolutely necessary. I usually stay close in case someone needs me. Why?” 

You wave your hand, trying to brush everything off. “No, I was just wondering. Nevermind. Thank you!” 

Hongjoong looks like he’s about to say something, but ultimately leaves you alone, gently closing the door behind him. 

As soon as it clicks shut, you’re moving to sit on the couch, ready to call Yeosang, but you stop yourself at the last minute. You’re acting crazy, you do realize that. And you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll tell you the exact same thing. 

Instead, to satiate your need to call him, you reread his last three texts of encouragement. 

Lock in. Remember who the hell you are. Now. 

You put on some ego-boosting music so you’re not just getting ready in silence, and quickly undress before hair and makeup arrive. Folded neatly on the vanity, is your outfit for the scene. A tight, cropped black lace cami, and a plaid mini skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. 

No panties anywhere in sight. No bra, either. Total and easy access. 

Your lower stomach starts to heat up, already envisioning how San might go about undressing you. From what you’ve seen, rarely does he let girls undress themselves. No, he wants to be the one to do it. Like he’s unwrapping a present, just for him.  

After you throw your hoodie onto the couch with the rest of your pile of clothes, you turn back to the vanity, noticing a small army of mini water bottles lined up and waiting for you if need be. You’re almost positive that if you look in the vanity drawer, you’ll find snacks as well. Maybe you can get used to this. But you’ll wait to give your final verdict after the job you came here to do is done. It’s best to wait. 

You’re only waiting for a minute or two before there’s a light knock on the door. Two women wearing face masks enter the dressing room, bowing to you and introducing themselves. You try to remember their names – Youngmi, you think is the makeup artist, and Rina, the hair stylist – but your brain is elsewhere, working double overtime to try to calm you down. Luckily, the Britney Spears song in the background is doing a lot of the heavy lifting. Youngmi and Rina are quick, and good at what they do. Rina makes you laugh by scrunching her nose and singing along to the song as she brushes through your hair. Youngmi only rolls her eyes at her colleague, but it’s all in good fun. 

By the time they’re done, you no longer feel like the scared outsider that doesn’t look the part. They made you even more beautiful. 

There she is, you think as you admire yourself in the mirror. 

You sigh in relief, feeling much more confident than before. And not only that, you feel ready. It’s not the easiest thing to turn your nervousness into excitement, but somehow, this time, you manage to do it. So many girls would kill to be in your shoes right now – or, in your skirt. You had kicked your shoes off next to the couch. 

You make sure to thank Youngmi and Rina before they bring you out, not knowing if you’ll have a chance once you’re on set. With one more spritz of your perfume that you brought with you from home, and a last minute decision to bring the robe out with you, you finally follow them out towards the set. Just mere feet from where you’ll be… ‘performing’. 

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

As you’re walking and looking around, you start to wonder if San makes it a point to surround himself with equally beautiful people. Or maybe it’s a company requirement. 

Sure, maybe Hongjoong, Youngmi, and Rina are just coincidences, but even the camera and lighting crew are arguably just as pretty. Speaking of Hongjoong, you look around, noting that he isn’t anywhere to be found at the moment. He’s probably with his talent right now. 

When you’re introduced to the director, you almost say something about it. Everyone in this room is attractive. Conventionally, unconventionally, and everything in between. 

“Hello Ms. Y/L/N, I’m Choi Jongho, I’ll be directing you two today.” He introduces himself, bowing politely and shaking your hand. 

You bow your head and reply, “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” 

He offers you a chair to sit in while everyone waits for San to come out, and you take it gratefully. You don’t know how long he’ll be. Youngmi and Rina excuse themselves, heading off in the other direction together, walking with purpose. You drape your robe across the back of it, unsure if you’re supposed to give it to someone or take it with you onto the set. 

“Would you like anything to drink, Ms. Y/L/N?” The director asks, noticing that you don’t have anything with you ready for any breaks. 

Director Choi only refers to you as “Ms. Y/L/N.” Very professional, cordial even. Makes you feel like more than an object his star is about to fuck on screen. You’re being treated with real respect, which is a pleasant surprise in comparison to what you had expected from the porn industry. 

You look around yourself, only just now realizing you didn’t take one of those mini water bottles from your dressing room like you originally planned. 

“A water, please–” you start to say. As soon as the last syllable of ‘water’ is spoken, an assistant hands you one. You didn’t even see him standing next to you, much less holding a bottle. Then again, you aren’t really paying attention to whether or not people are carrying water bottles or not right now. Damn.   

You try to warm up your arms by rubbing them, now that you’re virtually wearing next to nothing in this arctic-like room. Only a few moments later, a blanket is handed over to you wordlessly by another assistant, a quick bow following the action. You tilt your head down as a responding bow, shocked. You didn’t even have to say anything. 

Is this what San is used to? Everything given to him at once, on a silver platter with no questions asked? You imagine every single thing handed to him accompanied by hopeful, round eyes looking at him for his approval, only to be ignored or thanked by a small nod. You’re so used to doing everything yourself, this type of treatment makes you feel… stuck up – and every fiber of your being screams at you to make sure none of the staff think that of you. 

“San will be out in just a moment,” Director Choi says, but his heart isn't in it. He checks his watch and glances towards San's dressing room with nearly well-concealed impatience. It is rather late in the day, and you only just now think about the possibility that they may have been here since early morning. Maybe even shooting San with someone else. It’s entirely possible. You can imagine they all just want to get this last one done and go home. None of them would ever let that show, though. No, you have to admit everyone here is quite professional. 

Your hands absentmindedly twirl a strand of hair around your finger as you zone out. At least for now, you can zone out with a blanket wrapped around you. 

The air shifts just moments later.

It’s like a sudden pressure drop where everything goes still for only a second. That one second feels like a lifetime as you turn your head to see what’s going on. Though, in your heart you know exactly what it is without needing to look – it’s the arrival of the main attraction. 

From where you are, leaned back in your chair, you can’t see him too well. He’s surrounded by a team that moves with him like a clump of cells, or maybe in this case, like sheep in a herd. Finishing touchups by Youngmi and Rina, an assistant by his side carrying a medium-sized leather bag and holding his coffee cup when San hands it to him, and other miscellaneous characters that float around the star. Everyone wants to be near him in some way. 

Hongjoong stays at the back of it all, looking down at his phone as he walks. 

The team finally disperses one by one, revealing more of Choi San to your eyes. 

When San finally gets close enough to you, whatever air in your lungs is promptly sucker-punched out of you at the sight of his refreshing beauty. It’s even more pronounced in real life. You’re not entirely sure how to greet him, or what he’s used to. But you remember Yeosang’s encouragement again: He’s just a guy. Don’t let him intimidate you. You’re gonna be great. 

He’s just a guy. You’ve dealt with those before. It’s just that this guy in particular is crafted like an apology for creating men in the first place. And a couple of days ago, you were watching him make a girl cry on a bed that looks quite similar to the one on set right now. 

You stand up, smoothing down your skirt and standing still, hands clasped in front of you. 

“Hey Jongho, sorry we’re late,” Hongjoong calls over, pocketing his phone. He side-eyes San, who bows his head in apology as he walks.  

The director waves him off, clearly used to his tardiness and the apologies that follow. “It’s alright,” he says, “you’re actually earlier than we thought you’d be.”   

“We need to go over the rules with her,” San says once he’s close enough to you and the director, sounding tired. You wonder if he just woke up. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt as he speaks, and catches you looking. You don’t see it when you quickly avert your eyes, but his whole demeanor changes. No longer lethargic, he becomes awake and alert at the sight of you. 

Director Choi nods and grabs a clipboard from his own director’s chair. You nervously roll your ankle, hearing it crack quietly in the interim.  

“Right, number one rule is consent. If at any time you want to stop, just say the word. No questions asked. Second rule is to keep all details of this shoot private, including any conversations with each other,” At this, Director Choi looks up at you. “Third rule is health and safety, but Hongjoong said you covered that with him, and when you sent in the form,” Again, his eyes flick up from the clipboard to glance at you. “Fourth is to be respectful at all times – there’s no room for ego here. And lastly, don’t look at the camera unless told to, otherwise keep the illusion.” 

You go over each rule in your head before you forget. Consent, confidentiality, feel safe, be respectful, and don’t look at the camera. Simple enough. You keep your chin up, and shoulders back. You force that annoying inner voice of self-doubt to mumble the lyrics of the Britney song from earlier. 

“Follow these, and we’ll have a great shoot day. We should be ready to go in just a few minutes.” Director Choi offers both of you a quick smile before he turns on his heel and walks towards the cameraman, getting everything finalized and ready to shoot. Your heart pounds underneath the robe. Hongjoong steps closer to San, muttering something to him before walking back towards the dressing room. 

You’re just about to walk over to the set to get used to it and be ready to go whenever they are, when San steps right in front of you, effectively blocking the way.  

Out of the blue, he crowds your personal space, and you have to really dig deep to make yourself stay put. Right where you stand. Don’t be intimidated. At the end of the day, you’re both here to do the same job, and both of you are successful in your own rights. He’s just a man, you remind yourself again. 

San towers over you, his shirt opened just enough for you to see his perfectly toned and tan chest right in your face. You keep eye contact, even though all you want to do is look away. It’s much easier to be confident and independent on your own turf, but here on his, it’s more of a challenge. Still, you stand your ground. You have to if he’s going to keep sizing you up. He has been since he walked out here.  

“You didn’t cum,” he says matter-of-factly. 

… 

Pardon? Did you hear him right? What an odd opening line to say to someone you’re meeting for the first time. 

Your lips part and eyebrows furrow, rather startled. “I’m sorry?” 

There’s no way you heard him correctly.  

“Your last liveshow,” he shrugs. “Am I right?” 

Well… yes, but– how did–? 

Is this how he starts all of his conversations? With a personal accusation? 

“That’s alright. We all do it sometimes,” he shrugs again. He leans down so his mouth is next to your ear and lowers his voice. “You’re not gonna fake it with me, though,” he says, and the terrifying thing is that he sounds genuine. It’s not unfounded cockiness or meaningless bravado. He means what he says in all seriousness. He says it like you shouldn’t worry about it. Like it’s a promise. 

And you exhibit monumental self-control to not clench your thighs together at this moment. 

Your mind races at a million miles a minute. That, you didn’t expect. Isn’t that all that porn is? Fake, overblown orgasms for the girls and endless, guaranteed pleasure regardless for the men? You’re starting to think that this may not be the case with him. You think about the videos you watched as part of your ‘research’, and a bolt of electricity zips up your spine. You never doubted that he made his costars feel good, but you know full well that a lot of porn actresses pretend that they’ve cum with their scene partner. But with him, now you know: all of the girls weren’t acting. In fact, you really doubt that they needed to fake just how good he made them feel. The last video you watched of him comes back to mind… you wonder if he’ll make you scream like that too.

Unsure of how to respond to that, you just take a small step backwards to put some distance between you two. Room to think and process if possible. But he’s relentless, and he seems to like getting up in people’s space. A mischievous glint in his eye tells you that he’s enjoying this particular encounter especially. He’s definitely the type of guy that finds it fun to make girls flustered or nervous. 

You swallow hard. 

“You sound rather confident,” you note, still trying your best to hold eye contact with him. To not back down or seem weak. You’re sure it’s not working. You just refuse to melt all over him, or suck up to him. Especially not when he’s the one who asked you here.  

Surprisingly, he smirks. “Shouldn’t I be? I’ve done my research, I know you probably have done yours as well.” 

So you were right. Yeosang, too. San has seen your content before. And not only has he seen your previous works, he was right there with you, watching your last live. Your speculation sounds a lot like confirmation now. 

“Does that make you nervous, kitten?” He whispers, tilting his head slightly to the side like he’s about to kiss you. He could if he just leaned forward a couple more inches. 

A little, you admit to yourself. Your heart hammers against your chest like it’s trying to push you forward, to get closer to him. At this proximity, you can easily smell his cologne and dammit, somehow it makes him even more attractive. You’re almost getting annoyed with him now. Surely there should be at least one flaw to him, something that makes him human like the rest of the world. 

“No,” you lie, “I’m fine.” Arms crossed. Eyes up. 

San laughs lightly, and his smile instantly becomes the most attractive thing about him so far, even if it’s at your own expense. 

“If you say so,” he shrugs again. 

He doesn’t move away from you, though. Not right away. His gaze lingers on your lips for a fleeting moment, which gives you just enough time to come up with a question of your own. 

“So, you’re a fan of mine?” 

At that, he pauses. But, he doesn’t shy away from it. 

“Yeah,” he says, owning up to it immediately. He straightens back up as you nod, taking in the information. “Have been for a while now. I saw that other collab you did with that guy, it was really fuckin’ hot.” 

You make a mental note to let Yeosang know he was right about that, as well. To be honest, you weren’t expecting the compliment.  

“I’m– glad you liked it,” you say, clearing your throat in the middle of the sentence. You’re doing pretty well on the outside despite your nervousness beginning to rise again on the inside. San studies you once more, like he’s searching for something on you that only he can see. You step back again and turn your face away from him as you take a sip from your water bottle, taking your time to screw the cap back on. 

“Mm… you’re even prettier in real life,” he says, so casually it almost doesn’t register. 

You nearly swallow wrong, just barely avoiding choking on the small amount of water still left in your mouth. Luckily, Director Choi calls over to you two to start making your way onto set. 

The final few minutes begin to tick down.  

You don’t attempt to hide the deep breath you take, but you do try to not make it very noticeable. Placing the water bottle onto the chair you were just in, you clear your throat again. 

“Any final advice or warnings for me before we start?” You ask, keeping your voice casual and light. It’s a subtle dig to him, but you mean no malice behind the words. Fortunately, he picks up on it. 

“Oh, tons,” he grins, keeping pace with you onto the set. It’s almost easy to forget the cameras.  

You steal a glance at him as you walk, the floor bitterly cold beneath your feet. With each step the bed gets closer and closer. Now finally getting a chance to see the set in detail, you’re pretty impressed. It’s a pretty realistic bedroom setting, complete with shelves decorated with trinkets and records, but vague enough to have no specific personality. Nobody’s going to be admiring the set design when they watch this. Still, you appreciate the effort made by the production team to make it feel real. 

The lights facing you are blinding and you wince when you accidentally look right into one. Good incentive to not look that way, you suppose. 

San sits on the edge of the bed. “You get used to it,” he says, nodding towards the lights. 

You nod as well, placing a hand above your heart, willing it to stop racing. 

Noticing this, San takes your hand and guides you to sit down next to him. You do feel a bit better now that you’re sitting. You keep your eyes down to avoid burning your retinas, and turn your head slightly towards him. He shifts a little closer, positioning his body so he’s facing you. 

“Nervous?” He asks rhetorically, knowing full well that you are. He’s still holding your hand, playing with each of your fingers one by one. 

“Obvious?” You reply, managing to laugh at yourself, despite your nerves. 

San grins, his eyes turning into crescents, and that dimple in his cheek reappearing. “Only a little bit. But, I’ve seen worse.” 

You hum in response. Being reminded of his experience, leaps and bounds ahead of yours, does nothing to help your anxiety. You just hope you can live up to the fantasy version of your own self. That’s the version of you he invited. 

Where’s Britney when you need her?  

You push your hair back, a minute attempt to self-soothe in some way. You only realize halfway through the action that Rina probably just clutched her pearls somewhere past the lights, cursing you for messing up her work. Oh, well. According to what you’ve seen and the information you’ve gathered, your hair’s gonna be plenty messed up anyway. 

The room is starting to become a lot less crowded. Just like Hongjoong had said, only the essential people stay on set to make sure everything goes smoothly and safely. Everyone else becomes fading background noise, filtering out into the hallway you first came in from. 

But less distractions means you notice the man right next to you even more. 

You can feel San’s eyes on you. 

It’s not an uncomfortable feeling, quite the opposite actually. The weight of it is light, soft around the edges as he appreciates how he managed to practically will you onto this set with him. You’d been sure you may be insecure around him because of his almost unnatural beauty, but… actually, having his eyes on you right now makes you a bit more confident. He’s not looking at anyone else but you. Not just looking, but admiring. 

His gaze drifts down, greedily drinking in the sight of your collarbone and legs – the only skin you’re revealing at the moment. If the crew would just hurry up, he’ll be able to see more. 

Fortunately, he’s never been one to wait to get what he wants. Especially not in this industry. And right now, he wants you. 

“I meant it, by the way,” he says quietly, “you’re beautiful.” 

Without any water to choke on, or an interruption from the director, you simply look up at him, finally meeting his eyes. There’s no trace of irony anywhere. Not in what he said, and not hidden somewhere within his features. The genuinity, and the doubling-down of the compliment takes you aback. 

“Thank you… you’re quite beautiful yourself.” You compliment him back, shifting how you’re sitting to face him as well. 

By now, your knee is touching his. Even this small amount of contact between you makes your shoulders tense again. You’re not sure why, but you just want to melt into him already. Perhaps due to the undeniable attraction you feel towards him. 

Maybe it’s the insane sexual tension between you both, that very well could be the root cause as well. 

You remember how real his scenes look… this must be how the chemistry is kindled. Starting before the cameras capture anything, it makes it all seem less like a show. And you know what? Until the director yells ‘cut’, you’re more than willing to match that energy.

His hand moves from yours to rest on your thigh, slowly, like he’s silently asking for permission to continue. When you don’t flinch or push him away, he hikes up your skirt just an inch or two higher, exposing more of your skin. The light ghost of his touch makes you freeze in place. It’s already dizzying enough to have him in such close proximity, and now adding in the electricity of his touch, it’s a whole other level. And this, you assume, is just the warmup. Getting you used to the feeling of his hands on you. It’s nice that it doesn’t feel wrong. 

The lighting crew dims one of the lights and one of them loudly asks the director if it looks good on camera. Distracted, you turn back to look their way again, but San gently cups your face with his hand, making you face him instead. 

He hums, looking down between your still-clothed bodies. His other hand dips under the hem of your skirt, and your breath hitches. Worrying too much about the crew still, you look back to see if this is alright to do before the cameras start rolling. 

“Don’t look at the camera, kitten,” San purrs, “I believe that was rule number five.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you mumble without any real bite to your words. 

That smile of his returns, and the energy between you becomes even more charged. The moment right before someone gives in after holding back for too long. 

San never looks anywhere else, entirely focused on you. It doesn't matter to him that there’s about twenty people still in the same room, all witnessing this ‘warm-up’ unfold. It barely fazes him. He’s experienced in this setting, way more used to it than you are. You just have to roll with it. 

His hand on your face drops back down to the mattress as his wrist turns, and you inhale sharply when he lightly drags his fingers through your wet folds. He hums again, clearly satisfied. 

“What’s got you this wet already, kitten?” 

Your lips part to answer, but he finds your clit before you can speak. This time, you gasp quietly before you can stop yourself. Once again, you glance over at the crew, wondering if anyone is watching the two of you. You can’t see very well because of the lights and the various equipment in the way, but several of the crew and team are. 

San smirks, pressing the pads of his fingers harder against your clit. “You like the attention?” He asks, following your gaze. “It’s different from your little camshow isn’t it? Now the audience is only a few feet away…” 

His fingers begin to move in small circles, occasionally dipping further down to collect your wetness before bringing it back up to your clit. 

“San–” you breathe, catching his wrist in a semi-firm grip. Not to move it away, but just to hold onto something. Jesus, the shoot hasn’t even officially started yet, but you’re about to beg them to hurry up so it can. 

San just moves closer to you, his eyes greedily drinking in your cute expression. His voice is quieter, so only you can hear him. “Already thought about all the ways I’m gonna make this pretty cunt cum for me. ‘M gonna make you feel so good.” 

Another promise. 

A shiver runs down your spine, and that’s the moment the crew decides that they’re ready to shoot. 

San pulls away like nothing happened, even smoothing down your skirt for you. You force yourself to breathe through your nose, steadying your pulse. You quickly look down, checking to see if your top is still on straight.  

Director Choi walks up to you both for final notes. “Alright, no script so we’re mostly gonna follow your lead, just let us know when one of you needs a quick break. All three cameras are going to be rolling, and one handheld. You remember all the rules?” He looks over to you. 

You nod quickly, unable to meet his eye right now. The back of your hand lifts to your cheek to check how hot it’s gotten – as if you need additional confirmation. You hope you didn’t smudge your makeup or wipe some of it off by accident, but you imagine that if it shows up on camera, they’ll stop to fix it. 

“Okay, then we’re ready to go.” 

San thanks him as he walks off, turning his attention back onto you. Your gaze has dropped down to your lap, breaths kind of erratic from the little show you and him just put on, and from nerves. But you manage to pull yourself together, externally at least. All you really have to do now is look pretty for the camera. You can do that. Except for the live audience, this isn’t much different to a camshow, really. 

And aren’t you here for your fans anyway? Sure, you also wanted the opportunity and experience, but it’s also for your fans. The ones who supported you enough to even get noticed by Afterdark and San in the first place. You imagine they’ll make up at least half of the view count whenever this video drops. You’re performing for them. Not for the strangers in the room. 

Once that clicks for you, all your anxiety melts away, freeing you to finally just… enjoy this. Why not? You deserve it. 

Plus, you’re quite eager to pick up right where you and San left off just moments ago – and it seems that San is too. 

His gaze becomes heavier, darker as he shifts into his on-screen persona. 

“C’mere, kitten, want you on my lap to start.” He says, moving back on the bed a little more and gently pulling you towards him. 

You straddle his legs, slow to sit down fully. Now slightly above and closer than before, you can’t look anywhere else but at him. His hands slowly trail up your thighs again, watching you the whole time. You stop breathing when his fingertips tease the hem of your skirt again. He can probably feel through those dress pants he’s in how wet you are. Equally though, you can feel how hard he’s getting. 

Subtly, you grind your hips down onto him. The immediate pleasure of the friction against your bare pussy makes your eyes roll back. One of his hands sneaks to your hip, gripping it tightly, and you meet his eyes again. 

“It’s just you and me,” he says quietly, breath fanning across your cheek. 

You nod, eyes fluttering closed again as you grind into him once more. “Okay…” 

Through your pleasurable hazy fog, you faintly hear someone yell, ‘Action!’. 

And San stops holding back. 

The hand on your hip pushes you back and pulls you in, encouraging you to keep grinding on him – and to not stop anytime soon. His other hand moves to your hair, keeping your face close to his as he finally kisses you. His lips are pleasantly soft, and he tastes like peppermint. You hope you do too, you probably brushed your teeth at least four times before the driver showed up outside your apartment building. San seems to have no complaints as he moans quietly, his hand tightens in your hair. 

Your whole body feels electric, every touch amplified by a thousand. He makes out with you slow and deep, savouring the taste of you, and groans into your mouth with each roll of your hips. 

San tilts your chin up to kiss your neck, hiding his face from the camera. “Never answered my question,” he whispers, barely audible so his voice doesn’t get picked up by any of the overhead microphones. 

You disguise your response as a moan, “Hm?” 

He licks a small stripe up your neck, right up to your ear and looks down between you. You follow his gaze, only to find a wet patch staining his pants already. 

Ah. 

His question from mere minutes ago: What’s got you this wet already? 

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, a bit louder. It’s alright if the microphones pick that up. “Wonder why…” 

It’s the knowing smirk that does it. You move to undress him first, intriguing him. He didn’t expect you to be so bold right out of the gate. But, you have an on-screen persona of your own. Now both of your characters are out to play. 

In your dwindling patience, you come close to just ripping the shirt off when you fumble with one of the buttons. San finds your lips again as you push the offending fabric off of him, eager to explore his newly exposed body. But you’re next. 

Both of his hands lift up your shirt until it comes off over your head, forcing you two to break apart for a moment. Neither of you wait to make up for that lost time. You drape your arms around his shoulders, one of your hands lightly tugging at the roots of his hair. At first, your whole body erupts in goosebumps from the cold air now hitting your upper body as well, and not just your arms, but you can’t blame your reaction entirely on the temperature. 

San must notice how your shoulders hunch a little and how you press further into him, because he is quick to warm you up. 

One arm around your waist, he pulls you closer, chests touching. The first brush of your peaked nipples against his skin makes you gasp into his mouth. He nips at your bottom lip, distracting you while his hand moves from the back of your head, down to one of your breasts. His thumb flicks over the sensitive bud there and you have to duck your head down to catch your breath for a second. You grind down onto him again, adding to your arousal tenfold. 

Refusing to prolong this any longer, San suddenly flips you onto the bed, underneath him. His hand returns between your legs, fingers shallowly dipping into your entrance and circling your clit. He keeps just out of your reach, his lips so frustratingly close to yours. You glance down to watch him. The visual of his hand disappearing underneath your skirt, the veins in his arm beginning to rise and pop, and the heat of his body against yours is all starting to add up. 

You tug at your own skirt, looking up at him with doe eyes. He nods twice, understanding. In no time at all, your skirt is unzipped and pulled down your legs, discarded somewhere onto the floor. 

Now fully exposed, San pauses. 

The tempo of the scene slows abruptly as he takes his time to look at your body, laying so prettily beneath him. He looks at your body like he’s deciding where to start first, with too many enticing options. You drag your hands down his chest, lightly scratching him and making him shiver in the process. This, you realize, is how he makes every scene feel legit. He takes his time to admire his partner, make them feel admired and wanted. You have to admit, it does work its magic. Not just for the audience, but for you as well. 

He catches both of your wrists, bringing your hands together to kiss them both before guiding them down above your head. 

“Keep them here,” he murmurs, kissing you once more. 

You barely have time to enjoy or savor the taste of him again before he moves to kiss your neck. Eyes closing, you sigh into the feeling, wanting to commit this to memory. He doesn’t stay in one place for long, moving down to kiss your chest next. Soft, wet warmth once again wraps around your nipple and you arch your back to try and get more of it. You twist your hands in the sheets above you, keeping them anchored there just like he instructed. 

San then moves further down, ghosting his lips past your stomach. You part your legs to accommodate him, and he kneels on the floor, gently pushing your legs further apart. He drags this out, just to torture you, you think. His intentions and what he’s about to do are clear, but he’s a professional at driving his partners crazy. The kisses turn to licks, right next to your labia. So tantalizingly close. 

If your eyes were open, you’d see that he’s been watching you the entire time, trying to pace himself as best he can. You’re actually lucky there’s a job to do here because if it was just the two of you alone, he doesn’t think he’d be holding himself back from just taking what he wants. 

To him, this is all just a chance for him to prove himself to you. To him, you’re the star. And he’s going to make sure you leave this set more than satisfied. Wanting for nothing. 

But he’s not going to start until you beg him to. 

His breath fans across your wet lower lips and your hands find his hair again, trying to push his mouth where you need him. You hear him laugh, exhaling through his nose before moving your hands away. 

“Thought I told you to keep your hands up there, kitten,” he reminds you, with a slight warning edge to his voice. 

Oh, shit, you realize all too late. The last video flashes through your mind, and he feels you tense up. He kisses your hipbone to calm you down. 

“Be a good girl and keep them above your head,” he repeats his previous order. 

You nod quickly, “I’m sorry–” but he cuts you off by licking a thick wet stripe through your folds. Your breath hitches, and your hands stay cemented to the sheets, to hold on for dear life. 

When he repeats the action, the tip of his tongue flicks at your clit, making you see stars already. 

“Oh my god…” you moan, eyes fluttering shut again. 

Your hands itch to move back down to his hair, wanting to pull him closer and to push him away. You want to touch him again, but the fear of him reenacting the ‘Fantasy’ video keeps you frozen. 

As expected, his mouth is just as perfect as the rest of him. The softness of his lips against your core only stokes the dull heat in your lower stomach. He alternates between focusing more on your clit, and dipping his tongue into your entrance. The most addicting part is that he’s moaning while he eats you out, like the taste of you is getting him off. You hope he lets you return the favor. 

He readjusts his hands on your thighs when they threaten to close around his head, opting to push them back towards your chest. Your toes curl as he sucks your clit hard, and you can’t help the high-pitched sound that escapes your mouth. He does it again, and again, getting you louder each time. 

“Look at me, baby,” he breathes, his nose brushing up against your sensitive clit as he speaks. 

You whimper as you lift your head up, resting on your elbows to not strain your neck. He meets your eyes for just a second before shoving his tongue into your hole, rubbing his nose against your clit again. You cry out, throwing your head back as the pleasure increases and squirm in his strong grip. Legs shaking and breath uneven, it’s clear that you’re close. Now you’ll get to see what he has planned for you. The two boxes you checked off, ‘Rough’, and ‘Gentle’ come back to haunt you. 

A moan cuts you off as you try to warn him that you’re close, but he can tell without needing to hear you say it. He’s been the cause of enough female orgasms to see the warning signs of one approaching. Two of his fingers suddenly dip into you as he sucks on your clit, hooking deep inside and prodding your g-spot over and over again. 

His voice is rough and gravelly against your pussy, “Cum for me, baby. Wanna taste it.” 

A bolt of electricity runs through you as you cum, shaking and moaning while it gradually subsides. The heat in your lower stomach cools off but stays simmering now, waiting to be rekindled again. You whimper, raising your head back up to look at him. He’s in his own world between your legs, gently licking your pussy and your inner thighs clean. Your core clenches around his fingers when he slowly starts to drag them out, and he smirks. He lowers your legs back down, kissing your knee and doing a quick check to make sure you’re okay to continue. 

You answer that check by sitting up and pulling him towards you, kissing him even more hungrily than before. He hasn’t even wiped his mouth yet, but you don’t care. Without breaking the kiss, he follows you back down onto the bed, sucking on your tongue and wrapping a hand around your throat. Not tight enough to restrict airflow, but just enough to make your head feel light. He grinds his still-clothed erection into you, and the friction makes your head spin. You don’t know if you’re allowed to move your hands or not, but you just want to touch him so badly. You want to grip his length, make him feel just as good, taste him too. 

For now, you just roll your hips up into his, moaning into his mouth. 

“Want it…want you,” you mumble, parting from his lips for just a second to tell him that. 

San hums, lazily kissing your jaw. “What do you want, kitten? Be specific.” 

You groan inwardly, but you know he has to prolong this a little. Damn… for a while, you forgot about the reason you’re currently underneath him. You sneak a glance over to your left, seeing where the set ceiling abruptly stops and opens up to the industrial interior of the Afterdark building. He notices your focus straying, and he’s quick to act. 

“Tell me,” San redirects you, blocking your view by kissing the left side of your neck and distracting you from everything else by keeping his hard-on pressed right up against your bare pussy. His voice is firmer. A small warning and reminder of rule number five. 

You take a deep breath before you voice what you want, “Wanna suck your cock… please, sir.” 

It’s the ‘sir’ that nearly kills him. You really have done your research, haven’t you? You know that’s what he likes to be called, especially when his scene partners are feeling extra submissive to him. Are you feeling that way already? Maybe you just really want to do this for him. San studies you for a second, confirming the latter. He can see how much you actually mean it by the way you look up at him, pleading with your eyes. 

And who is he to deny you? Especially when you ask so nicely. Plus, he’s been wanting to feel your mouth wrap around his cock since he watched your livestream. 

“Yeah?” He asks, biting the space where your neck meets your shoulder and pressing up against you again. 

You give him your best doe-eyed look, really tapping into your innocent act. “Yes, sir.” 

San helps you sit upright again and stands at the foot of the bed, starting to undo his belt. Wanting to be an active participant, you lean forward, dragging your lips down and across his abs, occasionally licking at his soft, honeyed skin. His belt hits the floor, and your hands are quick to do the rest. It’s a little hard to get the zipper down, but you manage it, successfully removing his pants. You’re just about to deal with his underwear next, but he grabs your wrist, pulling you towards him. You stumble a little as you find your footing on the floor, and let him lead you over to a chair against the set wall. It’s a better angle for the cameras, you assume. For him, he just wants to watch you do this properly. He wants nothing to obstruct his view, or the camera’s. 

San pushes his hair back as you drag the final piece of clothing away from his body. You avert your eyes until the very last second, tossing the garment off to the side to join the sad little pile of discarded clothes on the floor. Now you take your time, pressing a kiss to his knee, slowly rising up onto yours the further up you move. You hear his breath shift, and you finally glance up to face his cock. 

Somehow, it’s bigger than it looks on camera. 

You have no idea how that’s possible – you know about the fish eye lenses and tricks the porn industry will use to make someone’s dick look bigger than it is, but right now, you’re presented with the exact opposite. It’s larger in real life. This, you were not expecting, but it is such a pleasant and welcome surprise. And of course, it’s just as pretty as the rest of him.  

Both of these things combined only make you want to put your mouth on it even more. 

When you delicately wrap your hand around it, he hisses at the long-awaited contact. A hand tangles into your hair, not pulling you towards him, just resting there for now. San leans back against the chair, his toned body a feast for the cameras and for you. You remind yourself not to rush, and to savor this. 

Wanting to give him a taste of his own medicine, you tease him a little by ghosting your lips up his length, watching him shiver and bite his lip. You kiss the tip, and linger there for a second, acting like you’re about to put him in your mouth, only to move away, kissing his hipbone next and stroking him with your hand. 

His grip tightens in your hair. Knowing he wants you to hurry up, you let go of him for a moment to spit in your hand before quickly returning to it. He groans a bit louder, head falling back a little as you gently twist your wrist, squeezing at the base of his cock. 

Finally, you lick him from the base to the head before wrapping your lips around him. His other hand balls up into a fist, but that’s the only reaction he gives away for now. You relax your jaw as much as you can, trying to accommodate his size before sinking down lower. You can taste his pre-cum in the back of your throat, coating your tongue. 

If you were annoyed with his apparent perfection before, you’re pissed now. How does he also taste good too? 

As if to get back at him somehow, you wrap your lips tighter around his cock and suck hard, which earns you a choked moan from him. You hum around him, amused and pleased with yourself. His hand shakes slightly as he pushes your hair back, the other one in your hair starting to guide you even further down. The tip hits the back of your throat and you gag on it, forcing yourself to relax and remember to breathe through your nose. 

“Fuck, baby…so good,” He groans, starting to struggle to keep his eyes open. 

The visual of you choking on his cock is better than he could’ve ever imagined it to be. You don’t try to fight against him when he pushes you down or pulls you back up, simply letting him use your throat as he wishes. Even though you’re gagging and your eyes are watering, you don’t try to pull off. Not even when he shoves you down, making you fit his entire length into your throat, and holds you there for ten seconds. The longest ten seconds of your life. Your nails dig into your thighs, creating angry red crescent-shaped indents in your skin. His cock twitches in your throat and you whimper, keeping your gag reflex at bay. When the ten seconds are up, he lets you pull off of him completely to catch your breath. 

You cough into your shoulder, one of your hands wrapping around him again to make sure he still feels good. San can't help but praise you, leaning down to kiss your forehead, cupping your face with his hand to make you look at him. It’s a subtle check-in moment. Nothing between you is said out loud, but he searches your face for any signs of discomfort or stress of any kind. He’s rather relieved to find none, only your glossy eyes staring back at him, lips parted and breath heavier than before. Ready to go again or continue on. 

Whatever he wants. 

San shivers as you gently twist your wrist again, returning your lips to the head of his dick, kitten-licking the pre-cum that still leaks out there. You hope he’ll cum in your mouth. A rare hope, as you’ve never quite enjoyed the taste of it before, but with his track record so far, you’re willing to bet you’ll enjoy it this time. To encourage this dream to happen, you spit onto the head of his cock twice, collecting some of it with your hand already around his length, and the rest with your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip. 

You hear soft footsteps behind you, and naturally, your first instinct is to whip around to see who it is. Luckily, your conscience kicks in, reminding you of where you are, and you’re able to stop yourself before you can even move an inch. It’s probably one of the crew leaving the set, you figure. But it sounds close by. 

As if to prove you right, soon there’s a figure or a shadow looming just out of your peripheral vision on your left, holding something. To combat every urge within you to turn around, you close your eyes and steal another kiss from San, who lazily kisses you back. He doesn’t seem to mind that your lips are covered in spit and pre-cum. Not one bit. His groans have increased the more you stroke his cock, one of his hands grips the arm of the chair in an attempt to ground himself. Harder, faster, your wrist begins to burn from exertion, but determination keeps it going. You’ll get a damn brace if you need to. 

“God–” he grunts, looking down at your hand. 

“Want you to cum too,” you say, looking up at him, almost pleading. 

San’s eyes squeeze shut for just a moment, a full body shudder wracking through him before he is able to compose himself again. 

“And where do you want me to cum, kitten?” He asks, his volume raising slightly, caressing your cheek. 

“In my mouth, sir.” You reply, also loud enough for the microphones to pick up. 

He all but shoves you down. You barely have time to make sure your teeth aren’t grazing his dick with every bob of your head as his hand returns to your hair, guiding your movements once again. This time, with just a fraction less of his notorious self control. You’re able to keep up easily, sucking harder whenever you’re closer to the head of it, and using your tongue as much as you can. 

San swears under his breath, hissing at your previously unknown skill level. It takes every ounce of composure to not fuck your throat the way he wants to. He’d be so mean to you if you’d let him. He wouldn’t have kept himself down your throat for ten measly seconds, it would’ve been until you tried to push yourself off, desperate to breathe again. That would’ve been heavenly, to feel your throat constrict around his cock, in search of air. But not for the first scene together. 

If there’s a next time, maybe that’s when he’ll let go just a little more. Show that side of him and see how you cope with it. For now though, he’s content to just enjoy the sight of you taking him in your mouth, wanting to make him cum. And you’re damn near close to achieving that. 

He ignores the cameraman standing barely two feet from you, and leans back again, relaxing his body as his dick twitches incessantly in your mouth. Every time his tip hits the back of your throat, sparks of electricity shoot up his spine. 

“Fuck… ah, fuck, I’m gonna cum… mmf–” San moans, head tilting back against the chair. 

You don’t change anything about what you’re doing, just continuing until finally, he releases into your mouth. Just like you wanted him to. And it’s just as you predicted. The taste of it makes you want him to cum in your mouth again and again, surprisingly pleasant. Slightly bitter, yes, but not overly so. You swallow around him, not pulling off just yet. You won’t until you suck him dry, until he pushes you off from overstimulation. Maybe subconsciously, it’s because you know he loves to overstimulate his scene partners – a subtle payback for all of them. You try to hide your grin as you finally release him. Not a single drop wasted. You swallowed everything. 

San looks down at you through half-lidded eyes, fighting to keep his chest rising and falling in a steadier rhythm. You lick your lips just for good measure, and he snaps. 

His hands return to your face and the back of your head, pulling you towards him to kiss you deeply. You moan into his mouth as his tongue slips into yours, not caring in the slightest that can taste himself. As you straighten up on your knees, you can feel how wet you still are, and you can’t help but be a little surprised. You’ve never gotten wet from sucking dick before. If he finds out, it’ll go right to his ego, no doubt. 

But before he can, there’s an abrupt, loud clacking sound to your left, and at first, you think someone must have dropped something. San makes a quiet, irritated sound before pulling away, glancing towards the director. The cameraman right next to you moves away, going back over towards the others and adjusting something on his camera. You feel slow to catch up on what’s happening, looking back up at San for help. 

“We’re breaking for a second,” he explains, still out of breath. 

Ah. 

“Are you alright?” You ask him, without thinking. You’re not even sure why you asked that. 

San blinks, processing your question as well before nodding once, “Yeah… yeah, I’m good.” 

There’s a fleeting moment between you that you can’t describe. Something deeper than the scene now that you’re out of it. It’s the way he’s looking at you, void of any facade or persona meant for the cameras. Almost like he’s curious about something. 

No one ever really asks him if he’s alright. 

Just as quickly as the moment appears, it’s gone. You hear a flurry of movement and murmured conversations on your left as you sink back onto your heels, processing everything. Your eyes close as you try to focus on your breathing now that nothing is blocking your throat, deep inhales and slow exhales.  

“You okay?” San asks as well, eyebrows furrowing in what appears to be genuine concern. 

“‘M okay… honest.” You nod as you speak to emphasize that you’re truly alright. One more prolonged exhale, and you roll your shoulders back, heart-rate decelerating back to its default speed. One of your hands reaches up to massage your aching jaw. 

Opening your eyes again, you accidentally make eye contact directly to his cock, still right in front of your face. It’s laying against his stomach, still slightly twitching, but… not softening. At least not as much as you’d expect it to. Surely, he can’t still be hard after coming. However, at this point, you wouldn’t put it past him to have a practically nonexistent refractory period. Might as well tack it onto the list of things he has been blessed with in life. 

San runs a hand through his hair, looking over towards someone who must be talking to him. You watch his eyes follow them until you see for yourself who it is – one of the assistants that had been in his little circle when he first walked out of his dressing room. He hands him a robe, and quickly walks off. You feel a small nudge at your shoulder and find one of the other assistants – the one that had handed you the blanket earlier – extending a robe towards you. You take it gladly, your body heat crashing down again now that nothing is happening, and the frigid air conditioning reminding you why you asked for a blanket in the first place. He also gives you a water bottle with a straw poked through the plastic cap, and you drink it down gratefully. 

Director Choi calls over Youngmi and Rina, and they’re quickly by your side, touching up your hair and makeup. You scoot back a little on the floor, giving San some space as his own team descends around him. Still, through the quiet rush of activity separating the two of you, your eyes stay glued to him. 

Once the four hair and makeup girls leave, you hear Hongjoong from somewhere behind you. You both look towards his voice, standing near the director. A young woman you haven’t seen milling around the set before stands right next to him, also in a short silk robe almost identical to yours from what you can see of it past the lights. Your chest burns. She’s gorgeous, and seems to only get prettier the more you look at her. She looks between Hongjoong and San expectantly, as if waiting for a regular cue. Totally relaxed. You look back down at your hands in your lap, toying with the hem of your robe. It’s obvious what she’s there for. You wonder if she’s been watching the whole time as well. 

But San is quick to rid you of any worries. 

Actually, he seems a little annoyed as he waves Hongjoong and the woman off, before turning his attention back to you. He helps you stand up, slowly to ensure you won’t get dizzy, and leads you back over to sit on the foot of the bed. Back where you started, in your own little bubble together in front of the lights and the cameras.  

Once settled again, San tilts your head up, his pointer finger under your chin, and holds it there, effectively disrupting your train of thought. He can almost see the self-doubt threatening to cloud your mind, even if you try to hide it behind your on-camera mask. He simply won’t have it. His other hand cups your cheek, making sure you don’t try to look anywhere but at him right now. 

“‘M still hard for you, kitten,” he says quietly, just for you. He moves closer, his thumb running over your bottom lip. “Made me feel so fucking good… doing so well…” 

You can’t help but blush at his praise. He’s so attentive, it’s a little shocking. You expected him to be, due to the videos you watched, but off-camera as well? 

To thank him, you wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking on it lightly, maintaining eye contact with him the whole time. You want him to snap again. To just fuck you stupid already, to not wait for the production team to be ready. God, you just want to stop thinking and overthinking. You lean into the hand holding your cheek, humming at the comfort it provides. 

One of your hands wanders between you, trailing up his thigh. You want to feel it for yourself, even though the robe does little to conceal the truth in his statement. Nevertheless, your confidence is rekindled once more when you feel him through the silk, hard and ready for you. He hisses at the contact, resting his forehead against yours for a moment or two before straightening again. A low groan from him makes your thighs clench together. 

“Sorry, sir,” you whisper, grinning mischievously now that you’re the one teasing him.  

San laughs once, breathy and short. 

“You really have done your research on me, huh?” He smirks, watching you slowly move his robe aside to touch him properly. He tenses a little at the initial contact, but gradually relaxes again as his body gets used to it. 

You shrug, playing it cool. “Wanted to see what I was getting myself into,” the corners of your mouth twitch as you slowly stroke his cock, watching for his reactions. 

“And–” he clears his throat before continuing, “what do you think so far?” 

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and you’re taken aback again by his genuineness. He’s not just asking to ask or to boost a sky-high ego, he really does want to know. Still, you want to keep him intrigued. Maybe you even want him to try and prove himself to you a bit.  

“Well… I’m still wet for you,” you admit, casting your eyes down towards your lap. “But I think I’ll give you a final verdict later.”  

San hums, remembering the taste of you, and how wet you were for him to start. His eyes trail downwards, towards your chest, which is slowly becoming more and more revealed as your robe loosens.     

“Deal,” he whispers, slowly leaning in to kiss you. 

Before he can though, you squeeze his member a little harder, your thumb circling the tip, making his mind nearly go blank. San shudders and leans back on his hands, his robe also loosening little by little, revealing his chest and the top of his abs to your hungry eyes again. He steals a quick glance over to the crew, before just taking matters into his own hands. 

As soon as his robe comes off, he tosses it in the camera’s direction. A rather obvious way of telling everyone the break is over. Director Choi quickly stands from his chair, shooing away a production assistant and waving another one over to collect the robes. You take yours off as well, tossing it onto his, and San eases you down onto your back, kissing you just as deeply as before. 

You shiver, finally underneath him once more. The promise of what’s to come thunders through your mind. He slots his knee in between your legs, keeping you open for him. You whine into his mouth when that knee raises slightly, pressing against your pussy. You can almost hear his smirk, confirming that you are indeed still wet for him. 

Well, he won’t make you wait any longer. 

And just in time too, because someone over on the left shouts, ‘Action!’. You feel kind of bad for stressing out the crew this much, but you can’t dwell on those guilty feelings when San is rubbing your clit again.

“Fuck… please…” you whimper, hips grinding up in search of something else.  

San moans, working himself up as he feels your pussy slicking all over his knee.  

“Are they gonna stop us again?” You ask, whispering in his ear. 

“They better fucking not,” San breathes, pressing one more kiss to your cheek before pushing himself up, spreading your legs further apart so he can kneel between them. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows again, intent on watching. You clench around nothing as he grips himself, angling his dick down towards your pussy. Every muscle in your body locks in anticipation and impatience. Your brain goes haywire just at the sight of his cock near where you need him most, knowing he’ll stretch you out, and knowing that you probably won’t last too long with his size. Hopefully, you won’t cum as soon as he bottoms out. 

San presses the tip to your hole, and you hold your breath. It’s so big, but you’re ready. You’re definitely wet enough to help get him inside without any help from spit or lube. Nevertheless, he spits right on your clit, pausing to make you feel it drip down through your folds. He taps the head of his cock against your clit a couple times, greedily watching your reactions. 

And much to your despair, he doesn’t push inside just yet. Instead, he drags his cock up and down your pussy. Slowly. Forcing you to feel every inch of it, just not where you need it. Your clit is so sensitive, every time he rubs up against it, you can’t help but whine pathetically. 

San hums, mocking you. “Hm? What’s wrong, kitten?” 

“Please fuck me already,” you exhale, whimpering at yet another tap of his cock against your clit. 

“Louder,” he instructs, not just to make you beg for it again, but also so the microphones pick it up. You’d forgotten all about them again, to be honest. “Ask me properly.” 

Another shiver runs through you, and you gasp when you feel the head of his cock return to your entrance. Just barely enough so you can feel it’s there. But it’s enough motivation. You spread your legs further apart to convince him, holding them up and back by hooking your arms around your knees. Fully exposed to his eyes, open and ready to be filled. 

“Please, sir, please fuck me. Want it so ba–” 

Your voice is cut off by a choked noise as he finally pushes into you. Quickly, you look down, watching him breach you. All of your air is punched out of you as he stretches you out, sinking deeper and deeper, inch by inch. He takes over the task of keeping your legs apart, and he stills for a second to give your body time to adjust to him. He’s just barely halfway in, and your brain already feels like mush. 

Maybe it’s a good thing because the same cameraman from before comes back, aiming the camera right at you two. Your body is so tense from the intrusion that you can’t look towards him, even by accident.

San swears under his breath, watching his cock disappearing into you as well. 

“So fucking tight… god, baby…” he grunts, adjusting his knees slightly closer to your ass so he can feed you more of his length. 

One of his hands tilts your chin up again, silently telling you to hold eye contact with him. His eyes flicker down only for a split second. 

Then he shoves the rest of his cock inside. 

A mix of a gasp and a yelp punches its way out of you. Your whole body is like a livewire. Alert, teetering on an electric edge. Your hands grip the sheets next to you, biting your lip. You can feel everything. Every inch, every vein dragging against your walls when he slowly pulls it back again. You both crave and dread the next time he pushes in, knowing it’s going to feel so overwhelmingly good. 

The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. You’re close to coming already. 

Wide-eyed, all you can do is stare up at him as he rolls his hips into yours. Your walls flutter around him, legs already beginning to shake. There’s no hiding it anymore. 

Amused, San leans down, pushing your legs back even more, deepening the stretch. He groans as your pussy contracts around him tight, wanting more. 

“What, kitten? Already?” San smirks, a windfall of pride rushing through him. As if he needed any more validation for how good at this he is.

Your face burns, having been found out. 

The next roll of his hips is sinfully languid, taking his time. Then, he really betrays you. One of his hands leaves the back of your thigh and he uses his thumb to rub your clit. You yelp, body buzzing from pleasure, and he takes this time to start fucking you properly, thrusting into you in a steady rhythm. 

“Mm, that’s it,” he says, twisting his wrist so he can rub your clit with two fingers instead. “Let me feel it.” 

You’re starting to think all you need in order to cum is for him to tell you to do it. Your second orgasm of the evening is a bit stronger than the first one because of the addition of penetration. It makes you feel very floaty once it hits, clenching around his cock in order to prolong it. 

Unlike last time, he gives you no recovery period. The second he sees your eyes refocus, he’s fucking into you again. Like he never stopped. Your hands grip his shoulders, knowing you’re in for it. The tags for this future video flash through your mind, overstimulation being one. You lay flat on your back now, unable to keep holding yourself up as another strong wave of pleasure crashes into you. A third orgasm building up again. 

His fingers on your clit press down harder, making tight circles over the sensitive bud. He only relents for a second, just to hook your legs over his shoulders, letting him get even deeper inside of you. Your eyes roll back for a moment, whining at the feeling. Your hands try to push at his chest, to make him stop, to make him straighten up, you’re not entirely sure yourself. 

There’s no energy behind your actions, but San still subtly checks in. “Feel good, kitten?” 

You choke on another moan, his cock getting dangerously close to hitting your g-spot. “Mm- I’m– good, feels s-so good.” 

“Yeah? You liked coming on my cock?” 

“Yes…” 

“Yes, what?” San punctuates his question by ramming into you hard, unexpectedly. 

You’re quick to correct yourself, “Y-yes, sir!”

“There you go,” he brushes some hair away from your face, “my good girl.” 

Your body melts at the praise, replaying it over and over again as the feeling builds up higher and higher. You don’t realize until San winces that your nails started to dig into his chest, leaving some red scratch marks in your wake. As soon as you see that, you instantly take your hands away, feeling so bad that you’ve hurt him unknowingly. 

But he puts them right back where they were. 

And he leans down to your neck to return the favor, biting and sucking the skin there to create dark red and purple bruises wherever he can. His thrusts become more powerful, angling down into you to make you see stars. The simmering heat in your stomach is stoked with each direct hit to your g-spot. It’s getting to be more of a challenge to breathe normally like this.

Especially as your third orgasm begins to crest. 

“‘M coming–” you warn him, but he knows already. He can feel it. 

He hovers over you, moving his hips precisely and slightly faster. He wants to watch you again. To see you fall apart for him again. Truthfully, he already feels a bit pussy-drunk. Starting to get addicted to the feeling of your warm, wet cunt wrapped so tightly around him, coming for him so prettily. And you don’t disappoint him the third time either. 

You’re loud this time, unable to control your volume. The third orgasm hits you like a truck, and it only builds higher and higher instead of gradually diminishing. You cry out, halfway through it. Something feels unfinished about it, and you’re desperate to chase it. Luckily, San knows exactly what you need. 

He quickly lowers your legs from his shoulders, jumping right into action to catch this. Your legs are held back, like the previous position they were in, and he returns his other hand to your lower stomach, pressing down hard. You can feel him moving inside of you. Your head falls back and you moan loudly, suddenly feeling everything tenfold. 

The sound is obscene, definitely pornographic. Wet, sloshing sounds, accompanied by your loud cries and moans fill the warehouse-like room of the eighth floor. His cock prods your g-spot every single time, building something insanely powerful that you’ve never felt before. You grab his wrist, looking up at him with slight fear in your eyes, but he doesn’t seem concerned. He’s determined, if anything. 

“Good girl,” he purrs, so affectionately it makes your brain melt. 

He adjusts his hand on your stomach just a little further down. At the same time that you feel him rubbing your clit again, he ducks down to suck on one of your nipples, and fireworks explode behind your eyelids. The quadruple stimulation makes you scream. 

“Gonna make a mess for me, kitten? Yeah? Gonna cum all over my cock again?” 

You don’t even have time to nod or reply in any way. A strong surge of pleasure smashes into you from all sides, whiting out your vision. It’s a feeling of release unlike any other that you’ve felt before, much harder than any orgasm you’ve ever had. He keeps fucking you through it until your pussy forces him out, watching your body shake uncontrollably underneath him, soaking the sheets below you, and his lower body. Now you know damn well what kind of ‘rough’ you’ll be getting from him: overstimulation. Making you cum until you beg him to stop. 

San growls at the sight. It burns into his brain, and he can already say for certain that he’ll be jerking off to the memory of this later tonight and for days to come. 

Just to prolong it, he taps his heavy cock against your pussy and clit again, enjoying how you try to squirm away from it. 

You’re so wet, it’s audible. Every tap is loud, and a thin, stringy mixture of his spit and your slick clings to him for as long as it can whenever he pulls away. You reach for him, not knowing exactly what you want, but knowing you want him closer to you, and he obliges. He leans down over you again, slowly sliding his length between your puffy, wet folds. 

A familiar, faint voice from the left is ignored totally by you and him, too busy coming down from the most intense high of your life, and him holding you through it.  

An aftershock rattles you from head to toe, and you gasp when you feel it. The intense pleasure you felt gives way to sudden emptiness, and you realize you do not have anything to clench down on anymore. Though his dick is right there, dragging up and down your outer lips, it feels so far away from where you actually want it. 

Thankfully, sensing your dilemma – and hearing you whine for it – he doesn’t make you wait any longer. In your post-orgasmic haze, he guides you over onto all fours, now facing the foot of the bed. Ever the gentleman, he moves your hair out of your face. However, you imagine it’s so the camera can see your fucked out, dazed expression. 

His cock slips back inside of you easily, without any resistance, and the two of you groan in unison. In both relief and pleasure.  

That familiar, faint voice comes back. Clearer this time, and closer as well. “San… San! We’re taking another break now.” 

San kisses your shoulder blade, barely paying attention. “Okay, have fun,” he brushes the voice off, impatiently. 

You’d laugh if you had any coherent thoughts or spare energy left. No, you’re a bit preoccupied at the moment, your body trembling around his cock, and so happy that he’s pushed back into you. Truthfully, you don’t even care if you’re stressing out the crew anymore. All of your thoughts are about San. 

San smooths a hand up your spine, slowly pushing inch by inch into your soaked hole. He shushes you gently when you whimper, interlacing his fingers with yours when you try to reach back to find his hand to hold.  

“I know, kitten, it’s okay. Just relax.”

Easier said than done. 

He lightly presses your lower back, signalling you to arch it for him a little more. You nearly regret it when you feel him deeper than before in this position. Your elbows threaten to buckle, body shaking like a leaf. Yet, you still want more. Even though you’re nearing a certain point, wavering between overexertion and exhaustion, you crave more. You want to chase that feeling with him again. Make him glad he asked you to come here. Make him come back for more. So, you grit your teeth and keep yourself from face-planting into the mattress. For now, at least.  

San’s powerful pace resumes in no time, stealing every breath from your lungs. Another vague, quiet plea falls from your lips, and in response, he squeezes your hips, pulling them back to meet every thrust. Your throat is raw from all the noise you’re making, and you know you’ll have to drink some tea or honey tonight to get your voice back to normal. Not this thin, broken voice you have now. Your lower back aches from staying in this position, but you do your best to ignore it. 

It helps that his cock is basically in your stomach, that does a lot to distract you from a mere ache in your back. It also helps that your pussy is extra sensitive, coming three times – twice in a row without a break – and squirting for the first time. On camera, no less. Your viewers are going to lose their fucking minds. The image of your donation box on your livestreams, and your Venmo accounts skyrocketing after this video releases is motivation enough for you to want him to make you do it again. 

Your back arches even more, hips grinding back against his to get more of him somehow. 

Such a little natural.     

“Mmm, there you go. That’s it. Keep fucking yourself on my cock, pretty girl.” 

You make a noise, halfway between a whine and a moan and do as he says. Your chest grazes the sheets below you, chin buried into the mattress and arms gripping the edge of the bed in front of you. 

“Fuck,” you whimper, a couple of stray tears threatening to fall. “You’re s-so fucking deep.” 

San groans, increasing the pace. You yelp when you feel him smack your ass, and again when he hits it a second and third time. By the time the third strike lands, he doesn’t even give you any time to process the stinging pain he’s left behind before there’s a new one on the back of your head. 

Slightly dizzy, it takes you a second to realize you’re upright, on your knees. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling at the roots, and the other rubbing incessant circles on your swollen clit. His chest presses into your back, and he moves your head to face him so he can kiss you again. Mind threatening to wipe completely, you can’t fight to hold back your tears anymore. You shudder violently, and he groans as he feels your body struggle to keep up with him. He knows you can take it, though. You’re a fighter, he can tell. 

“Doing so well,” he whispers in your ear, “such a good girl for me, baby. Knew you would be. Knew I’d get this pussy to fall apart on my dick. Thought about it so fucking much…”

You whine against his mouth, tears wetting his face now as well. The blatant admission that he had thought about you like this before today goes straight over your head. 

All you hear is his praise. You’re doing well. Good enough for him, like you were so stressed about being. Nothing else matters to you anymore, now that you’ve earned his approval. A proud smile creeps across your face, and he grins at the faraway look in your half-lidded eyes. You’re so far gone. Completely pleasure-drunk.  

The hand in your hair tightens again and loosens, like it’s an afterthought now. Just something for him to hold onto. To keep you steady, if anything. Warm pressure building and building again in your stomach, you round your back as another shiver wracks its way through your body, making your spine tingle. His hand moves down to hold you by the back of the neck, and he slows his pace just enough to guide you back down onto the bed. This time, totally flat. Your pussy forces him out at this new position, but his other hand is quick to spread one of your ass cheeks apart, cock sliding back inside of you. 

He doesn’t ease you into his pace anymore. The first brutal thrust makes your eyes roll back, and your jaw falls open. Your nails claw at the bedding, every muscle in your arms straining while you hold onto the fabric for dear life.   

He’s so fucking deep. Impossibly, almost. 

He may just make you cum like this, without even needing to touch your clit. He’s making you learn so much about what your body can do when in the right hands. No wonder people are so obsessed with him. He’s become so in tune with your body so quickly, just by paying explicit attention to you this whole time. It makes you really appreciate his expertise, because he could easily have just used what has worked for other girls in the past. He probably could’ve made you cum like that as well, but he tailors himself for each girl. Adapts for them. For you. 

And he’s learning you pretty well. Probably read you like a fucking book. 

Every precisely angled thrust punches a moan out from deep within your chest. Each sound is partly muffled by the bedding, and you try to keep quiet, not wanting to be annoying. You can’t help it, though. Not when it feels this good. Certainly not when another orgasm is building, more rapidly than the others. 

You squirm under him, toes curling and nails digging into the mattress. 

“I– mmf–! You’re… you’re gonna make me cum again,” you have to speak quickly before it hits you. 

San leans over you, hands planted right next to your shoulders, fucking you harder. “Give it to me, pretty girl. I want every fucking drop.” 

Someone dressed in all black stands right in front of you, pointing something towards you. It doesn’t register that it’s the camera guy with the handheld camera for a couple seconds. You imagine he’s zooming in, capturing everything. He must know the future audience does not want to miss a single second of how you react to coming again, and how San won’t let up on you once you do… again. 

Your eyes shut tight once your fourth climax thunders through you. Pure ecstasy erupts in every vein. Euphoria clouds your brain. The sheets beneath you two become even more soaked, and you can feel your release dripping down your thighs. You must’ve been loud because your throat feels scratchy and rough all of a sudden, but your head is in such a rush that you don’t even hear anything. 

San holds you by your throat now, making you keep your face up. 

Just as you predicted, San doesn’t stop or slow his pace whatsoever. True to his promise that he’s ‘gonna make you feel so good’. Well, that promise is currently turning you into a limp, fucked out mess. You’ve never had this many orgasms so quick in succession before. It’s making your hormones go absolutely wild, and you cry harder, wetting San’s hand with your tears. The camera loves it. 

There are some sounds near you that you can’t be bothered to discern, and you just lean into San’s hand on your throat. Fully intent on just letting him do whatever he wants to you at this point. He pretty much already is. Although, you’re not entirely sure how many more times you can cum without passing out. You hope he’ll stop before that happens. You don’t want to embarrass yourself like that. 

San subtly taps your throat, getting your attention, before raising your head a little higher. 

You blink stupidly up at the cameraman in front of you, eyes half-lidded and heavy, struggling to keep them open. You flinch a little when you see that there are two more people in front of you, the director included. When did everyone get so much closer to the bed? All of them, you notice, are at least semi-hard. Director Choi nods behind the camera, muttering inaudible praises. Your hands grip the sheets, knuckles turning white, and pull them up towards your mouth to muffle your screams. Out of frame, Director Choi motions for an assistant to pull the sheets down, ripping your comfort away, exposing how loud you’re being. Tears sting your eyes, both from exertion and from the intense pleasure San is giving you. 

“Pussy’s so good… so tight and wet… could fuck you forever.” 

Director Choi silently motions for San to keep talking like that. 

San grunts, fighting to catch his breath enough to speak again. “Such a good girl… gonna make you cum again.” 

And he does. 

Before you even realize that it’s been simmering and building, it knocks into you sideways. This time, you can’t even scream. Your mouth drops open but no sound comes out due to your body locking up. San releases your throat, worried that you’re not breathing – and he’s right. He slows down considerably, moving your hair away from your face to check on you. Your body slowly relaxes again underneath him, one muscle at a time, and a low, guttural groan tears itself from your throat. 

You can feel every inch of him dragging past your inner walls, and every slightest movement makes your pussy clench, trying to simultaneously push him out and suck him in further. Instead of continuing again, though, he pushes all the way into you one more time, and then stops. 

It’s somehow both torture and a relief. You feel so fucking full, but he isn’t doing anything to continue the dull flames that engulf your lower stomach, and yet you know it’s better than being empty. He could pull out, leave you to deal with that emptiness before you felt ready. He doesn’t. Appreciative thoughts swirl around your head and you cry harder, trying to hide your tears in the sheets. 

When the camera crew and director see that he’s not continuing, they call for another break. Everyone moves away, and there’s no longer a black cloud in front of you. 

San doesn’t move an inch, though.  

He brushes through your hair with his fingers, comforting you. He’s intent on waiting until you calm down, not wanting to push you too far before you’re ready. He knows he went a little crazy, instantly getting addicted to the feeling of you coming around his dick, and you deserve a break. As long as you need. 

But you’re addicted yourself. A real glutton for the pleasure he’s given you thus far. You push back and wiggle against him, trying to get him to move again. His hands push you down by your hips, keeping them still. You whine at the denial, looking over your shoulder at him with teary, red eyes. He almost gives in. 

“I know, baby. Just relax with me for a moment.” 

You pout, another tear roaming down your cheek. Deep down, you know he’s right. Your body has been pleading for a break two orgasms ago. It’s high time you listen to it. You collapse, finally letting yourself relax, solely focusing on the quiet murmur of the crew off to the side, and San’s fingers running through your hair. 

It’s a nice moment.  

Nicer still when San litters your shoulders and back with gentle kisses, helping you calm down. Clearer thoughts slowly begin to reenter your mind, and your breaths even out, relatively back to normal. Better than the mixture of shallow inhales, long periods of holding your breath, and gasps for air. Because of the improved air intake, your head finally feels like it’s stopped swimming. Little by little, your energy comes back. 

You take a deep inhale, sighing contently as you exhale it back out. Looking behind you again, you catch him already watching you. 

“Hi,” you mumble, half-smiling.

San smirks, his hand cupping your cheek. “Hey, pretty girl. Feel okay?” 

You nod, humming, and you subtly push back against him. The feeling of his cock pressing into you doesn’t shock your body as much as it did before. Now it’s a welcome, familiar feeling. Sought after. You really are addicted. Maybe even insatiable when it comes to how well he fucks you. 

With the other hand, he places a water bottle in front of your face, the same one with a straw poked through the cap from before. You don’t bother wondering where he got it from. You have a pretty good idea. They’re always everywhere during a break. 

Once you’re done with the bottle, he places it against one of the pillows, where it will no doubt be collected by a production assistant within seconds. 

You push back again, trying to get him to move. You hear him chuckle behind you. 

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” 

Instead of contradicting his statement, you just nod. Why lie? 

“Wanna make you cum too,” 

San hums, just barely rolling his hips into yours. “How do you wanna do that, kitten?” 

You steel yourself for what you’re about to do. Hoping he will let you go through with your plan, you pull yourself away from him, and he slips out of you. The emptiness hits just as hard as you thought it would, and you whimper at the initial feeling. If all goes to plan, you won't be for long. 

San watches you carefully as you turn to face him on the bed, gently pushing him back against the pillows. His hands instinctually rest on your hips as you straddle him, and he looks up at you, patiently waiting for your next move. At least, coming across as patient externally. You don’t miss how his dick twitches, eager to be engulfed by your warmth again. He must feel something equivalent to the emptiness you felt when you pulled away. 

You’ll fix that gladly. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the crew start to come back to their spots – lights, camera, microphones. They must have learned not to stay too far away when it comes to filming you two. You do your best to hide your grin. 

San helps you line up the head of his cock to your entrance, and you steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders as you slowly sink down. His eyes flutter shut, eyebrows furrowing as he exhales shakily. Following his lead, you don’t give him much time to adjust before you start moving. 

You swear you hear him whimper. Just once, but you catch it nevertheless. 

He keeps his eyes down, locked between you, watching your cunt swallow his dick over and over again. You bite your lip, nails digging into his shoulders as his hands become more firm on your hips. The next time you sink down, he pulls you down hard. You gasp, not expecting it, and he attacks your lips once again. 

You kiss him back just as eagerly, increasing your pace. Your thighs already start to protest from the strain, but you can’t bring yourself to care or stop. Not when he’s moaning into your mouth like this. Every noise you pull out of him is pure music to your ears. A rhapsody you could hear a thousand times and not get bored of. You pull away from his lips just to hear him clearer, and he chases you. He nips your bottom lip, one of his hands slowly travelling up to knead one of your boobs again. 

Breaths mingling, you shiver in his hold. His other hand dips down to rest on your ass, squeezing the flesh there as you bounce on his cock. 

The heat of it all consumes you, drives you to get him to cum. You want to hear him. You want to repay him for making you cum four times, and put in just as much effort. 

It’s a battle to try and ignore your own pleasure, building up for a fifth time. You’re not convinced you can cum again. However, now you’re willing to see what happens. If you faint, you faint. 

You clench around him on purpose, grinding into him and rolling your hips, your gummy walls massaging his length and successfully driving him crazy. His head falls back against the headboard, and his fingers begin to leave bruises on your skin. 

“So fucking good,” he hisses, “such a good girl… gonna make me cum so hard.” 

The thought and image that accompanies it gives you a second wind of energy. Your hands move to his chest, and you press down as you continue to fuck him. 

“Want you to cum inside me,” you beg him, hot breath hitting his neck. You feel him shudder underneath you. 

San only nods, unable to speak. You lick a stripe up his neck, tasting the slight saltiness of his sweat and kissing the hinge of his jaw. Right next to his ear, you moan again, enjoying how he tenses up. 

Suddenly, both of his arms are wrapped around your waist, and he sits up a little more. One of his hands presses into your upper back, supporting you as he starts fucking up into you, seamlessly matching your rhythm. 

He lets out a choked moan, cutting it off by kissing you one more time before his eyes shut tight. 

“Gonna cum…fuck, I’m gonna cum so deep inside you, kitten. Gonna feel me for days.” 

You whine at his words, and he seems to have worked himself up further by saying it as well. 

“Please, sir, need your cum inside of me. Please give it to me–” 

San pushes you down onto your back before you can blink. Your legs wrap around him, and the pleasure increases for you almost instantaneously. When you look down, you swear you can see a slight bulge in your stomach. His lips attach to your neck, sucking and biting to muffle his moans as much as possible. Every sound he makes is so pretty. 

He pounds into you without any more room for mercy, concentrating on coming again. And he can feel that you’re close again too. 

“Cum with me,” he pants against your neck, “give me one more. Let me feel your pretty cunt cum on my cock one more time, baby.”          

One more. You nod, eyelids growing heavy again. Everything is perfect in this moment. The feeling of his cock dragging against your walls, the head of it pressing against your g-spot and fanning the flames of your arousal until it engulfs you like wildfire; his soft, plush lips on your neck, his words in your ear, and his warm, firm skin under your hands. 

As if that all wasn’t enough, San spits on his fingers and starts to rub your clit again. 

Everything adds up to push you over the edge. 

You cry out, body completely spent as you weakly squirt for him again. You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, adrenaline and euphoria taking turns to run through your bloodstream. The sheets beneath you are completely soaked through. Every sense is both heightened and dulled. Exhaustion pulls itself over you like a weighted blanket. 

And your climax triggers his.

True to his word, he comes deep inside of you, filling you up until it’s leaking. The additional warmth is comforting for a second, until your stomach begins to cramp a little bit. Not enough to hurt, but just enough for you to notice. You’re definitely not used to coming this much. 

San shudders violently before dropping to his elbows, careful not to crush you under his weight. Both of you catch your breaths, chests heaving as you coax air back into your lungs. You tangle one of your hands in his hair, holding him close to you as you take this moment to settle down. He buries his face in your neck, small, audible sighs occasionally escaping him. 

Unbeknownst to you, he’s never cum that hard before. Years of experience behind him, sure, he’s gotten close to this level, but never was able to reach it until now. 

Reluctantly, he slowly drags himself out of your pussy, eyes immediately glancing down to see his cum leaking out. He smirks as he watches you fight to keep it inside, not wanting to let it go yet. 

Then, like he does every single time, he ducks down to lick one more long, slow path up your pussy. Entrance to clit. A silent ‘thank you’. You whimper, legs closing when he pulls away. 

“Cut! Print it.” 

And he’s gone. 

You feel you just got a violent slap back into reality. 

What…just happened? You slowly push yourself up, with admittedly great difficulty. 

Half of the staff flutter around you, while the others flock to San’s side, covering him up in his robe and starting to lead him towards his dressing room. The production assistants assigned to you don’t say much, handing you the same water bottle as before and urging you to drink it all. You watch the cameraman and the director talk, leisurely packing everything up. Just another day at the office. It’s all over just like that. 

Meanwhile, you feel… stunned. Maybe even a little empty, and not just physically this time. You never thought about how aftercare is pretty much nonexistent in shoots like this. Everything is strictly business. Professional. Void of any emotion for the other ‘actor’. Still, as someone runs a brush through your messy hair, and someone else wraps a silk robe over your shoulders, you find that you cannot tear your gaze away from the direction of San’s dressing room door. Your eyes threaten to tear up, a dull yet powerful feeling of rejection blooming in your chest. 

Maybe you aren’t cut out for this type of thing, no matter how many offers you receive. Not if this is how it ends, as if nothing happened. Like none of it mattered. Another notch in Choi San’s belt. 

Director Choi suddenly appears in front of you, and you’re quick to act like nothing is wrong. “You did great,” he says, “thank you for your time today.” 

You manage a fake smile and thank him as well, apologizing for any issues you may have caused by being impatient or loud. 

He simply waves it off, “Happens more than you think. Have a good rest of your night, Miss Y/L/N. Maybe we’ll work together again in the future.” 

‘Maybe’. 

His words stick to you, gnawing at your skin like leeches. He truly didn’t mean to make you feel worse, you know that, and yet he really drove home just how… common you feel. Not special whatsoever after all. 

You imagine going back home and going live again. The notorious four exclusive viewers will want to know how it went, and you’re going to have to tell them something. You doubt you’ll be able to lie. Woo will probably be able to tell something’s wrong. 

Maybe, once this check hits, you can just disappear for the foreseeable future. If you’re astronomically lucky, everyone will forget it happened so you won’t have to relive the very tail end of it. You run a hand through your hair. You’re so fucking dramatic.

It hurts a little extra when even Hongjoong doesn't stick around to check in on you, tending to his star first and foremost. You can’t say you really blame him, though – that is his job. San should be his priority. 

It’s just that you desperately wish for a friendly face, or someone to genuinely check in with you. Comfort you. 

Not to be surrounded by strangers who won’t look you in the eye.  

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

You’re not sure what the plan is. 

You don’t even know if he’s still here. But here you are, standing in front of his dressing room door like a fucking idiot. Another girl obsessed with him. Nothing new, just another number they’ll have to delete. 

Even so, you want to try and talk to him. Ask him why the fuck he left in such a hurry. Your hands readjust their grip on your purse, with half a mind to swing it at whoever opens the door. 

Gathering up all the courage imaginable, your hand raises in a fist, and you softly knock on the door three times. 

To be honest, you’re not really expecting a response. Half of the staff are gone already, it’s unlikely that he’d want to stick around here any longer than he has to. When you checked the time on your phone in your dressing room, you were surprised to see that it’s already nearing nine o’clock. Your stomach had growled almost immediately upon seeing it. You look over your shoulder, watching the rest of the staff still here turning off some of the lights and gathering wires.    

Distracted, you jump about a mile in the air when the door opens, revealing San, now also dressed and looking like he’s ready to leave. His eyebrows raise in surprise at the sight of you. 

“Hey,” he says, so casually. “What’re you still doing here?” 

Embarrassment hits you like a brick wall. Yep, just another girl on the callsheet that stuck around to beg him for more. Ugh. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother you,” you say, already giving up on the whole idea of confronting him. Britney can’t help you now. 

You start to turn on your heel, but he opens the door wider, stepping aside as if to invite you in. “No, no. Not bothering me. What’s up?” 

Your mouth dries. Okay, now you got to follow through. But god… does he really not know? You wonder if this has never come up before. If all of the girls before you are just collectively tougher than you emotionally and can handle no aftercare, no follow up, nothing. You should be, too, honestly. You know what porn is and what it isn’t. It’s not exactly a dating service. Two hot people fuck each other and go their separate ways, money wired to them before their heads hit the pillow at night. 

Still… you and Yeosang aren’t dating, and after your collab with him, he redressed you and cuddled you for an hour straight. He made sure you knew he wasn’t going anywhere, that the friendship is still intact. You weren’t being used. 

You hesitate to step into his dressing room, and ultimately decide to just stay put. Stand your ground. You don’t want to take too long, you just need an answer. 

Out with it. 

“I was just wondering why you left so quickly? Did I do something to offend you in any way?”  

San blinks, slight confusion clouding his face. “Oh, no, I just– I saw your form. Didn’t want to hang around and make you uncomfortable.” 

Now you stare at him, just as confused. “Wait, what? What about my form?” 

“You checked off ‘Hard No’ to aftercare.”  

…Pardon? 

No way. 

He must see the bewilderment in your face because he fishes his phone out of his pocket to show you. 

“Yeah, Hongjoong said…” he trails off, the light of his phone screen reflecting in his dark brown eyes. “Yeah, look.” 

He holds his phone up to show you, and you step closer to it, squinting to see for yourself. Sure enough, amidst all of the other dozens of checkmarks, you accidentally fucked yourself over and selected ‘Hard No’ for aftercare. Luckily, you didn’t select one of the bodily fluid options as a ‘Hard Yes’ in your evident past confusion. You bury your face in your hands. 

“Oh my god. That was meant to be a ‘Hard Yes’.” You groan. Guilt threatens to eat you alive for all your negative thoughts towards him, and the texts you sent Yeosang while in your dressing room after the fact. You’re going to have to do some serious damage control to get Yeosang to not hate him forever. It’ll surely start with a screenshot of the form you fucked up, followed by a dramatic statement of your stupidity. 

San pockets his phone again, almost sheepish. He hesitantly steps closer to you, unsure of how to fix this. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, “I should’ve double checked with you.” 

“No, no, please don’t blame yourself when it’s my own mistake.” 

“Still…” he trails off, looking down at the floor. 

It hits you that he’s really hurt by this. Hurt for you. 

“San…” you tilt your head to try and meet his eye. “It’s alright, really. I feel much better now that I know it wasn’t on purpose or because I did something wrong.” 

“I’d never do that to you, or anybody. I always stress how important aftercare is to the directors I work with so they don’t try to rush through it.” San runs a hand through his freshly-washed hair as he speaks, exasperated. You vaguely remember him saying something akin to that in one of the interviews that you watched. 

Damn, he really is nice. Here you were at the start of this, thinking he’d be a cocky son of a bitch who has the world at his feet, and anything he wants within arms reach. The last two parts of that description may be right, but your assumed attitude is definitely not. Well… maybe not entirely. The cockiness isn’t used to make anyone feel small, that’s the important difference. It’s confidence, more than anything. 

“I know,” you smile, trying to make him feel better. “Really, it’s okay.” 

He seems unconvinced. “Can I make it up to you in some way?” 

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. If you wouldn’t immediately cringe at yourself for doing so, you’d maybe ask for a hug or something. Physical contact in any way to comfort you, make you believe it. But the guilt he obviously feels is enough. The knowledge that he truly thought it’s something you were so against, and he respected it anyway, is more than enough. 

“You don’t have to, San.” 

“I want to, Y/N.” 

Your pulse skips a beat, wondering what he has in mind. The way he said it was so final, like he made up his mind already. His phone reappears in his hand, texting someone quickly and sending it off. He then reaches into his dressing room, turning off the light after doing a quick scan of it and closing the door behind him. 

“Can I walk you out?” 

That, you’ll allow. 

“Sure. Are you going home?” You ask, changing the subject as the two of you start walking towards the exit doors. 

“Nah, not yet. There’s a gym on this floor I’m gonna go to first.” 

You just nod in response, wondering how on earth he has the energy to go to the gym right now. You have a very special date with your bed for the foreseeable future. It’s highly doubtful that you’ll wake up before three in the afternoon. Truthfully, you can’t wait. Maybe you’ll sleep off some of the soreness you’re sure to have tomorrow. 

“Oh, by the way, do you have an agent?” San asks you out of nowhere, right before you get to the doors. 

You blink once. Twice, processing. “No…?” 

Yeosang’s the only one who may even come close. He’s the one you ask before doing anything, wanting his opinion and blessing. But technically and professionally, no, you’re an independent artist as far as you’re concerned. 

“I’d find one soon,” San says, glancing towards the bed, soaked through. “You’re about to get a lot of offers.” 

You blush furiously, reminded of everything that transpired between you barely an hour ago. “Maybe I should just take yours.” 

San groans, “Honestly, do it. I’m sure Joong could use a break from my bullshit.” 

You laugh, trying to hide it with your hand. San pretends to be offended that you agree, clutching his heart in betrayal, which makes you laugh harder. The doors push open, the white fluorescent lights blinding both of you after being so used to the golden studio lights on set. 

“Maybe I will let you have him,” he says, a smirk growing across his face. “It’s good manners.” 

He looks at you like he knows something you don’t, and it bothers you. The word choice sounds familiar, but you can’t place it. Before you can ask, he steps closer to you, invading your personal space for the first time since being intimate with each other. You hold your breath. 

“Goodnight, baby.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead before walking down towards the opposite end of the hallway, where you can only assume is the direction of the gym. 

Fuckin’ hell… 

You stand there like an idiot for another couple of seconds, still processing what just happened in the span of five minutes. You also try to figure out the implication behind his word choice. ‘Manners’. It bugs you so much, you know you heard something about it recently, but can’t pinpoint where or when. 

The question of what he meant follows you all the way to the lobby. You press the down button on autopilot, just now remembering to text the driver to tell him that you’re ready to be picked up downstairs and taken home. From down the hallway, you hear the door to the studio swing open again – probably some of the crew heading home as well. You glance towards the stairs, not exactly jumping at the chance to be stuck in an elevator with a bunch of strangers who watched you have sex an hour ago. 

But the footsteps that follow the sound of the door closing are what gives you pause. They’re hurried, and headed towards the lobby. The elevator dings behind you. You turn around just as the mystery runner comes around the corner. 

“Oh! Hi, Mr. Kim–”  

Hongjoong jogs over to you, catching you before the elevator doors open. 

“Sorry if I startled you. San is wondering if we can arrange another collab, but this time on your livestream.” He speaks quickly, like time is of the essence.  

You stutter, brain trying to connect with your vocal cords. 

“What?” You ask, even though you heard and processed everything Hongjoong said just fine. You’re just wondering if you actually heard him right. Today just keeps getting stranger and stranger. More interesting, definitely. 

He’s quick to repeat himself, almost pleading with his eyes for you to say ‘yes’. 

At least with the emails you had some time to think everything over. Now Hongjoong is staring dead at you, waiting for the response he hopes to hear. 

You can’t help it. You want to make him chase you again. 

“Tell him I’ll think about it,” you say as sweetly as possible, stepping into the elevator. 

You try not to enjoy the perplexed look on Hongjoong’s face until the doors close completely. 

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

You have no idea how he does it, truly. 

Everything in his world is immediate. You’re not used to it whatsoever. 

Those are the thoughts you have as you step out of the elevator in your apartment building, walking up to your door. You're more than ready to throw your shit down in the kitchen and go the fuck to bed. Your phone is in the process of being fished out of your pocket, intent on texting Yeosang to ask if he's around for a debrief.

You stop dead in your tracks when you look up, about to unlock the front door. Perched tall and proud, is a beautiful bouquet of purple flowers in a glass vase right outside your door. A card is placed in between the overlapping petals, and you can’t help but gawk at the sight of it. 

How the hell did he find your address? 

Oh– Hongjoong, probably. Your initial creeped-out feeling vanishes. Hongjoong can just find anything for San, you’re sure. 

Punching in the keycode to your door, and switching the kitchen lights on, you place the flowers on the counter, taking a second to admire them. Purple, you note. Your favorite. Again, Hongjoong must have told him, but you can’t help but smile – he really did want to make it up to you. 

You pluck the small card from the flowers and read it, sitting down at your kitchen island. 

Hope you had a good time today. 

Sorry for being such a stupid slut </3

-San

Your smile widens, laughing and rereading it. You flip it over, and on the back is a phone number, scrawled in blue ink. 

Perhaps you missed a hidden clause in the forms that makes you promise to not fall in love with him. 

You hope not. 

"hi sannie." you beam brightly at him, you cheeks flushed red from the alcohol.

"hi y/n." he smiles down at you again, his dimple poking out. san didn't drink that much tonight since he was a lightweight and didn't want to feel whatever terrifying concoction mingi and jongho made up in the kitchen in preparation for the people who didn't want to answer their truth or do their dares.

after settling down in a rough circle, wooyoung starts the game by asking yeosang if he ever got caught masturbating which lead him to go take a shot of the mystery juice. the shot caused him to gag horribly after he downed it leading to jongho and mingi high-fiving each other in accomplishment.

next, yeosang got karina to admit some dirty secret of her hooking with her ta in calc causing giselle to shout out about her doubts of karina's grade being so high in calc for someone who doesn't go to class. as the game went on, hyejoo and yunho ended up topless and honjoong and san fell victim to the mystery juice and was even tipsier than when the game started. you on the other hand were dared to go lick either wooyoung's toe or shoe and you opted for the shoe of course because you did not where his feet have been and you had to confess to ever surviving a no nut november (last year you almost folded but still got through). this turn however, things got a little more interesting.

wooyoung had dared you to go make out with san in a closet and although no one knew about your little secret crush on san besides hyejoo, wooyoung had a knack for knowing who everyone was into. it was scary honestly, he predicted a lot of relationships and figured out who was who's sneaky link.

"so, what's it gonna be y/n? shot or closet?" wooyoung presses with a smirk on his face. he knew. oh, that fucker.

your eyes drift to san to make sure he was comfortable with the idea which lead to him shrugging his shoulders, "i'm down if you're okay with it."

with a tug, you pull san up from his seat and look wooyoung dead in the eye, "closet."

"alright then," he claps his hands as he gets up to usher you to the storage closet in the living room, "come out whenever you're ready, we're gonna keep playing while we wait, alright lovebirds?"

you roll your eyes and shoo wooyoung away from the door, "fuck off."

with the shut of the door, you realize how close you were to san. whatever nerves you had from the wave of courage you had five minutes ago disappeared more and more as san looked down at you.

"we don't have to do it, if you don’t want to." he reassures as he reaches for your arms in order to comfort you.

"i w-wanna do it." you stutter making your heart beat out of your chest even more. "i'm just-i've never done it before."

san looks at you perplexed, he knew about all the terrible dates and weird exes you had so he assumed that you at least made out with them. "i thought-"

"i didn't, i haven't even lost my virginity yet and now i'm really scared because i'm kissing my best friend who probably thinks they're a prude and what if i'm really bad and i mess things up and you hate it for it and-"

to shut you up, san presses his lips against yours as you melt into the kiss and allow him to take over. with a smooth swipe of his tongue, you part your lips slightly just enough for him to slip in earning a sweet moan from you. his hand sneaks his way to the back of your head to pull you even closer to him and further deepen the kiss.

when you pull back, your lipstick was all over his face and your lips were puffy and swollen. your eyes were locked on san as he put his forehead on yours, his eyes closed as he chest heaved up and down to catch his breath.

"you're not so bad." he comments, still not looking up at you. "fast learner if anything."

"san!" you whine, slapping san on the shoulder causing him to open his eyes.

he backs up, trying to get away from you as much as he can in the cramped closet, "hey, i'm giving you a compliment."

"that's a shitty compliment." you fire back with a pout on your lips as your eyes focus on the floor.

swiftly, san reaches your chin with his thumb forcing you to look up at him. without even hesitating, san leans in kissing the pout off of your lips. with a sudden spark of rebellion, you pull at the belt loops on his pants and pull him close to you catching san by surprise.

this time san is the first one to pull away to catch his breath. "see, you're a fast learner." he breathlessly teases.

"i'm leaving." you half-joke as you reach for the door knob.

san immediately reaches for your arm, pulling you back into him, "nope, you're helping me clean this up." he states as he points to the lipstick smeared all over his face before feeling the wall around him for the lights.

"aren't you old enough to do this yourself?" you whine as you lick your thumb and try to rub off the pink lip gloss off his plump lips.

"yeah, but i want you to do it." san answers as he places his hands on your waist. absentmindedly, he begins to rub small circles onto your hips as you quietly undo the damage you did to his lips.

san probably didn't notice the effect he had on you but holy fucking shit your face felt ten times warmer than it was when you were kissing him. it could be the alcohol settling in possibly but who knows. maybe san just had that effect on you.

"you know san, you're really fucking hot." you confess without thinking as you wipe the lip gloss off your fingers. "i would date you, if i could."

it took a minute for san to process what the fuck you just said. there was a high chance he misheard you but if he did hear you correctly well, he's gonna keep you in here for another minute or so.

before san could even respond or even act out, you realize what you just said and immediately start freaking out.

"i did not mean that. i-" you stutter, waving your hands in the air.

a harsh knock came to the door followed by wooyoung poking his head out, "are the lovebirds done? joong and hyejoo wanna play a different game."

oh how you could kiss wooyoung for his amazing timing. "we're done." you quickly say as you smooth out your outfit before joining wooyoung in the living room leaving a confused san.

"y/n! how was it?" hyejoo slurs as she throws herself on you.

if whatever happened in the closet was the only thing san could remember from tonight, you were fucking doomed. for now though, that was an issue for tomorrow. tonight, you were going to indulge in a few more drinks in order to forget what happened moments ago.

the next morning after mingi's was a rough one. your hangover was probably the worst one of the semester and boy was that telling. your memory from last night was a little foggy, some parts you recall very clearly some not. but the one thing you do fucking remember was wooyoung's sneaky ass setting you up with san during truth or dare. kissing san, you remembered very clearly maybe a little too clearly but whatever happened in between and after that was a blur. you briefly remembered wooyoung opening the door but that was about it.

rolling out of bed, you check your phone to see that san had called. annoyed, you call back hoping whatever it was a good enough reason for you to call in the morning.

"yah, choi san what do you want? it's so early?" you complain, rubbing your eyes awake.

"y/n, it's literally two pm." san deadpans.

"so?" you sass back, "it's still too early for me."

you hear san sigh on the other end, "ok anyways, did you finish the plan for the comp sci workshop? seonghwa is asking for it, he said you were supposed to send it earlier this morning."

a part of you freezes in shock while the other part of you scans your room for your laptop that was covered in papers and notes from studying. "you're fucking joking right."

"nope."

"oh my fucking god, i totally forgot about it while i was studying for exams shit. oh my fucking god. fuck." you curse as you hurriedly get out of bed.

"don't worry, i covered for your ass and told seonghwa that you were working on it which is why you weren't answering your phone. i'm also on the way to help you finish the plan because hwa has some suggestions for it too"

"oh bless your heart, choi san." you praise as you begin your morning routine.

it was around six o'clock by the time you submitted the doc and slideshow to seonghwa and holy fuck were you tired. there was no way you could have pulled this off without the help of san. truly thankful for your best friend, you offered to buy dinner on you and he had the opportunity to chose.

"on you, for real?" he asks in surprise as you begin to clean up the dinner table that was used as a makeshift desk for the past couple of hours. "i thought you were broke."

it took every fiber in you to not throw the hefty textbook in your hand at him. "do you want food or not."

"yes, please!" he immediately back tracks. "fried chicken is fine."

aggressively, you hand him your phone before heading back to your room to put everything away. "order what you want but don't pay i wanna get stuff for myself too."

"thank youuu." san sings as he begins to scroll through doordash.

while in your room, you took the chance to try and process your feelings. it was a no brainer you loved san. he was always there for you ever since you guys met each other in high school. san's been there for your worst and best days of your life and it was always a given that you were there for days like those for him.

however, your use of "love" began to slowly change this year. you've been single for awhile after your last breakup which was a lot of emotional damage to handle but san was always there to comfort you. him on the other hand looked for causal hookups, nothing serious. san was young, he confessed to not wanting to start any relationships because he just wanted to mess around for awhile until he graduated from college.

which left you wondering why you felt jealous whenever san couldn't hang out on friday nights or left the club early. it was probably obvious to everyone as to why you were jealous but you could never admit it.

it was way too cliche to have fallen for your best friend and it certainly didn't help that he didn't take anything seriously when it came to dating. but choi san made it hard for you to not fall for him.

san was the perfect gentlemen. he's always attentive and remembers the little things about you. he always knew when you were feeling sad or mad and always knew how to handle your moods. he knew your coffee order along with your fears. san knew your likes and dislikes and knew when to stop teasing you if you ever got upset or uncomfortable. not to mention he was fucking fine as hell. sure, it is a little weird to be calling your best friend hot but it's literally choi san. everyone's campus crush unfortunately. there was just no way you couldn't have fallen for him.

"y/n, how much are you gonna eat?" san shouts from down the hall pulling you out of your thoughts.

"uhhhh... how much are you gonna eat?" you ask, taking a moment to compose yourself before walking back into the living room.

at least you were his best friend. best friend. a title that left you feeling grateful yet wanting more. maybe one day, you would tell him how you truly feel about him but for now you're content with being his best friend.

"oh my god, there's mozzarella sticks too!" san chirps from the couch.

"get me one!" you shout as you jump onto the couch. "just mozzarella with sugar and i could go for a couple of wings."

"ok..." san trails as he inputs your order, "do you want something to drink?"

"no, it's fine. i have some soda and soju in the fridge."

"fuck yeah!"

once completing the order, san repeats what he has in the cart before pressing the "order now" button and hands back your phone.

"thanks sannie." you reach for the phone before continuing, "and for coming here to help me finish. i don't know what i would've done without you."

"no problem, anything for you." san answers with a smile on his face.

afterward, silence fell in the room. there were very rare occasions where silences were awkward but this one felt different. it felt tense? maybe you were reading into it too much but the atmosphere felt odd.

"you know," san begins breaking the silence, "you said some interesting things last night."

an abrupt cough broke your voice before you could reply, "i'm sorry what?"

san repeats what he said before continuing, "y'know, i wouldn't mind helping you out."

"helping me out with what?" your heart was practically beating of your chest when you questioned san. exactly what the fuck did drunk you say in that damn closet.

"yesterday, you mentioned that you were a virgin before we kissed and that you were a little embarrassed about it."

"so, you're asking me if i would want you to help me lose my virginity?" you ask, not quite sure if you're hearing the words come out of san's mouth right.

"yeah, i mean it's better than losing it to a complete stranger right? but if talking about this is making you uncomfortable i will shut up about this and pretend this never happened. you just gotta tell me." the man across from you reassures, his face unreadable.

"i can't tell if you're joking about this."

"why would i joke about something that you have an issue with?" san responds back, his tone serious.

you take a minute to let his words soak in because you're still sure you're not hearing him correctly. choi san, your best friend wants to take your virginity? and why are you lowkey comfortable with the idea? are best friends supposed to be doing this? doesn't this break some type of boundary or cross some line of being friends?

"if you don't want to, there's no rush y/n. i'm only offering this because i think you would be comfortable with someone you know and trust. plus, i'm already tested and i'm clean so you don't need to worry about catching anything."

san made great points on his case and you really wanted to lose your v-card and to him? even better. your only concern was how would this affect your friendship afterward. what if your feelings for him get too strong?

"you promise this won't affect our friendship?"

"i swear on it." san raises his pinky out, "i promise this won't affect anything between us. it'll just be like me doing another favor for you."

taking his pinky with yours, you seal the promise by using your thumb to connect with his, "deal."

"deal." san agrees as he smiles, his dimple poking out. "can i ask you a few questions though?"

"shoot away."

"you've cummed before right?"

"uh yeah." you answer, feeling slightly uncomfortable with talking about such a taboo topic with your best friend. you've heard bits and pieces of san's sex life but he's never heard about yours and now is the perfect time to start laying out everything.

"so you've masturbated before?" you nod in response leading to san asking a few more follow up questions, "with your fingers or with a toy?"

"both, hyejoo got me a vibrator for my birthday."

"oh? we love to see it." san comments with a surprised look on his face, "what are you into and what are some hard no's?"

"hmmm, i'm definitely into praise. maybe hair-pulling? oh, and i like it when people are possessive? y'know when someone let's their partner know that they their's or something. hard no's though would be degradation but do i like dirty talk."

out of all the things you've confessed tonight, saying no to degradation got an eyebrow raise from san.

"what?" you snap, "call me a whore and you're fucking dead."

"noted." san raises his arms up in surrender.

"your turn now, what are you into and not?" a part of you was a little excited to hear about what he had to say.

"well, i like to hear and give praise and sometimes edging. i also like it when someone pulls my hair and when they're loud. it lets me know that i'm doing something right. i also wouldn't mind getting topped. but i'm not into super bdsm or anything extreme right now."

"interesting, i'll keep that in mind."

"last question, i swear." san starts, "have you ever been eaten out before?"

"no. i didn't really get into much with any of my partners."

"well," he pauses for dramatic effect, "you wanna know how it feels like?"

"like, right now?" there goes your heart again, racing a hundred miles per hour.

"i mean we have some time before the food gets here so..."

the mere thought of san going down on you and being the first person to do had you rubbing your thighs together. "fuck it."

the both of you move to the couch where you let san climb on top. "is it okay, if i kiss you again?"

you nod, afraid to use your voice. this was really happening.

"yes, please." you whisper, still not trusting your voice.

"i need words baby." san demands as one of his hands lifts your chin up.

"don't be shy baby, it's just me." he comforts as the hand on your chin rises to your cheek. "i'll take care of you, just relax."

looping your hands around his neck, you nod beginning to allow yourself to relax. san uses the hand on your cheek to meet him in the middle as he pulls you into a sweet kiss. it was less sloppier than the last time you kissed him yet san was already pulling sounds out of your mouth and he hadn't even touched you yet.

san pulls away moving his lips to your neck as he softly licks different spots on your neck, switching between kitten licks and nibbling. soft pants were escaping your mouth which made san want to hear more from you. with the next lick of your neck, san followed up with a harder bite on your neck but quickly soothed the pain with the swipe of his tongue eliciting a sweet moan from you.

you could feel san's smile of victory on your neck as he leaves one last kiss on your neck before pulling away. "ready?" he asks, waiting for a verbal confirmation which you comply with quickly. "just relax and let me do the work. don't hesitate to stop me if you ever feel comfortable."

this time you nod your head shyly in response as san eyes you down for any signs of discomfort. "i trust you."

san smiles in response as one of his hands begin to travel downwards, his lips going back to your neck. his hands start off with a small rub on your hips then snake further down to the waistband of your pants. you were beyond grateful you were wearing some of your newer underwear but that was in the back of your mind when san cupped your clothed core.

"oh fuck." you groan, his fingers taking you by surprise as they run and up down your slit.

"already such a mess and i've barely touched you." he coos at you making you whimper.

"stop teasing please," you plead, grabbing onto his arm.

san removes his hand from your pants causing you to pout but before you could even whine, san pulls down your sweats after moving to the edge of the couch.

"fuck," san groans, the sight of you dripping for him was making him lose his mind.

san takes small kitten licks, taking his sweet time with you as he watches for your reactions. these small licks weren't doing it for you though as one of your hands snaked to the back of his head trying to use it as leverage to speed things up.

"patience, baby." he says as he presses your hips down, making you whimper.

"please, just go faster," you beg, looking at him hopelessly.

as on cue, san takes two fingers to spread your lips apart before quickening his pace. the difference in speed had you gasping as you tugged on his hair.

"ooh my god, so close." you pant, the grip on his hair tightening.

san groans into your sopping pussy sending vibrations into your core and bringing you closer to the edge. to add on to the burning feeling in your stomach, he brings a hand up to your clit to speed up ur orgasm.

"fuck, fuck, fuck!" you cry out feeling the knot in your stomach burst.

your orgasm washes over you, leaving you breathless as san continues to lick up your cum. the overstimulation building up was beginning to burn as you tug on san's hair to stop.

san immediately pulls away with your essence dripping down his chin but that doesn't stop him as he dives into a heated kiss with you, letting you taste yourself on your tongue.

when he pulls back a sickening smile spreads across his face, "thoughts?"

to be honest, you were completely breathless with how fucking amazing san just ate you out and with how san was staring down at you right now with a stupid smirk on his face. "that...was great."

the smile on his face is gone as san frowns, "just great? i put my all into that."

you roll your eyes, grabbing the nearest pillow, you smack san on the chest. "i can't really think right now asshole."

"is it because i ate you out really good?" san genuinely asks, a smile returning his face.

"no you dumbass, the project really got my ass." you throw your hands into the air, chest still heaving.

"oh."

"oh my god." you groan. "just give me my clothes."

"wait, let me clean you up first." san objects before jogging down your hall towards your bathroom.

upon returning, san found you half asleep as your eyes were shut. still, he got on his knees and carefully took the wet rag to clean you up and his face.

your eyes fluttered open to see san below you again dabbing the inside of your legs carefully with a towel. instinctively, your hand flies to his hair as you stroke through his locks. "thank you." you hum, "you really did a good job."

san physically tensed up at your touch or maybe it was your words, either way he pulled away with a light blush on his face as he handed you a fresh pair of underwear and sweats. "of course, next time should be even funner."

"funner isn't a word." you quip, trying to ignore the excitement pooling in your stomach for the next time you guys hook up.

"shut up and move." san shushes as he climbs onto the couch with you, pulling you into his side.

the warmth coming from his body was too delicious as you felt your eyes droop even further. "san, i'm gonna fall asleep."

"just nap and i'll wake you up when the food is here."

although you had your doubts about san waking you up as soon as the food came because you feared that he would take all the chicken legs and then wake you up, you awoke to everything untouched (thankfully).

the food tasted like heaven as you guys chowed down however san would argue that you tasted better than whatever chicken piece he was eating.

ever since that night when san came over, something in you changed. you ached for san to touch you like that again and although you usually see san almost every day, you haven't seen him in a couple of days. you knew that he was busy finishing stuff up for clubs and packing for his trip home but something in you felt like something changed between the two of you.

maybe it was just you being extremely horny over your best friend that you didn't know how you would ever act normally near him after he ate you out. it also didn't help that you guys didn't set an official day for when you'll finally lose your virginity.

every now and then you would get the urge to just tell san to come over and fuck you but whatever sanity you had left in you refused to cave in so weakly like that.

speaking of the devil himself, san's name appeared on your phone.

morning wood: u wanna come over tonight?

morning wood: i just finished packing

hobbit: do u want me to bring something over for dinner?

morning wood: nah i can order pizza when u come over

morning wood: pepperoni good?

hobbit: yeah, i'll be over in thirty i just need to finish my laundry

morning wood: okayyy

morning wood liked a message from you

fuck. is this gonna be the night? like the night? shit. shit. should u shave? wear something sexy under some sweats just in case?

usually, san is super straightforward when it comes to shit like this so there should be no reason for you to be so freaked out. maybe you could be the one to initiate things? he did say he liked to be topped. wait, what if san genuinely wanted to hang out with you? and now you're only looking forward to seeing him because you wanna get dicked down.

your thoughts kept on racing as you sat in front of two outfits on your bed. casual loungewear with the possibility of wearing the ridiculously over-the-top lingerie underneath or something slightly with more effort which consisted of jeans and a cute cardigan.

still panicking over what to wear to your best friend's house you call hyejoo on the edge of having a meltdown.

"hell-"

"hyejoo! i need your help with what to wear san's. you rush completely cutting off your friend.

"well fuck, nice to see you too." hyejoo jokes commenting on your panicked state, "what's the occasion? wait is this the night you finally lose it?"

she knew almost every detail of what was going on between you and san. hyejoo lived for your updates and lately, she's been missing her nightly video chats of you screaming every little thing that had happened between you and san after the night at mingi's.

"that's the thing, i don't know what the occasion is. he just texted me to come over cause he's been hella busy lately tryna pack and shit."

"ahh that explains why you haven't called me in like four days."

"yes it does, but please help me. i don't know if i should like sort of dress up fancier? or like be sneaky and wear something bold underneath."

"well, you usually just wear sweats or whatever right?" you hum in agreement, "well then just wear sweats then wear the lingerie i got you."

"but what if i wear and be uncomfortable the whole time and we don’t even have sex."

"ok well, then just wear a matching set. preferably something that's not from high school, y/n."

"hey. i threw those away leave me alone." you argue back.

"whatever, anyways just wear a matching set in his favorite color just in case you guys do have sex."

"you are so fucking smart." you praise, as you rifle through your sock and underwear once more. "thank you so much, i'll call you if anything happens."

"ah i'm so excited!" hyejoo exclaims on the other end of the phone, "stay safe and use protection!"

"yes, mom. bye" you roll your eyes at the sudden change in hyejoo's voice.

it was final. you decided on wearing a black matching set since you couldn't find your purple bra in your drawer. black will be fine right? it's still a sexy color? well, either way you thought you looked good as hell in black so you got a confidence boost from that.

soon you arrived at san's, with your heart beating out of your chest. a very rare feeling to have at your best friend's house but hey, what's one more boundary to cross?

tentatively, you knock on his door fiddling with one of the strings on your hoodie.

"hi."

"come in." san greets you wearing a loose pair of sweats and a tank top showing off his buff arms.

well shit, if you weren't wet at the possibility of having sex tonight, you were already wet from just looking at his physique. the way the tight tank top accentuated his tiny waist and broad shoulders had your mind running laps.

"you good?" san asks as he looks over at your spaced-out figure.

"yeah, i'm good. it's just," you rub a hand over face to stall as you think of an excuse, "i'm fine."

san just gives out a light chuckle at your response, "well, the pizza is on the counter if you want some but do you wanna watch anything?"

"ooo yes!" you slightly loosen up as you try to forget how you got caught checking out your best friend, "chainsaw man?"

"yeah sure, i've been wanting to catch up on that."

"perfect!" you clasp your hands together in excitement.

"blanket?"

"yes, please."

you continue to fiddle with the strings of your hoodie dealing with both your horniess and anxiety. when san returned to the couch with one of his (yours actually) favorite blanket, you instinctively scooted closer to san for double warmth.

however, you failed to remember that your lewd thoughts were still in the back of your mind and as san was slowly typing in "chainsaw man" into the search bar, you kept fidgeting trying to find the best way where you relieved some sort of pressure and felt comfortable.

"are you sure you're okay?" san looks down at you. his words felt like he was pushing you to admit to something you didn't want to say out loud.

"i-uh,um." you couldn't even think straight with san staring down at you like that. "i think i'm ready."

san just stares at you in confusion, "i love the confidence but for what?"

you hopelessly look at him, praying he understands what you mean. "you know..." the blush on your face gets stronger every minute you say something dumb.

san understood what you meant. actually, he had a feeling that you wanted to the minute you started checking him out. still though, he played dumb wanted to hear you say it out loud.

"i don't know, actually."

"san!" you whine at him.

still, your pleas had no effect on you as he stared at you with a blank face.

"i'mreadytohavesexwithyou." you blurt out really fast not even daring to open your eyes. you hear san laugh and the feeling of wanting to crawl up in a hole and die grew exponentially. immediately you hide underneath the blanket hoping san would disappear if you wished hard enough.

"y/n," san pulls the covers down to enough to reveal your eyes. "it's okay." you refused to remove the blanket completely but still pulled it down just enough that your whole face was exposed. "if you want to have sex now you just have to tell me. i'm perfectly fine with waiting too, it's all up to you."

"can you please just fuck me." you pout. "now, please."

a soft smile appears on san's face as he scoops you up into his arms. "you're so cute."

"wait, where am i going?" you ask as you tilt your head to see where san's taking you.

"i am not taking your virginity on a craig's list couch."

"fair enough."

gently, san lays you on his bed before crawling towards you. once your head is on one of his pillows, san's hands trail to the hem of your shirt. "can i kiss you?"

the way those words left his mouth felt so soft and pure. you were so glad you ditched the idea of losing your v-card to a random tinder date. you trusted san enough to take good care of you and he did.

"yes, please." you answer, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him in.

the kiss started off slow, as san took his time with you. his lips molded perfectly with yours. your arms tug on his neck to bring him even closer as san spreads your legs with his knee. the top of his knee came into contact with your aching core causing you to moan in the kiss.

san pulls away with swollen lips, his hands trail to the hem of your shirt tugging it on softly, "can i?"

acknowledging him, san gets to work as he gets rid of your shirt leaving you in your bra. flustered, your hands reach for san's shirt as you tug on it.

"to be even," you explain.

"of course." san smiles following your command and smoothly takes his tank top off throwing it to somewhere in the room.

it wasn't new seeing san shirtless but you swear he changed his workout routine or something because he looks (and feels) ten times more ripped than the last time you saw him shirtless.

a gasp leaves your mouth and your hands fly to his chest as they rake down to his stomach.

"what?" he asks as he leans closer into you, putting both of his hands beside your head, caging you in.

"did you get a new workout routine?" you attempt to ask calmly.

"yeah actually, yeosang and i started going to a trainer a couple months ago."

"i can tell," you compliment, hands once again running up and down his abs.

in one swift motion, san captures both of your arms and holds them in place with one hand above your head.

"hey-"

"enough talking." san cuts you off with a sudden kiss, his free hand trailing your curves. desperately, you tried to lift your arms so you could wrap them around san but his grip was too strong. your body fidgeted trying to get him to loosen the grip but with how close san knee was to your core, it began to rub deliciously against your sweats. soon, you fell into a somewhat steady rhythm trying to create some friction for yourself.

when san pulls away, your motions come to a halt like you were caught red-handed. "baby couldn't wait, huh?"

embarrassed, you turn your head with a blush evident on your cheeks.

"hey, i'm just teasing you." san comforts as he grabs your chin with his fingers, forcing you to look up at him. he felt his heart crumble (and his pants strain) when you looked up at him with a pout. "i'll make it up to you, yeah?"

"you better, you jackass." you joke as you slap his arm.

san gets back to work with your lips as his hands trail all over your body. his roamed every curve and dip of your body. the callouses on his hands left goosebumps everywhere. eventually, san stopped at the top of the waistband. "may i?"

pathetically, you whimper out a quick "yes" as san gets to work with getting rid of your sweats and panties. one of his fingers runs up and down your slit to collect your slick.

"gonna prep you first, okay?"

nodding in confirmation, san slips his finger in as you gasp. your walls clench around his finger as he pumps in and out. your breath quickens even more before san adds in another one drawing a moan from you.

once san deems you prepped enough for his dick, he pulls his fingers out causing you to whine. "i'll be back, just gotta find a condom baby." he soothes as he opens his bed stand drawer his clean fishing around for one.

finally, san finds that gold foil package, ripping it with his teeth and you swear you could've come at that sight alone. you help san get rid of his pants and boxers.

sitting up in anticipation, you watch as san pumps his cock in front of you. the realization of you getting dicked down finally settling causing nerves to bounce around in you again. his dick wasn't some scary monster cock that you've seen in porn videos but it was still fairly long and the more you thought about it the more you questioned how the fuck it was supposed to fit inside of you.

san pulls you out of your thoughts when he lets out a groan. your eyes snap back down to his dick as you watch his tip start to leak beads of precum from his angry, red tip. san slows down his hand as his other hand begins to reach for the condom.

"wait."

san snaps his head to you with the condom still dangling from his teeth, his eyes full of concern.

"can i do that?" you ask the sudden burst of confidence spurring your adrenaline.

immediately, san nods his head as he sticks out his chin for you to grab the condom from his mouth. you sucked in a breath as you slipped the condom onto san as he praised you for your job well done but you cut him as you give him an experimental pump of his cock.

"fuck." san says through gritted teeth.

with his reaction, you pump him a few more times watching as his face contorted in pleasure. you didn't want to be the only one being satisfied tonight.

"baby," san grunts as he grabs your wrist, scaring you slightly as you thought you did something wrong, "we don't want me cumming just yet."

"right..." you trail off awkwardly as you retract your hand away.

san lightly laughs at your awkwardness finding it adorable, "it's alright, just let me make you feel good now."

he plants a quick kiss on your lips as he softly presses you onto your back. "tell me if anything hurts alright love?"

you give him another quick nod as you watch san shift on his knees. with a hand, he rubs the head of his cock up and down your slit just to tease you earning him a moan from you.

once san lines up with your entrance, he slowly fills you up and before any pain or discomfort could even manifest in your mind, san smashes his lips into yours. with the way, san's tongue was dancing with yours the pain in your lower abdomen was almost nonexistent.

by the time he pulls away, san's cock was fully buried into your cunt. your walls rubbed deliciously against san, "fuckkk, you feel so fucking good." san groaned. "tell me when you're ready for me to move, love."

this new pet name combined with san going down to kiss your neck has your head spinning. "oh fuck, san."

the sensation of san's lips leaving wet kisses on your neck was incredible. to add even more to your pleasure, you felt him begin to nibble lightly on your neck causing you to moan even louder. you could even feel san's smirk of accomplishment on your neck before he continued his new pattern of nibbling on different spots on your neck and soothing the pain with a few swipes of his tongue.

it took you a moment to even tell san that you were ready for him to move since you were so overwhelmed with his little side quest that you couldn't even manage to get a word out.

with your confirmation, san pulls his mouth away from you to focus on your cunt. at first, he does a few experimental thrusts just to test the waters before settling into a comfortable rhythm.

"you're taking me so well, baby" san praises when he flashes his eyes up at you. the dazed look in your eyes caused a surge of confidence to course through his body.

san's ego grew when he realized that he was the first one to ever make you feel this fucked out. he showed his newfound confidence by fucking you even harder. the grip on your hips tightening as san tries to get the most leverage he can to chase his high.

"fuck, san." you cry out, the knot in your stomach growing. "m' so close baby."

san tensed at the nickname for a quick second. he had been calling you "baby" ever since he started helping you out but holy shit he did not expect you calling him that to have such an effect on him. "say it again." san demands his eyes flashing to yours.

"baby, fuck." you groan as san's pace increases even more sending you to close the edge. "shit, i'm so close"

his thrusts got sloppier as your moans became louder. the knot in your stomach began to unravel with each push. san swallowed your moans as he leaned down to kiss you. it was a messy kiss but yet it oddly felt intimate. there was just something in his urgency to kiss you that felt so comforting.

the mix of his lips combined with the last few thrusts of hips, the both of you finally came. pulling away from your lips, san presses his forehead to yours to catch his breath with his cock still buried deep inside you.

for a moment, you guys stay like that. in such an intimate position, you closed your eyes and believed that he was yours and not just your best friend. you wished you could stay in this moment forever and keep believing this isn't a one-time thing.

you were pulled out of your daydreaming as san finally pulled out causing you to whine, already missing the feeling of him. through tired eyes, you watch san tie up the condom to discard after he throws on a pair of boxers.

"where are you going?" you ask still out of breath. apart of you worried that he was going to get up and leave already. you didn't want your little daydream to end just yet.

"i'll be right back." san answers slipping out of the door and disappearing somewhere into your house.

soon, san returned with a glass of water and a wet rag. carefully, san gets to work as he cleans you up after handing you the glass to drink. when he's done, you give the half-empty glass back to him and encourage him to drink it. he gladly does before getting up once more to put away the cup.

immediately, you tug at his arm and pull him down into bed with you. "don't go."

san smiles at you softly before returning back into the covers. your arms link around his torso in an instant bringing him closer to you. "don't ever leave me."

"i won't, i promise. you mean too much to me"

"i do?" you mumble, fatigue finally catching up to you as your eyelids began to droop.

"mmh." san mumbles as he presses a soft kiss onto your forehead. "go to bed, we can talk tomorrow."

too tired to even respond, you close your eyes and wrap your arms tighter around him.

the sun peeked through the blinds promptly disrupting your sleep along with the noises on the street. when you opened your eyes to an empty bed your heart sank. you knew san didn't owe you anything after last night but still you wished you woke up in his arms and not alone.

with a heavy heart, you got up from his bed and got dressed again, picking up the scattered clothes from the floor. memories from the night before flooded your mind and it hurt remembering that it was only temporary.

when you left the room, you didn't expect to see san cooking breakfast.

"you're awake already?" san asks as he looks over his shoulder.

you nod your head, "your blinds don't do shit."

"my apologies sleeping beauty." san jokes back turning his attention back to the stove. "breakfast will be ready in ten."

by the looks of it, san appeared normal like last night's events had no effect on him whatsoever. truthfully, they were the opposite. san was internally freaking out. from the many hook up and one night stands san has been on, not one of them has he longed for the girl afterward. he didn't know how to react to his feelings but the one thing he did know was that he wanted you.

san was just scared to ask you to be his. there was a multitude of reasons of why but one of them was that he was scared of the commitment. in general, he just couldn't get himself to open up to just one person and be vulnerable but with you, he wanted to try.

he felt safe in your presence and although it took him so long to realize it, he's always felt comfortable around you. "breakfast's ready!" sans call out to you.

the two of you eat in awkward silence. part of you was convinced that you were making it awkward because someone couldn't keep their feelings out of it and san thought he was making things weird because he had no clue how to handle his emotions.

eventually, you couldn't stand the sound of the utensils clanking on the plates and bowls, and either could san. "san,"

"yes?" he looks up at you, thankful for breaking the tension.

this is the moment. just do it. "i don't think we can be friends anymore."

"wait what?"

"i know, i made you promise that whatever we did wouldn't affect our friendship but i-i love you."

san stares at you in confusion, "i love you, too but i don't see why we can't be friends anymore? was the sex that bad? you can be honest."

"god no, it was great. but the issue is that you don't love me the way i love you." you confess daring to look san in the eyes. "i knew this was terrible idea from the start but i just- i wanted to have you for one night even if it was temporary."

san soaks in your words, not saying anything for a moment which leads to worry even more.

"i'm sorry," you start, looking down at your hands as you try to contain yourself.

"you don't need to apologize." san says grabbing your hand from across the table. "i wanna be yours too."

"wait, what? i thought you didn't like relationships though?"

"i don't but recently i've realized i wanna be more than friends. don't think it's because of the sex, if anything that just gave me another reason to love you." san jokes, easing the tension in the room.

"san, be serious." you scold at him while a smile slips through your facade.

"no seriously though, i mean it when i say i wanna be yours."

"you wanna be mine?"

"yes i do. i know i'm not good at communicating feelings and stuff like that but i'm willing to try with you."

the biggest smile graces your face as look down at the table while san comes over to your side. maybe you didn't have to worry at all about this because in the end he wanted you all along.

"we can take it slow, as long you're mine." you look lovingly into his eyes and you felt your heart beat out of your chest. for good reason, this time though.

"sounds great to me."

a laugh escapes as you lean your head onto's san shoulder. his arm immediately wraps around you bringing you in as san places a quick kiss on your head. "so what did you think about breakfast?"

"being honest," you look up at san with a playful smile on your face, "they were kinda runny."

"that's it, we're done." san jokes, throwing his arms into the air for dramatic effect.

laughing at his antics, you just realize how much you love san and although it may be too early to say it yet, let's just say you're grateful you had a choi san in your life.

Time had lost its meaning, blending one day into the next like an endless gray fog. Tonight was no different. You found yourself perched on the windowsill, a half-filled wine glass balanced between your fingers. The city outside pulsed with its usual rhythm—lights flickering on and off in distant buildings, traffic lights cycling from green to yellow to red and back again. It was all so mindlessly repetitive, yet you sat there, watching as if the monotony might somehow offer solace.

But it never did.

Your eyes, hollow and unfocused, stayed fixed on the scene outside as you took another slow sip. The wine, bitter and stale, barely registered on your tongue. This nightly ritual had become an empty habit—a way to pass the hours until sleep claimed you. Most nights, you didn’t even finish the glass before slipping into bed, leaving it abandoned on the windowsill like an afterthought.

Tonight was no exception. With a sigh that felt heavy in your chest, downing the last bits of your wine before you stood and shuffled to the kitchen. The sound of running water echoed in the quiet as you rinsed the glass, the coldness of the tap biting at your fingertips. It was only as you placed it on the drying rack that you heard it—the shrill, invasive ring of your phone coming from the bedroom.

Your head snapped toward the sound, your brows knitting together in faint confusion. Phone calls this late were rare, and never good. Reminding you of what happened six years ago. A simple sigh, still, you dried your hands on your pants as you made your way to the nightstand. Titling your head to read the caller.

Unknown number.

Your stomach twisted, a subtle unease creeping into your chest. With a hesitant swipe, you answered, lifting the phone to your ear. "Hello?"

Your voice sounded foreign to you—raspy, unused, and weary.

"Is this Mrs. Song?"

The words hit you like a slap. For a moment, you froze, the air in your lungs turning cold. You blink several times, clearing your throat in the process. "You must have the wrong number," you said quickly, your voice tight. "Look, I’m not in the mood—"

"Is this number 010242018?"

A chill ran down your spine. Your heart stuttered, then picked up in an erratic rhythm. "Yes... Yes, that’s my number. Who is this?" There was a pause, a moment heavy with something you couldn’t quite name—comforting, desperate, yet utterly unsettling.

"I’m sorry for the sudden call, ma’am, but we’d like to formally address this at Medic Hospital."

Your breath caught. The glassy haze of your evening shattered as your mind raced. "What? What happened? Who’s hurt?"

"One of our patients woke up just today and is asking for you. They gave us your name and number."

For a brief moment, you considered ending the call—brushing it off as a mistake or a cruel prank. But something in the caller’s tone, in the way your name had been spoken, compelled you to stay on the line.

"Who is it?" Your voice wavered, your grip on the phone tightening. 

The answer came, cutting through the air like a blade, regret washes over you as soon as you heard who it was.

"Song Mingi. He said you’re his wife."

The words slammed into you, knocking the breath from your chest. Your knees felt weak, your stomach churning as if the ground had fallen out from under you. The name that haunted your dreams, the one that turned your days into an endless loop of heartbreak, was suddenly back—alive and demanding your attention.

And just like that, the numbness shattered, leaving only the raw ache of everything you had lost.

You could have told the caller that you were no longer his wife—ex-wife, to be precise. That he had remarried and moved on, leaving behind the pieces of what once was. It would have been easier, cleaner—a way to shield yourself from the storm of heartbreak you knew was waiting to engulf you.

You could have told them to call someone else his best friend since middle school, or band mates, his family—anyone who had more right than you to be by his side now. 

But you didn’t.

Somewhere between the logical protests of your mind and the aching emptiness in your chest, your body betrayed you. Your feet moved, your heart thudded, and your brain chose silence over sense. Before you knew it, you were standing at the hospital’s reception desk, a name on your lips that felt foreign and bitter, like a taste you hadn’t revisited in years.

“Song Mingi,” you murmured, the syllables trembling as if they carried the weight of every sleepless night and unspoken thought. The name that brought has opened so many wounds that you have soullessly stitched back, how many times you closed your eyes and his crescent smile appeared before you, and the amount of tears you’ve cried silently that night he decided to step out of the door. Without looking back.

The nurse at the desk looked up, her face a mixture of concern and relief. She exchanged a glance with the doctor beside her before both of them rose to meet you.

“Mrs. Song…”

The title hit you like a knife, sharp and precise, cutting through whatever composure you had managed to muster. You raised a hand quickly, shaking your head as if to ward off the name. “No. No, that’s not me. I’m just… I’m just a friend.” The words felt heavy, a weak shield against the truth pressing against your ribs. “Call me Tulip.”

The nurse’s brows furrowed, glancing at the doctor as if silently questioning your response. But she didn’t pry. Instead, she nodded and gestured for you to follow.

“Let’s discuss the situation in my office, Miss Tulip,” she said, her voice calm and professional.

You followed her through the sterile hallways, your pulse pounding in your ears with every step. The name you’d chosen—Tulip—felt like a flimsy mask, a desperate attempt to separate the person you were now from the woman you had been when the name Mrs. Song was yours.

But no matter how hard you tried, the memories surged forward.

Each step toward the nurse’s office felt heavier, as if the weight of the past was dragging you down. And yet, some stubborn part of you carried on, pushing through the pain, the questions, and the overwhelming sense of dread.

Because no matter how much it hurt, you had to know.

“…So, he’s suffering from retrograde amnesia due to the impact on his brain, and his memory only stretches back to six years ago?” you repeated, your voice strained with disbelief.

The doctor nodded, adjusting her computer screen to show you the MRI results alongside the CT scan evaluation. The bright, clinical display only deepened the pit forming in your stomach.

“What about his…” The words clawed at your throat, desperate to escape yet refusing to form. Your lips parted, trembling as if even uttering the phrase would break you further. The doctor, noticing your visible struggle, finished the sentence for you, her tone gentle but firm, “His wife is still unconscious. There’s no telling when—or if—she will wake up, unlike Mr. Song.”

The room felt like it had shifted, tilting slightly, leaving you grasping for something to steady yourself. That word—wife—hit you like a punch to the gut, sharp and unrelenting. You blinked rapidly, your throat tightening as you tried to suppress the surge of emotions rising within you. 

“I see,” you finally muttered, your voice hoarse and barely audible. The phrase was hollow, void of meaning, as if saying it would distance you from the gravity of the situation.

The doctor continued to watch you carefully, her face a mask of professional composure, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of sympathy. But no amount of sympathy could soften the blow or untangle the knots forming in your chest. Unconscious. His wife. You swallowed hard, the bitter taste of those words lingering on your tongue, a cruel reminder of the distance between what once was and what could never be again.

You exhaled sharply, rubbing your forehead as the weight of the situation bore down on you. “Do his parents know about this…” You waved your hand in a circular motion, grasping for the right word. “…mess?”

The doctor let out a weary sigh, leaning back in her chair. “Yes. His parents are fully aware. They’ve asked if it would aid Mr. Song’s recovery to stay with someone familiar—someone who might help stabilize his sense of self until his memory returns.”

Your brow furrowed, and you crossed your arms, a clear ‘what-does-that-have-to-do-with-me’ expression etched on your face. Silence filled the room, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the hospital’s fluorescent lights.

The doctor took another measured breath, removing her glasses and setting them on the desk. Her eyes met yours with a seriousness that made your chest tighten. “While it’s true that his memory loss is temporary, there’s something else you need to know.”

The pause stretched uncomfortably long, and you felt the air shift—the kind of moment where you instinctively knew what was coming but still prayed you were wrong.

“He could stay with his family, it is every patient's right to choose and that would be more than enough for his recovery,” she continued, her tone careful. “But Mr. Song…” She hesitated, as though the next words would solidify an irreversible reality. “…has specifically requested to stay with you. He acknowledges his parents but insists that he needs you. His wife.”

Your heart lurched violently at the word, an invisible dagger twisting in a wound you’d spent years trying to heal.

“No,” you whispered, barely able to keep your voice steady. You clenched your fists, knuckles whitening as you tried to ground yourself. “That’s a mistake. He…he knows I’m not…” You trailed off, the word wife too bitter to say out loud.

The doctor’s gaze didn’t waver. “To him, you still are. His memory hasn’t reached the point where he remembers anything beyond that.”

You felt like the walls were closing in, the carefully constructed defenses around your heart beginning to crumble. The reality of his condition pressed against your chest, suffocating, as the doctor’s words echoed in your mind.

‘He still thinks I’m his wife.’

A low groan escaped your lips as your hands tangled in your hair, the frustration clawing its way to the surface. You had every right to feel this way. Six years ago, life had been entirely different. Six years ago, you and Mingi were a newly married couple, barely a month into your union. It was the first year of 2019, and you both believed tying the knot of a new year would make it all the more special—a symbolic start to a lifetime of shared milestones and growing together.

The memories came rushing back, unbidden and relentless. The dates that turned into adventures, the quiet evenings spent in each other's arms, and the tender, intimate moments that spoke of love deeper than words could ever convey. All of it played out like scenes from a movie you couldn't pause, set within the walls of the house he bought for both of you—a house meant to hold your dreams, your laughter, and your forever.

Now, here you were, forced to relive it all, the continuation of your adventure begins on the month of your marriage and throughout the years left such significant memories to the both of you. Every moment, every memory, was like a jagged shard piercing through the fragile layers of healing you'd painstakingly built over the years. The metaphorical scab that had formed over your wound was being peeled away, piece by agonizing piece, leaving the pain raw and exposed once more.

Your chest tightened as the weight of it bore down on you. How could something so beautiful, so filled with love, now feel like a ghost haunting you with the echoes of what you’d lost?

DAY 1:

The door clicked shut behind you as you stepped inside your small apartment, your movements heavy, like an anchor tied to your ankle. You flipped on the lights, the soft glow illuminating the modest yet warm space. Stepping aside, you gestured Mingi in, giving him room to take in his surroundings.

He lingered in the entryway, his eyes darting around the room. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he noted the simplicity of it all—cozy, unassuming, you. Yet, beneath the surface, his heart twisted, a subtle ache he couldn’t place.

“It’s… nice,” he said softly, his gaze sweeping across the room once more. His steps faltered when he realized what was missing. The walls were bare, the shelves sparsely decorated. No framed pictures of you and him. Not a single trace of the life you had built together.

His heart sank, and a small pout formed on his lips. “Did we move?” His voice carried a hint of sadness, as though the realization was too heavy to mask. You froze for a moment, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. Turning to face him, you forced a casual smile. “Yeah,” you lied smoothly, though your voice wavered slightly. “Yeah, we did. Work, you know? I had to relocate to be closer to the office. I’m still… in the process of unpacking.”

His brows furrowed, his head tilting slightly, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he simply nodded, a faint shadow of disappointment crossing his face. “Oh… okay.”

The weight of his gaze followed you as you busied yourself preparing a snack. It wasn’t just the lie that gnawed at you—it was the memories. The house he had bought for both of you, the home that once felt like a sanctuary, now a distant, painful echo of what could have been.

Placing the snacks on the table, you glanced at him. He sat on the couch, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his fingers grazing the armrest absentmindedly. It was as if he was searching for a comfort he couldn’t find. You sat across from him, handing him a glass of water. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, sending a familiar warmth through your skin. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice quiet yet sincere.

“Don’t mention it,” you replied, your tone light, masking the storm raging inside you. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, searching for answers you weren’t ready to give.You focused on the small moment—sharing a quiet snack, pretending the weight of the past wasn’t suffocating both of you. It was all you could do to hold it together.

A thought hit you like a freight train once you offered to clean up (even though Mingi insisted). You only had a week. A week to help him recover, to guide him through this fragile state. After that, if it felt too much on your plate, his family would step in, as they had promised during that difficult phone call. They had been kind, their gratitude genuine, despite the invisible scars you bore from the past.

The understanding that this arrangement was temporary didn’t bring relief. It only deepened the ache in your chest. 

That night marked the beginning of something fragile and undefined—day one.

You had already marinated some pork earlier, intending to have your usual samgyeopsal for dinner, the plans for yourself were last minute change on the sudden changes of event. But knowing how your landlord frowned upon cooking indoors, you decided to take everything up to the rooftop. The cool evening air would help clear your head, or so you hoped.

Mingi, ever the helpful presence, joined you in setting up. His broad hands moved with a quiet purpose as he arranged the small table and chairs beneath the soft glow of the hanging orange bulbs strung across the rooftop. The lights swayed gently in the night breeze, casting warm shadows across the space.

You took charge of the grill, laying strips of marinated pork neatly across the metal grate. Now, the pork sizzled on the grill as you placed the strips carefully next to each other. The faint crackle of fat meeting flame broke the silence, and you used a hand fan to coax the fire higher, the smell of smoky marinade already making your stomach grumble.

Behind you, Mingi moved with quiet determination. You heard the faint click of a portable speaker, and a soft melody filled the air, one that sent a shiver down your spine. It was that song. The notes carried a haunting familiarity, weaving through the moment like a thread tying you both to a time when things were simpler, happier. Your breath hitched, and for a second, the world felt suspended.

Before you could turn around to glance at Mingi, warmth enveloped you—a strong arm wrapping securely around your waist. Your heart skipped a beat as his touch pulled you back into the present.

“Careful,” Mingi murmured, his voice low and steady, as though grounding you. He was close enough that you felt the faint rumble of his words against your back. His other hand lightly grasped your wrist, stilling the fan in your hand. Your mind is clawing at you as the thought of you have to share some dinners with Mingi, cook breakfast with him— and most painfully of all, to reminisce some memories with him.

You froze, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest like a vice. The music played on, and instinctively, he began to sway, guiding you with an ease that mirrored the rhythm of the song. It was a move from the past—a small, almost imperceptible dance you once shared under different circumstances. His grip on your waist was steady yet hesitant, as though testing boundaries he didn’t quite remember crossing before.

And just like that, the melody pulled you back—back to a morning that now felt like another lifetime.

You could almost see it, the hazy sunlight spilling through the kitchen window, warm against the wooden floor. The smell of fresh coffee and burnt toast lingered in the air, remnants of an overly ambitious breakfast attempt.

Mingi had been there, standing behind you as you flipped pancakes with clumsy precision. The ache of the night before still lingered in your muscles, and in between your legs—a pleasant reminder of tangled sheets and whispered confessions. His arms had wrapped around your waist then, too, steadying you as you nearly dropped the spatula.

“You’re gonna burn them if you keep flipping like that,” he teased, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“And you’re distracting me,” you’d replied, though there was no bite to your words. Instead, you let yourself lean into him, the rise and fall of his chest against your back grounding you. When he swayed you gently in the kitchen, humming the very same song now playing on the rooftop, you laughed, swatting at him with the spatula. “Mingi, stop. The pancakes—”

“Pancakes can wait,” he interrupted, spinning you around to face him. “This? This is more important.”

The memory faded as quickly as it came, leaving a dull ache in its wake.

Back on the rooftop, Mingi swayed to the music, guiding you with an ease that mirrored the rhythm of the song. His grip on your waist was steady yet hesitant, as though testing boundaries he didn’t quite remember crossing before. The orange glow of the bulbs cast flickering shadows on the rooftop floor, painting the moment with a bittersweet intimacy. You could feel his breath, warm against your neck, as he whispered softly, “This song… it feels important.”

You swallowed hard, the ache in your chest swelling as you managed a faint nod. “It is,” you replied, your voice barely audible over the hum of the music.

In that instant, it was as if time folded in on itself—past and present colliding in the tender pull of his arms and the bittersweet chords of a melody neither of you could forget.

That night, you lay awake. 

How could you forget? Of all things, how could you forget that your tiny apartment only had one master bedroom? It wasn’t like you hadn’t spent months adjusting to the space—living alone, needing only one bed. Yet, here you were, stuck with the reality that you’d now have to share it with Mingi. Now, the prospect of sharing the bed with Mingi felt like an unbearable weight pressing down on your chest.

The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows that danced eerily on the walls. You could hear the faint hum of city life outside, a stark contrast to the turmoil within you. Every creak and sigh of the building seemed amplified in the silence of the night, echoing the unease that gnawed at your thoughts.

The soft rustle of sheets beside you snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turned to glance at Mingi, who was already asleep beside you. His presence was both comforting and suffocating. Memories of your past life together flickered through your mind—late-night conversations, shared dreams, the warmth of his embrace. Each recollection was a double-edged sword, bringing both solace and pain.

You glanced at the edge of the bed, contemplating if you could somehow sleep on the floor instead. The idea quickly felt absurd. You were already here, tucked under the same blanket, with no way out. Your heart pounded in your ears as you lay there, staring at the ceiling. 

Mingi suddenly murmured something, his voice low and muffled. Your breath hitched as you turned your head slightly to look at him. He was still asleep, his expression soft, almost boyish in the dim light of the bedside lamp. 

You reached out, your hand trembling as it brushed against his arm. The contact sent a jolt through your system, awakening a longing you had tried so hard to suppress. You pulled your hand back, staring at your own reflection in the mirror across the room. The person looking back at you seemed distant, hollow, as if the vibrant spark that once defined you had dimmed. It has always since the beginning.

Sleep felt like an elusive sanctuary, slipping further away with each passing minute. You buried deeper into the pillow, hoping to drown out the thoughts that refused to let you rest. But even in the darkness, the memories lingered—fragments of laughter, whispers of love, the promise of a future that now seemed like a fragile illusion.

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision as you stared into the void.

Your mind raced with questions and fears. How could you help someone you barely understood anymore? How could you navigate the delicate balance between compassion and self-preservation, when every moment with him felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss of unresolved emotions?

The night stretched on, each hour dragging longer than the last. The minutes seemed to crawl, each second a testament to the fragility of your existence. You lay there, torn between the desire to protect him and the fear of losing yourself in the process.

Then he whispered again, and your heart stopped. 

“...Tulip,” he said, your name slipping from his lips like it belonged there.

You froze, the sound of his voice stirring something deep inside you. He hadn’t called you that in years, not since—

You shook your head, willing yourself to forget. This was all temporary. Just a week. That’s all you had to endure. 

Turning onto your side, you faced away from him, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. But the heat of his presence, the steady sound of his breathing, and the lingering echo of your name in his voice made sleep feel impossibly far away.

As dawn's first light began to seep through the curtains, you remained wide awake, staring into the new day that mirrored the uncertainty of your heart. The challenges ahead loomed large, but so did the remnants of a love that refused to fade entirely. In that fragile balance, you found a sliver of hope—a determination to navigate the storm, no matter how tumultuous the journey ahead might be.

DAY 2:

When the morning sun peeked through the curtains of your room, it painted the space with a soft, golden glow. The warmth did little to chase away the exhaustion clinging to your body, but you stretched anyway, muscles protesting against the motion.

As the blanket pooled around your lap, your gaze drifted to the figure lying beside you. Your breath caught in your throat as familiarity tugged at your heartstrings. His lips were slightly pursed in a soft pout, his hands curled into loose fists beneath the pillow. For a moment, he looked untouched by the weight of the past, his broad shoulders free of burdens.

A quiet sigh escaped you as you gently pulled the blanket higher, tucking it around his ears, recalling his playful complaints about waking up with frozen ears. "They'll fall off," he'd grumble dramatically, drawing a reluctant smile from you.

Slipping on your fluffy slippers, you padded toward the kitchen. The clink of utensils and the scent of pancakes filled the air as you worked, each flip of the spatula grounding you in the present. But the familiar sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind you, accompanied by the deep rasp of his morning voice.

“‘Morning, love,” he murmured, and your heart stuttered at the endearment. The grip on your spatula tightened, anchoring you back to reality. You glanced over your shoulder, offering him a small, hesitant smile. “M-Morning, Min… Mingi.”

The words felt foreign, a mix of old habits and new hesitations. You could almost smack yourself for the stumble, but he didn’t seem to notice, his expression easy and warm.

You served the pancakes in silence, the clatter of plates and the scrape of chairs filling the space. “Thank you,” he said, flashing you a grin before diving into his breakfast with his usual unhurried pace.

You couldn’t help but watch, your own plate long emptied, as he savored each bite. His methodical movements were endearing—a rhythm you had once known by heart. With your coffee cup cradled in your hands, now cool and untouched, you let the quiet moments of the morning settle over you. The hum of the ceiling fan blended with the occasional scrape of his fork against the plate. But the tranquility wasn’t enough to keep the exhaustion at bay. Your eyelids grew heavy, last night’s restlessness catching up to you.

As your head began to nod, you jolted awake, your coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“You okay?” Mingi’s voice broke through the haze, his fork pausing mid-air as he looked at you with concern. You forced a smile, shaking off the lingering fog. “Yeah, I just didn’t sleep much,” you admitted softly.

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment longer than necessary, before nodding. The unspoken understanding in his gaze was both comforting and bittersweet, a reminder of the connection you once shared and the fragile peace of the moment.

“Figured,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his tone laced with quiet concern. “You kept tossing and turning. Something bothering you?”

You blinked, heat crawling up your neck and settling in your cheeks. Of course, he’d noticed—how could he not when you’d been forced to share the same bed? The situation felt both inescapable and unbearably awkward, every shared breath and subtle movement magnified in the silence of the night.

Your mouth opened, but the words refused to come, faltering under the weight of your swirling thoughts. "It’s been… a while, you know," you finally managed, the words stumbling out clumsily. “You’ve been in the hospital for weeks, and… yeah.” You trailed off, internally cringing at your own awkwardness, your attempt to downplay the turmoil inside you.

He nodded, his gaze softening with something that looked like understanding. Before you could process it, his hand reached out, enveloping yours in a firm but gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry, love,” he murmured, his voice low and heavy with sincerity.

Your breath hitched, the air in your lungs freezing as the word love echoed in your mind. That nickname—it was a relic of your past, a tender reminder of a time when everything felt whole and simple. But now, it was a cruel specter, dragging you back into memories you weren’t ready to face.

The pressure of his hand on yours felt like a burning weight, and the rising tide of anxiety threatened to engulf you. The doctor’s words surfaced unbidden, sharp and unrelenting: Mingi and his wife, their second anniversary, the plans for a getaway in the east province that had been violently interrupted by the highway accident. The knowledge clawed at you, tearing open wounds you thought had scarred over.

“I’ll clean up,” you blurted out, your voice tight as you pulled your hand away, retreating before the walls you’d carefully constructed crumbled entirely. You stood abruptly, gathering the plates in a hurried attempt to escape the suffocating moment.

Mingi was taken back by your actions but Mingi also stood up. “Nope. Sit.” He gently but firmly took the plates from your hands, his expression leaving no room for argument. “You cooked. I’ll handle this.”

“It’s really fine—”

He turned to give you a pointed look, one that felt too much like the old Mingi, the one who had always insisted on splitting chores despite your protests. “Sit,” he repeated, softer this time. You relented, sinking back into your chair as he moved to the sink. Watching him was surreal—his movements so natural, as though he belonged in this space, as though nothing had changed.

He rolled up his sleeves, his tall frame somehow managing to make your tiny kitchen seem even smaller. The sound of running water and clinking dishes filled the room, a strangely domestic symphony that stirred something bittersweet inside you. The gentle clatter of dishes being washed filled the kitchen, a sound so familiar it tugged at your chest like a forgotten melody.

Mingi was a whirlwind of unconscious domesticity—moving with an ease that made it painfully clear he didn’t just fit into this space. He fits into your life. 

It felt wrong. It felt right.

You rested your chin on your hand, observing him. The way he washed each dish with precision, the way he hummed a tune you recognized as one of his favorites, the way he smiled to himself when he caught you staring—it was all so familiar. And yet, the reality of your situation hung heavy in the air. But he didn’t know. He didn’t know that every swipe of the dishcloth brought memories flooding back. The mornings you spent together, him insisting on cleaning up while you teased him about his overly meticulous ways. The playful arguments about who made the better breakfast. The laughter, the love, the heartbreak that followed.

He didn’t remember the arguments, the pain, the long nights spent trying to piece together a marriage that had already fractured. All he knew was the version of you that existed in his mind six years ago, the version he still believed was his wife.

And the happily new married life he is in.

Your fingers tightened around your coffee cup as the weight of it all pressed down on you. Of all the people he could have chosen to stay with during his recovery, why did it have to be you? The ex-wife he didn’t even remember leaving behind.

He glanced over his shoulder, catching you staring, and his face lit up with a grin so pure, it almost made you forget how this all ended the first time.

“What?” he asked, drying his hands on a dish towel.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, averting your gaze.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he teased, leaning against the counter. You forced a laugh, the sound hollow even to your own ears. “Guess I’m out of practice.”

Mingi shrugged, completely oblivious to the storm raging inside you. He surveyed the kitchen again, his eyes lingering on the bare walls and countertops. “You’ve really changed things up, huh?”

You tensed. “What do you mean?”

“Just... it doesn’t feel like us, you know?” He gestured around the room, his expression a mix of confusion and longing. “Where are all the pictures? The ones from our trip to Jeju? Or the goofy ones we took on your birthday?”

You scrambled for an explanation, your heart pounding. “I... uh, have asked Seonghwa to come and bring it from your—our house,” you lied, forcing a laugh. 

Mingi nodded, accepting your answer without question. “Well, don’t take too long. This place could use a bit of ‘us’ again.” The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache, his words hit you like a freight train, and you had to look away. The difference of “us” is where the fights, the sleepless nights, the way you both unraveled until there was nothing left to hold onto unlike his is somewhere you guess is full of happiness and affection.

As he left the kitchen, whistling a tune, you exhaled shakily. Sharing your apartment with Mingi felt like stepping into a dream and a nightmare all at once—a cruel trick of fate that blurred the lines between the past and the present. Your hand trembled as you set the coffee cup down, the weight of the past and present colliding in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

So when the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the city streets. The day had been a whirlwind, filled with moments that teetered between awkward and oddly nostalgic. You barely had time to process any of it when Mingi, with his boyish grin and an eagerness that made your heart ache, suggested dinner at a noodle shop.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at him. “Why? I mean, I can cook for you—”

He raised a hand, halting your words mid-sentence with a gentle but firm gesture. “You’ve already cooked for me twice today. Why not let me treat you for a change?” He reached for your jacket, draped over the rack, and held it out to you.

You hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest. It had been a long time since you’d gone out—especially with him. The idea felt foreign, almost surreal.

“I—”

Before you could finish, he sighed, crossing the room to where you sat on the couch. He eased himself down beside you, the sudden proximity causing a jolt of heat to rush through your body. His warmth seeped into the small space between you, igniting a flush that climbed up your neck and settled in your ears.

“Take it as a date,” he said softly, his voice tinged with a playful charm that only made your pulse quicken. “For all the days I missed while I was in the hospital. What do you say, love?”

The nickname cut through your resolve like a whisper of the past, stirring emotions you’d worked hard to bury. Your mind raced with possibilities, weighed down by the unfairness of reliving memories you hadn’t asked to revisit. Was this wise? Could your heart withstand the bittersweet sting of nostalgia?

But when your gaze met his, every carefully constructed barrier began to waver. His eyes held the same spark you remembered—curiosity mingled with unspoken hope, as though he had just stumbled upon something new and couldn’t wait to share it with you. And then there was that smile, the one that always had the power to unravel your overthinking.

A quiet sigh escaped your lips as you felt your body relax against your better judgment. The battle between your heart and mind ended with a truce neither was happy about.

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

His grin widened, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of the past seemed to lift, leaving only the quiet promise of a single evening.

When Mingi said that he wanted to try some noodles that he just saw some streets up where you both passed yesterday, you weren’t expecting it would be some other ramen house. 

Not just any noodle shop—Home Ramen House.

The ramen house that you and Mingi frequently go to whenever he feels like it. You hesitated, the weight of the memories tied to that place pulling at you. But his excitement was contagious, and before you knew it, you were sitting across from him in the cozy little corner booth you both used to claim as your own. Mingi scanned the menu, his eyes lighting up as though discovering it for the first time. “We’ll have the spicy seafood ramen and the dumplings,” he told the waiter, his voice filled with conviction. You blinked, startled.

It was second nature to him, a detail woven so deeply into his muscle memory that he hadn’t even realized it. The smell of broth wafted through the air, stirring emotions you had buried long ago. As the waiter brought out steaming bowls of noodles and a plate of golden-brown dumplings, the atmosphere shifted. The familiar clatter of chopsticks, the hum of quiet conversation from nearby tables, the way the condensation on the glasses trickled down—it all felt like stepping into a memory.

Mingi leaned forward, inhaling the aroma with a satisfied sigh. “This smells amazing,” he said, his eyes crinkling in that way that used to make your heart skip.

You nodded, stirring your noodles absentmindedly. “It does,” you murmured, trying to focus on the present. The first bite was pure nostalgia. The flavors exploded on your tongue, and you couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips. Mingi noticed, grinning triumphantly. “Glad you still love spicy ramens after you let me sleep on the couch for a week.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. Indeed it was true, it was the first time you tasted spicy food and it took you a lot of milk to calm down your tongue that was numb from the intense spice in it. Because of the influence of Mingi and him laughing at your red face, which he thought is cute, you told him to sleep on the couch. 

Conversation flowed easily, much to your surprise. He talked about the food, his thoughts on the day. You found yourself laughing at his terrible joke about dumplings being “wrapped gifts for your stomach,” despite the ache in your chest.

You had been too focused on picking up a particularly slippery noodle, and a rogue strand of sauce had made its way onto your cheek. Mingi notices it and chuckles, without missing a beat, Mingi reaches across the table, napkin in hand. “Hold still,” he said softly, dabbing at the spot.

The gesture was so natural, so tender, that it left you momentarily breathless.

His fingers lingered for just a second too long, and you caught his eyes—warm, familiar, and filled with a fondness that felt achingly real. Your pulse quickened, and you quickly turned your attention back to your bowl, muttering a quiet “thanks.”

As the meal went on, you couldn’t shake the sensation of déjà vu. The way he teased you for eating too fast, the way you both reached for the last dumpling at the same time, the shared laughter—it was all too much and not enough, all at once.

When the bill arrived, Mingi grabbed it before you could protest, his lips curling into that familiar playful grin. “I’m your husband,” he said, his tone light but laced with a deeper emotion you couldn’t quite place. “I should be treating you to the greatest things in life.” He added a playful wink that made you roll your eyes, but the warmth in his voice lingered, disarming you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

Deep down, it was almost too much—the familiarity of the moment, the ease with which he slipped back into old habits. It felt like walking into a dream you knew would shatter the moment you woke up.

As you stepped out into the crisp night air, the world seemed quieter, the stars scattered above like a tapestry of fragile hope. Mingi tilted his head up, his hands buried in his pockets. The glow of the restaurant’s lights illuminated his face, softening the lines of worry and regret you had grown used to seeing since his accident.

“This feels nice,” he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of wonder, as if he were rediscovering something long forgotten. “Like I’ve found something I didn’t know I lost.”

His words pierced through the fragile walls you had built around your heart. You bit your lip, the ache in your chest swelling.

You did.

It was a truth you couldn’t say out loud, one you weren’t sure you were ready to admit even to yourself. Yet in the stillness of that moment, it hung in the air between you—unspoken but undeniable.

DAY 3:

The day began like any other—quiet, unassuming, and unremarkable. You woke early, your mind preoccupied with a client meeting about revisions to a blueprint. The sharp scratch of your pen against paper and the hum of your laptop filled the air as you scribbled down notes, entirely absorbed in the task.

The faint clink of porcelain pulled your attention. A steaming mug appeared beside you, its rich aroma filling the room. Startled, you looked up to see Mingi, holding his own coffee and offering a soft, familiar smile.

“Have a coffee first, love,” he said, his voice a soothing balm to your busy thoughts.

You took the mug, fingers brushing his briefly, and nodded your thanks. The nickname rolled off his tongue effortlessly now, as if no time had passed since he last used it so freely. It wasn’t just the words, though—it was the way he said them, laced with warmth and something deeper, something unspoken.

But the kisses? Those you hadn’t quite grown used to.

There was the time, just last week, when you’d been rushing around before a meeting, juggling your bag, phone, and scattered papers. Mingi had stepped into your chaos like an anchor, hands firm on your shoulders as he steadied you. He’d kissed your forehead so gently, it left you stunned. Without a word, he handed you a brown bag of snacks and ushered you to the car, driving you to work while you sat in quiet disbelief, his thoughtfulness lingering far longer than the ride.

Now, as he left a kiss on the crown of your head and stepped out of the room, your heart did what it always seemed to do around him these days—it stumbled, tripping over feelings you weren’t ready to name.

Yet, beneath the warmth that spread through your chest, a shadow loomed. With a soft sigh, you returned back to your work.

Later, when your meeting concluded, you found yourself sprawled on the couch, half-laying and half-sitting, as Mingi flipped through Disney+. He eventually settled on an Avengers marathon. The easy camaraderie, the quiet moments together—it felt so natural, so right.

And so unfamiliar.

Just as the movie’s opening credits rolled, a knock at the door echoes. Both of you turned toward the sound simultaneously, like startled meerkats. Mingi paused the movie and moved toward the small monitor connected to the doorbell cam. 

“Oh, it’s Seonghwa-hyung,” he announced. Your ears perked up. The memory of your impulsive request to Seonghwa came rushing back. After Mingi had offhandedly mentioned that the apartment did not feel like “ours,” you’d acted on instinct, reaching out to your best friend and asking him to retrieve a box of old photos from your attic.

The door opened, and there he was—Seonghwa, effortlessly chic as always, with his silver hair and the familiar box in his hands.

“Hey, babe!” he greeted, his grin infectious as he breezed in. You smiled back, leaning in for air kisses before he set the box on the coffee table.

“I’d stay and catch you up on all the office gossip,” he said, glancing at his watch, “but my baby mama’s in the ER—she’s about to give birth!”

Your eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, Seonghwa! Go, go, go!”

He chuckled, pulling you into a quick hug before turning to Mingi with a firm handshake and a knowing smile. As you walked him to the door, he shot you a look—one filled with silent understanding and something unspoken. As you walk Seonghwa to the door, Mingi had caught Seonghwa’s knowing look given to you before he left. 

The moment Seonghwa was gone, the apartment felt quieter, but in a strangely comforting way.

You turn around with a small smile on your lips, “Well the picture is here, let’s get started?” Mingi had helped you hang up the picture frames, most of them old photos of trips they had taken together. Mingi holding each of the frames made his hand tremble for no reason or that one reason why he suddenly had a flashback of where the same photo shattered on the ground, glass shards glinting like jagged tears in the sunlight. The arguments. The silences. The distance.

“Mingi, you okay?” Your voice, soft with concern, broke through the haze. He blinked, snapping back to the present. Forcing a smile, he nodded and placed the frame on the shelf. “Of course, love,” he said gently.

But you saw it—the flicker of something unresolved in his eyes. A shadow of a past neither of you dared to name but both still carried. You didn’t press him, though. Instead, you continued working side by side, filling the quiet with small, easy conversations. The unspoken truths could wait for another day. For now, this—rebuilding, frame by frame—was enough.

The golden afternoon light filtered softly through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room. You were curled up on the couch beside Mingi, your head resting against his broad shoulder, the toll of the early morning meeting plus the small clean up around the apartment made you tired. 

The lingering hum of your morning on-call meeting still played faintly in his mind. He had watched you work earlier, eyes fixed on your focused expression as you scribbled notes and responded to clients, your determination unwavering even through the early hours. Now, it was just the two of you, cocooned in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The world outside felt distant, irrelevant, as if it had been locked away somewhere far beyond the safety of your small apartment.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy. It was peaceful, almost sacred.

Beside you, Mingi shifted slightly. His fingers reached out, adjusting a photo frame on the coffee table without thinking. His gaze lingered on it—a snapshot of laughter frozen in time—before wandering toward the bookshelf by the window. The sight of the cluttered shelves, books stacked without rhyme or reason, brought a small, almost imperceptible smile to his lips. Some of those books he recognized as ones you’d read until the pages frayed; others were strangers to him, spines barely creased.

Then, like a wave crashing without warning, the memory hit him.

The bookstore.

His hand froze, mid-movement, gripping the edge of the couch as the vivid recollection unfolded in his mind. He could feel the chill of that rain-soaked day, the dampness clinging to his skin as you guided him through the streets after picking him up from the hospital. The weight of the moment had pressed heavy on his chest—uncertainty, exhaustion, and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.

You had found refuge in that tiny, unassuming bookstore. Its wooden shelves lined with worn books and the comforting smell of paper and ink offered a sanctuary neither of you had expected. You’d both lingered there, surrounded by stories belonging to others, as if searching for something in the words you didn’t yet know how to say to each other.

The memory of your hand reaching for his, tentative and warm, surfaced with startling clarity. It was a touch that had pulled him out of his own head, grounding him in the present, in you.

“Hey,” your voice now pulled him back to the room, gentle and curious. He blinked, his grip on the couch loosening as he turned to look at you. The concern in your eyes was subtle but unmistakable. You always seemed to notice when he drifted too far into himself, and for that, he was endlessly grateful.

“Just remembering something,” he murmured, his voice low but steady.

Your head tilted slightly, an invitation for him to share if he wanted to. He didn’t, not yet, but the way you leaned into him, your warmth so close, was enough to soothe the tightness in his chest.

The photo frame sat untouched on the table, a silent witness to the weight of the past and the fragile beauty of the present.

The memory of the rain, the bookstore, and your hand in his still lingered, but now, it felt less heavy. It wasn’t just a memory of pain anymore—it was one of quiet strength, of a moment where everything else had fallen away except for the two of you, finding your way back to each other in the most unexpected places.

Mingi sighed, his hand settling lightly over yours. “Thanks for being here,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your skin in an unspoken promise. The quiet sincerity in his voice hung between you, tangible and real.

Your eyes fell to his hand resting on yours, tracing the way his fingers seemed to fit so naturally. Without thinking, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze. The warmth of your touch sent a flutter through him, “Thank you for letting me stay,” an inexplicable yet familiar feeling, like a forgotten piece of a puzzle finally sliding into place.

For a moment, the world seemed to shift, the sunlight filtering through the window growing softer, warmer, as if the connection between you had become the room’s very heartbeat. Quiet. Steady. Unbreakable.

And yet, beneath the tranquility, a faint ache lingered.

Why did he feel like something was missing?

“Do you remember the library we went to?” His voice broke the silence, soft and tentative, as though reaching for something fragile.

You looked at him, noticing the way his gaze wavered, a flicker of something unspoken glinting behind his eyes. Hesitation? Longing? It was hard to tell, but you could feel it—something pulling at him, tethering him to a memory his heart wasn’t ready to let go of.

You sat up slightly, your movements drawing his attention like a moth to a flame. His eyes followed you, searching, waiting.

“Do you want to go to the bookstore, Min?” you asked, your voice gentle, careful.

The nickname rolled off your tongue, easy and familiar, but to Mingi, it was both a comfort and a quiet reminder of something he couldn’t quite grasp. The corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, as his heart reacted before his mind could catch up.

He nodded, almost absentmindedly, his eyes still on you as if the answer lay in the way you moved, the way you spoke. There was a dullness in his chest, a faint shadow of the vibrant emotions he once knew, but even in its muted state, it yearned for something more.

As you stood and moved toward the bedroom to grab your things, Mingi stayed rooted on the couch, watching you disappear through the doorway. His hand lingered on the cushion where yours had been moments ago, his thoughts a quiet storm.

The memory of rain-soaked streets and the quiet sanctuary of the bookstore flickered to life in his mind, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. He didn’t fully understand why the thought carried such weight, but the pull was undeniable. He exhaled softly, the sound almost lost in the stillness of the room. Maybe, just maybe, revisiting that moment would help him find what he felt was missing—something intangible, yet so profoundly important.

The rain caught them off guard. One moment, the sky was a dull gray, and the next, a torrential downpour had them sprinting down the street, their laughter mingling with the sound of splashing puddles. By the time they ducked into a small, tucked-away bookstore, both were drenched, water dripping from their hair and clothes. 

The rain stopped a few hours ago and the blue sky was enough evidence to not bring any umbrella yet they should have still brought it.  Mingi shook his head like a dog, sending droplets everywhere and earning a half-hearted glare from her as she squeezed the water from her sleeves. He grinned sheepishly, running a hand through his damp hair as he took in their surroundings.

The bookstore was charming in an old-world way—creaky wooden floors, overstuffed chairs, and the comforting scent of aged paper. His gaze wandered over the shelves, the rain outside creating a rhythmic backdrop.

“This place…” His voice trailed off as something stirred faintly in the back of his mind. “It feels familiar.” She glanced at him, her expression guarded, but said nothing.

Mingi meandered through the aisles, his fingers brushing the spines of books until one caught his eye—a worn-out copy of a novel that made his heart stutter.

Why this book?

He pulled it out and stared at the cover. A wave of warmth and nostalgia washed over him, but it was laced with something he couldn’t quite name, like trying to remember the details of a dream slipping through his fingers. Turning to her, he held up the book, a small smile playing on his lips. “Didn’t we read this together? I think I remember… something about this story. It’s special, isn’t it?”

Her eyes flickered with an emotion he couldn’t place, but it wasn’t the joy or excitement he expected. Instead, it was heavy, almost bittersweet. “You… you said it reminded you of us,” she replied softly, her voice tinged with a sadness she tried to mask.

 Mingi frowned, his thumb brushing the frayed edge of the book’s spine. “I did?”

There was a beat of silence before she spoke again, her tone carefully neutral. “You did.”

His gaze remained fixed on her, studying the way her eyes avoided his, the way her smile didn’t quite reach them. Something about her felt different—familiar, yes, but distant. Her eyes, he realized, didn’t shine the way he remembered. There was something missing, a light he couldn’t name but that he was sure used to be there. He had always told her that her eyes were like stars, vibrant and full of wonder. Now, they were like stars lost behind clouds.

The thought sent an uncomfortable ache through his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping closer. She nodded quickly, too quickly, and busied herself with flipping through the pages of the book. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He wasn’t convinced, but he let it go, turning his attention back to the book. Sitting down in one of the overstuffed chairs, he motioned for her to join him. She hesitated before settling into the chair across from him, and they both fell into a comfortable silence.

The sound of rain against the windows, the scent of old paper, the warmth of the tiny space—it all felt so… intimate. As if they were stepping into a memory.

Mingi began reading aloud, his deep voice filling the space. He didn’t understand why the words felt so familiar, why they tugged at something deep inside him, but he didn’t question it. When he looked up, he found her staring at him, her expression unreadable. He grinned, holding up the book. “You always said I read too slow.”

Her lips twitched, and for a brief moment, there was a spark of something—something that reminded him of the past, of those star-like eyes. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the same guarded look.

Mingi leaned back in his chair, the ache in his chest deepening. Something was missing, something important, and it wasn’t just the gaps in his memory.

The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a serene stillness that seemed to blanket the world in a gentle calm. The two of them stepped out of the bookstore, the sound of their footsteps splashing against small puddles on the cobblestone street. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the earthy scent of rain-soaked ground and the faint aroma of nearby flowers.

Mingi glanced around, taking in the scene. The streetlights cast a warm, golden glow that reflected off the rain-slicked surfaces, making the entire place shimmer as though it were draped in a thousand tiny diamonds. It was breathtaking, the kind of beauty that made him feel small and yet deeply connected to the world around him.

He turned his gaze to her. She was walking slightly ahead of him, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of the streetlights. The way her hair caught the light and the way her steps seemed to glide over the wet pavement—it all felt so familiar.

A tug in his chest pulled him closer to her. Without even thinking, his hand reached out, his fingers gently brushing against hers. She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting his in the dim light. He hesitated for a moment, his hand lingering, unsure if she would pull away. But then, her fingers curled around his, and Mingi felt a warmth bloom in his chest.

To him, it felt like home.

Her hand in his was soft and warm, fitting perfectly as though it had always belonged there. He squeezed gently, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. There was a comfort in the gesture, a sense of belonging that he couldn’t quite put into words.

For her, the touch was bittersweet. It felt like a memory, distant yet vivid, as though it were something she had dreamed of many times before. She glanced at him, her heart catching in her chest at the way he looked at her. His eyes held a softness, an affection that seemed unguarded, almost innocent.

The quiet between them wasn’t heavy or awkward. Instead, it was filled with unspoken emotions, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood.

The streets around them seemed to come alive in the aftermath of the rain. Raindrops clung to the leaves of the trees, catching the light and sparkling like tiny jewels. The occasional chirp of birds returning to their nests added to the tranquil ambiance. It was as though the world itself was holding its breath, watching them, waiting for something to unfold.

Mingi finally broke the silence, his voice soft and contemplative. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way everything sparkles after the rain… It feels peaceful.”

She nodded, her eyes drifting to the shimmering reflections on the ground. “It does. Like everything’s been washed clean.”

His gaze lingered on her, a small smile playing at his lips. “You always used to say that, didn’t you? That the world looks brighter after the rain.”

She stiffened ever so slightly at his words, the smile on her face faltering for a brief moment before she quickly recovered. “Maybe I did.”

He frowned, his brow furrowing slightly as he studied her expression. There it was again—that fleeting look in her eyes, as though she were hiding something. It was like a veil had been drawn over her emotions, keeping him at arm’s length.

But then, she turned to him fully, her hand still in his, and smiled softly. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Home.

The word echoed in his mind, and he held onto her hand a little tighter. The apartment they were heading to didn’t feel like the home he remembered, but her presence made it feel closer to what he thought home should be. As they walked side by side, the cool breeze brushing against their skin, Mingi couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this moment than he could understand. Her hand in his, the glimmer of raindrops on the leaves, the gentle hum of the world around them—it all felt so right, so familiar, yet tinged with an unspoken melancholy.

And for her, each step they took together felt like she was walking through fragments of their past, pieces of a life they had once shared but could no longer fully claim.

The rain had stopped, but the storm within them lingered, quietly shaping the path they walked together.

DAY 4

The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm, golden glow across the small apartment. You woke to the soft clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the familiar sounds weaving comfort into the quiet morning. Stretching lazily, you padded out of the bedroom, your footsteps light as you made your way toward the source of the sound.

And there he was.

Your feet slowed, hesitating as your eyes locked onto his figure. For a moment, the world seemed to blur, leaving only him—the man standing in the kitchen, framed by the warm glow of morning sunlight. A wave of nostalgia hit you, so sudden and raw it almost stole your breath. Your throat tightened as memories clawed their way to the surface, unbidden yet familiar. How many times have you stood right here, watching him? The way he swayed softly to the music playing from his phone, completely unaware of how the light kissed his side profile, softening his edges and making him seem almost otherworldly. Majestic, yet achingly human.

It was so vividly him. And yet, it wasn’t.

Because now, the unspoken weight of six years—years filled with pain, silence, and the harsh reality of your separation—stood between you. The barriers of divorce and his amnesia loomed like shadows, carving a chasm between what was and what could never be again.

You wanted to step closer, to reach out and shatter the invisible wall that had formed over time. But the ache in your chest reminded you that the past was no longer yours to claim, and the present...

The present felt fragile, like the sunlight itself—beautiful but fleeting, slipping through your fingers no matter how desperately you tried to hold on. And yet, you stayed there, rooted to the spot, watching him as if the act alone could bridge the gap between your pain and his.

You brought yourself back to reality, sighing as you made your way to the kitchen. Mingi stood at the counter, his back to you as he brewed coffee, his movements unhurried. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the aroma of sizzling eggs, creating a symphony of warmth that filled the air. 

“Good morning,” you greeted softly, your voice still touched with sleep yet a hint of heaviness in them. He turned at the sound of your voice, his grin easy and familiar. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

You nodded, stepping further into the room. “I did. Coffee smells amazing, by the way.”

“Help yourself,” he said, gesturing to the counter as he flipped an egg in the pan with practiced ease. “I figured I’d return the favor this morning.”

Your heart gave a small flutter at his words, a sensation that left you momentarily speechless. Grabbing a mug, you poured yourself some coffee, the rich aroma filling your senses as you watched him move around the kitchen. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way he carried himself—calm, assured, and so at ease.

“You always wake up this early?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Old habits,” you replied, shrugging. “And someone has to make sure the coffee gets made properly.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and contagious, as he turned to set two plates on the table. “You really do make a great wife,” he said offhandedly, his voice casual yet filled with something unspoken. Your hand froze for a fraction of a second, your heart tripping over itself before you forced a small laugh. “Maybe… I did.”

The two of you sat down to eat, the conversation flowing effortlessly between bites of food and sips of coffee. Mingi asked about your day, your work, and the little details you often overlooked. Yet, hearing his interest in the mundane felt oddly comforting, as though he wanted to be a part of every piece of your life, no matter how small.

When breakfast was over, you reached for the dishes, but he stopped you, his grin playful but firm.

“You cooked. I’ll clean,” he said, already gathering the plates before you could protest. Your eyebrow furrowed, “But … you cooked,” You whisper but he ignores your words and proceeds to lean against the counter, you watched as he rolled up his sleeves, his movements unhurried as he rinsed the plates. He hummed softly under his breath, a tune you couldn’t quite place but that filled the space between you with warmth.

And in that moment, something inside you tightened.

He looked so natural, standing there with soap suds on his hands and the morning sunlight catching the curve of his smile. So much like the man you remembered, but lighter now, as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Yet, there was a bittersweet edge to it—a gentle ache that reminded you how fleeting these moments might be. You couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too, the quiet push and pull of time and memory, weaving something fragile yet undeniably real between you.

As he turned back to you, drying his hands on a towel, his smile reached his eyes, soft and knowing. “Thanks for letting me stay,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent.

You offered him a small smile, your chest tightening. “Thanks for being here.” 

And for a moment, it felt like the sunlight wasn’t just streaming through the window—it was radiating from the two of you, filling the small apartment with something unspoken yet profound.

Later that day, you find yourself walking through the bustling streets with him— Mingi wanting to walk around to memorize the place— the two of you weaving through the scattered crowd. The sun shines brightly overhead, and the remnants of yesterday’s rain glisten on the leaves and pavement, creating a shimmering path beneath your feet. As you turn a corner, his gaze shifts, locking onto an elderly woman struggling to carry several heavy bags of groceries. You watch as he pauses for only a moment before stepping forward, his long strides quickly closing the distance.

“Let me help you with those,” he offered, his tone gentle and reassuring. The woman looked up at him, surprised but grateful, as he effortlessly took the bags from her. “Thank you, young man. I didn’t realize they’d be this heavy.”

Mingi carried the groceries to her car, his movements easy and practiced. It was as though helping others was second nature to him, something he didn’t even have to think about.

You watch from a few steps away, your heart aching at the sight of him.

He’s always been like this—fiercely kind, endlessly giving. It’s one of the things you loved most about him. Memories flood back unbidden: the countless times he’d gone out of his way for you, fixing a broken appliance late at night, or carrying you in his arms when you sprained your ankle during that unforgettable hike. His kindness was a constant, a thread woven through every moment of your shared life.

When he returns to your side, his smile is radiant, his mood seemingly lighter. “Ready to go?” he asks, his tone so casual, so familiar.

You nod, forcing a smile. But as you fall into step beside him, the bittersweet ache in your chest deepens. The man beside you feels like a dream you once lived in—a beautiful, fleeting thing you can’t quite hold onto anymore.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks suddenly, his brows furrowed in confusion.

You blink, startled. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, his voice softer now, tinged with concern. “Is something wrong?”

The words catch in your throat. You hesitate, searching for a response that won’t betray the truth. “No, it’s just… you remind me of someone I used to know.”

He tilts his head, a teasing grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Someone as charming as me?”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes, lightening the heaviness in the air for just a moment. “Maybe,” you reply, shaking your head.

But as the two of you walk on, your smile fades. Watching him help the elderly woman had stirred something deep within you—a longing for the man he used to be, and for the love you once shared. To him, it was just another act of kindness. To you, it was a glimpse of the man you still love, even if the cruel truth of reality says he’s no longer yours to love.

Later, the afternoon sunlight pours through the apartment window, painting everything in a soft, golden glow. He sits cross-legged on the couch, flipping absently through a magazine he picked up from the bookstore. Across the room, you busy yourself at the kitchen counter, organizing the groceries, keeping your hands moving so your mind doesn’t linger too long.

“Can I ask you something?” His voice cuts through the comfortable silence, startling you.

You pause, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Of course.”

“Back there, when I helped that woman… You looked at me like I’d done something surprising,” he says, his tone light but his gaze steady, searching.

You set down the box of tea bags, turning fully to face him. “I guess I was just reminded of how naturally kind you are,” you say carefully. “You’ve always been like that—helping people without expecting anything in return.”

He tilts his head, his expression softening into something you can’t quite decipher. “I don’t think that’s anything special. Isn’t that what anyone would do?”

You move toward him, settling on the couch beside him. “Not everyone,” you reply, your voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “You’ve always had a way of putting others first, even when you didn’t have to. It’s… one of the things I admire about you.”

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes, but neither of you says more. You wonder if he feels the weight of what you’ve left unsaid. Or if the truth, the one you’ve been carrying alone, will shatter the fragile peace of these moments when it finally comes to light. He watched her carefully, the faintest hint of a frown tugging at his lips. 

“You talk like you’ve known me forever. Like we’ve been married for a long time.”

Her breath caught in her throat, the weight of his words pressing against her chest. Because honestly, it was true—every single word. Way back then, when your love was untainted by time or circumstance, the two of you had been inseparable. Two years of dating felt like an eternity and yet not nearly enough, as if every moment was still just the beginning.

Mingi had been everything—your best friend, your partner, your home. He had this way of looking at you, like you were the answer to every question he didn’t even know he was asking. And on your third anniversary, he did the one thing that solidified the depth of his love.

He proposed.

It wasn’t grand or extravagant, but it was perfect. The way his hands trembled, holding the ring box, his eyes shining with a mixture of nerves and joy. His voice cracked when he said, “Across all these universes, may my soul search for yours, destined to find you, to love you in every single one.”

He used to say your love was stronger than gold. To him, it wasn’t just a sentiment; it was a promise. He saw a future so vivid, so tangible—one filled with laughter, shared dreams, and the quiet comfort of growing old together. He had been excited to spend his life in your arms, to build something lasting and unbreakable.

And yet, here you were now, standing in the fragile ruins of what once was. The man who once held your world in his hands now looked at you with the same hopeful eyes, completely unaware of the truth that would break him.

The truth that your love, though still stronger than gold in your heart, had been twisted and reshaped by time. That his future, the one he envisioned so clearly, now belonged to someone else.

The ache in your chest grew unbearable, your breath hitching as the memory of that proposal flashed behind your eyes like a cruel echo. How could something so beautiful, so full of life, turn into this? How could you bear to look at him, knowing what you know?

And yet, you smiled, hiding the storm raging inside you, because this wasn’t about you anymore. This was about him, his recovery, his healing. The sacrifice of pretending, of playing your part, weighed heavily on your soul, but you’d carry it for as long as he needed.

Even if it meant breaking your own heart in the process.

DAY 5

The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, but the weight of yesterday’s conversation still lingered in the air. You moved about the small apartment with a practiced rhythm, avoiding looking at Mingi too directly. He seemed more pensive than usual, his usual chatter subdued, as if he were trying to process something just out of reach.

The knowledge that he’d be returning to his family in just three days gnawed at you. The purpose of his stay was clear—these days together were supposed to help him recover before transitioning back to the care of his parents. But your heart ached at the thought of him leaving, even as your brain screamed at you to protect yourself, to not let him back into the fragile pieces of your heart you’d painstakingly put together after the divorce.

“I’m going for a walk,” Mingi announced suddenly, breaking the stillness of the afternoon.

You had come to terms with yourself, silently agreeing that this moment might be your only chance to recreate a life you once cherished. It was fleeting, you knew, but being with this version of Mingi again—so unburdened, so much like the man you had fallen in love with—made you feel like the person you had been six years ago. Even if it tore at your heart, the thought of reliving those moments, even for a little while, was worth the pain.

“Do you want some company?” you asked before you could stop yourself. He paused, his boyish grin spreading across his face in a way that sent a pang through your chest. “Always.”

You had come to terms with yourself, silently agreeing that this moment might be your only chance to recreate a life you once cherished. It was fleeting, you knew, but being with this version of Mingi again—so unburdened, so much like the man you had fallen in love with—made you feel like the person you had been six years ago. Even if it tore at your heart, the thought of reliving those moments, even for a little while, was worth the pain.

The two of you wandered through the lively streets, the world around you a gentle hum of activity. The buzz of conversation from passing strangers, the distant laughter of children playing, the occasional bark of a dog—it all blended into a comforting symphony. At first, the silence between you was tentative, but as the minutes passed, it softened, giving way to something familiar.

Mingi seemed more relaxed, his long strides unhurried as he pointed out little details that caught his attention—a street performer playing a wistful tune on a violin, a quirky storefront painted in bold, mismatched colors, the way yesterday’s rain sparkled like diamonds on the leaves of a tree. His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself smiling, your heart lighter than it had been in days.

Then, as you passed a photo booth bathed in colorful neon lights, he stopped abruptly.

“Oh!” His exclamation startled you, his face lighting up with a mischievous sparkle that made him look impossibly young. “Let’s do it!”

“What?” you asked, blinking in confusion as he tugged at your hand.

“The photo booth,” he said, already pulling you toward it. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

You barely had time to protest before you were crammed together inside the tiny booth, your knees brushing against his as the screen flickered to life.

“Pose!” Mingi commanded, throwing up a ridiculous face that made you burst into laughter.

The countdown began, and for the next few minutes, the two of you dissolved into pure, unfiltered joy. Silly faces, exaggerated poses, and moments of shared laughter filled the air. You forgot everything—the pain, the truth, the weight of what you were hiding. For a brief, blissful moment, it was just the two of you, exactly as you had been.

As the timer ticked down to the final shot, Mingi’s laughter faded, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. Before you could process what was happening, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss.

It wasn’t rushed or hesitant—it was tender and full of longing, as though the six years that had separated you had never existed. Your mind reeled, your heart hammering in your chest. The world outside the booth seemed to vanish, leaving only the sensation of his lips against yours, soft yet insistent, familiar yet new. 

It was the same as the first time he kissed you—the same warmth that spread from your chest, the same dizzying sensation of the world tilting on its axis, the same undeniable certainty that this was where you belonged.

The flash went off, its light momentarily blinding, but you barely noticed. Your world had narrowed to the feel of his hands and the taste of the kiss that lingered, soft yet searing. Your fingers had moved instinctively, gripping the fabric of his jacket, as if holding onto him could stop time, could keep him from slipping away again. His fingers lightly cupped your jaw, grounding you, pulling you closer as if he, too, was afraid to let go.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, the faint warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips. His eyes, soft and searching, met yours, and in them, you saw everything you had once known—love, hope, and the promise of forever.

But the ache in your chest only deepened. He looked at you as though no time had passed, as though the years of separation hadn’t carved out pieces of your soul. Yet here you were, on opposite sides of a chasm you’d helped create.

He pulled away slightly, his gaze lingering, filled with an almost unbearable tenderness. It made your heart ache—an ache that spread through your whole being, a longing to pour out the words that had been locked inside you for so long.

You wanted to tell him how much you regretted signing the papers, how you had spent countless nights replaying every moment that led to that decision. You wanted to confess that you should have fought for what you had, that you should have held on tighter when everything was falling apart.

But everything was too late. Six years too late.

You blinked back the tears that threatened to spill, forcing a fragile smile as the photo booth’s mechanical hum brought you back to reality. And as the moment passed, slipping through your fingers like sand, you realized that some wounds, no matter how much time passes, never truly heal.

The booth fell silent except for the faint hum of the machinery spitting out the photo strip. Your emotions were a whirlwind—confusion, longing, hope, and a pain so sharp it was almost unbearable.

Mingi’s eyes searched yours, his expression soft yet unreadable. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

“For what?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“For forgetting,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “For making you carry this alone after the accident.”

Your breath was caught in your throat, some tears threatened to spill in the corner of your eyes. The accident. Not the divorce, not the heartbreak you thought he meant. His words held the weight of sincerity, of regret for memories stolen rather than choices made.

Your heart clenched, the ache deepening as you realized he was apologizing for something entirely out of his control. “Mingi…” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady.

The machine beeped softly, a sound that felt louder in the confined space, breaking the spell of shared laughter and fleeting joy. Mingi turned slightly, retrieving the freshly printed photo strip from the slot. As his eyes scanned the series of images, a small, almost wistful smile tugged at his lips, a mix of nostalgia and something unspoken shimmering in his expression.

“Look,” he said, his voice soft as he held the strip out for you to see.

Your breath falters as your eyes fall on the final frame. It wasn’t a silly pose or a playful expression like the others. Instead, it was a moment you hadn’t expected—a soft, unplanned kiss. His lips touched yours, the emotion behind it was unmistakable.

It was hauntingly familiar, a mirror of a moment from years ago—the tender kiss that sealed your vows on the altar. The memory crashed over you like a wave, unearthing a rush of feelings you thought you had buried.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air felt heavy, charged with a mix of longing and heartbreak. His thumb traced the edge of the photo strip absently as though trying to etch the memory into his mind.

“Mingi…” you began, your voice trembling. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours for something—perhaps understanding, perhaps forgiveness. “I don’t know why,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “But this… it feels like something I should never have forgotten.”

His words hung between you, pulling at the threads of your carefully guarded heart.

For now, you let him fold the photo strip and tuck it into his pocket. As you stepped out of the booth, the cool air hit your face, grounding you. Mingi walked beside you, his boyish grin returning as he pointed out a street performer nearby, as if nothing had changed.

But something had.

As you walked back home, the atmosphere felt quieter, almost solemn, as if the world had slowed just for the two of you. The rain from yesterday had left everything glistening, tiny droplets clinging to the edges of leaves and the curves of streetlights. The golden afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of trees, casting a soft, ethereal glow that felt almost too perfect for a moment like this.

Without warning, Mingi reached out and took your hand.

His fingers laced through yours, warm and steady, grounding you in a way that sent a ripple through your chest. You glanced at him, startled, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, a slight furrow in his brow as though he were lost in thought.

“It feels right,” he murmured, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind. The words settled between you, simple yet profound, leaving you unsure whether he was speaking to you or to himself. Your steps faltered slightly, but his hand tightened, a gentle reassurance that he wasn’t letting go—not now, not yet.

The warmth of his touch lingered as the two of you continued down the glistening path, your heart a conflicted mess of emotions. You wanted to pull away, to keep your walls intact, but the pull of his presence was undeniable.

That night, as the city outside settled into its usual hum, you lay awake, staring at the faint patterns of moonlight on the ceiling.

The memory of his hand in yours, the quiet conviction in his voice, echoed in your mind. The fifth night had come and gone, and still, your thoughts revolved around one question.

Was this fleeting comfort worth the risk of reopening wounds that had never fully healed?

Day 6

The tension from the previous day clung to you like a second skin, heavy and unshakable. It had been impossible to look Mingi in the eye that morning, his boyish charm and newfound tenderness pulling at strings you thought were severed long ago.

As you finished tying your shoes near the doorway, you glanced at him hesitantly. Mingi was standing by the window, a book in his hand as his eyes skimmed on the letters inside, the golden morning sunlight casting a warm glow across his face. He seemed lost in thought, his fingers tapping lightly against the spine of the book.

“I’m meeting Seonghwa for coffee,” you said softly, your voice careful, testing the waters.

He turned to you, his expression unreadable at first. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Okay,” he said simply, his tone gentle but distant.

You blinked, surprised by the lack of resistance. “Okay?”

Mingi’s gaze softened, his hand snapped the book close as he walked toward you. “Okay,” he repeated, and for a moment, you thought that was the end of it.

But then he stopped in front of you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him. Before you could say anything, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. The tenderness of it made your breath hitch, your heart lurching painfully in your chest.

“Be safe,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “And enjoy your time with Seonghwa-hyung.”

You stared up at him, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his words. The warmth of his touch lingered long after he pulled away, leaving you standing there, feeling as though the ground beneath you had shifted.

“I… I will,” you finally managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He offered you a small, boyish smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but still carried a trace of the man you once knew. And as you stepped out the door, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of his gaze on your back, a silent tether that refused to let you go. 

The tension from the previous day clung to you like a second skin, heavy and unshakable. It had been impossible to look Mingi in the eye that morning, his boyish charm and newfound tenderness pulling at strings you thought were severed long ago.

You were desperate for clarity, for a sense of balance, which was why meeting Seonghwa now felt so vital. As you slid into your usual seat at the café, your chest tightened, and the weight of everything threatened to pull you under.

Seonghwa arrived moments later, his presence as steadying as it was piercing. His warm gaze swept over you, concern evident in the slight downturn of his lips.

“Hey,” he said softly, sitting across from you. His voice was gentle, but it carried an edge—a readiness to say what you weren’t ready to hear. You forced a smile, wrapping your hands around the warm coffee cup in front of you. “Hey.”

The soft hum of the café enveloped the quiet between you, but Seonghwa didn’t let it linger. He leaned forward, his elbows settling on the table, his fingers grazing yours with a touch that sent sparks up your arm. His voice was steady, yet his gaze carried the weight of unspoken truths. “Are you doing this for yourself, or for what you think you could have saved?”

His words hit like a jolt, unraveling the fragile composure you had carefully held together. Your pulse raced as you turned away, pretending to find solace in the rain-streaked window. “Seonghwa…” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the soft patter of rain.

“I’m not mad at you, babe,” he interrupted, his voice faltering on the last word, betraying the calm facade he was trying so hard to maintain. His eyes shone with a mixture of anguish and desperation as he leaned forward. “But I’m terrified. Terrified that you’re tying yourself to the past again, to him, when it nearly destroyed you the first time.”

The sharpness of his tone cut through you like a blade, leaving a dull ache in its wake. Your chest tightened as you fought to steady your breathing, to keep the tears threatening to spill at bay. “It’s not like that,” you whispered, though the tremor in your voice gave you away.

“Then what is it like?” he pressed, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity. The air between you crackled with unspoken truths and heavy silences. “You could’ve told the truth—” He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment as if bracing himself for the storm his words would unleash.

He opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto yours with a quiet pain that made your heart shatter. “The truth that his wife is now conscious in that hospital room. Why didn’t you?”

The night after you and Mingi shared a quiet walk under the stars, your phone buzzed with a message. It was from the doctor—the one who had delicately outlined Mingi’s condition, her words laced with a cautious hope that had felt fragile but comforting.

"Mingi's wife has regained consciousness. She’s currently in surgery, slowly recovering from the head trauma."

The words blurred as your eyes scanned them again, your breath catching in your throat. At first, they felt distant, like they belonged to someone else’s story. But then, the meaning sank in like a weight dropping in your chest.

Mingi’s wife.

The words struck you like a lightning bolt, jolting you into a reality you had somehow let yourself forget. His wife—the legal wife. The woman whose place you could never fill, no matter how fleeting the moments you shared with him had been.

Your heart plummeted as the realization hit you with earth-shattering clarity. For days, you had let yourself sink into the illusion of being close to him, of stepping into a role you had no right to play. And now, like heaven and earth colliding, you were reminded of the truth you had buried so deeply.

Mingi was never yours and no longer yours.

The thought tore through you, an ache blooming in your chest as you tried to steady your breathing. The walls of the room seemed to press in, the space shrinking with every passing second. Relief warred with despair, confusion tangled with longing, and you could barely grasp at the threads of your own emotions. Somewhere, the rational part of you knew this was how it was supposed to be—that Mingi would return to her arms, to the life he had built with someone else. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

The question struck like a hammer to your chest, robbing you of breath. You turned your head away, your eyes squeezing shut as if that could block out the weight of his words. The ache of emotions you had buried deep within clawed its way to the surface, and you felt the sting of suppressed tears.

“Because…” you began, your voice barely above a whisper, raw and broken. “Because he needed someone.” You forced yourself to meet his gaze, your eyes swimming with unshed tears. “He woke up not knowing anything, Seonghwa. Not even himself. How could I just leave him to that kind of emptiness?”

His jaw tightened as he searched your face, his shoulders slumping with the weight of his frustration and fear. “And what about you?” he asked, his voice trembling, barely holding together. “What about your emptiness? What about the nights you couldn’t breathe, the times I had to hold you together because you couldn’t stand on your own? What about everything you’ve been through?”

You couldn’t answer. The words lodged in your throat like shards of glass, too sharp to speak.

He reached out, his hand hovering near yours before retreating, his fingers curling into a fist. “How do you think this ends for you?” His voice cracked, and the vulnerability in it made your chest tighten further. “Do you think this fixes anything? Or are you just breaking yourself all over again for someone who might not even give a second look the moment they remember?”

Tears brimmed in your eyes as you met his gaze, his expression so raw, so full of love and worry, it almost undid you. “I don’t know,” you said honestly, your voice barely a whisper. “But he’s not the same, Seonghwa. He’s… different. He doesn’t remember the fights or the divorce. He doesn’t remember why we fell apart. He only remembers me—us. And it’s…” You trailed off, your voice breaking under the weight of unsaid words.

“It’s what?” Seonghwa prompted, his hand reaching across the table to hold yours, grounding you.

“It’s killing me,” you confessed, the tears spilling over now. “To see him like this, to see him not remember the life we had—or the pain that ended it. It’s like I’m living in this cruel, beautiful lie.”

Seonghwa inhaled sharply, his grip tightening on your hand. “You’re not responsible for fixing him,” he said firmly, though his voice trembled with emotion. “You’ve already given so much of yourself to him. I’m scared you’ll lose what’s left.”

The rawness in his voice shattered something inside you, and for the first time, you let yourself feel the full weight of his words.

“I just…” You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. “I needed to be there for him. Even if it’s only for now.”

The weight of the unspoken hung heavily between you and Seonghwa, a reminder of the ticking clock counting down the days until he would leave. You tried to ignore it, burying the ache deep within, but it clawed relentlessly at the edges of your resolve.

Before either of you could say more, your phone buzzed against the table, the sound jarring in the heavy silence. You glanced down and froze when you saw Mingi’s name flashing on the screen.

Seonghwa’s eyes flicked to the phone, his expression calm but his jaw tight. “Answer it,” he said softly, though the tension in his voice betrayed him.

With trembling hands, you swiped to accept the call. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Mingi’s voice came through, warm and familiar. For a moment, it felt like coming home. But there was an edge to his tone, a weight you couldn’t quite place. “I was just thinking about you. Can we talk when you get back?”

Your heart clenched at his words, his longing bleeding through the line. “Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice thick with unspoken emotions.

When you hung up, Seonghwa was watching you, his dark eyes searching yours. “He remembers you,” he said quietly, each word measured. “But not the pain. Not the fights. Not the divorce.”

You nodded, your fingers trembling as you wiped at the tears threatening to fall. “And I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

Seonghwa reached out, his hand finding yours again. His thumb brushed softly against your knuckles, grounding you in the present even as the past threatened to overwhelm. “I’ll support you, no matter what,” he said, his voice steady but laced with quiet anguish. “But promise me, if it gets too much, you’ll walk away. You deserve a future—not a life trapped in the shadows of what could’ve been.”

You nodded, but the promise felt fragile, like a thread stretched too thin. “I’ll try,” you whispered.

His gaze softened, though the worry lingered in his eyes. “That’s all I ask.”

“A drive?” you repeated, startled. On the way back home and after bidding goodbye to Seonghwa, your nerves were everywhere, anxiety rising as to what Mingi wanted to talk about. Your mind races with many thoughts and one of them were the conversations you just had with Mingi and dread washed over you.

“Yeah,” he said, already standing. He was already in his sweater and jeans, the keys juggling in his palm,  “It’s been so long since I’ve just… gone somewhere for no reason. You in?”

The logical part of you wanted to decline, to keep the boundaries clear, to protect your heart. But the part of you still tethered to him—the part that had never quite let go—nodded. “Okay.”

The car hummed softly as it came to life, the familiar sound filling the quiet. Once you hit the open road, Mingi rolled down the windows, letting the cool night air rush in. It carried the scent of damp asphalt and distant pine, and for a moment, you felt like you’d stepped back in time. He fiddled with the radio, flipping through stations until a familiar melody filled the car. A smile spread across his face. “Remember this?”

You nodded, the song tugging at memories you thought you’d buried. It was your song—the one that played on countless late-night drives, the soundtrack to a thousand shared moments.

Mingi’s grin widened as he sang along, his voice exaggerated and dramatic. His arms gestured wildly, just like he used to, and you couldn’t help but laugh. The sound bubbled up, surprising even you, cutting through the heaviness that had settled in your chest.

“Your turn,” he said, glancing at you with a teasing smile.

“I don’t sing,” you replied, shaking your head.

“Your voice is my favorite song,” he said, the words slipping out so naturally they caught you off guard. Your laughter faded, replaced by a quiet ache. You turned your gaze to the window, watching the darkened trees blur past. “I hope you still do.”

The miles stretched out beneath you, the city lights fading into quieter, darker roads. The wind whipped through your hair, wild and untamed, but you didn’t bother to fix it. For a fleeting moment, it felt like nothing else mattered—just the open road, the music, and him.

But the memories crept in, unbidden and sharp. The countless nights spent in this very seat, his hand brushing yours on the gearshift. The shared dreams, the unspoken promises, the way you’d believed you were untouchable.

“Mingi,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the engine’s hum.

He turned to you, his expression curious.

“Why did you want to go for a drive?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the road ahead before answering. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I do remember, this is our sweet grand escape.”

You nodded, your throat tight. “It is.” And in that moment, with the road stretching endlessly ahead, you wondered if you’d ever truly move forward—or if some part of you would always be here, caught between what was and what could have been.

The road ahead stretched out in silence, the hum of the engine blending with the soft whispers of the wind. By the time you turned back toward the city, the air had grown colder, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. The stars above were scattered like fragments of light against the inky blackness, their brilliance mirrored in your quiet longing.

Mingi reached over, his hand finding the console between you. His fingers brushed against yours—light, tentative, as if testing the boundaries of something fragile. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you, and your breath hitched before you could stop it.

“I don’t know what it is,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, as though he feared the weight of his words might shatter the delicate moment. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the vulnerability etched into his profile.

“But being with you…” he continued, his words catching slightly, as though they carried more than he could say. “It feels like I’m home. Like I’ve been away for a long time, and now I’m finally back where I belong.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, seeping into every crevice of the space between you. Your chest tightened, the ache blooming anew. You wanted to hold onto his words, to let them wrap around you like the warmth of his touch, but they carried a bittersweet weight that was impossible to ignore.

You swallowed hard, your gaze drifting out the window as you struggled to steady the storm of emotions inside you. The city lights glimmered in the distance, but they felt impossibly far away—like the future you’d once dreamed of with him, now nothing more than a faint glimmer on a distant horizon.

He took a quick look at you, his eyes held so much love— like he was carrying the entire aurora borealis in his eyes, “You’re my home.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his words crashing over you like a wave. You wanted to tell him the truth, to let him know that this wasn’t his home anymore—that you weren’t his home anymore. But the words refused to come.

Instead, you let your hand slip into his, your fingers intertwining as naturally as they always had. And for the rest of the drive, you let yourself believe, just for a little while, that you could still be his home.

Day 7

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” You nudged Mingi gently, your voice soft but insistent, fingers brushing against his arm. He stirred, blinking up at you with groggy confusion. “What time is it?” 

You gave him a soft smile, “Just get up.” He groaned but sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Without protest, Mingi followed you, the two of you making your way out into the quiet stillness of the world before it woke; yet the weight of what was to come pressed heavily on your chest.

Last night had been a sleepless one. After the late-night drive, you had returned to the stillness of your shared space, the echoes of his laughter and the warmth of his presence lingering in the room like a ghost of the past. But the peace you so desperately wanted to hold onto eluded you. Instead, your mind raced, caught in a storm of emotions that refused to settle.

The entire week with him had felt like an unraveling—his presence a salve to old wounds that had never fully healed, yet at the same time, it had torn open scars you had worked so hard to seal. Being near him again, feeling his touch, hearing his laugh—it was everything you had once dreamed of. Everything you had wished to return to, even when you told yourself it wasn’t possible.

But the truth loomed over you, undeniable and inescapable. Mingi deserved to know it, deserved to have the clarity you had ignored for so long. As the hours dragged on and sleep remained a distant hope, you had spent the night removing the shards embedded deep in your heart, one by one.

The memories were sharp, cutting with each recollection: the way he looked at you with those eyes full of unspoken longing, the touch of his hand brushing yours in the car, the sound of his voice when he said you felt like home. Every moment was a reminder of what you had lost—and what you could no longer pretend to have.

Your tears had soaked into the pillow as you wrestled with the decision, the battle between selfishly holding onto these fleeting moments and doing what you knew was right. You couldn’t let him live in the illusion any longer. He deserved the truth, even if it shattered the fragile connection you’d rebuilt.

The air was crisp, carrying the biting chill of dawn that made you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself. Above, the sky remained a canvas of deep navy, stars beginning to dim as the first strokes of orange and pink teased the horizon. The world felt suspended in a quiet hush, the stillness amplified by the faint rustle of leaves in the cool breeze.

You led Mingi to a secluded hill overlooking the city, the spot you’d discovered during one of your solitary escapes. It was a place of solace for you, where the sprawling cityscape seemed small and far away, swallowed by the vastness of the sky.

Neither of you spoke as you sat side by side on the damp grass. The cold seeped through your clothes, grounding you in the reality of the moment. The faint hum of distant traffic mingled with the melody of birds waking to the light. Slowly, the darkness began to yield, giving way to the soft warmth of the approaching sunrise.

Mingi’s breath fogged in the air as he spoke, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “It’s beautiful.”

You nodded, your gaze fixed on the horizon. The first rays of sunlight painted the edges of the sky in hues of gold and pink, chasing away the night. “I thought it’d be a good way to end things.”

He turned to you, his brow furrowing in confusion. “End things?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. Mingi’s heart thudded unevenly in his chest, a gnawing sense of unease creeping through him. Your tone wasn’t cold—it was resolute, distant in a way that felt unfamiliar and wrong. He opened his mouth to respond, to ask what you meant, but the words tangled in his throat.

His mind raced, flooded with fragments of emotions and half-formed thoughts. What’s happening? Why does it feel like something’s slipping away? He searched your face, looking for answers in the curve of your lips, the downward tilt of your gaze.

Is this why you’ve been so quiet? Why your smiles seemed forced? He thought of the past week, the stolen moments of warmth that felt almost too fragile, too fleeting. His chest tightened. Were those memories or just illusions of something we used to have?

Were those moments we shared just days ago … were my memories?

And then there were the flashes—images that didn’t make sense but stirred something deep and aching within him. Your tear-streaked face, eyes red and swollen, though he couldn’t recall ever seeing you cry. The ghost of your voice, trembling with words he couldn’t quite grasp.

Mingi wanted to ask, to demand why this felt like goodbye when he wasn’t ready for it. But fear held him back, rooting him in silence. What if asking makes it real? What if I lose you all over again?

You exhaled slowly, breaking the silence. “Mingi… you’re going back to your family tomorrow. This…” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This was temporary. A way for you to heal. But it’s not real. Not anymore.”

His breath hitched, and he turned his gaze back to the horizon, unable to meet your eyes. His thoughts screamed against your words, but his voice refused to cooperate. The truth loomed like a shadow he wasn’t prepared to confront, a storm he couldn’t outrun.

The sunlight began to spread, illuminating the city below in soft, golden light. Mingi clenched his fists against the damp grass, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest. He wanted to reach out, to tell you that it was real, that you were his anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

“I love you…” he said suddenly, his voice soft yet firm, like a whisper of truth he couldn’t hold back any longer. His hand finding yours, squeezing it as if telling you to stop joking yet none of your eyes says that you were.

It felt like a dam had broken within you. The walls you had so carefully built to protect yourself crumbled, and the flood of emotions hit with brutal force. Your shoulders trembled, a sharp inhale escaping you as your head shook, denying the reality of his words. You fought with everything you had to stay composed, but your heart betrayed you, a painful ache spreading through your chest.

“No…” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of everything you had buried deep inside. It was more than just the words, more than just the confession— it was everything you couldn’t say, everything that had been left unsaid for far too long.

Tears brimmed in your reddened eyes, threatening to spill, but you willed yourself to hold them back. Every part of you screamed to push him away, to refuse him, but a deeper part of you— the part that remembered the love you once shared, the tenderness and joy— fought against the words that had already formed in your throat.

“No, you don’t.”

The words left your lips in a breathless rush, the weight of them heavier than anything you had ever spoken. Your chest tightened with the unbearable pressure of it all, a battle raging inside you. The pain, the confusion, the loss. 

Mingi tilted his head, confusion clouding his expression as he tried to make sense of it all. “But I’m married to you.”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, sharp and hollow. It was a sound of disbelief and pain, born from the weight of everything that had happened. Your gaze fell to your intertwined hands—a fragile semblance of connection in a world that had shattered between the two of you.

You pulled away with sudden resolve, the movement decisive. It felt like a necessary break—like something had to give for you to survive this moment.

“Was,” you corrected softly, your voice trembling but steady. “I was married to you—before we divorced.”

The words hit the air between you like an invisible force, heavy and unrelenting. His mouth opened as if to argue, to hold onto something that didn’t belong to either of you anymore, but you stopped him before the denial could take form.

The quiet strength in your voice broke through his confusion. “You left me, Mingi.”

Your tone softened, the bitterness giving way to something raw, something vulnerable. The weight of years—of heartbreak, of unanswered questions—had finally found their voice. “You said you didn’t feel the love between us anymore. That you found it with someone else. And now…”

Your voice faltered, breaking like the tender thread of a once-beautiful memory. You balled your hands into fists at your sides, trying to hold onto what little strength you had left. “You already belong to someone else. Someone who isn’t me.”

The silence stretched between you as the sun climbed higher, its golden rays casting light on his face. But the clarity in his eyes wasn’t there—only the raw confusion, the hurt that mirrored your own. He struggled to process your words, his fingers twitching as if to reach for you, but they stopped short, hanging in the air with unspoken regret.

“I don’t remember that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the pain in his tone cutting deeper than anything before.

You nodded slowly, your heart aching as the tears you had tried so hard to hold back slipped down your cheeks. “I know,” you whispered back, the sorrow in your voice thickening with each breath. “And that’s why I wanted to do this—because I needed to let go. I needed to find closure—for the both of us.”

Mingi stared at you, his eyes locking onto yours as if searching for the pieces of himself that had slipped away, hoping they were hidden somewhere inside your gaze. His lips parted, but no words came out at first. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, as if trying to reconcile the weight of his feelings with the reality of what had been lost.

“But I feel it,” he said finally, his voice breaking with desperation. “I feel like I love you— No! I love you, you’re my home. How can that not be real?”

The words—those words—shattered the last vestiges of your composure. You smiled through your tears, the smile that came from a place of bittersweetness—an expression that was both tender and laced with pain.

“Because sometimes, love isn’t enough to keep something whole,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “And sometimes, it’s about knowing when to let go.”

The finality in your voice hung in the air like a heavy fog, and the truth of it sank in, sharp and undeniable. You were letting go. You were finally releasing everything you had tried so hard to hold onto.

You looked at him one last time, your gaze lingering, as if you were trying to memorize every detail—his mole on the left side of his cheek, the sharp curve of his nose, the way his eyes crinkled into that crescent-shaped smile that always made you feel like the world had melted away. In that instant, you allowed yourself to drown in the present, to feel the weight of everything that had once been yours.

But it was fleeting. Too fleeting.

This—this moment—was all that was left of him, the man who had once been everything to you. The man you loved so fiercely, so completely, and yet, whose love had faded as quickly as it had come.

As you stood there, watching him in all his vulnerability, you finally allowed the tears you had been holding back to fall freely. There was no more hiding, no more pretending. This was the end. The closure you had been yearning for was finally here.

“I’ll miss you, Min,” you whispered, your voice cracking as the weight of your words took hold of your chest.

The name—his name—felt like a dagger, sharp and bittersweet, as it slipped from your lips. You closed your eyes for just a moment, and in that second, the rush of memories hit you like a wave. The laughter, the tenderness, the warmth that used to fill every space between you two. But as quickly as the memories came, they were replaced by the painful reality that this was no longer your life. He wasn’t yours anymore, and you weren’t his. Not in the way you once were.

“I love you, Tulip,” he whispered, his voice breaking like shattered glass, his hand reaching for yours with a desperate kind of tenderness.

But you pushed his hands away, the motion sharp, your heart aching at the rejection you had to force upon him. “Stop, Mingi,” you said, your voice trembling with raw emotion, your bottom lip wobbling as tears streamed unchecked down your cheeks. “I’m no longer your wife.”

The words fell like a gavel in a silent courtroom—final, undeniable. They echoed in the small space between you, shattering whatever fragile illusion of reconciliation had lingered in his hopeful gaze.

Mingi stood there, frozen, his hand still hovering mid-air as if waiting for a different outcome, one that would never come. His lips parted, and for a moment, it seemed he might argue, might plead, might try to close the gap between you. But then he saw the anguish in your eyes, the pain you carried, and it stopped him in his tracks.

“I don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice laced with confusion, his gaze darting between your face and the floor as though searching for answers that didn’t exist. “I feel it, Tulip. I feel this love—so real, so strong. How can you say that we’re not—”

“Mingi.” Your voice cracked as you interrupted him, your tears falling faster now. “The love is there. I know it is. But it’s not enough anymore. It died six years ago.”

His shoulders slumped as if the weight of your words had finally crushed him, the realization dawning painfully slow.

“I don’t remember the fights,” he said quietly, his tone almost childlike in its confusion. “The hurt, the divorce… I don’t remember any of it. All I know is what I feel now. And it feels real. It feels like I love you— No! I love you and I’ve always loved you.”

Your breath hitched, the raw vulnerability in his words cutting through you like a knife. You reached up, covering your mouth as a sob escaped.

“It’s not about what you remember,” you said, your voice trembling. “It’s about what we’ve both lived through. The pain, the betrayal, the breaking of something so beautiful—we can’t just erase that. We can’t rewrite the past, no matter how much we want to.”

His eyes filled with tears as he took a tentative step closer. “But Tulip…”

You shook your head, the motion small but resolute. “You might not remember the scars, but I do. They’re a part of me now. A part of us. And I— We can’t keep living in this unfair nostalgia, holding onto something that’s already gone.”

Mingi’s face crumpled, his tears finally spilling over as he stared at you, helpless. “So that’s it?” he whispered, his voice breaking. You looked at him for what felt like the last time, your gaze lingering on every detail of the man you once called your everything. His mole on his left cheek, the sharp bridge of his nose, the way his crescent-shaped eyes still managed to smile even through the tears..

Your hand reached out, trembling, to settle on his cheek. He leaned into your touch without hesitation, his eyes fluttering closed as though savoring the moment. Your breath caught in your throat, a lump of sorrow and love you couldn’t swallow.

Maybe untying the fragile, fraying knot that held together your broken strings would set you both free—free to be bound to something stronger, something whole.

“I’ll miss you, Min,” you whispered, your thumb catching some of his tears, the words so soft they almost dissolved into the air, but their weight carried the entirety of your heart. Mingi’s lips parted, his gaze snapping to yours, as though he wanted to protest, to hold you there with him forever. But no words came. He simply stood, frozen, as you turned away.

He watched you walk away, each step you took feeling like it carved pieces out of him. The silence between you was deafening, each footfall heavier than the last.

The words weren’t just a goodbye—they were a love letter to the life you had shared, the dreams you had built, the memories you would carry forever. The unfair nostalgia lingered in the air between you, thick and suffocating, a reminder of what once was and what could never be.

Again. 

y/n:

hey, it's san, you already know that. okay, you know i'm bad at this, so i'm sorry in advance. there might be a right way to write this and i don't think i know it, but for you i'll try. please don't judge the handwriting too much. or the wording, or how short or long it is. i rewrote the first part four times and it still feels bad. anyway, i'm sorry, here's the letter. i guess i should start from the beginning, no? is that stupid? i don't know. [scribbled] the first time i saw you was in that class we both didn’t want to be in. i don’t even remember what the professor was saying, but i remember you. you were leaning over the desk, hand on your cheek, resting your head. i remember thinking you looked easy to be around. i don’t know why, but it did. this is embarrassing but i think i knew i wanted to marry you way earlier than i probably should have. i didn’t say it, obviously, that would've been creepy. i just knew you looked so so pretty and now that i know you, you became so beautiful. not that you weren't beautiful before being with me, you always were, i'm just saying from my perspective just how mesmerized you had me from the start, you know? you are just so smart, so creative, so diligent. [scribbled] it's like when you balance numbers and they finally add up the way they’re supposed to, that's what it kind of felt like, but in the romantic way. i'm sorry i'm not good at expressing my feelings and all that, you know that better than anyone else. but i want you to know that choosing you has never felt like a decision i had to force myself into. i want this more than anything, with you. we have this apartment now. it’s small and the walls are kind of thin and the kitchen light flickers sometimes, but it’s ours. i keep thinking about how this is the place where everything will start. mornings, dinners, normal days, hard days, all of it. and i like knowing you’ll be here at the end of the day. i like knowing i get to come home to you. i promise i’ll take care of you. i promise i’ll work hard. [scribbled] i know i don’t always say what i’m thinking, but i feel things even when i don’t show them right. does that make sense? well, [scribbled] i’m really proud to be your husband. that still feels strange to write, but in a good way. i hope we grow old together. i hope we don’t stop choosing each other, even when life gets busy or complicated. i hope you always know that you’re my favorite person in the world, even if i forget to say it out loud sometimes. i’ll always try to try, even if i’m bad.

i love you.

san

tucked beneath the neatly folded cashmere sweaters, exactly where you left it. lace covered box, meant for letters he had promised to fill with, yet a year and a half later, only the first one stood alone. you weren't angry, not even sad. it actually made you chuckle a little. just a quiet grief for what had been started to root deep inside, for the vibrant colors that had softened into pastels, for the soft reverence in his eyes that had slowly faded into habit. you often found yourself staring at the box, a wry smile touching your lips.

the paper, once crisp, now yielded to countless revisits. you knew every word by heart, the rhythm of his awkward sincerity etched into your memory. you traced the faded ink. his handwriting, usually neat in ledgers, was a little clumsy here. each letter formed with an almost painful deliberation. it was short, a simple promise. a quiet declaration of his intent to build a life with you, to be your home. no extreme pronouncements of undying passion, but a solid foundation of devotion. san had never been one for grand gestures, at least not in words. his love manifested in the certainty of his presence, the steady rhythm of his life intertwined with yours. in fact, you had asked for the letter in the first place, at that diner right before receiving the keys to the apartment.

"a letter?" he'd shifted on his seat, a blush creeping up his neck. "i'm not... good with words, y/n."

you shook your head with an endeared smile. "you don't have to be shakespeare sannie, just you."

he seemed in thought for a moment, trying to resist looking at your puppy eyes asking pretty please before straightening his back, accepting the challenge. and he did. pen clutched tight, brows furrowed in concentration. you’d watched him, your heart swelling with a love so potent it felt like a physical ache. then when he finished, he slid it across the booth table, eyes avoiding yours with his shy offering.

now, the paper, soft as old linen, whispered between your fingertips. you didn't rush. each sentence, each carefully chosen word, you read them slowly, precious memory reexperiencie. tasting the hope, the fresh promise of that day when he later bought you the box, saying he'd get better at it and you'd have it spilling out with his loving written words. you ran your fingers over the intricate patterns of the lace, delicate threads contrasting the hollow space.

you folded the letter along it's original creases, the paper folding easily, and placed it back before checking your thight bun in the mirror, perfect posture, every single hair placed where it was meant to be. he still looked at you, of course, but the spark, the raw wonder, had dimmed. it wasn't his fault. life had a way of sanding down the sharp edges of infatuation, leaving behind the smooth, enduring stone of work life.

silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant city chorus. you tell yourself he just forgot. got busy, or thought one was enough. you're good at explaining things away. but when did trying turn into remembering? when did the promise of a future become the past?

the aroma of roasted chicken and rosemary filled the air, a comforting scent that tonight told a solitary performance. table was set, candles unlit, everything waiting for a moment that kept getting delayed. the antique clock sat on the mantelpiece. seven thirty, again. you waited for the familiar click of keys in the lock, the sound that usually signaled the end of day and the beginning of us.

when he comes in your head lifts before you even realize. smoothing your dress automatically, fingers brushing over fabric that was never wrinkled in the first place. a small smile already forming, reserved for him. san already halfway out of his shoes, shoulders slumped, a dark suit jacket draped over his arm. he didn’t glance at the table set for two, but knows everything looks exactly as it always does.

"hey," his voice tired, worn down. like business of the city still clung to him.

"hi," you answer, softer.

he leans in, presses a quick kiss to your temple. familiar, practiced.

"sorry i’m late," he adds, already loosening his tie as you walked towards the dining table. "we had to redo part of the quarterly report because... how do i put this- there was a discrepancy in one of the ledgers, and it threw off the whole reconciliation process. so we had to go back and..."

pulling out his chair. the heavy oak scraped across the polished floor. he loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "had to redo a section. whole damn thing.” he ran a hand through his hair, already tousled from the day. “hours. just… hours.”

you watched him, spooning roasted vegetables onto his plate. you pushed his plate closer, then sat across from him. "must be frustrating," you offered, a soft murmur.

he picked up his fork, turning the chicken over. "frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it. the whole team, scrambling. for a single misplaced figure." he took a bite, chewed slowly. "it’s done now. mostly."

he keeps talking about work, deadlines, numbers, something about a client. you listen, always do. you don't understand every word, but you understand him in the way he talks when he’s tired. the slight edge in his voice, the way he explains things like he’s still in the middle of solving them. it’s easier for him to talk about numbers than about how his day actually felt.

nods at the right moments. hums of acknowledgement. small "and then?" once in a while, just to keep him going.

"…where did those come from?" he signals behind you at the counter. a faint lift of an eyebrow. a hint of a smile, almost.

you glance back, even though you know exactly what he’s looking at. the vase sits neatly by the sink, filled with fresh flowers. soft colors, carefully arranged.

"oh," you say, turning back to him, a warmth creeping up your neck. "mrs. jones gave them to me. i brought her some brownies earlier."

he paused, fork halfway to his mouth and exhales a small breath through his nose in genuine bewilderment.

"y/n," he says, setting his fork down for a second, "you need to stop baking so much."

you blink at him. "why?"

"i don't know, it's just..." he gestures vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. "it's every day. there's always something new. brownies, cookies, that cake from yesterday. the whole building must be swimming in your desserts." he didn’t sound angry, just... resigned.

"i like baking," your voice still gentle, picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth

"i know, i know," he says quickly. "i'm just saying… it's a lot, isn't it?"

a small pause settles and you shrug, barely lifting your shoulders. "it keeps me busy."

he reached across the table, covering your hand with his. his palm was warm, calloused. "tell you what. how about i book you a day at that salon you like? the one on fifth street. hair. nails. the works. i can tell my sister to join you."

"what? am i starting to look like a hag?" you managed a weak laugh.

his grip tightened slightly. his eyes, usually so guarded, held yours with an intensity that surprised you. "you know that’s not what i meant." his voice was firm, no trace of humor.

the small joke withered and you nodded, slowly. "okay." you swallowed. "okay, that sounds... nice."

the candle flickered, casting dancing shadows across his face. he picked up his fork again, the brief moment of connection already fading.

later, the apartment settled into it's nightly quiet. you lay in bed, the soft glow of your reading lamp illuminating the pages of a novel you couldn't quite focus on. normal people by sally rooney, but the words blurred. beside you, san lay on his back, eyes fixed on the small screen in his hands. the blue light painted his face in stark contrasts. his thumb scrolled, scrolled, scrolled. numbers, probably. reports. another discrepancy.

you watched the subtle movements of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow. he was so focused, so far away. still, you reached out, tentative touch to his forearm. his skin was warm beneath your fingers.

he didn’t stir, didn’t look up. his thumb kept scrolling.

you moved your hand, gently, up his arm, over his shoulder, until your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, then threaded into his hair. soft, dark strands. you leaned closer, your breath stirring the air near his ear.

a soft sound escaped him and it almost seemed like he was leaning into it. a yawn. deep, stretching. he lowered the phone, placing it face down on the nightstand. his eyes, heavy lidded, met yours. fleeting moment, again.

"long day," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he gave you a quick short peck on your cheek then turned onto his side, facing away from you, the duvet pulled higher. "good night."

lamp clicked off. darkness enveloped the room, thick and immediate. you lay there, listening to the soft, even rhythm of his breathing, soon turning into soft snores. beside him but alone in the quiet. the book lay open, unread. words still blurred.

୨୧

acetone and something floral, both sharp and comforting. hum of dryers and low chatter fills the space, blending into a steady background noise that makes everything feel easy. normal.

you sat in the middle chair, hands resting neatly on the small cushion in front of you, fingers relaxed but still. a sigh escaping your lips before you could stop it. the manicurist, a young woman with a bright, knowing smile, took your hand, her touch cool and precise. she filed your nails into neat, elegant ovals. you picked a soft, clean color without much thought. something simple, safe, that goes with everything.

across from you, two of your friends leaned into each other, their overlapping voices a stream of gossip. too loud and uncaring. the others chime in, voices overlapping. one of them threw her head back, a peal of laughter echoing, the other one nodded, eyes wide with feigned shock. they talked about a mutual acquaintance’s recent engagement, the scandalous details of a breakup, the endless parade of societal expectations.

"he actually said that?"

"no, stop-"

"i'm serious, i swear-"

to your left, rhythmic snip of scissors. noeul, san's older sister listened quietly, sat under a cloud of foil, her head tilted back as a stylist worked through her dark hair. but her attention drifts back to you more often than not. she owned a warm, reassuring glint. offering a small, conspiratorial smile whenever you caught her gaze in the mirror, silent acknowledgment of the shared escape.

a few chairs down, a woman with kind eyes spoke in hushed tones to her stylist. "she just graduated middle school with the highest scores," her voice, thick with a mother’s proudness, drifted over.

the stylist hums a singing note. "you must be so proud."

"oh, more than that" the woman exhales. "she's even already thinking about what she wants to study after high school."

she spoke of her daughter, a girl she’d poured her heart into.

your fingers still for a second on the cushion. the stylist murmurs something gentle back, and the conversation folds into the background. but it lingers.

your gaze drifted from the woman’s satisfied face to the neat row of polish bottles, then to your own hands, at the careful brush of polish gliding over your nails. you imagined those hands, smaller, softer, reaching for yours. a child. a son, perhaps, with san’s dimples and your own tendency to blush when surprised. or a daughter, with san’s quiet strength and your expressive eyes. the thought bloomed in your mind like a fragile hothouse flower.

you try to picture it. years stacked quietly on top of each other. a child in your apartment. toys where there are now empty surfaces. noise where there is now silence. san, coming home from work. would he pick them up? would he be too tired? would he talk to them the way he talks to you now, half there, half somewhere else? or would it be different? the thought catches you off guard. unfamiliar.

because you've never talked about it. not seriously. not beyond passing comments, vague things people say because they’re supposed to. someday. eventually. no timelines, no plans, no want or don’t want laid out clearly between you.

you don't even know if he wants kids. and for a second, that realization feels heavier than it should. there’s a whole future on a limbo sitting out of reach. not because it’s impossible, but because it’s never been named.

"y/n? you’re miles away!" the brightness of your friend's voice cut through your reverie.

the other leans forward slightly, "how’s married life treating you?"

you don't look up right away, only tilting your hand slightly when the nail tech asks you to. a practiced tug at the corner of your lips masked the tremor beneath.

"it's good, really good." you offered, voice light and airy.

"ugh," someone groans playfully. "of course it is. you guys were always like... perfect for each other."

you let out a soft laugh. "thank you, emma."

"it is," the friend grins. "seriously though, what have you guys been up to lately? anything fun?"

there’s a pause. you glance up for just a second, like you're checking your memory for something recent, something worth telling. "not really," tone still light. "just... normal stuff."

"that's adorable," another friend says, laced with genuine admiration. "no drama or chaos. must be so peaceful to marry an office guy."

"yeah," you nod, smile a little wider. "exactly."

the conversation shifts easily after that, flowing like a meandering river to other topics, someone starts talking about a coworker, someone else about a trip they want to take, and you listen, add comments here and there, smile when you're supposed to. their voices rising and falling in a comfortable rhythm. you watched them, their easy camaraderie, the way they finished each other’s sentences, and a familiar pang of loneliness pierced through the carefully erected wall around your heart.

noeul’s voice, soft but firm, cut through the din. she leaned closer, her perceptive eyes, meeting yours.

"how’s he been?” she asks.

you turn slightly. "san?"

a small nod. "yeah."

your smile didn’t falter. it felt glued on now, a permanent fixture. "he’s good," you say. "just busy with work, you know how he is." the words came out a little too quickly, a little too smooth. you avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the manicurist applying the top coat, making sure each nail was perfectly glossy.

noeul scoffs and tilts her head. "i do." a faint, wry smile touched her lips. "you know, i’ve known my brother a long time. longer than you, even." she paused, letting her words hang in the air. "i know how he gets. when things pile up and he forgets the rest of the world exists."

for a second, the façade threatened to crack. the truth, the bitter, stinging sensation, rose in your throat. you wanted to confess, to unburden yourself, to say, he’s not here, noeul. even when he’s here, he’s not here. i’m so lonely. i feel like i’m drowning in this calm. but the words remained trapped. fearful of conflict, ingrained habit of presenting things softly. you forced a small, reassuring nod. "yeah, it's nothing." the lie tasted like ash.

she watches you for a second longer, like she’s weighing something, then hums lightly and looks away, letting the moment dissolve back into the room. as the conversation drifts away again, your gaze lowers, unfocused.

the manicurist finished, buffing your nails to a high shine. she applied a cuticle oil, the scent of almond and rose a delicate perfume. your hands, now impeccably groomed, felt foreign.

"all done, dear." she announced, her smile bright.

you lift your hands slightly, turning them under the light. they’re perfect. smooth, even, untouched.

"thank you," you say, smiling.

for a moment, you imagine asking him. should be simple. do you ever think about kids? it doesn’t feel like a big question. it's not.

and yet, you can’t picture the moment clearly. when you'd ask, how he’d answer, whether it would feel natural or out of place, like introducing a topic that doesn’t belong in the quiet shape of their life. so you let the thought go.

you reach for your phone absentmindedly. no new messages. thumb hovers over the screen for a second, like you might type something, then you lock it instead and set it back down.

"do you guys want to grab something after this?" a girls asks. "coffee?"

"perfect! i’m craving that new lavender latte."

"oh, i can't," you say quickly, forcing another regretful smile. "i really should head home. dinner, you know." you gestured vaguely, as if the very concept of an empty fridge was an urgent, looming threat.

"alright, wifey," someone teases.

you simply smile again in a thin line as you stand, smoothing down your dress out of instinct and reach for your bag. giving everyone a small goodbye hug. as you pass behind noeul, there’s a brief brush of hands, intentional to pause you.

"hey, if it’s ever not nothing," she says quietly, a hint of concern still lacing her words. "you can tell me."

you hold her gaze for a second. then you smile. soft, reassuring, effortless. "i know." and you mean it, you just don't use it.

blur of city sounds and hurried footste. you stepped out, the cool afternoon air a sharp contrast to the salon’s warmth. rose scented oil on your nails, faint blush of pink, it felt like a disguise. you walked, footsteps echoing on the pavement, toward the quiet of the apartment, toward the silent kitchen, toward the dinner you had to make. the thought of it, a weight in your stomach, settled in with the dull ache of loneliness. the calm awaited.

୨୧

the last of the suds swirled down the drain, taking with them the faint scent of tonight’s braised short ribs. you wiped down the counter, movements precise, methodical. the clinking of ceramic plates against the drying rack was the only sound in the kitchen. you dried your hands on a towel, folding it neatly over the edge of the sink when you're finished. dishes done, kitchen clean again.

san's in the living room, laptop open, the soft glow of the screen lighting his face. he's not typing much. just staring, scrolling, thinking. you paused at the archway, shoulder pressing lightly against the cool plaster. the conversation from the salon, a snippet of motherhood, rang in your mind. it had all been a gentle nudge, a question mark in the back of your thoughts all afternoon. you hadn't realized how much space the idea of a child, of your child, could occupy until that moment.

the future, once a vibrant tapestry you and san wove together with eager hands, now a blank canvas. you’d painted the college days in bright, bold strokes, the wedding vows in shimmering gold. but the years beyond, the ones stretching into a quiet domesticity, remained unsketched. you found yourself wondering if san even saw that canvas anymore, if he still held a brush.

you watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he began typing, the subtle ripple beneath his shirt. his dark hair, a little longer than you usually liked, fell across his forehead. he didn’t look up, his focus absolute, a tunnel vision you’d come to recognize.

"still have a lot to do?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended, a whisper against the keyboard’s clatter.

his fingers stilled for a beat, then resumed their pace. "almost," he murmured, eyes still fixed on the screen. "just finishing up these projections for the morning."

a breath, deep and slow, air cool in your lungs. you watch him for a second. the way his brows pull together slightly, the way his attention narrows into whatever’s on the screen. focused. distant. the question, the real question, the one that had been brewing since you left the salon, fell heavy on your tongue. it wasn't just about kids. it was about us. about the unspoken, the unasked, the growing chasm of silence. you wanted to ask if he ever thought about them, about a future that wasn’t neatly tied to quarterly reports and spreadsheets. you wanted to ask if he still saw you, really saw you, beyond the perfectly made bed and the carefully planned dinners. maybe, just maybe, this question could be the key, a small crack. it could lead to an actual conversation, a real one, not just about work or groceries or the weather. your heart beat a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

"hey," you start.

he hummed, signaling acknowledgement without breaking concentration. his head tilted slightly, silent invitation to continue.

do you ever think about kids?

words once so clear in your mind, so simple in your head, at least, suddenly tangled. they became a knot in your throat, a lump of unspoken fears and resentments. the image of him, so engrossed, so far away, solidified the doubt. what if he says no? what if he doesn’t want them? what if he thinks it’s a silly question? the fear of that disappointment in his eyes, was a known, suffocating weight. you’d spent years perfecting the art of soft landings, of avoiding any ripple in the calm surface of your shared life. to shatter that now, to introduce a potential disagreement, felt like a betrayal of your own carefully constructed peace. the question of children, of your future, of his love, dissolved into a vague, unformed anxiety.

"do you…" you began, then faltered, sentence dying on your lips. "do you want some tea?"

he looked up then, slanted brown eyes meeting yours, a faint smile touching his lips. the blue light softened the edges of his face, highlighting the dimples that appeared only when he was genuinely pleased. "yeah," he nodded. "sounds nice."

and just like that, the moment passed. the opportunity vanished. you offered a small, tight smile in return, then turned and walked back into the quiet kitchen, already reaching for the kettle. behind you, the quiet settles back into place. the question dissolves somewhere between the sink and the stove, blending into the rhythm of water filling, mugs being set out, something warm being made and offered instead of something uncertain being asked. by the time the kettle starts to hum, you can’t even tell if it would’ve been the right moment or if there would ever be one.

୨୧

the supermarket was colder than you'd expected when the automatic doors whispered open, spitting out artificial chill. paused just past the entrance, adjusting your grip on the heavy cart as the air settled unwelcome against your skin. for a moment, you just stood there, letting the quiet hum of refrigerators and distant chatter fill the space around you. a shiver traced it's way down your spine, cold reminder that you had to move, and so you pushed the metal basket forward as it's wheels squeaked faintly.

there was no reason to rush. you followed the aisles in a pattern you didn’t have to think about anymore. chicken first, hand reaching for the familiar white tray. then the vegetable section. flour, again. sugar, constant drain on the pantry, always seemed to run out faster than it should. everything found it's place in the cart without hesitation, each item chosen with the same steady certainty. each line on your shopping list crossed off with a decisive stroke of the pen. at some point, you realized you had already walked down the same aisle twice.

nothing missing, nothing forgotten. the necessities secured, a small indulgence felt earned. you slowed, then stopped altogether at the snack aisle. eyes drifted over the shelves, lingering on things you didn’t need. brightly colored packaging, a mental tally forming: which ones you wouldn't you buy, which ones would san wrinkle his nose at? the familiar ritual offered a brief, quiet comfort. you imagined his polite imperceptible nod of approval when you presented his favourite chocolate covered crispy biscuits, or the slight, teasing lift of his brow if you dared bring home something too exotic.

"y/n?" the voice came from behind, uncertain but enough to make you turn, the cart creaking in protest. you couldn’t place him until the crooked smile appeared and recognition settled in.

seonghwa.

he stood a few feet away, a half basket hooked over his arm. the boy you remembered, all sharp angles and adolescent angst, had softened around the edges, but the core was undeniably him. the piercings that once studded his ears and lip were gone, leaving only ghost like indentations. but new ink snaked up his forearms, dark tendrils against his skin, a testament to a life lived beyond high school hallways. his wolf cut, a shaggy, artfully dishevelled frame around his face, was longer, wilder than you remembered. his round eyes, still piercing, held a glint of surprise, then something else, something assessing.

"oh...hi," you said, a small, surprised smile breaking through. "wait, hi."

"wow, it's really you." he smiled back, a little wider, like he’d been more sure of it than you were. "i almost didn't recognize you. you... look good, exactly the same," he added, almost as an afterthought.

you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "that’s not true."

"it is," he said lightly. "just... older. in a good way."

you smiled again, more out of politeness this time, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as if to give your hands something to do.

"what are you doing around here?" he asked. "do you live nearby?"

"yeah," you nodded. "not too far. i just came to... groceries."

"right," he said, glancing at his own cart. "same."

there was a brief pause, the kind that should have felt awkward, but didn’t quite. not yet.

"so... are you still in touch with... what was her name? sarah? no- samantha?”

you smiled faintly. "no."

"right, yeah," he said quickly, waving it off with a small laugh. "i always mix those up."

you didn’t correct him. his gaze shifted then, catching on your left hand, lingering for a fraction on the thin band around your ring ringer. you followed his eyes, as if you hadn’t noticed it until that moment.

you offered a practiced smile, a smooth, well rehearsed performance. "oh, yeah. met him in college." the words came out light, airy, almost dismissive of the years of shared history, of the dreams whispered in dorm rooms, the silent promises.

"college, huh? that's nice," he said, and it sounded genuine.

"it is," you replied, too quickly. "his name is san, he's an accountant." the description felt flat, inadequate, a pale shadow of the man you loved.

"an accountant. fancy." he chuckled. "so, what have you been up to? still arguing about about freud versus jung for fun?"

"no, not really." you corrected gently. "i mean, i got a psychology degree but i'm… i'm a stay at home wife now." the phrase almost felt embarrassing on your tongue.

his eyebrow shot up. "huh... i always pictured you, like, running a therapy practice, saving the world from going insane."

you shrugged. "well, it’s nice, though. i get to... manage the house. bake. plan meals. save him from going insane, you know?" the words hollow, even to your own ears.

"i bet san’s a lucky man. always coming home to fresh cookies." he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

small, tight knot formed in your stomach. you baked when you were anxious, yes. but san rarely came home early enough for the cookies to still be warm. and most of them, you gave away to the neighbours, offerings of surplus comfort. "something like that," you murmured, deflecting. "what about you? still making music?"

his face lit up, a genuine, unadulterated passion sparking in his eyes. the words lingered between you for a second before dissolving into something lighter. you talked after that. nothing important, nothing that would be remembered in detail later. work, vaguely. life, in broad strokes. the kind of conversation that filled space easily without asking too much of either of them. he asked questions and waited for the answers. reacted in the right places. kept things moving without letting them settle too long in any one place. you found yourself talking more than you expected to.

"a few of us get together sometimes," he said, almost casually. "nothing big. just... hanging out. you should come, we’re going to a friend's house next week. old times' sake."

you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because you did. your mind immediately conjured a mental checklist: the laundry basket overflowing in the utility room, the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun on the living room floor, the intricate dinner you had planned for san, a quiet attempt to reignite a spark that felt increasingly dim. the thought of all those small, domestic duties, waiting patiently for your attention, made a familiar pang of guilt twist in your gut.

"i don’t know," you said lightly, automatic refusal on your lips. "i might be busy."

"with what?" he asked curiously.

you searched for something immediate, something obvious.

"just… stuff," you said instead, smoothing it over with a small smile.

he nodded, accepting it without question.

"well," he added, "if you’re not, you’re welcome. it’d be nice to catch up properly. it’s good to break free sometimes and let loose, you know?"

a small yearning stirred within you. the idea of an afternoon free from chores, from the quiet hum of your own thoughts, from the subtle ache of loneliness, held an unexpected appeal. "okay," you said, the word simple.

"yeah?" his eyes amused.

"yeah."

you exchanged numbers. nothing ceremonious about it, a small addition, barely noticeable in the moment. "well, it was good running into you, y/n. don’t be a stranger." he offered a quick, easy smile, then turned, his basket still hooked over his arm, and disappeared down the aisle towards the dairy section.

that night, you work through the knots in your hair in front of the vanity mirror. each stroke of the brush pulls a small discomfort. the rush of water from the tap in the en suite bathroom ceases. the door creaks open and san emerged, a towel draped low around his waist. water still clings to the dark hairs on his chest, glistening under the low light. he moves with a quiet efficiency, his broad shoulders filling the doorway for a moment before he crosses to his side of the bed, carrying the clean scent of his soap. he doesn’t look at you, not directly, as he peels the towel away, letting it drop to the floor. your gaze, however, finds the smooth expanse of his back, the hard lines of his muscles shifting as he reaches for the pajama drawer. you note the way his bicep flexes, the familiar curve of his neck, the slight slump of his shoulders that wasn’t there when you first met him.

you continue brushing, rhythmic scrape of bristles against scalp filling the silence. your heart a persistent bird, flutters.

"i ran into someone today," you say, your voice almost lost in the rustle of san pulling on a shirt.

a low hum sound from inside the fabric, he pulls the shirt down, smoothing it over his chest. he turns then, his eyes, dark and heavy lidded, finally finding yours in the mirror. a flicker of something unreadable passes through them before settling into a tired affection.

"at the market?" he asks as he pulls back the duvet on his side of the bed.

you nod, watching his reflection as he settles onto the mattress, propping himself up against the headboard. "an old friend. from high school." you pause, the brush still in your hand, it's bristles splayed. "apparently some of them still hang out, and i was invited."

the bed dips as he adjusts the pillows. "that’s good. you should go." his voice is calm, even. he picks up his phone from the nightstand, it's screen glowing blue for a moment before he sets it back down.

you turn fully then, the brush forgotten on the vanity. your bare feet touch the cool wood floor. "really? you don’t mind?" you walk to your side of the bed.

he looks up, his brows furrowed slightly. "why would i mind? it’s good for you to see people. you’re always here." his gaze sweeps around the room, then back to you. "you should get out more."

the words, meant to be reassuring, land with a surprising weight. always here. a small, sharp ache begins in your chest. you climb into bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin. the sheets, cool against your skin, feel vast tonight.

"i mean," you start, choosing your words carefully, "i haven’t seen them in years. since graduation, probably." you watch his face, searching for something, a hint of curiosity, a flicker of concern.

he just nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "people change. that’s okay. it’ll be nice to reconnect." he reaches over, his hand finding yours under the duvet. his fingers, warm and strong, intertwine with yours, a familiar comfort. "you’ve been cooped up. it’s good to have plans."

his thumb strokes the back of your hand, it’s a connection, yes, but one that feels practiced, automatic. you want to tell him more, to say, it was seonghwa, the boy with the emo hair, the one who used to draw skulls in his notebook during history class, but the words catch in your throat. the moment feels too delicate, too easily broken.

"i guess so," you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. you squeeze his hand, a silent plea for more, for him to ask, who was it? what did you talk about?

soft exhalation that sounds like relief escapes him. he leans over, his head dipping. his lips, warm and soft, brush your forehead, then your temple, then your mouth. it’s a brief, chaste kiss, a familiar closing to the day. his lips taste faintly of mint. he pulls back, settling deeper into his pillow.

"good night, y/n," he says, his voice already thick with sleep.

eyes closing and breathing deepening almost immediately. the rhythm of his breath fills the room, steady and even. his hand, still holding yours, loosens it's grip. fingers, heavy with sleep, slide away.

darkness pressed in as you layed there, the silence amplifying the quiet hum of the city outside. your eyes trace the familiar contours of his face in the dim light. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rest against his cheekbones. faint smile, ghost of a dream, plays on his lips. he looks peaceful, untroubled.

he hadn’t asked. he hadn’t asked anything beyond the most superficial. he hadn't asked who. he hadn't asked if you wanted to go. he just assumed.

you turn onto your side, facing away from him, pulling the duvet tighter around you. the warmth of the blankets does little to chase away the chill that has settled deep within you. still, you tried to push the thought away. it’s not fair. san is tired. he works hard. he provides. this is what you agreed to. this is the life you built. you chose this, to be here. for him. but the loneliness curls around your heart. the perfection of the bed you made this morning, the carefully planned dinner, the unspoken anxieties baked into the pastries you gave away, all of it feels like a silent scream swallowed by the vast, quiet expanse of your days.

tears won’t come even if the knot in you throat screams for a cry. instead, your mind drifts to the closet, to the neat rows of clothes, the perfectly folded sweaters. tomorrow, you think, you’ll reorganize the winter section. it needs it. you need it. a small, manageable task to fill the endless hours.

y/n choi: hi, it's y/n from the store. i think i'm free that day if the invite still stands

seonghwa park: hey!

seonghwa park: yeah of course 😉

seonghwa park: glad ur coming, heres the address

seonghwa park: [location]

୨୧

the building wasn't what you expected. grimy canvas of faded brick and peeling paint that slightly unnerved you. you pulled your phone from your pocket a third time, checked the address, then glanced up at the entrance like it might correct itself if you stayed waiting long enough.

no, this was it.

bass vibrated through the pavement, pulse beneath your feet. for a second, you consider leaving, then you adjust your grip on the small container in your hands and step inside. the hallway swallowed you whole, narrow canyon that smell suspiciously of gasoline. when you reach the graffiti painted door, it was already slightly open. you knocked anyway.

there's a small shuffle inside before seonghwa emerges, his grin a flash of white teeth.

"y/n! thought you weren't gonna make it." he stepped aside, his arm sweeping an invitation.

you offered a small, polite smile, stepping into the room. the air hit you first, thick with a cloying sweetness you couldn't recognize and the acrid bite of stale cigarettes. the apartment was a controlled chaos. art adorned every available surface, canvases leaning against walls, sketches tacked to corkboards, a half finished sculpture draped in cloth in a corner. the room swam with bodies. girls, their midriffs bare, navel piercings glinting under the strung fairy lights. men, their arms drawn with ink, sprawled on beanbags or perched on the worn, leather couches. they moved with an easy, unhurried rhythm, as if the space molded itself around their presence. your modest linen shirt, a soft ecru, felt suddenly like a costume, an ill fitting disguise.

"hey everyone, this is y/n, from high school." seonghwa’s voice cut through the haze, a casual announcement.

a few heads turned, a couple of languid nods, but most remained immersed in their conversations, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings. your gaze swept across the room, searching for a familiar face, a flicker of recognition. nothing.

"it’s... nice to meet you all," you murmured, voice a little too soft, a little too formal for the raucous atmosphere. you clutched the clear container in your hands, the weight of it suddenly grounding.

a girl with a constellation of tiny tattoos climbing her neck, her hair a violent shade of fuchsia, pointed a perfectly manicured finger at your hands. "what’s that?"

you felt a blush creep up your neck. "oh. cookies. i made them." you held the container out, a silent offering.

a woman with striking, dark eyes and a generous smile detached herself from a group near the window. she wore spiked hair and her eyebrows seemed to be gone, but her presence offered a quiet anchor. "cookies! how cute. anna, by the way." she extended a hand, her grip firm and warm.

"y/n." you returned her shake, a surge of relief washing over you.

"i didn't know this was a bake sale," a gravelly voice grumbled from a corner, followed by a snort.

anna turned, her dark eyes narrowing playfully at the fat guy with a mohawk. "shut up, mark. you never bring anything." she gave his arm a quick, sharp shove. despite his joke, he came up as well.

a fresh wave of embarrassment hit you, cheeks burning as you began to stammer, "i just thought, you know, as a... a thank you for inviting me..."

anna waved your apology away. "no, it’s great! we love snacks. what kind?" she peered into the container, her eyes sparkling.

"chocolate chip. with sea salt." you offered, a small smile tentatively forming.

the lid popped open with a soft click. the aroma of warm chocolate and vanilla wafted through the air, momentarily cutting through the other scents. it was like a siren song. suddenly, a small crowd materialized around you, drawn by the scent. hands reached in, fingers deftly plucking cookies from their neat rows.

"someone brought cookies?"

"wait, i want cookies."

"no way, cookies?"

"save me one. i said save me one!"

the conversation dwindled, replaced by the soft sounds of chewing and contented murmurs. a lanky guy took the last cookie, giving you a between apologetic and grateful look and you laugh it off. within minutes, the container lay empty, a few crumbs clinging to it's clear sides. you felt a genuine smile spread across your face. the tension in your shoulders eased. "i’m glad you liked them."

for a moment everything was filled with overlapping conversations and easy movement, people drifting in and out without much structure. you sat at the couch with anna and mark. being spoken to, responded to, included without having to work for it. she asks you what else you like to bake. he asks where you live. the questions aren’t deep, but they come one after another and you answer, laugh and nod. the silence you've been carrying around doesn’t follow you in, it stays somewhere outside the door you walked through.

after a while, when the rhythm starts to feel harder to follow and topics shift quickly, you find your way back to seonghwa in the kitchen. he’s near the counter, talking to someone, but he glances over when you approach, like he’s been keeping track of where you are.

"hey," he says, turning slightly towards yo.

"hi," you answer before a small pause, then casually, "are any other people from our school coming?"

he doesn't hesitate. "nah," he says, shaking his head. "couldn't come."

"oh," you felt a pang of disappointment, small knot tightening in your stomach. you’d envisioned friendly faces, shared anecdotes, a comfortable bridge to this unfamiliar landscape. "okay."

"why?" he adds. "were you expecting someone?"

"no,no. i just thought maybe-" before trailing off, you shake your head lightly. "it's fine."

he watches you for a second, then nods once, like that’s enough.

"you’re good," he says. "don’t overthink it. come on, let’s get you a drink." seonghwa grinned, his hand briefly brushing your lower back as he steered you towards a cooler overflowing with ice and bottles.

you chose a sparkling water, the chill of the can a welcome sensation against your palm. you gravitated towards anna, who was now engaged in a lively discussion with mark about a band you’d never heard of. you hovered at the edge of their circle, listening, slowly piecing together fragments of their world. they spoke of gigs, of art installations, of obscure films, their words painting a vibrant, chaotic picture of lives lived on the fringes of convention.

as the evening continued it's slow, winding course, the hours passed by without warning, suddenly, it was later than you thought. through the subtle buzz in your veins and lightness you hadn't realized you were missing, the image of san already in bed, alone, stirred something in you. your small bag and empty container already in your hands.

"you can come in anytime, even if seonghwa isn't here." anna said before hugging you goodbye.

as you made your way towards the door, seonghwa intercepted you. "leaving already? come on, just one more drink." his voice was persuasive.

"i really should go. it’s getting late." you offered a polite, but firm smile.

he stepped closer, his hand briefly touching your arm. "you know, you’re really something, y/n. a real breath of fresh air." his eyes held yours, flicker of something unreadable in their depths.

"thank you, seonghwa. for inviting me." you pulled your arm away subtly.

"anytime. seriously. we should hang out again, just us two." his voice dropped, a low murmur intended only for your ears.

you felt a shiver, a faint unease prickling at your skin. "maybe," you said, voice noncommittal, then slipped out the door, back into the cool night air.

the street was quieter now, the bass from the building still a faint thrum in the distance. you walked and thought of the laughter, the music, the easy camaraderie, and a strange sense of longing settled in your chest. it was a world so different from your own, a world where boundaries seemed to blur, where emotions were worn on sleeves, where life felt raw and immediate.

stale cigarette smoke clung to your clothes, a new perfume you hadn't anticipated, but somehow, it felt less offensive than the lingering scent of dish soap from your day to day. your sensible sedan, parked a block away, seemed almost out of place among the battered vans and motorcycles. once you got in safely, you pulled out your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a single text from san from an hour ago: 'home. have a good time, night.' short, efficient, just like him. you stared at it and felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to talk to him, to tell him about the fuchsia hair, the tattooed arms, their reactions to your cookies, the melancholic music, anna’s kind eyes. but you tucked your phone back into your purse, the small, bright screen now dark.

you unlocked the apartment door, the click echoing in the silent space. the air inside was still, heavy with the scent of your carefully chosen strawberry cake diffuser. a half eaten bowl sat on the kitchen counter, remnants of the chicken stir fry you had prepared earlier, the pan still on the stove, a few grains of rice clinging to it's surface. a small sigh of relief escaped your lips. he had eaten. the simple act, a confirmation of your effort, brought a satisfaction to you. you moved through the kitchen, the soft clink of ceramic and metal as you rinsed the bowl, scrubbed the pan. it was a mindless task, your hands working on autopilot, while your mind drifted back to the vibrant chaos of anna's house.

the bedroom was a hushed darkness. san lay sprawled on his side of the bed, a rumbling snore escaping his lips, his face buried in the pillow. the sheet, pulled up to his waist, outlined the broad expanse of his back, the familiar curve of his spine. a sight you knew intimately, a tableau repeated almost every night. he worked hard, you reminded yourself, always.

you untangled your hair from the neat french twist, the pins scattering like tiny metallic insects onto the polished wood of your dresser. soft fingers massaged your scalp, releasing the tension that had gathered there throughout the day. you stripped off your clothes replacing them with silk pajama shorts and a matching camisole. teeth brushed and bathroom light off, the bed dipped slightly as you eased yourself in, careful not to disturb san. he remained a dark, unmoving mass beside you, his breathing deep and even.

sleep, usually a welcome embrace, felt elusive tonight. your mind buzzed, a kaleidoscope of new faces, loud music, and unfiltered laughter. the freedom of it all, the raw, unpolished authenticity, contrasted sharply with the quiet, ordered life you had carefully constructed.

shifting restless, silk rustling against the sheets. the image of the girl's fuchsia hair, defiant and vibrant, flashed in your mind. her confident stride, her easy smile. what did she worry about? did she ever feel this profound, aching quietness? you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of san's back. the moonlight, filtering through the gap in the curtains, painted a silver line along his broad shoulder, the muscle defined even in repose. he was strong, reliable, your rock. yet lately, the rock was a mountain you couldn't climb.

a pang of something sharp, something akin to longing, twisted in your gut. you wanted to feel. you wanted to be seen. not just as the wife who kept the house, who cooked the meals, but as you, again. the you who had laughed tonight, unburdened. the one you knew san had fallen in love with.

your hand, almost without conscious thought, slipped beneath the silk of your pajama shorts. the fabric parted, your fingers, tentative at first, found the soft mound of your grown pubic hair, then the slick, warm folds beneath. a small gasp escaped your lips, swallowed by the quiet room. your core, already sensitive, pulsed beneath your touch. you stroked, slowly, deliberately, soft pressure building.

subtly, your hips began to tilt, involuntary movement, pressing into your palm. your fingers worked with a quiet urgency, tracing the delicate ridges, circling the peak of your clitoris. a moistness spread, warm, slick rush that dampened the silk shorts beneath your hand. the sensation intensified, a delicious ache blooming deep inside you, spreading through your belly. your breathing hitched, growing shallow, ragged.

wake up, i'm here.

you closed your eyes, a torrent of images flashing behind your eyelids. san, the warmth of his touch, a vague, undefined hunger. you pressed harder, your thumb finding a rhythm, a steady, insistent pressure. a low moan, barely audible, escaped your throat, a sound of pure pleasure. your whole body tensed, arching slightly into your hand. the climax a sudden, exquisite release, wave of heat that cascaded through your limbs, leaving you trembling, breathless.

୨୧

the shrill ring of the alarm ripped you from a dreamless sleep. your eyes fluttered open, the room still shrouded in pre dawn gloom. a glance at the clock sent a jolt of panic through you. 6:45 am. san left at 7:30. you had overslept.

you scrambled out of bed, the silk shorts clinging briefly before you shed them. the floor was cool beneath your bare feet.

"san, wake up," you whispered, nudging his shoulder. he grunted and slowly, reluctantly, stirred.

you moved with practiced efficiency, a whirlwind of motion in the quiet kitchen. the scent of brewing coffee began to fill the air, mingling with the sizzle of eggs in the pan. toast popped, butter melted, and the rhythmic thud of a knife chopping fruit filled the space. san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed, his black hair still damp, clinging to his forehead. he looked tired, his eyes still holding the remnants of sleep, but his movements were precise, methodical.

"morning," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he poured himself a mug of coffee, the steam curling around his face.

"morning," you replied, already assembling his lunch. a neat stack of sandwiches, a small container of cut fruit, a handful of almonds. you wrapped it all meticulously, fitting it into his lunch bag.

"did you sleep okay?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee. he leaned against the counter, watching you.

"yeah, eventually," you said, trying to keep your voice light. you packed a small thermos of tea. "i went to that thing last night, you know, the hangout thing?"

he nodded before picking up a slice of toast, spreading jam onto it. "how was it?"

"it was...different," you began, a small smile playing on your lips. you wanted to tell him everything, about the fuchsia hair, the tattoos, the unexpected warmth. "it was in this old building, kind of grungy, but everyone was so nice. there was this girl, sally, she had the most incredible hair, like, bright pink and her face was like a strainer, filled with piercings, it was so cool. and then i met anna, she had these dark intimidating eyes but she was actually really sweet. she’s a photographer for bands."

he turned to you with a slight frown. "y/n?"

"yeah?" you cleaned your hands with a kitchen towel.

"you're not... getting into anything dangerous, are you?"

you tilted your head, looking at him confused. "what? no, no. they were really nice people, they had this energy, like they just didn't care what anyone thought. it was kind of... inspiring."

"hmm..." he took a bite with a raised brow. "be careful y/n, you know how those types can be."

the warmth you’d felt, a flicker of shared experience, began to cool. "i am. but listen, there was also music, not like the music we usually listen to, more like a band sound," you continued, a little more emphatically, trying to inject some of the excitement you had felt into your words. "there was this guy, he had these huge arms filled with tattoos and he had a mohawk, i'd never seen one of those in real life."

he looked away again, finished his toast and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "just don’t get into anything foolish." he reached for his briefcase and lunchbox, already moving towards the door.

your shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, there was so much you still wanted to tell him. but there was also no time, you knew. there never was. he was already halfway out the door, his hand on the knob.

"i'll make your favorite soup for dinner tonight," you offered, a last ditch effort to connect, to anchor him for just a moment longer.

he paused, turning his head slightly. a small, tired smile touched his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "thanks, that sounds great, i'll try not to be too late. love you."

"love you," you mumbled as the door shut and he was gone, the click of the lock echoing in the now silent apartment. you stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the lingering scent of coffee and eggs.

y/n choi: hi, it's y/n, i had a really good time yesterday.

seonghwa park: hey, me too