sincerely, urs.

"stop it-" you huff, trying to push his hand away, but rafe just laughs, pulling you closer instead, tightening his arm around you.

"what, is it this 'valentines' thingy?"

your silence is the answer to his question.

you turn back around, and his smile widens the second he sees your face again; the pout still there as you prop your chin on your elbow, half sitting up.

"do you not care?"

"…about valentine’s? yeah-"

"no. about me."

rafe squints at you for a second, then lets out a giggle. he reaches up, tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear before tapping your forehead lightly. "and where’d you get that from…?"

you part your lips, ready to say something - but he can see you change your mind.

"no. never mind, i’m just being petty."

you start to turn away again, and just to tease you, rafe murmurs, "you sure are."

that makes you face him immediately. he laughs when you hit his chest, the shove more light than annoyed.

"you’re supposed to say-"

"i know. but look at you, all sulky."

"and whose fault is that?"

"yours entirely," he pauses, then corrects himself with a small, soft smile, "but… what’s yours is mine."

-----

"alright- you ready?" rafe asks, hand covering your eyes as he guides you toward the kitchen, the other hand hovering at your back like a safety net.

you hum, and he lets go.

you gasp.

the whole kitchen counter is covered in roses, not just roses, but other flowers tucked between them, bursts of color and scent spilling across every inch. rafe went all in this morning. he called every flower shop he could think of (most running low because, well, hello, it’s valentine’s) but he argued, pulled strings, and somehow got as many as possible.

he knows its very last minute- but just seeing that small pout on your face (joking or not) convinced him that he had to make up for it.

he wasn’t even sure what a "grand gesture" should look like, so he made it everything. every flower he could find, plus a dinner reservation at your favorite restaurant; he didn’t give up until they offered a table.

he follows you as you step closer, sniffing at the blooms, then slowly turning to face him. your grin stretches impossibly wide, and rafe can’t help but smirk at how completely, ridiculously happy you look.

then, from his pocket, he pulls out a small box. he opens it, revealing a delicate bracelet that glints in the morning light.

"be my valentine, baby."

"of course!" you shriek, throwing your arms around his neck, catching him completely by surprise. rafe laughs, setting the box down on the counter before pulling you close, hands at your waist, holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. you bury your face into his shoulder, laughter muffled in there, and he lets the sound wash over him- peace, warmth, home.

anything for you.

if it meant declaring his love out loud, if it meant making you this happy, then yes. yes, he would do this a thousand times over. valentine’s day isn’t just a day. it’s every small moment, every look, every touch, every heartbeat he gets to share with you.

"i love you," he whispers against your skin, letting the words settle- no, imprinting like a tattoo. i love you- words that aren’t tied to a day on the calendar, aren’t limited to valentines. just you, always. "my lovely girl."

"i love you more, my pretty boy."

♡⸝⸝ more rafe | elevator

you blink, clearly hesitating, but his lap looks soooo inviting.

he even taps the fabric that clings onto his inner thigh, urging you to take the initiative.

and you do- your feet move before your brain catches up, and you carefully settle onto his lap. your hands rest on his shoulders, shy to give him your entire weight.

“i won’t bite,” he whispers in your ear, his voice barely more than a ghost against your skin, and it sends butterflies tumbling through your stomach. your body argues back; your core knows he will do more than just bite.

your pulse quickens as his hand finds your thigh, gentle but insistent, nudging your legs just slightly apart. you feel yourself melting under the coaxing warmth of his touch, the unspoken permission for him to touch you, for you to make him your seat.

slowly, carefully, you get comfortable, letting yourself sink a little into him. your back against his chest, ass against his bulge, head resting in the nape of his neck perfectly.

your gaze drops to the ring on his finger, from the hand on your thigh.

somehow, he's slipped his other hand on your other thigh, and only then do you realize he's fully prying your legs open for him. the reason, you're about to find out.

"nice ring," you compliment, letting your fingertip trace over the material.

"yeah."

his voice is even deeper when it's breathing near you; you can feel your heart beating in your throat. you don't want to move; afraid to feel more of the bulge underneath you.

"i'll touch you- green light to keep going. red to stop."

oh.

oh.

so that's what he means by firetruck.

from where your head rests, it gives you a perfect look at his expression. you bring a finger up to his neck- tracing upwards, trailing his adam's apple, to his jaw- and to that smile of his,

"answer me baby. do you understand the rules?"

"...like a firetruck?" your breath hitches as he shifts underneath you, purposely to adjust the way your ass molds into his semi hard-on.

he lets out a low chuckle, his lips brushing your ear. “that’s it… exactly.”

he lets his fingers drum against your thighs; rested at the starting line.

"green light," you then whisper, like the starting gun at a track meet; before giggling softly. you avert your eyes to where his touch is.

you watch as his fingers move slowly upwards, burning your skin, inching closer to where your skirt hikes up.

it's when his thumb dissapears under your skirt, just barely ghosting your panties,

"red light," you breathe out, hand shooting up to grab his wrist, forcing him to stop.

he freezes for a moment- and then presses a kiss to your cheek.

“baby…” he then laughs, low and teasing, the vibration running straight through you, “firetrucks don’t stop.”

your chest tightens, feeling a pool of wetness gather around your core as the words slip out his mouth.

he laughs again as he sees the realization dawn on you.

"want me to put the fire out?" he asks, taking your hand and intertwining your fingers together. he kisses your jaw, awaiting your answer.

alright… go on, save me, then…

you look up at him with doe eyes as his fingers trace the outline of your wet underwear, your pussy ghosting over his touch- your way of letting him know the light is green again.

"use your words, baby," he coos- then pinches your folds over the underwear, your back arching against him, your fingers tightening around his.

"yes," you practically whine, feeling warmth rose to your cheeks.

"see, not so hard, hmmm."

he pushes your panties to the side, stroking over your slit, your arousal giving him easy access as he slips not one, but two fingers inside at once. a moan slips past your lips as your head throws back onto his shoulders, your other hand shooting up, tangled in his hair.

you tug softly at the strands of his hair as his fingers reach deep till the knuckle, earning a grunt from him, your hooded eyes catching his smirk.

"following...the hottest source..."

he mumbles against your ear, fingers starting to thrust in a steady, increasingly fast pace. he laughs at his own funny description of this 'fire' scene, and how you roll your hips into him with every move of his fingers.

his hand leaves your intertwined one to hold you steady by your waist; as he adds a third finger at how wet you've gotten; fully stretched and eating up his digits.

"feels...so good," you whimper, eyes fluttering to keep open. your skin feels hot, sticky, and your fingers can barely untangle through his hair. the knot is growing in your stomach with each blissful stuffing of his fingers, and with every huffed out response of yours, louder moans when he's found your sweet spot, he curls his fingers inward, pushing against your shivering walls.

he kisses along your jaw, tongue darting out to add to the sensation, "that's it- putting out the fire, baby. here, mmh?"

you giggle dumbly and breathlessly at his words, but they're gone once he goes back to your discovered sweet spots, moaning his name out instead.

and you're too busy chasing your own high on his fingers to realize the pre-cum that soaks through his boxers.

his other hand moves up your body- like it's a map and he's the explorer. first stop; your tits that he gives each a squeeze. second stop; the base of your neck that he momentarily steals the air from you. lastly, your face- which he cups in place, angling your lips in alignment to his.

and with a few more strokes, the way your body arches into his, the heat building inside of you-

he kisses you. it's messy, passionate, yet collected so you focus on the task ahead; cumming on his fingers.

he laughs against your lips; something you don't understand yet does something to you- you're trembling against him as the knot goes undone, moaning into his as a response.

he pulls away, a string of saliva connecting the two of you.

when his fingers slip out, you watch as he pops them into his mouth, tasting you.

"ahh," he tells you after he's done- and you obey, eating yourself on whatever's still left on his fingers, "good girl- smart girl."

you're still gasping for air, trying to regain your senses, and he just studies your features, hand on your jaw, the other back to tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"don't play this game with anyone else, alright?" he whispers in your ear, biting it.

you giggle at his words, your hand going to his bicep, holding onto it, "okay."

"...say it again."

"...i won't."

"...that's better."

----

ngl i thought of fratjo while writing this

“Drew! The star is crooked!” you call, impatience slipping into your voice as the weight of being late presses in.

You move toward the couch, ruffling the pillows while searching for the remote. Just as you click the tv off, Drew steps out of the bedroom, buttoning up his suit. He looks- unfairly good. The black fabric is neatly pressed, fitted perfectly, and his hair is clearly the result of actual effort. A smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it. 

If anyone’s allowed to look that good tonight, it’s suspicious that it’s him. He might even look prettier than you.

“Yeah?” he says, walking over. Before you can explain, his gaze drifts over you, slow and warm, “you’re pretty-”

“So are you,” you reply, smiling. You point toward the tree. “Fix it.”

“Wait- wait,” he says, rubbing your elbow, blue eyes searching your face, “are you sure you want to wear that tonight?”

You squint at him, a little offended, “we’re late.”

“I know that- I know, but- ”

You tilt your head, “what’s wrong with this dress?”

It’s simple, sure, but still nice. Nice enough for the place you’re going, nice enough that you didn’t think twice about it.

“Um, but-”

“Drew,” you narrow your gaze at him. He looks… off. Nervous, maybe? “Fix the tree, babe.”

He licks his lips, hesitating, then nods slowly, “right. Um- yeah.”

He turns away, crosses the room, and with barely any effort, reaches up and straightens the crooked star at the top of the tree. 

When he steps back, he tugs at his jacket, smoothing it down where it rode up from reaching.

That’s when something small and black slips free.

It slides from his pocket and skids across the floor, disappearing beneath the coffee table.

Drew doesn’t notice. He’s already reaching for the hot chocolate mugs, lifting them carefully like they’re fragile, like he’s trying not to spill a single drop.

But you see it.

Your heart stutters as you lower yourself to your knees, peering under the table-

BANG.

The lights cut out.

Darkness swallows the room all at once.

A blackout? On Christmas Eve?

Drew’s footsteps stop. You can feel him only a few steps away, his presence filling the space even in the dark. For a moment, neither of you says anything; just the soft hum of the city outside, the faint creak of the apartment settling.

Then you laugh, a breathy, disbelieving sound, eyes fixed on nothing.

Of course this would happen tonight.

A few seconds later, Drew lets out a laugh too, softer, almost relieved. You lower yourself again, hands skimming along the edge of the table, feeling blindly across its surface.

“Wait,” you say, patting around. “My phone’s here somewhere.”

“Be careful,” he says quietly. He hasn’t moved; you can tell. Without the lights, there’s nowhere to go; the windows show nothing but pitch-black night. It looks like the entire neighborhood is down.

You try to map the room in your head, piecing together where you last set your phone. 

Then; your fingers close around the familiar rectangle.

The screen lights up, revealing your wallpaper first: a photo of you and Drew. You swipe quickly and turn on the flashlight.

As a joke, you point it straight at him.

“fuck-” he laughs, squinting and lifting the hot chocolate mugs, the drinks tilting a bit, to shield his face. You laugh too, the sound bouncing off the walls.

“You dropped something earlier, Joseph,” you say between laughs, angling the light back toward the floor beneath the coffee table.

“…dropped?” he repeats softly. His laughter fades.

The beam lands on it.

A small black jewelry box.

A. Small. Black. Jewelry. Box. 

Your heart stops.

No. It can’t be.

You kneel, fingers trembling as you reach for it. The moment you feel the soft, velvety fabric beneath your thumb-

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

You stand again, breath caught in your throat, lifting the light as if seeing it from a different angle might make it unreal. 

Then, slowly, you look at Drew. He looks even more shocked than you.

“babe-” he starts, rushing toward you-

And that’s when the mugs tip.

Hot chocolate sloshes over his hands, splattering across his suit and the table as he lunges to grab the box from you, words tumbling out in a panicked blur.

Overwhelmed with shock, happiness, and disbelief, you clap a hand (the same one holding the phone) over your mouth as you laugh, tears spilling over as everything finally clicks into place. You can’t stop; it’s too much, all at once.

“Oh my god,” he rasps, laughing breathlessly as he wipes his hands against his jacket. He glances down at the spreading stain, then back at you, and seems to decide something on the spot. With a quick, helpless chuckle, he shrugs out of the jacket entirely.

“Drew- are you okay?” you ask between giggles, the chocolate long cold, but still needing to ask.

“I’m fine,” he says, smiling wide, nervous. Carefully, he takes the box from your trembling hands.

“I’m sorry I’m proposing like this,” he murmurs, opening it. You shine the phone’s flashlight at his face. Your eyes dart between him and the box, where a beautiful diamond glimmers. He knows you; this ring is exactly your style.

Words catch in your throat as the light flickers, dimming on Drew, who kneels before you, box in hand. His blue eyes shine up at you, the smile you adore stretching across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“I had something perfect prepared tonight,” he starts, voice catching slightly, “but- it’s gone. My fault- my fault entirely. And somehow, that’s okay, because, because none of it matters. None of it is perfect; except you. You’re perfect. You’re… my everything.”

“From our very first date, to every ridiculous fight we’ve had, I want more of it with you. So, will you marry me, and make me permanently yours?”

When he finishes, the world seems to tilt.

It’s not loud happiness; it’s something deeper, fuller, warmth spreading through your chest until it’s hard to breathe. Your heart feels too big for your body, swelling with the sudden, terrifying certainty that this- he- is it. 

You realize, with startling clarity, that this is the man you want beside you for every version of life: the easy days, the hard ones, the ones that fall apart without warning. The man who stands in the dark, hands stained with cold chocolate, offering you everything he is without rehearsed words or perfect timing; just love, raw and honest.

With the quiet, overwhelming truth that there is nowhere else you’d rather be, no one else you’d rather choose, again and again, for the rest of your life.

Tears slip down your cheeks, unbidden, and you laugh softly through them, because your joy has nowhere else to go.

He isn’t perfect- but he’s perfect for you. And in this messy, flickering light, you understand that this is exactly the kind of love you’ve always hoped to find.

“Joseph Andrew Starkey-“ you laugh, voice breaking as you take in the way he’s looking up at you, wide-eyed and earnest, like he’s afraid to blink in case this isn’t real. His eyes search your face, hopeful and unguarded.

You offer him your hand.

“Of fucking course.”

He slips the ring onto your finger, a little hurried, then sweeps you up into his arms. He spins you around, arms tight around your waist as yours wrap around his shoulders, your phone forgotten on the floor. Your head buries in his shoulder, and your tears spill over, mixing with laughter.

The lights flicker back on slowly; someone has fixed the blackout.

He sets you down gently, and you can’t help laughing through your tears. 

“You smell like hot chocolate,” you tease.

“I love you,” he says instead, ignoring the joke, his voice soft but steady.

And hearing it like that; real, unshakable- you feel your heart swell. 

You soften your gaze at him, breathless, and whisper, “I love you.”

In the quiet aftermath of the blackout, the world resumed its rhythm, yet somehow, it now belonged only to the two of you.

------------------------------

word count: 1.5k

࣪𖤐 a/n: happy christmas! i wrote this in under an hour while listening to fruitcake! hope you enjoyed it!

“At least until I leave this place,” you say, focused on reorganizing the mountain of jackets in his closet.

Seongje freezes for a second. He’d completely forgotten you were leaving…in less than a week from now. His shoulders drop, and a heavy, unfamiliar weight settles in his chest.

“Right… where are you going again?”

“Europe. I want to see the mountains,” you say dreamily, sliding another one of his jackets onto a hanger.

“Mountains?” Seongje laughs mockingly, “We have mountains here.”

“A guy who spends his free time in an internet café… Of course you’d think that. You open the home screen and that’s it,” you flash him a cheerful smile as you start putting your own clothes in the closet.

Seongje’s smile fades. He looks away, jaw tightening in a quiet sulk.

“Forget it,” he mutters, leaning his head back against the bed frame and staring at the ceiling, “romantic romance. Fucking romantic-”

You pause halfway through sliding another hanger into place, “…what’s that supposed to mean?”

Your voice isn’t sharp, but it stings enough. Because for a second, it felt like he was mocking something important to you; leaving, choosing something bigger, choosing yourself.

Seongje doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring at the ceiling like it’ll hand him the perfect escape route. His jaw works once before settling still. A whole lifetime of keeping things in, of being a loner with no clear sense of direction, sits heavy on him; and somehow your dream, your determination to leave and start over, keeps poking at something he’s never confronted.

Romantics. Hats off to all of you. Must be nice.

You frown as you walk back to Seongje, sitting back down on the floor with him, “…you think I’m being stupid.”

“…I never said that.”

“You implied it.”

He exhales hard through his nose; not annoyed at you, annoyed that you’re right.

“It’s not your idea that pisses me off,” he finally says, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, “it’s the fact you talk about this shit like it’s fucking easy.”

“Why’re you saying it like you’re stuck here? Why is it suddenly my fault for-“

“I am stuck here-”

“For wanting to do something for myself? Instead of living in a shadow-”

“Fuck- when did I ever say-”

You scoff under your breath, heat pricking at your chest. You’re not crying, not even close; just insulted, irritated, confused, all of it tangling together. “So what? It pisses you off that I actually want something? That I’m trying to move forward? Is that it?”

He finally drops his gaze from the ceiling and looks at you. There’s something sharp in his expression, but something tired underneath it.

You swallow and run a hand through your hair, your fingers shaky in a way you hope he doesn’t notice. 

You look down at your lap, your voice falling softer, “then why are you helping me? Do you pity me? Do you feel bad for the stupid, naive, nepo baby? Is that it?”

The room goes quiet except for the faint buzz of the air conditioning. Seongje squints at you, offended on instinct, as if you’ve just insulted him rather than yourself. 

Pity? That thought hasn’t even crossed his mind; not once. He’s been doing all of this because it’s fun, because you’re fun, because this whole situation is fun.

And the fact that the conversation suddenly went deep surprises him. Makes him uneasy. But he doesn’t shut it down. 

He leans forward, eyes locked on yours.

“Yeah? That’s what your little brain is thinking?” he reaches out and presses his finger hard to the center of your forehead, pushing your head back. 

You wince and rub the spot immediately, shooting him a glare through scrunched brows.

“I don’t do boring shit,” he says plainly, “I don’t pity anyone. And I don’t stand for anyone. Happy?”

His tone is blunt, but not cruel; just honest, almost uncomfortably so. He holds your gaze for a second longer, then finishes,

“I do whatever the fuck I want. So don’t start thinking you’re special.”

You blink at him. 

For Seongje, in his language, that is reassurance. That is vulnerability. He’s never going to reach for your hand or give you a hug, letting you cry in his embrace.That isn’t who he is, and it isn’t something he can just switch on. This is the closest he comes to saying, I’m here because I want to be.

And for a moment, Seongje wonders if you understand him. If you’ll hear what he meant instead of what he said. If you’ll pick up the things he’s too prideful, too guarded to say out loud.

But you do.

It clicks in your chest, quiet and warm, the realization softening the tension in your shoulders. You look at him and your expression shifts, the hurt fading, replaced by something more knowing.

Seongje sees that shift. He watches it happen, watches your eyes soften and your breath ease out, and for reasons he’ll never admit, something in him loosens too; like he was bracing for a reaction that never came.

He looks away first, clicking his tongue. But the tips of his ears are a little red, and he suddenly can’t sit still, shifting against the bed frame; your understanding makes him uncomfortable in a way he doesn’t hate.

“Sure… if you say so,” you murmur, trying to brush it off. A suppressed smile tugs at your lips as you reach for one of the bags beside you. You dig through the clothes until your fingers close around the small box you bought earlier.

“Oh,” you say, pulling it out. “The contacts. I completely forgot about them.”

You hold the box out toward him.

“Let’s try one right now.”

Seongje blinks, then lets out a short, relieved exhale; happy the conversation has finally shifted back to something lighter. He scoots forward slightly, expression brightening.

He takes the box from you and turns it over in his hands, frowning. “How do I-”

You don’t bother answering. Instead, you stand and grab his wrist, giving it a small tug as you tilt your head toward the bathroom. Seongje hesitates for half a second, then pushes himself up, following you with that slight limp as you drag him inside.

Once the door closes behind you, you take the box out of his hands and open it on the counter. He stands behind you at first, watching your movements with casual interest; until you start washing your hands, muttering under your breath.

“High schooler and you still don’t know how to do this…” You click your tongue.

Seongje only smirks and lowers himself onto the closed toilet lid, leaning back. His eyes flick to your figure- your back at first, then your reflection in the mirror.

“Glasses,” you command, turning toward him with two contact packs already open.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even reach for them.

So you step in and push his glasses up for him, sliding them gently to the top of his head; your fingertips brushing his hair, nudging it back. The smirk on his face falters, melting into something quieter as he realizes how close you’re getting. His eyes lift to yours.

“Okay,” you whisper, right in front of him now, “Try not to blink.”

You balance the contact lens carefully on the tip of your finger, your face inches from his.

You bring it toward his eye. Seongje immediately jerks back, chair scraping.

“What the fuck-”

“Stay still!” you laugh, grabbing his shoulder to keep him in place, “tilt your head back up. Hurry! C’mon.”

Seongje gulps and forces his head back, eyes opened so wide he looks like a terrified cartoon character, which only makes you laugh harder. He drops his head with a sharp look.

“Y/n…”

You’re still laughing when his hand suddenly closes around your wrist- the one holding the lens package. The touch snaps the laughter out of you, the sound tapering into a breath. He takes the package from you with a quiet huff, pretending he’s annoyed.

“Okay, okay,” you exhale, settling down. You reach out and take his face with one hand; not roughly, not delicately, just steady, the way someone does when they’re about to help. You angle his chin upward, guiding him closer.

Seongje goes still immediately.

His eyes lift toward your face, watching the way your brow scrunches in concentration, watching the way your breath ghosts across his cheek. He holds himself perfectly still; no blinking, no flinching, as the cold lens touches his eye and settles in. You barely give him time to react before you’re opening the second pack, sliding the next one in with practiced ease.

“Blink,” you whisper.

But your hand doesn’t leave his cheek.

And when he finally blinks, his vision clears; and you’re still there, close enough that he can see every tiny shift in your expression. Something soft flickers through your face, something startled, like a realization slamming into you before you can hide it.

To Seongje, it looks like you spaced out for a second.

To anyone else, it would look like the moment you fell just a little bit in love.

Seongje shifts slightly, throat bobbing.

“Let go of me,” he mutters, voice low, rougher than intended.

You blink, almost like waking from a dream, and then you pull your hand back from his face. The warmth disappears instantly. 

Without another word or even a backward glance, you turn and walk out of the bathroom, footsteps light, almost too careful.

Seongje stays frozen for a beat. His pulse thrums somewhere high in his chest before he forces himself to move, pushing up from the toilet lid. He steps toward the mirror and leans in, checking the contacts.

“…Shit,” he whispers under his breath.

They look good. Almost too good. His irises look sharper, cleaner; the world in front of him is clearer than it’s ever been without glasses. There’s a faint pressure from the lenses, but nothing unbearable. He blinks a few times, adjusting.

He steps out of the bathroom and glances toward you; still busying yourself with the clothes.

You fold the last piece, exhale softly, and finally speak.

“Contacts suit you.”

He doesn’t answer. His ears, turning pink at the tips, answer for him.

And as the room relaxes back into its usual quiet; pizza boxes, half-open bags, dim warm light; you both move on, acting like nothing happened.

——

“Lean back and I’ll do the rest.”

You purr, giggling after as you crawl between Seongje’s legs. 

His grip on your naked waist slips as your fingertips push against his chest; his back hitting the pillow behind him, grazing the headboard. Seongje watches you with a trail of saliva foaming out of his mouth; his glasses barely sitting upright. 

You tug on his boxers, his hard-on pulsing through, and he lifts his hips for you. 

It springs out, and Seongje’s eyes dilate in excitement as he sees the expression on your face.

“What? Don’t think you can handle it?” Seongje teases, laughing as he reaches by the bedside table to grab the cigarette he’d set aside earlier. 

He inhales; slow, deep as the smoke curls lazily past his mouth, catching the faint light. The atmosphere thickens immediately, warm and hazy, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. His hair sticks to his forehead from the lingering heat of making out with you, giving him an effortless, messy sensuality that only makes him look more dangerous.

His eyes flick to you through the rising smoke, and they’re darker now; the kind of dark that pulls, that traps, that tastes like trouble.

“You’re smaller than I thought,” you laugh.

The smirk on his lips falters, enough for you to see the way the comment lands. 

His gaze drags over you, unmistakably deliberate, tracing the shift of your hips as you resettle, the curve of your hard nipples, trailing down to your belly button, and towards your dripping core. 

The slow sweep of your hair as you gather it to one side; purposely in a way that prompts Seongje to commit every part of you to memory. 

He takes another long drag of the cigarette as you lean forward, Seongje shifting slightly as he realizes what you’re going to do. 

A hand still on the cigarette, the other holds onto the headboard. 

He pokes his tongue against his cheek as you tease; kissing on his bare stomach, licking his happy trail, placing your hands on his thighs. 

“Shit, you’re killing me…” Seongje murmurs, leaning his head back, impatience simmering through. 

He puts his cigarette back onto the ashtray without putting it out- and that’s when your hand settles at the base of his cock. You start to experiment with the touches- wrapping your fingers around his length, squeezing and stroking. 

Seongje lets out a breathless moan; his precum dripping out of the tip. 

He then feels a warm, wet sensation to his cock- your tongue delivering a soft lick, then a long one from base to tip. You take in the salty taste before swirling your tongue around it; your hand still lingering around the base. 

“…you want me to keep going?” You murmur, your breath hitting him. 

Seongje laughs breathlessly, snaking a hand and tangling it up to your hair. 

“…you said you’d do the rest,” he reminds you, his voice dripping low. He slides a finger into your mouth, and you suck at it gently. He forces your mouth open- gently pushing your head back down to his cock. 

And that’s when you finally succumb to the feeling of him inside you; your head bopping up and down, working at his girth. 

He applies the pressure on the back of your head to make your go deeper; the tip abusing your throat repeatedly. 

Seongje leans his head back- breathing growing fast as he dwells into the euphoric feeling of you taking him obediently. He lets out soft moans and grunts there and here; and despite his attempts to look at you, he falls against the pillows very time. 

“That’s it… good girl,” he breathes out, voice shaky that almost makes it a whine. 

He can feel you giggle against his length; and decides to take a step further. 

He buckles his hips upward; hard until he sees you gag, your nose brushing his balls. He smirks, using your mouth as his own personal fuck-toy, enjoying how you struggle to handle it as it pushes deeper and faster. 

The knot grows in his stomach; threatening to release-

You pull away; a string of saliva connecting from the tip to your pout as your hands fall to the side. 

Seongje stills, hand leaving your hair. 

“Y/n-“

You move- straddling his lap. 

Before Seongje can even comprehend what was happening next; you’ve already filled your hole with his length; guiding his hand to rest on your hips. You roll against him, and Seongje could only let out a whimpered moan as he lets you ride him. 

It’s hot, feverish almost, the kind of heat that comes from being too close, from wanting too much. His breathing tumbles against your neck, quick and hungry, and your fingers tighten on the headboard as the bed shakes beneath you both. Every movement draws you deeper into that magnetic space where neither of you wants to stop. 

"Yeah? Show me how good it feels."

Each small movement pulls you closer- his fingers digging into your spine, his mouth sucking gently at your collarbone, the push of his glasses against your skin-  syncing you into the same burning rhythm, the same breathless anticipation.

Your hips move with precision, every moan and grunt released in the space reflecting how thrilling this is. 

He pulls back, leaning against the headboard and looks at you. His hair falls messy across his forehead, his lashes half-lowered, pupils blown wide. There’s sweat on his temple. There’s tension written across his jaw as the knot in his stomach grows again.

His voice comes out low, a little rough, like it scraped its way up his throat.

“…This- god, this is better than anything.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your hands coming up to cup his face. He actually lets you squish his cheeks together, his glasses slipping off to the side and hitting the sheets. Then; right when you’re distracted; he drives his hips up into you, hard enough to steal the rest of your laugh right out of your mouth.

His climax builds up; so does yours, your walls clenching around him. 

It’s a thrill, a fire, a tangle of heartbeats and fleeting touches, but mostly it’s all in his head; Seongje’s thoughts racing faster than reality.

Then, softly, you press your lips to his. Just a quick, delicate kiss.

Seongje freezes for a heartbeat, and in that moment, the world feels impossibly still. But then his eyes flutter open, and it’s like a dam breaks; he can’t settle for just that. 

"Kiss me like you mean it," he whispers- almost like a whimper, a plea.

He pulls you closer, wrapping you up in a sudden, urgent motion, and claims a proper, lingering kiss. His lips press against yours with all the intensity he’d been holding back, demanding more, tasting more, as if trying to make up for every second of restraint. Your hands tighten around him instinctively, matching the force of the moment, and for the first time, Seongje feels the thrill isn’t in the danger, the fights, or the chaos; it’s right here, with you.

His cock twitches inside you; groaning against your lips, body trembling- yet he can’t seem to get himself to pull away. 

His mind races like a caged animal, and your mouth is the cruel leash keeping him obedient, tethered to the delicious torment of you.

But eventually- you break contact, pulling yourself off of him, leaving him gasping. His chest heaves as his eyes follow you (you making your way to the bathroom), sharp with need, and the brief absence of your lips only makes him ache for the heat he’s not allowed.

He sits up slowly; reaching for the forgotten cigarette on the beside table, pushing his hair out of the way. The evidence of your closeness stuck to him, and he breathes in the nicotine to keep his pulse from racing.

A moment later, you step out of the bathroom, still naked, and settle yourself next to Seongje on the bed, your back facing him. 

He watches you quietly for a moment, the weight of the realization hitting him like a haze clouding his vision.

“...you’re the thrill I was meant to chase,” he admits, voice low, as if saying it aloud finally makes the truth undeniable.

He awaits for your reaction-

His eyes snap open. 

Seongje’s eyes snap open. 

The sex, the closeness, the confession- all gone. 

It was a dream. 

Seongje breathes in sharply, turning his head to look at you. You’re fully clothed, curled up on your side, fast asleep, the morning light filtering across your face. The space between you two is real now.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He had a wet dream. About you.

Seongje slowly sits up, running a hand through his hair, feeling a sharp ache in his lower stomach. He glances under the blanket and swallows, the evidence undeniable.

He exhales through his nose, leaning back against the headboard, trying to calm the rush of heat, embarrassment, and longing swirling inside him. Without another thought, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and makes his way to the bathroom, letting the cold water of the shower shock him fully awake.

The icy spray clears his head, forcing every lingering thought of the dream and you, out of his fogged mind.

——

Later that afternoon

School’s over, and Seongje walks down the steep slope of the school gates with his friends (more like followers) trailing behind him. His mind drifts to what he should do for the rest of the day: beat up the Eunjang kids? Go to the internet café? Or… something else. 

Anything, really, just to avoid running into you.

This morning, after that dream, he had gotten dressed, gone to school, and stirred up trouble just to keep his mind off you. It worked; mostly, but now, the real problem looms ahead: the thought of seeing you back at his place.

As if fate, or some cruel god, is toying with him, his friends gasp beside him.

“Shit- she’s really pretty.”

“Who is that?”

“I don’t know…she looks like she’s waiting for someone- ”

“She’s waving at me!”

Seongje looks up. 

…And there you are, standing at the bottom of the step road, waving at him with a smile that lights up the afternoon.

He blinks, stopping in his tracks. You roll your eyes playfully as you start making your way up to him. His friends fall silent, suddenly aware that you’re here for him.

You tilt your head slightly, an innocent smile playing on your lips. “Hi,” you breathe out softly, “you weren’t returning any of my messages.”

Seongje blinks again, clearing his throat and looking away. Right. He hadn’t texted you at all.

You glance past him at his friends and give them a small wave, whispering a gentle, “Hi.” He doesn’t check their reactions; his focus is entirely on you. 

Furrowing his brows, he grabs your forearm and pulls you slightly down the road.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice low, eyes flicking behind him at his friends; a silent warning. They take the hint, heading off in the opposite direction toward their own neighborhood, leaving the two of you alone.

“I woke up and you weren’t here,” you start, shaking his hand off gently, “and you weren’t picking up, I was bored, and I thought that you might be here. So I found you.”

You start walking down the road, Seongje following slowly behind. His foot injury has improved, so he’s barely limping now, but he can feel the faint memory of pain every step he takes.

“…You looked for me?” he asks, voice quieter than before.

“Duh. You seem to always know what’s fun,” you murmur, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

You stop at the bus stop nearby and turn to him expectantly. Seongje can feel his ears redden, the memory of last night’s dream flickering uncomfortably in his mind whenever your gaze meets his.

A few seconds pass in silence before you nudge him lightly, “hurry. Let’s go somewhere.”

Seongje tucks his hands into his pockets, looking away, pursing his lips into a forced frown.

“You go. I’m tired,” he says, already shifting to walk off.

You grab him back by the red uniform blazer, the fabric bunching under your fingers. Seongje catches the slight sadness in your expression, and despite knowing you’re just teasing him, the remnants of that dream flicker in his mind again, and Seongje doesn’t know what to do. 

“Oh, the bus is here,” you say brightly, tugging him toward it. 

Shit. 

Seongje exhales softly, pushing his glasses up and pulling out his wallet for the bus fare for two, aware that you didn’t bring any money.

You climb in first, and he follows after, dropping the coins in.

Together, you find seats; him next to you, you by the window. Seongje tunes out the curious glances from classmates and strangers alike; they’ve never seen him like this before. Always the one picking fights, provoking others, letting violence define him… but now, quiet, calm, just sitting next to a girl without a trace of aggression.

When another classmate walks by and sends him a smile, Seongje returns it; but it’s different. A devilish, greedy glint flickers in his eyes, the kind that makes it clear he’s in control. 

After that, no one dares to look at him again.

The bus starts moving, and when he glances at you, you’re staring out the window, chin resting in your hand. Your thighs brush his, and his hand awkwardly rests on his own thigh, just inches from yours.

Suddenly, you meet his eyes in the brief reflection on the window, “stop staring at me, you creep.”

You swivel in your seat, glaring at him, and Seongje quickly turns away, trying to hide the laugh threatening to escape.

Suddenly, the bus lurches to an abrupt stop, and you yelp as you’re thrown forward. Reflexively, Seongje slams an arm in front of you, holding you back from hitting your head; but in the process, his hand brushes against your chest.

Realizing immediately, he yanks his hand back, cheeks flushing just slightly, and mutters sharply, “…are you fucking stupid? Put on a seatbelt.”

The bus lurches forward again, smoother this time, and you fix your hair, biting your lip. “It’s not my fault, though…” you mumble.

Seongje shakes his head as he settles back into his seat, casually draping an arm around the back of your seat, “…idiot.”

A few seconds pass as the bus weaves through its usual route; the soft sway of the ride mixes with the quiet hum of conversation and the rattling engine.

Seongje tells himself to look anywhere else; out the window, at the floor, at the advertisement sticker peeling on the pole across from him; but every time his eyes wander, they end up drifting right back to you.

Your lashes cast faint shadows along your cheeks with every blink.

The gentle slope of your nose, the clean line of your jaw; sharp in silhouette yet soft where the light hits.

Your eyes, half-reflected in the glass, always seem to be searching for something deeper, something he wants to understand if he had the guts.

And your lips… relaxed, slightly parted with each quiet breath you take, soft in a way that makes something low in him twist painfully.

Shit. He’s losing it.

He has to be losing it to think he’s even remotely attracted to you.

The millionaire’s runaway daughter who can’t throw a punch, can’t survive a night alone, can’t stop getting under his skin no matter how hard he tries.

He’s not attracted to you.

He’s not.

He’s-

…God.

Does he like you?

Fucking hell.

He just might…

The bus slows, easing into another stop, and you lean forward naturally with the motion. Seongje’s arm, still hooked casually along the back of your seat, tugs at the fabric of your jacket to steady you.

Except… it isn’t your jacket.

It’s his.

The realization hits him at the same time he pulls you back, his fingers curling briefly into the collar. He clicks his tongue, and rises from his seat. With a quick glance at the digital sign, he confirms it’s the stop you two need.

Then he tilts his head once, a wordless c’mon meant only for you.

He steps off first, the sunlight spilling across his shoulders, but he doesn’t move far. He waits for the sound of your footsteps behind him.

“Where are we?” you ask, falling easily into step next to him.

“Just follow me and don’t ask,” Seongje mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets, “your questions are fucking annoying.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s the ghost of a smile tugging at your mouth as you nudge his arm anyway.

Seongje leads you down familiar streets, the kind only locals walk, turning corners with the lazy confidence. Every time you pause at a roadside snack stand, he stops too, cursing under his breath, but still buying you whatever you point at.

Fish cakes on sticks. Fried dumplings. A warm sweet bun. Every time, you share a piece with him without asking, and every time he pretends he doesn’t want them.

He walks a few paces ahead, chewing on the snack you handed him, glancing back only when he hears your footsteps fall too far behind.

When you finally arrive at the old bookshop, you stop beside Seongje. 

“Woah…” you breathe out softly.

It’s the old bookship that stands at the corner, the one Seongje has been going to since he was little. Weathered wood, sun-faded awning, the scent of paper practically drifting out the door. It’s quiet, tucked away from the busy street, almost hidden unless someone showed it to you.

You turn to him slowly, eyes wide with that surprised softness he’s beginning to recognize.

“Wipe that look off your face,” he mutters, brushing past you toward the entrance. 

Still, he reaches back and holds the door open for you. The bell rings overhead when you step inside.

Behind the counter, the old grandpa who has known Seongje forever sits hunched over his ancient computer. Seongje calls out, “Is the new volume here?”

The old man shoots him a glare; the kind that only happens between people who’ve known each other too long; then jerks his chin toward the back shelves. 

Seongje snorts a laugh and heads over, already energized.

He goes straight for his favorite section: gruesome, violent manga stacked neatly on the lower shelf. He finds the newest issue, flips it open, and leans against the shelf, absorbed immediately.

“Wow… you read?” you call after him, voice soft with curiosity.

Seongje looks up from the page. His expression deadpans instantly.

You grin, stepping closer through the narrow aisle. He watches you approach, fingers tapping the edge of the page.

You stretch onto your tiptoes, reaching for a book on the top shelf. It’s immediately obvious you’re too short to reach it, but that doesn’t stop you from trying. You tug at the spine, misjudge the angle, and a few books wobble forward threateningly.

Seongje lets out a sigh.

He walks over, the floor creaking under his steps. He comes up behind you until the faint heat of him grazes your back. Then, without a word, he reaches up easily and steadies the tilting row of books with one hand, plucking the one you wanted with the other.

He turns his head to look at you from the side, but you’re already glancing back at him over your shoulder.

Your faces are close. Close enough that the dust motes seem to pause between you, close enough that he swears he can hear the faint hitch in your inhale.

And for a heartbeat, everything stops.

Just you, him, and that dangerously small distance that makes Seongje’s pulse kick hard enough to hurt.

He breaks the eye contact by glancing down at the book cover in his hand- Slam Dunk.

A short laugh escapes him, low and teasing.

“Are you a boomer?” he scoffs, even though he was the one who devoured the series back in middle school.

You furrow your brows and immediately shove at his chest, snatching the book away from him with a glare. “My classmates talked about it, so I thought-” you huff, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you flip through the pages, “-that it might be interesting.”

He watches you for a moment, the faintest curl of a smile on his lips before he steps back, glancing toward the staircase tucked behind an old shelf. Most people don’t know the second floor exists; an accidental discovery from when he was younger and bored enough to wander. A quiet room with old sofas, dim sunlight, and the soft whisper of pages turning. A place he’s always kept to himself.

But today… he feels like showing you.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” Seongje says suddenly.

You raise a brow, glancing around the nearly empty shop. “Quieter than this?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks over his shoulder at you as he grabs a few more comic volumes, the barest invitation in the flick of his head before he starts up the narrow stairs.

“Wait- won’t the owner mind?” you whisper, glancing toward the front counter.

Seongje snorts, barely sparing you a look as he continues up the creaky wooden steps, “He’s too fucking old to even get upstairs.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s confidence under it; because when he was younger, he did ask. The grandpa had grumbled something about the upstairs being a reading room, not his bedroom, then waved him off with a “just don’t break shit.”

So Seongje climbs like he owns the place, a few comic volumes tucked under his arm, his shoulders relaxed in a way you’ve rarely seen. He doesn’t even check if you’re following; he just assumes you will.

And you do.

The staircase is narrow enough that your footsteps are close behind his. At the top, the room opens into something warm and sunlit: mismatched sofas, a low wooden table, stacks of old books leaning against the walls. Dust floats lazily in the golden light.

It feels…hidden. A place someone would only find if they were brought here.

Seongje drops the comics near his usual spot and heads to the small mini-fridge tucked into the corner, something he’d smuggled in years ago to make this place entirely his. He pops it open and pulls out two bottles of his favorite soda.

When he turns back, you’re already on the couch.

Aka his favorite spot that he always rots in, sure that there might even be a ‘butt stain’ of his.

You’ve settled right in, legs tucked up comfortably, your copy of Slam Dunk abandoned at your side as you thumb through the stack of comics he picked out.

“Forget it. You won’t like that shit,” he mutters as he pops open his drink.

He drops down beside you, thighs brushing again. 

“Wow… no wonder you’re so fucked up,” you murmur, flipping through one of the volumes. The page shows brutal, ink-heavy violence, the kind most people would recoil from. But your eyes widen with interest as your lips purse thoughtfully at the gore.

Seongje watches that faint crease of your brows. The way your fingers trail the edge of the page. He leans forward, sets his drink on the low wooden table, and rests his chin on his folded arms, eyes still on you.

“They showed me the truth of everything,” he says, “Of standing for nothing… but everything at the same time.”

You glance up, and for a moment your expression softens, before you break it with a teasing scoff.

“..spoken like a true romantic.”

He huffs out a laugh, and you follow with one of your own before leaning back into the couch, still flipping through the violent comic.

Seongje grabs one from his own pile and settles beside you.

And then- time slips.

You read, trading books without thinking, brushing hands occasionally when you both reach for the same volume. Sometimes you go downstairs to grab another drink or a snack; sometimes you wander back up without realizing he’s following a step behind you. 

The light shifts from golden afternoon to dim orange to dusky violet.

At some point, the shop downstairs grows quiet, the city outside softening into evening.

Neither of you notice the sun disappear.

You’re too busy sitting side by side in a hidden room above an old bookshop, sharing the same silence like it's something only the two of you were meant to find.

It’s only when every light in the shop suddenly clicks off that you jolt, realizing hours have passed.

Seongje sighs, snapping his comic shut as he reaches into his pocket for his phone. He switches on the flashlight and immediately angles it toward you. You flinch, blinking at the brightness, and he laughs at your reaction.

“It’s late; c’mon. The old man’s kicking us out,” he mutters, pushing himself to his feet.

You rise more slowly, stretching your back before bending down to gather the books. But Seongje bumps your shoulder lightly with his own.

“Leave it. He doesn’t care,” he says.

You give him a skeptical look, but eventually choose to trust him. After all, he clearly comes here often enough to know.

You head toward the staircase first. The only thing guiding you is the narrow beam of Seongje’s flashlight behind you. His footsteps stay close, his hand hovering just a few inches from your back, ready to catch you if you slip on the way down.

The two of you reach the first floor without incident, and sure enough, the old grandfather is already waiting by the door, flipping the sign from Open to Closed. The old man waves a grumpy hand in a gesture that means get out, get out, and Seongje snorts a laugh as he pulls the door open.

Cold evening air rushes in, brushing against his face and slipping past you both as you step outside together.

You both start walking without thinking; side by side, shoulders brushing occasionally, talking about absolutely nothing and everything. You ramble about the weird things you found between the pages of one of the books; Seongje mocks you for being jumpy about his flashlight earlier. You bump him with your shoulder; he mutters something under his breath that definitely sounds like a laugh.

You round the corner- 

And stop.

Baku. Park Humin. 

He stops too, mid-step, basketball in one hand, backpack slung over one shoulder, the familiar Eunjang uniform clinging onto him. His eyes widen the moment they land on you, before they drag over to Seongje.

His expression tightens. 

Seongje’s brows dip immediately, jaw flexing as he shoves both hands into his pockets, tongue pressing hard against his cheek. He tips his head, eyes raking over Baku like he’s already looking for a place to punch.

“The hell are you doing here?” Seongje asks, voice deliberately light, a smirk on his face. 

But Baku doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t even look at Seongje; his gaze is fixed entirely on you, like he’s seeing a ghost.

Seongje turns his head slightly, just enough to see your expression from the corner of his eye, and the sight makes something in his chest go still. Shock sits openly on your face, but beneath it lies something heavier: sadness, disbelief, and a kind of fragile hurt he’s never seen you show so freely. For a moment, he almost forgets the history tying the three of you (you, Baku, Baekjin) together; the childhood memories, the split paths, the betrayal that wasn’t spoken aloud but felt all the same. 

Your confession rings in his head; 

“I’m just… so alone sometimes. Even with all this money, all these… connections, I wonder who’s really on my side.”

He drops his gaze to the pavement, jaw rubbing tight as he thinks.

Then he lifts his head again, a sudden calm settling over him; a decision.

“Baku. Long time no see,” Seongje says, forcing his tone into something casual, as he steps forward. His hands slide deeper into his pockets, masking the tension coursing up his spine. 

Baku finally tears his eyes from you and shifts them toward Seongje, though the hesitation in his expression makes it clear; the last time they spoke was at that museum, when Seongje invited him again to join the Union, teasing him as always.

“How have you been?” Seongje continues, “well, you know how I’ve been. Hanging out with a friend lately.” He jerks his chin subtly behind him, the gesture small but unmistakably hinting at you.

Baku’s brows knit together, confusion and worry flickering across his face,“…what’s going on here?”

You take a half-step closer to Seongje. Your voice comes out softer than usual, “hi, Baku.”

“Is it really you… y/n?” His grip tightens around the basketball in his hand, “but… I haven’t seen you since…”

“I know,” you cut in, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, then awkwardly, you add, “I… ran away from home.”

“You… ran away from home?” Baku repeats, his voice thick with shock.

You laugh lightly, nervously, a small sound that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and Seongje watches the exchange with amused detachment. He notices the subtle shifts in both of your expressions; the hesitation, the unease. Baekjin’s two favorite people, standing right in front of him, the dynamics already primed for chaos… oh, how fun.

As if reading his mind, before Seongje can interject or say something to stoke the fire he’s craving, you reach out and grab his forearm, your grip firm enough to stop him. 

“Seongje,” you say, your voice steady but carrying an unmistakable urgency, “let me talk to Baku privately. Please.”

Your eyes hold a desperate sincerity he’s never seen before, and for a moment, he hesitates. Then he exhales sharply, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Don’t waste my fucking time,” he mutters. Another meaning; don’t take too fucking long. 

With that, he pulls his arm free, reaches into his jacket pocket, and draws out a cigarette. Lighting it, he walks a few paces away and perches on the swing of a nearby children’s playground, letting the smoke curl lazily into the cold evening air.

From there, he can see you and Baku clearly, close enough to watch, but far enough to remain unobtrusive.

You and Baku walk together a few steps to an empty bench. 

He rocks softly on the swing, inhaling the nicotine as his eyes remain glued to you. 

From his perch, he observes your body language: shy, uncertain, small movements betraying the confidence you usually project. Baku mirrors it, hesitant and careful, and Seongje finds himself trying to read the subtle cues of your lips, the small quivers in your hands, but he gives up after a moment.

The two of you talk slowly, words punctuated by pauses, eyes fixed on the ground. A few minutes pass before Baku says something that makes you giggle. You respond, finding your rhythm again in the conversation, and Seongje’s jaw tightens slightly.

“This is fucking boring,” he mutters under his breath, the cigarette still balanced between his lips. He exhales slowly, the smoke curling upward, and pulls out his phone. Opening his favorite video game, he loses himself in a simple first round, letting a few minutes slip by.

When he finally glances back toward the bench- 

You’re crying.

It isn’t messy, ugly crying; it’s controlled, the kind where you try to be reasonable, to hold yourself together. You dab at the tears with the back of your hand, laughing lightly. Baku reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, offering it to you. You take it with a small smile, dabbing delicately at your eyes.

Seongje studies the scene, tilting his head, cigarette dangling forgotten from his lips. What could you possibly be talking about? 

He can feel the sudden sharp pull in his chest; an unnameable tension that tightens every time he looks at you.

Then, you stand. A soft, almost shy smile on your lips, and you extend both arms toward Baku. 

He smiles back, stepping forward, and without hesitation- 

 you pull him into a hug.

Seongje’s eyes narrow slightly. He studies the warmth and closeness you share, realizing, with an odd twist of pain and fascination, how much he hates and loves being just a spectator.

But the hug doesn’t end quickly.

It lingers; longer than any casual farewell, longer than something two old friends give each other. He watches you bury your face briefly against Baku’s shoulder, watches Baku’s hand come up to rest between your shoulder blades. The sight pulls at him in a way he’s never had to name before.

And because he refuses to confront it, his mind chooses escape.

He wonders, absurdly, reluctantly, what it would feel like to hug someone.

To hug you.

To feel your warmth pressed against him, your arms around him, your cheek sliding against his shoulder the way it does against Baku’s.

The thought is so startling, so embarrassingly soft, that he lets out a laugh under his breath, shaking his head at himself.

Eventually, you and Baku pull apart. Baku glances over at Seongje sitting on the swing, then you say something, unreadable from afar. 

Baku nods. Another brief exchange passes between you two before you wave goodbye, offering him a small smile.

Baku turns and walks off into the dimming streetlights.

You take a moment to collect yourself. You smooth your hair behind your ear, wipe the last traces of dampness from under your eyes with the borrowed handkerchief, and then you look around, searching.

Your gaze finds him.

Seongje sits there on the swing, elbows resting loosely on the chains, cigarette extinguished and forgotten in the dirt beside him. He’s perfectly still, perfectly watchful; your silent witness.

As you approach, Seongje lets out a low, almost disbelieving laugh; an instinctive attempt to cut the tension pressing between you. But his eyes don’t leave your face, and when you sit on the swing next to him, the faint glimmer of your tear-damp lashes catches the moonlight.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, lips twitching into a crooked smile, “you crying?”

The joke lands awkwardly, intentionally shallow, a half-hearted shield around the unfamiliar tightness in his chest. He kicks lightly at the dirt, chains creaking as he leans back, but his gaze keeps flicking to you.

You sniff, letting out a small, breathy laugh as you sit on the swing beside him.

“It’s happy tears,” you tell him softly, “I saw my best friend today.”

Relief bleeds through your voice; warm, fragile, real.

“Really? I can’t imagine being friends with that potato.”

You burst into another giggle, “I don’t know why I like him either. I just do.”

“…‘Like’?”

“You know. As friends. I forgot how fun he is to be around.”

“…I think he forgot too,” Seongje murmurs under his breath. His gaze drops to the gravel beneath his shoes, scuffing the ground lightly. He can’t help thinking about the fracture between Baekjin and Baku, about the Union, the fight, the split. It isn’t really his business; normally he wouldn’t give a damn.

But it matters to Baekjin.

And it clearly matters to you.

So it ends up mattering to him.

“I know. He told me. Is the Union, like… important or something?”

Seongje huffs a humorless breath, knowing that the whole Union is backed up by some mafia leader, entertaining a whole money-laundering business. But he’s not going to tell you that- leaning back so the swing chains go taut, “I don’t know. I’m just there for the ride.”

“…Then when are you getting off the ride?”

The question hangs in the air.

Seongje doesn’t answer, not because he’s being difficult, not because he’s avoiding you, but because the truth is painfully simple: he genuinely doesn’t know.

For the first time, he feels the uncertainty like a stone settling in his chest. His last conversation with Baekjin proved what he’s tried so hard to ignore- that he doesn’t belong anywhere, not really. He’s a wolf, a drifter, someone who has spent his whole life slipping through cracks without caring where he ends up. 

That used to be enough, more than enough, until recently, when the unfamiliar urge to stay, really stay, started creeping in. 

To be a romantic, not in some vague dreamy way, but for someone, for something  specific.

So instead of answering, he shifts the spotlight off himself and onto you, clearing his throat quietly before asking, “Are you going to see Baekjin too?”

You don’t seem bothered by the sudden shift. “No,” you answer immediately, shaking your head with a firmness he didn’t expect. “He’s too stubborn. Too calculating. I hate him like that.”

Seongje lets out a short laugh- yeah, that’s the Baekjin he knows. He clears his throat, then pushes himself up from the swing with a sigh, more to end the conversation than anything else. “C’mon. Let’s go. I’m tired.”

The two of you fall into step, walking home in a silence that manages to be calming rather than awkward. But somewhere along the quiet streets, with only streetlights and the distant hum of traffic for company, Seongje notices something off; footsteps that don’t match either of yours. Shadows that don’t stay where they should. 

Men. Following.

By the time you reach his building, the prickle at the back of his neck has sharpened into certainty. He stops in front of the entrance and stretches lazily, masking the tension in his body. “Hey, I’m going to buy another pack. You go up first.” 

He tosses you his keys; they hit your palms clumsily.

“It’s okay, I’ll go with you- ”

“Just go up,” he whines, pushing his glasses up his nose with exaggerated annoyance.

You roll your eyes, mutter something under your breath, and disappear into the building. Seongje waits; just long enough to hear the elevator doors slide shut. 

Then he clicks his tongue, turns around, and sure enough: a suited man stands at the end of the walkway, half-hidden beneath the flickering light.

Seongje exhales. Of course, probably here for you.

His foot is barely healed, and honestly, he’s not in the mood to fight today. So he walks toward the man instead, hands shoved in his pockets, posture lazy, confident in a way that deliberately borders on disrespectful.

“Hi,” he says, voice casual, “I know a nice place around here. Let’s go.”

The man’s glare sharpens. Seongje sees it. And it pisses him off. He hates people who look at him like that; like he’s beneath them.

“I can treat you if that’s what you want,” Seongje adds with a humorless laugh,  “fucking shit.”

As he passes, he purposefully bumps his shoulder into the man’s, not hard enough to start a fight, just hard enough to make a point.

—-

A few minutes later, he’s sitting outside a convenience store at one of those flimsy plastic tables, loudly slurping ramen like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be having a midnight meal with a man in a perfectly pressed suit. The suited man sits across from him, expression unreadable, posture straight, hands folded neatly in his lap. He looks wildly out of place under the neon store sign.

Seongje chews slowly, eyes flicking over the immaculate tailoring of the man’s jacket, his polished shoes, his immaculate cuffs.

“You sure you don’t want any?” Seongje asks finally, lifting his cup toward him with a laugh. 

The man does not react.

Seongje snorts under his breath. Is this guy your dad? Or…

Then the man reaches inside his suit jacket, pulls out a sleek card holder, and places a single card on the table. He slides it across to Seongje with two fingers.

Seongje lowers his chopsticks, brows knitting as he flips the card over.

Kim… Kim what?

The man answers before Seongje even finishes processing the name.

“I’m Mr. Y/l/n y/f/n’s secretary. Secretary Kim,” he says, voice calm and formal, “you may call me Mr Kim.”

Seongje suddenly remembers the number you gave him on that first day. The one that wasn’t fake after all, but the number of your father’s secretary. So you weren’t lying. 

“What?” Seongje stirred his noodles with his chopsticks, the motion deliberate, masking the spike of disbelief crawling through him. For all he knew, this could be another scam. 

Yet when Mr. Kim pulled out his phone, opening the record of Seongje’s previous messages, the photo you had sent, and even the call Seongje remembered asking about money.

“…So? Aren’t you a bit late?” Seongje says.

“We’re sorry about that,” Mr. Kim replies, his tone measured, “Mr. Y/l/n has been caught up with a new merger, and-”

“Forget it,” Seongje cut in sharply, “Way past that period.”

Mr. Kim’s eyes did not waver, “You know we’ve tried to catch her last week. We’ve been following the two of you for some time now-”

“So? What does that have to do with-”

“Mr. Geum,” Mr. Kim said, leaning slightly forward, “I don’t think you understand the situation you’re in right now. You are currently the most hunted man on Mr. Y/l/n’s list.”

Seongje blinked, the noodles forgotten in his bowl, and his smirk falters.

“How old is he?” Seongje scoffs after a beat, shaking his head, “having a fucking list-”

“Hand her over,” Mr. Kim interrupts, “and we’ll leave you alone.”

Seongje’s eyes narrowed,“‘hand her over’?” he repeated, slow, disbelieving.

“She’s bothered you long enough, hasn’t she?” Secretary Kim continues, “We’ll compensate you. A generous sum. And you can finally be rid of the trouble she’s caused you.”

The words landed like blows; not because they hurt him, but because of the way Mr. Kim said them. Like you were a cargo item. A problem. Something to remove, something to pay off.

A thing.

Seongje’s jaw tightens. He pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, eyes sharpening into something colder. He lowered his voice as he dropped his chopsticks into the half-eaten ramen bowl with a sharp clatter.

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

He leans forward, arms crossing on the metal table, the corner of his lip curling; not in amusement this time, but in warning.

Mr. Kim laughs. A single, short breath. Then, as if remembering his role, he composed himself instantly.

“I know exactly who I’m speaking to,” he starts. His expression didn’t shift, not even slightly. “I know trash like you, Mr. Geum. Boys who eat up police districts like snacks and sleep in cold holding cells more often than in their own homes. I know you don’t care- being eighteen, legally shielded from everything. I know you run with an Union. But to Mr. Y/l/n?” He tilts his head, “Your little Union is child’s play.”

Seongje’s expression didn’t break, but something behind his eyes flickered; recognition, annoyance, restraint.

Mr. Kim pressed on.

“He will step on you like the bug you are, Mr. Geum. So don’t act so cocky now,” his voice drops to a chilling certainty, “because by the time he decides to come down here personally… you’ll already be dead.”

Seongje lets Secretary Kim’s words sit in the cold air for a few seconds. 

Then he exhales slowly, leaning back in his plastic convenience-store chair. His smirk returns, colder this time, bored even, like someone watching a movie he’s already seen.

“Classic rich guy temper…boring to me though.”

Secretary Kim doesn’t flinch. He simply straightens his already-perfect tie and slides a slim, black envelope across the aluminum table. It lands right next to Seongje’s ramen bowl.

“I thought money might not interest you,” Mr. Kim says. “But I also know you’re not foolish enough to ignore opportunity.”

Seongje doesn’t reach for for the envelope.

“It’s more money than you’ve ever held in your life. And it’s a fraction of what Mr. Y/l/n is willing to pay to retrieve his daughter.”

Still, Seongje doesn’t touch it.

“But,” Kim continues, voice sharpening, “the money is just a courtesy. The real leverage is this.”

He reaches into his coat again. This time he places a small flash drive on top of the envelope.

“Evidence,” Kim says quietly. “Every illegal activity the Union has ever been tied to. Daesung motorcycles. Stolen vehicles. Underground fights. Financial trails. Surveillance. Enough to not only dissolve the Union, but put every one of you behind bars. You, Baekjin, even that…Baku? Is that who you call?”

Seongje goes still.

A faint, knowing smile curves the secretary’s mouth.

“Give her back to us, Mr. Geum. And this,” he taps the flash drive, “never sees daylight.”

“So, you’re saying, if I don’t fucking give her up, you’re gonna ruin me, is that it?”

Kim rises from his seat, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles on his suit jacket.

“I’ll let you sit with it,” he says, turning away, “But I suggest you decide quickly.”

Then he leaves, polished shoes clicking softly against the pavement, disappearing into the dark street.

For a while, all Seongje hears is the buzzing streetlamp above him.

He doesn’t reach for the envelope. Doesn’t look at the flash drive. He just sits there, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, the way it always does when something annoys him in a way he refuses to admit.

Why the hell does he care about you so much anyway?

You’re just some stranger he met over a week ago, with a sheltered life and soft habits. You live in a clean, protected world, untouched by the grime he carries on his clothes and under his nails. Yet here he is, sitting outside a convenience store past midnight, being threatened by a billionaire’s secretary, offered an obscene amount of money along with a promise to tear down the Union if he refuses.

And when Mr. Kim finally leaves him alone with that decision, Seongje presses his tongue against his cheek, annoyed at himself. 

Caring makes him feel like a decent person, and that’s the biggest joke of all.

Acting like a fucking hero…fucking bullshit.

——

Two days later

You’re sitting beside Seongje in the dim glow of the internet café. He’s absorbed in his usual game, fingers tapping rapidly against the keys, his shoulders hunched in concentration. 

Yesterday, the two of you went hiking; which you were convinced Seongje would absolutely hate. And he did (despite being the one that suggested it; calling it 'you wanted to see the mountains, didn't you?'). For the first hour, at least. But somewhere halfway up the trail, he seemed to have found it fun: he stopped complaining or teasing, started walking a little closer, and even shrugged off his jacket to put it over your shoulders when the wind picked up.

You finish the last bites of your food and casually scroll through a new movie on the streaming platform. Seongje is just how he usually is; teasing you for your taste in movies, nudging your chair with his foot, muttering curses at his screen. 

But as you sit next to him, the noise of the café buzzing around you, you realize how much has changed. Living with him, surviving beside him, you’ve gotten used to his moods, his humor, the strange gentleness hidden under all that bravado.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped seeing him as the guy you hated and started seeing him as something else; a friend. Maybe even something more if you weren’t too scared to say it.

You take another bite of food, eyes drifting back to your movie, when Seongje’s voice cuts in. 

“Don’t you think,” he says, still clicking away at his game, “you should go back and get your stuff?”

You pause the movie, your finger hovering over the trackpad as you turn toward him. The thought hadn’t crossed your mind in a long time. Going back to that temporary apartment felt like stepping onto a landmine; your passport, your plane ticket, your electronics, all the important things still trapped there… and maybe your father’s men too.

Still, you breathe out slowly. “You’re right,” you admit, nodding. Then, with a smile, you add, “What, tired of me already? Kicking me out?”

Seongje scoffs without looking away from his screen,“Yes. Very. You’re eating away my time.”

You laugh under your breath and shut down your computer, swiveling slightly in your chair so you can face him. “We’ve known each other a week- no, more than a week already. Won’t you say something nice to me? Just once?”

You say it jokingly, light and playful, your cheek resting against your palm as you study the side of his face. Seongje pokes his tongue against his cheek, pretending to think as his fingers keep tapping away at the keyboard. 

“Something nice?” he repeats, “is there something nice about you?”

You give him an upside-down smile and swat at his elbow. 

He laughs rather than flinch. Then, after a beat, he adds in a quieter voice:

“…I guess you’re pretty when you cry.”

He says weird things like that, but by now you’ve learned it’s just…him. A strange trait, a strange charm, something uniquely Seongje. So instead of overthinking it, you just roll your eyes and shut off your monitor.

For a moment there, you almost wished you could stay like this with Seongje forever. Living off of nothing but vibes. 

“Well, I’m pretty in everything I do.”

“Sure…sure.”

A few minutes later, the two of you step out of the internet café. The late-afternoon air is cool and sharp, brushing against your skin as you both fall into an easy, familiar pace. 

Seongje walks with his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders loose, humming under his breath.

Meanwhile, your eyes keep drifting over your shoulder.

Every few seconds, you glance behind you, down the street, across the road. There’s nothing there, nothing obvious at least.

“Shit,” Seongje mutters, not even bothering to look at you, “why do you keep looking around?”

“Well… isn’t that what you taught me?”

“Not like that… you look fucking crazy,” Seongje snorts, rolling his eyes.

 Before you can take another look, he casually slings an arm over your shoulders and pulls you closer, steering you forward.

You don’t even fight it anymore. You’ve been living with him long enough that this is almost… normal.

The streetlights glow dim and yellow as you walk, the city humming with its usual evening noise. Soon, your apartment building comes into view. 

You slip out from under his arm and reach to press the elevator button, only to freeze the moment you step inside. 

“Oh shit- I didn’t bring my place keys,” you mumble, patting your pockets in a panic, after all this wasn’t planned. 

The elevator begins its slow climb, and out of nowhere, Seongje pulls out your keychain from his pocket, dangling it between his fingers along with a cigarette. He pops the cigarette between his lips, lighting it with a flick as he hands you your keys. 

“So do you just…carry this around?” you ask, staring at him. 

He doesn’t answer. He just keeps his eyes forward as smoke coils lazily around the two of you, fogging the air in the small elevator. 

The doors slide open with a soft ding, and you step out first, your keys dangling rhythmically from your hand. The quiet jingle fills the hallway as you walk a few steps toward your apartment.

“Wait. Y/n.”

His voice is muffled around the cigarette, but it stops you instantly. You turn.

Seongje stands just outside the elevator, an unpleasant look tightening his features as he slowly closes the distance between you. The cigarette hangs off the corner of his mouth, its ember glowing faintly. 

His eyes; those sharp, dark eyes that give away far more than he ever says; scan your face with an intensity he doesn’t bother to hide. It’s almost frantic, almost searching.

His jaw clenches. And then-

“I’m sorry.”

Your heart stumbles.

You’ve never heard Seongje say that word before. It feels foreign in the air, almost as if it’s something shouldn’t say. So hearing it now, makes your breath catch in your chest.

You let out a small, confused laugh, “for what?”

“…I guess for everything I didn’t fucking do.”

He squints slightly as he says it, tilting his head as if even he can’t believe he’s admitting something like that out loud. Then he flicks the cigarette to the floor, crushing the ember under the heel of his shoe.

You don’t understand what he means.

Because to you, over the past week, he’s been far kinder than he ever gives himself credit for.

“You know, it’s weird,” Seongje murmurs as he glances down at you, “you make me feel like some kind of good guy.”

Your heart warms at the admission, and you can’t help smiling up at him, “yeah?”

“…yeah.”

He bites his lip, his eyes darting to yours for a quick second, and somehow the way he says it feels like a promise. 

Then he looks past you, nodding at your door to gesture for you to unlock it.

But before you do, you decide to add onto his words, mirroring them softly, “you make me feel like I’ve got someone on my side.”

Suddenly a little shy, you turn toward the door, reaching for the handle-

when a sharp pull closes around your forearms.

Before you can even process what’s happening, you’re yanked back and wrapped in Seongje’s arms. 

It’s sudden, clumsy, his chest pressed against your face, his hold awkward enough to tell you this is one of his first real hugs. 

It’s cute; ridiculously cute, so you melt into him, looping your arms around his neck to pull him closer and show him what a proper hug feels like.

You smile to yourself, letting the warmth of him sink into you, letting yourself enjoy everything he’s offering you in this moment, however temporary it might be.

Then he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, his glasses pressing softly against your shoulder. 

It’s almost like he’s trying to mold himself to you, fitting his body against yours as if he’s afraid you might slip away if he doesn’t. 

The sudden intimacy steals your breath for a second, your heartbeat kicking up at how unexpectedly tender it is; how much it feels like he’s holding more than just your body.

You stay like that until minutes start blurring into hours. 

You tap his back gently, and after a beat, he taps yours too, an awkward little echo. Together, you both finally pull away. There’s a faint flush dusting the tips of his ears, and you feel your own cheeks warm as you turn toward your door. 

You slide your key into the lock, twist, and push it open- and freeze.

Your heart drops straight through you. Cold sweeps in so fast it feels like someone cracked open your ribs.

Inside your apartment, standing in a perfect, silent row beside your bed, are several men in black suits, their expressions flat and unreadable. Your luggage is already packed and arranged at their feet. 

“Who… are you?” you manage to whisper; throat feeling clogged.

On cue, the bathroom door clicks open, and out steps…Mr. Kim. Your father’s secretary. The man who has managed your life since childhood, the man who tracks every move you make, the man who answers to your father and expects you to do the same. 

His presence fills the room like a shadow you thought you’d escaped. 

He looks at you with that polite, empty expression he always uses right before delivering orders.

Fucking shit. 

Your feet root to the floor, every instinct screaming, every breath tightening.

Run. Run, run, run. 

You spin and grab Seongje’s hand, tugging at it. “Let’s go,” you whisper, panic rising in your throat. 

But he doesn’t move. He just stands there, looking at you with that blank expression of his.

You tug at him again. “Seongje, you have to- ”

“Mr. Geum, you’re late to our scheduled meeting time,” Mr. Kim interrupts.

Your eyes dart between Seongje and him, and, and-

And then it hits you like a punch to the chest. 

No, no, no- he's not, he just said-

"I'm sorry. I guess, for everything I didn't fucking do."

-He’s betraying you. 

You don’t wanna believe it- but in front of you, he’s the one letting this happen, standing there like it’s nothing, while your entire world tilts on its axis. 

Your hands shake as the realization settles in, burning through the warmth you felt just moments ago. You had trusted him, leaned on him, told him how much it meant to have someone there, and now- he’s letting it slip through his fingers as if your fear, your life, was just another game.

His confession has meant nothing. Your confession has meant nothing.

You want to scream, but your voice falters, choked by the shock and the disbelief.

It’s not just anger- though that’s there, bubbling beneath your skin- but a raw, aching hurt, the kind that pierces straight to the chest because it comes from someone you thought would be different, someone you thought you could rely on.

Your eyes burn as you stare at him, searching for any sign of the person you trusted, any hint that this was a joke, anything to tell you he wouldn’t really let this happen. 

But all you see is that smirk, that infuriating, casual smirk, the corner of his lips twitching as if he’s enjoying the chaos, as if your betrayal is just entertainment. 

And again…you realize just how alone you are. 

A memory flashes violently in your mind- the bet, the one you had made with him just a little while ago, the one that promised some small piece of favor in exchange for your victory. The rules were clear, and now, the weight of that promise crashes into you. 

Really desperate, you cling onto it.

You don't care how bad it makes you look; you just need out.  

You cry out, voice cracking, trembling with a mixture of fear and heartbreak, “remember that bet? Where you owe me? This is it. Help me, Seongje… please.”

You tug weakly at his jacket, your voice dropping to a nearly inaudible, “…please.”

Seongje leans his head back, sighing lazily, before finally speaking.

“You forgot,” he says lightly, “…I just want to have fun like this.”

 And just like that, he winks, the motion careless, cruel in its simplicity. A chilling laugh escapes him, echoing in your ears.

Rage and hurt flood through you; you grab at Seongje’s chest, punching, crying as Mr. Kim pulls you back, restraining you.

“Let- me go! You, you fucking asshole! How- ” you shout, struggling against the grip, your voice breaking, “how could you do this to me?”

Mr. Kim moves to cover your mouth, but you fight, eyes locked on Seongje, who tilts his head back as if enjoying your cries, your pleas. 

“You heartless asshole,” you spit out, “I trusted you!”

Your sobs shake your body, unrelenting, and Mr. Kim begins dragging you out of your temporary apartment.

You glance back one last time, tears streaking your face, and Seongje steps aside to make room for the other men. 

You catch him, even briefly; his smirk gone, jaw tight, eyes flicking to the floor.

And in that instant, you know, with brutal clarity, that you will curse him forever. 

Curse him for the betrayal, for the cruelty disguised as play, for the emptiness that masqueraded as care.

But more than that- you’ll curse yourself. 

For the foolishness of believing, if only for a fleeting heartbeat, that someone could ever be truly yours- someone to trust, to laugh with, to love you- and realizing, in the coldest clarity, that you had never known such a thing, and that he would never be that person.

-------------------------------

word count: 12k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: thank you for completing this series! this is one of my favorite pieces to write, so i hope its one of your favorite pieces to read! and yes, maybe you might be mad or annoyed at this ending, but i love it, and if you want to read a story where seongje is head over heels for you....im sorry this isnt the one. in my heart, he's a lone wolf, and itll be hard for him to commit to a pack. thank you again for reading!

He ignores that too.

The elevator doors slide open. You step in first; he doesn’t look at you. Going down to the first floor, you don’t try to run, don’t pull away; you just walk beside him as he leads you through narrow alleys, side streets, weaving past neon signs and convenience store glow.

Eventually, the familiar internet café he always hangs out at comes into view. He pauses just before the entrance, glancing sideways.

And surprisingly- you’re staring up at the huge sign like it’s something out of a different world. 

He scoffs, amusement curling his voice, “is being poor some kind of aesthetic? Fuck.”

The remark snaps you out of it. You glance away, a little embarrassed, and he shakes his head, laughing as he steps inside.

The café isn’t crowded today, so he picks a random spot and sits down in front of a computer. You slide into the seat beside him, and he opens up the menu tab first.

“I’m hungry. You want something?” he asks, already placing his ramen in the cart.

“…you come here often?” 

“…You want something?” he repeats.

The roll of your chair brings you closer, leaning over him, your breath brushing his face slightly. Your hand reaches over and rests on his mouse, overlapping his. 

Seongje’s eyes flick down. Slowly, he pulls his hand out from under yours, letting your arm remain in front of him. He inhales, catching your scent, and for a brief second, allows himself to glance at the side of your face.

“…I’ll just have the same as you,” you mutter, adding it to the cart before sliding over to your own computer.

Seongje swallows hard, suppressing a scoff as he completes the order.

“Okay, what are we doing here?” you ask.

He opens Google, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Fake ID, fake passport,” he mutters, as if stating the obvious.

He’s made a few fake IDs before; some for himself, some as favors, so he knows the basic formats. He pulls up his usual template with ease, then opens it in Photoshop, changing the photo, name, ID number, date of birth, etc.

“Why do I need a fake ID? I’m not a criminal.”

“Don’t you want to start over?”

“But I like who I am.”

“If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

He pulls out his phone and scrolls for a moment, then holds up a photo he took of you at the club. You stare at it for a split second before realizing which one it is.

“Fuck- where did you get that photo of me?” you blurt out, flustered, reaching for his phone. He quickly lifts it out of reach, grinning. “Delete it! It’s fucking ugly.”

“I like this though,” he laughs, shoving your arms back playfully.

“Seriously though- where did you get this photo?” you demand, a little edge in your voice.

Sensing your seriousness, and feeling a strange urge to ease it, he shrugs, “Baekjin sent me to check up on you.”

“…Oh.”

He notices the way your expression falters, so he’s quick to shift the conversation, “so, I’ll use this one, oh.”

“Take another one! Right here.”

“Whatever,” Seongje mutters, deciding that it would be too much work, sliding the photo over to the computer.

You laugh, giving his shoulder a playful shove, “It takes only a second! C’mon.”

Seongje furrows his brows, glancing at you- and freezes for a moment. Your lashes flutter over him, your eyes glinting with mischief, and he realizes just how distracting you can be.

He sighs, pursing his lips slightly, “…Fine.”

He pulls out his phone’s camera and lines up the shot as you sit up straight, removing your hat and quickly fixing your hair. You relax your features, eyes piercing through the lens, a small, fleeting smile playing on your lips.

Seongje’s eyes narrow slightly, “…One, two, three- kimchi.”

“…kimchi?” 

Seongje snaps the photo as you say it, the word causing your smile to widen just a bit more. Quickly, he turns back to the computer screen, hiding the small leap his chest just took. You put your hat back on and ask, “How does it look?”

“Fucking ugly,” he says instantly, sending the photo over to the computer without missing a beat.

The photo pops up on the large monitor, and Seongje freezes for half a second; just long enough to gulp before he masks it.

You hum, pleased at how the photo turned out. “Liar,” you say under your breath.

He scoffs and clicks fast, dragging your face onto a blank background and slotting it into the ID template.

He moves to the text fields and starts typing in a fake birthday, a random country; date of expiry, the rest of the information that’s too boring. 

You watch the screen fill in with a life that isn’t yours.

“...That’s it?” you ask as he downloads the file as a PDF.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, already pulling out his phone. He sends the file to someone in his contacts, “I know a guy.”

You blink, “A guy?”

“Yeah. Makes these for half the city. Laminates, prints, UV stamps,” Seongje shrugs, “He’ll get it back to me this afternoon.”

You lean back in your chair, watching him as he lazily scrolls through his phone.

“What else do I need to do?” you ask, genuinely.

Seongje turns just enough for you to catch the side of his smirk, “have fun.”

“I mean- ” he drags the word out, spinning back to his screen, “you already know how to; that night at the club says so.”

He opens his favorite game, the same one he bought upgrades for using your stolen money. He picks up exactly where he left off, fingers tapping lazily on the keys. 

“…Well, I also just left home and didn’t know where to go,” you murmur, turning back to your own computer.

Seongje glances over; and freezes when you open Google. You type your father’s name into the search bar.

He snorts, amused, “what are you doing?”

“I don’t know… seeing if someone noticed I’m gone.”

The low-pressure sadness of your voice irritates him; what a mood killer you are, and he clicks his tongue.

“Download this,” he orders, “I need a teammate.”

“It looks boring though-”

“Nothing’s boring till you try it. Do it.”

You look at him, eyes narrowing with mischief, “wow, is that what you live by?” You tease, “romantic, you.”

You begin typing the game’s name into your laptop.

Seongje leans back in his chair, jaw flexing, trying not to stare too long at the small smile on your face while it loads. Even while a battle flashes across his monitor, he’s paying more attention to you than the enemies he’s fighting.

You create an account, humming to yourself, then swivel your chair slightly toward him.

“Oh? Let’s be friends,” you say, nudging his foot with yours.

Seongje doesn’t add newbies. Ever. He claims it ruins his rank. But… he did tell you to download it and say he needed a teammate. 

“…What’s your username- ”

Before you can even finish, suddenly, he’s in your space, crowding your side of the desk the same way you leaned into him earlier. This time, it’s his hand overlapping yours; warm, steady, deliberately slow as he guides your fingers off the mouse and takes it for himself.

You don’t pull away.

For a split second he stays there, typing in his username for you, sending the friend request, then he pushes himself back into his own space. 

A notification pops up on his monitor; your friend request. 

A laugh punches out of him; genuine as he reads your username, “what the fuck is that?”

“What?” Your grin widens because you’ve never seen his eyes crinkle like that before (well, never really noticed- noticed).

“It’s… stupid,” He flicks his gaze from your screen to your face, still half-laughing.

“Yours isn’t any better,” you shoot back, “and your character sucks.”

He scoffs, leaning back, “You don’t understand shit. Just join my game.”

“How do I customize my character-”

“You don’t have enough money for that,” he mutters, clicking around his own screen. “Just join- ”

A soft knock interrupts him.

Your ramen bowls arrive; the staff sliding it onto the table, steam curling up between you two.

Seongje barely glances at the food. He’s still looking at you, mouth half-open like he’s ready to fire off another insult.

But you breathe in the scent; eyes lighting up, mood lifting so visibly he can practically see the warmth rush back into you.

“Thanks for treating,” you say quickly, already splitting the chopsticks before he can respond.

You lean in immediately, stirring the noodles with eager focus.

Seongje pokes his tongue against his cheek.

There’s something stupidly satisfying about watching you come back to life over a bowl of cheap internet-café ramen.

He mutters, “Yeah, whatever,” and digs into his own bowl.

For a moment, neither of you speak; only the clatter of keys around you, the hum of other players, the faint clicking of mice. The two of you sit shoulder-to-shoulder in the dim blue light, eating from identical bowls, screens glowing in front of you.

“Eat faster.”

“Why?” you mumble, mouth full.

“We’ve got shit to do.”

You laugh under your breath, and that sound; light, unguarded, lingers in the space between your two computers.

And Seongje, who notices everything, has his eyes locked on the game; but awareness fixed on you.

——

“Your girlfriend?”

Seongje looks up from his wallet, brow twitching as he squints at the guy behind the counter. After the internet café hangout, night had snuck up on both of you. Now he’s here; at the fake ID place disguised as a print shop and electronics store, to pick up what he sent earlier.

“What girl-”

“Your new girlfriend?” the guy laughs, pointing his thumb behind Seongje.

Seongje turns.

You’re standing by the wall of televisions; each one playing the store’s CCTV feed. The screens mirror your face from a dozen angles, your expression caught somewhere between fascination and disbelief. Even with half your face hidden beneath Seongje’s hat, the awe is obvious.

No way someone can be this curious about the world.

He turns back to the counter.

“How much is it?” he asks again.

“I’ll give you a discount since you brought a pretty girl with you,” the guy teases, winking as he turns to grab the finished IDs and passports.

Seongje scoffs, dropping the money onto the counter before shoving his wallet back into his pocket.

“Really pretty,” the guy mutters, in awe himself. “But also so, so familiar-”

Before he can finish the thought, Seongje cuts in sharply.

“Throw a burner phone in there.”

“…that’ll cost you extra.”

Seongje gives him a sharp glare. 

The guy surrenders; understanding what that glare means; as well as Seongje’s reputation and habits. He grabs a cheap phone from the glass display, setting it with the IDs, bundling everything together.

Seongje takes everything in one hand and turns toward you.

“Let’s go,” he lazily calls out. 

You spin around from the wall of televisions, trailing after him out into the busy street. As soon as the store door shuts behind you, you pluck the bundle straight out of his hands without asking.

He’s ready to scold you for grabbing, but then you lift the ID toward the streetlight, examining it.

“Wow… this looks just like the real thing,” you laugh, impressed, then your eyes land on the phone, “shit- this one’s mine?”

He hums in response, “Mhm. Add my number in there.”

You start the phone up as the two of you walk down the street, the glow of shop signs washing over your face. Seongje recites his number slowly. You type each digit in, saving it under his name.

You’re still focused on the screen when-

A bike barrels toward you from ahead.

Before you even register the danger, Seongje’s hand clamps around your forearm. He yanks you back; fast- and you stumble, colliding straight into him. Your back hits his chest, his breath brushing the top of your head. His grip burns hot where it held you.

You look up at him, startled, eyes wide.

“There was a bike,” he mutters, letting go the moment you’re steady, already walking off like nothing happened.

You catch up with smaller steps, still feeling the imprint of his hand on your arm. 

“Thanks… then. I guess.”

She’s gonna get herself killed in a few days….

Seongje yawns into his fist, stuffing both hands back into his pockets. “Call me if you need something,” he says.

“From you? What could you possibly offer- ”

“Then don’t call me,” he cuts in flatly.

The two of you drift along the familiar route toward your place. Even in a small town, the limited clubs spill out laughter and bass into the streets, neon lights pooling across the pavement. Seongje stretches his arms behind his head as he walks; not because he’s relaxed, but because he’s trying to stay alert. 

You’re still looking at the burner phone, probably figuring out its settings, when he suddenly speaks again; sharper than before.

“Hey,” he says, glancing sideways at you, “you really need to pay attention to your surroundings.”

You blink up at him, clueless.

“Is this how those fuckers got you yesterday?” he teases, recalling when he had sent his men after you.

Rolling your eyes, you stuff the phone into your pocket and adjust the hat on your head. “I’m not an idiot, okay? I know my way around. I survived a whole lifetime without you.”

“…With a roof over your head,” Seongje adds, the corner of his mouth tugging in amusement, a jab at your privileged life.

Unknowingly, your building comes into view. The two of you walk inside and wait by the elevator, the quiet tension between you settling for the moment.

The elevator arrives, doors sliding open with a soft ding. 

Both of you step inside, and once the door closes back up, it’s quiet again. 

Seongje purses his lips, eyes darting upward at the ceiling, then back to you, then up again, then to you once more. His brow furrows slightly as he tucks his hands into his pockets again- suddenly hyperaware of his body and how it functions. 

The uncomfortable silence reminds him of how much of a stranger you two are. 

Another ding indicates the arrival of your floor. 

He holds the door open as you step out first, following slowly behind you.

Once you reach your door, you turn sharply, “okay, thanks for today.”

“…what, was it fun?” he asks, eyes narrowing. Though his tone is mocking, there’s genuine curiosity behind it.

“Every day is fun when you’re away from home,” you reply with a small smile, turning to unlock the door.

Just as you’re about to close it, Seongje suddenly remembers and reaches out, gripping the edge of the door. You glance over your shoulder to meet his eyes.

“…My hat,” he says, flicking his gaze upward.

“Oh,” you murmur, removing it. Then, bold as ever, you place it on his head and deliberately flick the stiff brim.

“Bye,” you smile, and when his hand drops, you let the door swing closed.

Seongje pauses for a moment, adjusts the hat’s position, and walks away, a small, lingering smile tugging at his lips.

——

“Is this your… ‘I know a special place’?” 

you tease, laughing as you take in the view from the old building’s rooftop.

It’s far from pretty- cracked concrete, a backup generator humming in the corner, huge wooden crates stacked haphazardly, and even some old pottery tucked against a wall. 

Seongje watches you with a confused expression, trying to decipher what you mean.

It’s the next day, and he’s come to see you after school. He had slept through most of class, paying barely any attention, attending only for attendance purposes. He’s in his dark red school uniform, slightly disheveled.

“I’m kidding. I know girls don’t like you.”

Seongje frowns, unsure whether to be offended or intrigued. His brows furrow, clearly taking your words seriously even if he doesn’t fully understand them.

“Nevermind,” you sigh, “why did you bring me here?”

Seongje’s lips curl; slowly at first, then fully into that unmistakable troublemaking smile of his.

“Hit me.”

You stare at him like he’s absolutely lost it. Your brows shoot up, your mouth parts in disbelief. He just stands there, hands in his pockets, the wind rustling his dark red uniform jacket as if this is the most normal instruction in the world.

“C’mon. You know I can take it.”

“Are you crazy-“

“Punch me, right here-“ Seongje points to his stomach-

“Why would I do that-“

“What, scared?”

“I’m not doing that-“

Seongje closes the distance between you two. He thumps a fist lightly against his own chest, grin sharpening.

“Fucking hell, just do it-”

“Get away from me-”

“Hit me right here-”

“Stop-“

“You fucking wimp-“

Your hand flies up; delivering a slap right across his face. 

The sound echoes on the rooftop. 

His head jerks to the side from the force, glasses flying off and skittering across the concrete. A bright red mark is already rising on his cheek.

For a split second there’s silence- 

And then Seongje laughs.

A low, breathless laugh that shakes through his chest, eyes sharp and alive, like something in him finally woke up again.

“See?” he turns back to you, smile cutting wider, “was that so hard?”

“Psycho…” you mutter, looking away, pissed, “I’m leaving.”

You barely take a step before his hand wraps around your forearm, stopping you cold.

You look up at him, startled.

“Today,” he says, voice dropping, “I’m teaching you how to fight.”

“I am not interested- ”

“Of course you won’t be as good as me, but- ”

“No-”

“We can try,” he releases your arm, still smiling down at you despite the slight blur in his vision, “that was just a warm‑up.”

“Why would you assume I want to do this with you?”

“…Are you fucking stupid?” he snaps, “you couldn’t even outrun those morons the other day. You couldn’t even- ”

“Okay, okay- fine, I’ll learn,” you sigh, defeated, “what? You’re gonna teach me uppercuts? Straight punches-”

Seongje lifts his hand suddenly, like he’s about to slap you again.

And you actually flinch; arms snapping up, shoulders tensing, whole body recoiling.

He bursts out laughing, delighted as he puts his hand back down.

“First rule,” he says, stepping closer, and he grabs your wrists so that he can see your face, “never flinch. You can dodge…but don’t be a coward.”

You scoff, but you don’t pull your wrists away, and that alone surprises him. So he takes the opportunity; guiding your hands up gently, adjusting your stance.

“Keep your hands up…here. Not stupid high,” Seongje says, tapping your elbow so it bends properly, “Right here, protects your face.”

He steps back just enough to watch you, eyes scanning your posture.

He flicks his fingers toward your feet, “One foot forward, one back. You’ll fall if you stand like that.”

You adjust your feet; and your lips form a smile that says you’re unwillingly do this….which you are; but secretly enjoying it. 

“Good. Now… watch me,” he says, turning his body sideways slightly. “You always watch the shoulders.”

He then swings a punch close to your face- fast enough that you hear the air cut. Your pupils dilate, your breath stutters, and the tiny flinch you try to hide makes him laugh under his breath.

“See? My shoulder,” he teases.

Before you can snap back, he throws a few more quick feints in your direction- light, playful jabs that never touch you, the kind guys do when they’re messing around but also showing off. His movements are sharp, practiced, how effortless they look.

Every time his fist cuts through the air near you, he watches your reaction; every twitch of your eyes, the smile you try to suppress, the slight blush that grows in your cheeks. 

He points to his right shoulder.

“If someone’s gonna swing with their right hand, this moves first,” he makes a slow motion punch, exaggerating the shift so you can see it.

You nod slowly, and Seongje finds himself more serious in teaching you, more enjoying of this than he’d expected. 

Seongje relaxes; stepping back slightly as he studies your stance again.

“This feels stupid-“

“And your weight- don’t keep it all on one foot,” he ignores your comment, “You’re dead if you stay like this.”

He nudges your shoulder; not gently, and you stumble back a step.

“See? Dead.”

You glare, “You didn’t warn me!”

“You think enemies warn you?” he scoffs.

You adjust again, and Seongje helps you by nudging your knee lightly with his shoe.

And this time when he pushes you, you hold your ground.

He grins.

“…And your chin,” he taps under yours with two fingers, pushing it down just a little. His thumb lingers longer than he realizes, “always tucked.”

Your stare burns his skin. 

Seongje’s breath hitches; just barely; before he masks it with a slow exhale, a grin creeping back onto his face. 

“…Your turn.”

“To what?”

“To hit me,” he says, tapping two fingers against his own chest, “c’mon. Actually throw one.”

“I am not-”

“Don’t be such a wuss,” he taunts, head tilted, enjoying this way too much.

“I don’t even know how-“

“You slapped me earlier. Do it like that.”

“Really? You want me to punch you-“

“Just like how I showed you. C’mon-“

“You sure?”

“Hurry up-“

“It’s gonna hurt-“

“Don’t make me beg,” he laughs, lifting his chin slightly, exposing himself on purpose.

While he’s still laughing, you swing.

It barely counts as a punch; more like an annoyed tap delivered with zero commitment. Your fist lands on his chest, but Seongje doesn’t even blink. His body doesn’t move, not an inch.

You stare at your own hand in disbelief, then you start laughing too, because wow, that was pathetic.

Seongje drags a palm down his face, shaking his head slowly.

“You fucking suck,” he teases, voice dripping with mock disappointment, “That’s all you got?”

He taps his chest twice, eyes sparking with challenge. He’s trying to drag something out of you, the same fire he saw that night at your place, when you lunged at him with a butter knife. That raw anger, that reckless devotion.

“Where’s that stupid temper of yours?”

Your eyes drop as you roll them, “do you ever shut up?”

“Make me,” he fires back instantly, a low dare curled in his voice.

You scoff, but your stance shifts; hands up, feet staggered, chin tucked the way he told you. For a split second, he thinks you’re still going to hold back. But then-

You throw it.

A real punch, not perfect, not clean, but sharp with all the irritation he kept digging for. Your knuckles catch him right along the chin- the exact spot he’d exposed on purpose earlier.

The impact snaps his head to the side. He actually stumbles back a step.

For a moment, the world sharpens. Pain stabs, but beneath it, a pulse of something else ignites him. Heat, sharp and reckless, coils in his chest, and he inhales it like smoke.

As shameful as it is to admit it, it felt like a kiss.

His skin burns where your knuckles landed, and his breath catches from the closeness, the fire in your eyes, the way your body leans into the motion. Every nerve hums with it, a delicious collision of danger and desire.

Seongje laughs, low and rough, the sound caught between shock and need. 

He can feel the friction of your energy against his and it pulls at something dark and hungry inside him. His heart hammers, chest tight, pulse quickened; not from fear, but from wanting more, craving the chaos.

And just for a heartbeat, he wants to feel it again. That reckless, bruising, intoxicating kiss of violence that is only yours.

“Shit- are you okay?” Your voice is panicked, hand landing lightly on his shoulder, brushing against his skin as you check the small bruise forming on his cheek. 

“…Again,” he murmurs, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “but this time- I’ll fight back.”

You blink at him. “You’re…a fucking freak,” you mutter, but there’s a tremor in your voice, “forget it. You taught me. I know now- ”

“Let’s play a little longer,” he groans, shrugging your hand off his shoulder. 

The loss of your warmth leaves a mark as his eyes roam over you, watching your every movement. Every line of your body, every breath, every defiant glance- it pulls him in, reckless and unashamed.

“…I’ll go easy on you.”

There’s a pause; the gears clicking in your mind.

You scoff, “…I don’t want you to go easy on me though.”

He falters for half a second, surprised by your confidence; after taking the most basic fundamentals of learning.

“…then you’ll get hurt.”

“I think I’ve been through worse.” Your smile deepens, “Besides, what do I get?”

“From…?”

“Well, I’m not taking hits for nothing. If I win…” You tilt your head, daring him to step closer, “…what’s in it for me?”

A slow, wicked smile spreads across his lips.

Oh, so that’s how you want to play it.

He takes one step forward.

Close enough that you can feel his breath ghost your cheek.

“If you win,” he murmurs, “then I owe you something.”

There’s another meaning behind it, one that makes your pulse stutter: you hold a rare claim over him, a one-time use, if ever you need it.

Your brow furrows as a laugh escapes you, nodding, “Okay. Sure. And if you win?”

He tilts his head, lips curling in thought.

What does he want most from you? Well, there isn’t much expect-  

“…Tell me about who you are,” he murmurs, “unfiltered. From useless facts to your dirty thoughts- everything.”

Another pause. 

And just when he thought you wouldn’t agree to it- 

You then raise a hand, daring him to shake on it. 

He smirks; shaking yours.

But the moment his fingers clasp yours, you yank hard, and he stumbles- the sudden contact sends a thrill through both of you, the slight brush of skin against skin igniting something else.

He stares up at you and laughs, thrilled. 

“Dirty move,” he says, pushing himself up.

You innocently shrug.

Seongje rises slowly, shoulders rolling, eyes never leaving you. Even standing still, he’s a storm gathering; but a controlled one, one that’s pulling punches before they even fly.

He steps in first, light, testing. His fist arcs toward your jaw, but you can see he slows it at the last moment- giving you time to react. You duck, but too late, and his knuckles brush your cheekbone anyway.

“My shoulders, watch them.”

“Shut up-”

Before he can answer, you sweep your leg toward his ankle; the move is clumsy, telegraphed- yet he lets it catch him. He stumbles, correcting himself, a smile tugging at his mouth because he knows exactly what you were trying to do.

You go for his ribs next, a quick jab. He blocks it easily. 

Heat crawls up your neck.

“Are you even trying?” He provokes. 

You swing again, faster this time. He sidesteps with infuriating ease. One hand lands on your back, guiding your momentum past him so you don’t trip.

It pisses you off.

You twist, planting your feet, and shove against his chest. You throw another strike; this one lands against his shoulder. A real hit.

He hisses, not from pain but satisfaction.

“There you go, that’s it,” he smiles. 

Then he moves; a quick, fluid motion that pins your wrist before you even register the grab. He throws a light punch to your upper shoulder- the place where he knows bruises, but ultimately doesn’t hurt as much as organs do. 

You wobble, and he reaches for you instinctively. His palm presses to your lower back, steadying you, heat flaring through your body.

…And that’s when it happens.

Your knee comes up; sloppy, the angle slightly wrong, the force unbalanced, but he’s still off-guard, hand on you, breath too close. He reacts late on purpose, and your knee clips his side. He exhales sharply, more surprise than pain.

You see the opening.

Seongje lets you see it.

You lunge again, breath sharp, adrenaline mixing with something warmer. You miss a punch by several inches- beginner mistake- and he taps your elbow to show you how open it leaves your ribs. 

“Fuck-“ you curse under your breath. He laughs.

Then, without warning, you kick off the ground and throw your weight at him.

 Not elegant; not technical; just raw desperation to win.

It works.

You slam into him, and he lets himself fall- back hitting the hard concrete floor with a thud, you landing half on top of him, breath tangled with his. His hand curls around your waist automatically, steadying you so neither of you hit the floor too hard.

“Fuck,” he groans, his breath fanning your cheek as his head hovers slightly off the ground, avoiding full contact with the floor. 

Your hands tighten around his burgundy uniform, gripping the fabric as though it anchors you in place. When his eyes meet yours, all the pain seems to vanish, as if your eyes held that medicine, the pain-killer.

You sit up quickly, straddling him before he can catch his breath. His back is flat against the concrete, yours leaning over him, your fists still balled in his uniform like you’re holding him down.

And then you throw it- 

a clean, sharp punch straight across his face. 

And it wasn’t enough for you-

You throw another punch at his face; the final blow. 

His head whips to the side, the sound echoing off the rooftop. 

“Yes… just like that,” he moans, smiling, letting the back of his head fall to the floor this time, surrendering to the sting blooming under his cheekbone. The sound that leaves him is half‑pain, half‑pleasure, the kind that makes his chest rise too fast and his eyes go unfocused.

You exhale a shaky laugh of your own, your grip on his jacket loosening as the adrenaline fades. Now that you’re not throwing punches, your hands soften against him.

“…you let me win,” you breathe, the realization slipping out.

His eyes drag up to yours- heavy, hazy, and full of something dangerously close to devotion.

“It was all you, baby,” he groans, voice rough, the hand on your waist finally dropping to the ground beside him as though he’s lost the strength to hold you or himself up anymore.

Seongje laughs low and throaty, the sound vibrating through his chest. It’s better than any high he’s chased before- more intense than nicotine, more addictive than anything he’s ever tasted- and it surges through him like a shot of electricity, making him feel unstoppable, untouchable. His chest rises and falls rapidly, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he lets himself sink into you and everything you have to offer.

He feels your weight shift as you push yourself off him, settling onto the concrete beside him, trying to cool the adrenaline flooding your system. 

Seongje peeks through half-lidded, bliss-dazed eyes, watching you steady your breathing.

He checks you first; your face, your shoulders, your hands- scanning carefully as though you’re the one who took damage, not him. When he sees nothing serious, only the faint tremble of exertion, something eases in his gaze.

Only then does Seongje slowly sit up too, pain rippling through his jaw, but his smile still boyish.

“…That was fun,” he murmurs, voice quieter than before, almost hoarse.

Your laugh comes softer this time, no mockery in it; “it was.”

A sudden rumble vibrates low in Seongje’s stomach, breaking the tension. He blinks, then huffs out a small laugh as he pushes himself to his feet.

“..I’m starving,” he murmurs. He extends a hand down to you.

“Come on,” he says, eyes warm despite the blooming bruise on his cheek, “BBQ.”

You look at his hand for a beat before slipping yours into it, and he pulls you up, steadying you by the elbow when you wobble slightly.

“BBQ,” he repeats, grinning faintly, “my treat.”

—-

Three days later 

“I’m taking time off. Don’t come looking for me.”

Hurt and disappointment cut through Seongje’s voice, raw and shaking despite how hard he’s trying to sound cold. 

Midnight hangs heavy over Daesung Motorcycles, the shop lit only by a single buzzing fluorescent light. They came here straight after Seongje was released from the police station; because he thought, stupidly, that he and Baekjin were finally going to talk about something real.

Instead, the first thing out of Baekjin’s mouth was an accusation.

That he had ratted the Union out.

The words still burn in his ears.

Seongje didn’t realize how much of himself he had anchored to this friendship (if you could even call it that). He didn’t realize how lonely he was until now, standing here with the person he trusted the most looking at him like a liability.

Seongje lets his last words hang in the air, waiting, hoping for a crack in Baekjin’s expression.

Nothing.

Seongje taps his cigarette, ashes dropping neatly into the tray.

He’s done; done being the errand boy. Done taking hits. Done pretending loyalty makes up for the way he’s treated.

He stands, ignoring the sharp sting in his foot; still injured from when his own glasses were broken and used to stab against it. Every step sends a jolt up his leg, despite the cast wrapped around it.

Seongje walks a few steps- 

and then Baekjin speaks; not to hold him back. 

“Maybe y/n did it.”

The mention of your name causes Seongje to freeze; his entire back tensing up as if someone yanked him with a chain.

Seongje doesn’t turn around. 

Baekjin keeps going, voice flat, “I know you brought her here. I know you’ve been with her.”

Seongje always knew that Baku will always come first for Baekjin, and he will always be second. But what he just realizing now is that, you were in that same category as Baku too. That Baekjin valued you enough to say your name like that, enough to send Seongje to check up on you, enough care for you from a distance, placing you on the same level as Baku in a way Seongje never could be.

“I know her,” Seongje says, “she wouldn’t do that to you.”

He says it for two reasons. 

The first is simple; because it’s true. You wouldn’t rat anyone out; you don’t care enough about the Union or their shit to get involved. 

And the second reason, is that he’s still trying to protect Baekjin’s feelings. Even now. Even after being accused of betraying the only people he thought he had.

With that last line hanging in the smoke-thick air, Seongje turns and limps his way out the garage door, finally taking the long, overdue break from the Union he’s been fantasizing about for months. 

Outside, the streets are dark, washed dim by dying street lamps. His mood sours with every step; pain spikes through his injured foot, and each limp is a reminder of how stupidly alone he is.

He turns down the street toward his apartment.

Bump. 

…Someone slams hard into his chest.

A feminine body hits him straight-on, stumbling back with a pained groan; the kind of dramatic collision he’s only ever seen in movies.

His vision blurs from the impact, but when he blinks, when he focuses- 

It’s you.

Of course it is. What a timing.

“Shit-” you hiss, pushing yourself upright.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice rough, exhausted. But the question dies halfway out when he really looks at you; panic written across your face, hair disheveled, clothes rumpled like you’d been grabbed or running full-speed for blocks.

You grab his wrist.

“Run. Come on- just run, I’ll explain later,” you say breathlessly, tugging hard.

But he doesn’t move.

You follow his gaze downward, to the way his weight shifts off his injured foot. 

Realization hits. You drop his arm, frustrated, already turning away.

“I have to go- ”

He grabs your forearm before you can take a step.

“Hide. In there,” he says flatly, jerking his chin toward the narrow alley between a shuttered laundromat and a row of abandoned mailboxes.

You give him a quick, breathless smile, “thanks.” 

Then you dart into the alley, slipping behind the rusted mailboxes until you’re completely out of sight.

Seongje sighs, shoulders sagging. He digs a cigarette from his pack, sticks it between his lips, and leans casually against the wall like he’s just some bored guy out for a midnight smoke. 

It’s the oldest trick in the book, but it works. Two men in black barreling down the street don’t spare him a glance as they sprint past, scanning the road ahead.

“You fucking suck,” he mutters under his breath, cigarette bouncing between his lips, “losing to two guys again?”

You step out after a moment, brushing dust from your clothes, giving him a look that basically says yeah, and?

“I tried fending them off,” you shrug, “but running was easier.”

He snorts, flipping his lighter closed. “Figures.”

Your expression softens as you look him over. “So… what happened to you?”

“Eunjang bastards,” he answers, as if that should explain everything. “Got stabbed by my own glasses.” 

He exhales a stream of smoke- right into your face.

You cough dramatically, waving the cloud away, “Shit. You look… very roughed up.”

Maybe y/n did it.

He forces a chuckle, pushing the thought away, “could say the same about you.”

You glance down the street, making sure the men are really gone, “They’re… not friends,” you say, “They were sent by my dad. They found my place.”

For a beat, Seongje just stares at you; your messy hair, your bruised expression, the exhaustion behind your eyes.

He hates how much he likes seeing you fucked up like this, how something in him twists in a sick, involuntary way whenever you stumble into trouble.

He hates how much he likes you being dumb, reckless, struggling.

He hates how you twist between happiness and sadness, like it’s a switch programmed in you to format a wall in a few seconds. 

He hates how you talk to him; with a lack of manners that he beats others up for. 

But most of all, he hates how much he wants to take care of you anyway; how something in his chest aches for you every single time, without fail, no matter how hard he tries to deny it.

Seongje scoffs, taking another puff of his cigarette. 

He’s already regretting the words he hasn’t said yet.

He exhales the smoke to the side instead of your face, and you’re staring down at the pavement, nudging loose gravel with the toe of your shoe like a scolded kid.

“My place,” he mutters, “you can stay there.”

You look up immediately, eyes wide. 

“Your…place?”

“Got a problem with that?”

“You have a…place?”

“…nevermind.”

You grab his forearm before he can take a step.

“No- please. I got nowhere else to go.”

You tug at him, and he turns just enough that you can see the slight flush creeping up the edges of his ears. You pout up at him, trying to catch his eyes, but he looks away quickly, jaw clenched.

Finally, with a low sigh, he jerks his chin down the street.

“Let’s go already. I’m fucking tired.”

He starts walking, limping slightly from the stubbed toe, and you can’t help but notice the strain in his step. 

Without thinking, you slip your arm around his shoulders, pressing yourself close, guiding him as you move. 

Huh?

Seongje’s brows furrow, eyes narrowing, but he quickly realizes you’re steadying him, helping him balance.

Oh. 

He allows you to support him, leaning lightly into you.

Your hand rests firm against his side, your body pressed close enough that every subtle shift of his weight brushes against yours. 

It’s intimate without words, the kind of quiet closeness that says more than either of you could manage out loud.

Step by step, you guide him down the dimly lit streets, the night stretching around you. His usual arrogance is muted, replaced with something… vulnerable. 

And though he won’t admit it, he’s grateful, that you’re here, that you’re steadying him, that somehow, this simple act pulls you even closer together.

By the time you reach his place, the distance isn’t just measured in blocks walked; it’s measured in a shift, a shared breath and synced heartbeat. 

“…You’re heavy,” you complain, nudging him as he flicks his cigarette to the floor before opening the apartment building door.

“Shut up. You’re not that light either.”

You press the elevator button, your hand brushing against his wrist that’s draped over your shoulder. You catch yourself gently rubbing your thumb over his skin, and he, in turn, finds his gaze drawn to the side of your face as you read the bulletin board.

Ding. 

The elevator doors open. He limps in, leaning slightly against you, and presses the button for the second floor.

Ding. 

You step out together, and he guides you down the hallway, arm still around your shoulders.

When you reach his door, he finally lifts his arm, slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out the keys.

“You live alone?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pushing the door open, stepping aside to let you enter first, “left my parents. It’s more fun living alone.”

The familiar scent of his apartment hits him the moment he steps inside: a mix of detergent, dust, and the faint remnants of ramen and cigarette smoke. He tosses his keys onto the small shelf by the door with a clatter, while clicking the lights open. 

You stand just inside the entrance, turning your head slowly, taking everything in with big, curious eyes. He watches you silently; because of course you’re nosy, of course you’re immediately snooping around with your gaze, like a stray cat assessing its new territory.

“Your shoes,” he scolds lightly, nodding down. He’s already kicking his off: one slipper, one sports shoe, mismatched and pathetic.

“Oh,” you hurry to remove yours too.

Seongje shrugs off his jacket, letting it land wherever it falls, then brushes past you and drops onto his bed with a heavy plop. 

His apartment is one big open space; no couch, no TV. Just his bed, a table crowded with a computer and game controllers, a cramped kitchen tucked into a corner, a tiny bathroom, and the smallest walk-in closet that barely even qualifies as one. It’s clean in some places, messy in others; lived-in, but not lived-in enough.

He watches you over his forearm as he lies back, the exhaustion finally settling in. 

He lets out a laugh at how stiff and uncomfortable you look, frozen in the middle of the room.

“You can sit in my gaming chair,” Seongje mutters, voice low and rough, “I don’t care.”

“Your place is… nice,” you compliment as you sit in his chair, easing into it. It reclines more than you expect, so you jerk upright immediately. The reaction makes him snort.

You turn your attention to his setup; the dual monitors glowing softly, the headphones hanging off the hook, the keyboard shifting through neon colors, the mouse lighting the same way, extra controllers charging on the side. You graze your fingertips over the keys like they’re museum artifacts.

“You’re making it awkward, stupid.”

“…that’s because I’ve never stayed overnight with a guy before,” you confess.

Seongje’s brows knit, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches you from the bed.

He thinks, well… I’ve never really had a girl over before either.

But that’s a secret he’s not willing to tell you.

“Why?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder at him with a sly grin, “do the girls you bring over act like it’s their own home?”

“Why do you care?”

And he says it like that, lazy and dismissive to cover up the fact that he’s. Never. Brought. Anyone. Over. 

“I don’t. I’m just trying to make conversation,” you push yourself out of his gaming chair, “never mind. Do you have anything to eat? I’m starving.”

From the bed, Seongje watches you wander into his tiny corner kitchen. You open his fridge; then stop, blinking at the barren shelves and the lonely collection of bottled water.

“What, are you an influencer or something?” you tease, shutting the door with your hip.

He doesn’t stay home enough to justify groceries, and the idea of explaining that to you feels stupid, so he just sits up instead. 

As he shifts, his phone slips from his pocket and clatters against the sheets. He ignores it, fishing out his wallet.

He pulls out two crumpled 10,000 won bills and holds it toward you between two fingers.

“There’s a store downstairs. You should be good.”

You walk over and take the money from his hand, your fingers brushing his knuckles.

“Keys?” you ask.

He jerks his chin toward the shelf near the door.

“There.”

You grab them, then glance back at him with raised brows, “you’re not coming with?”

“What, can’t survive without me?” he shoots back, smirking even through the exhaustion weighing down his shoulders.

You scoff, “Says the thief that stole my money- ”

“Look around you, don’t keep your head in your phone,” he cuts you off; his words landing like a mom warning her kids to be careful outside. 

“…I’m not getting you anything,” you sulk, moving to grab his keys. 

The door clicks shut behind you, leaving Seongje alone with nothing but the hum of his apartment and the dull ache in his foot. He exhales, long and tired, running a hand through his messy hair before pushing himself off the bed.

Might as well shower first.

He limps toward the bathroom, and he curses under his breath, balancing carefully as he strips off his clothes. He runs a hand along his stomach- notting the new bruises that are forming, blending into a messy modern painting with the old injuries. 

Stepping in, the spray of hot water hits his bruised body, and for a moment, he just stands there; head bowed, palms pressed against the tile- letting the warmth unknot the tension in his shoulders. 

He’s slow getting out, patting himself dry with one towel while he uses another to dab gently at his injured foot. He wraps it loosely in bandages, jaw clenched. 

By the time he steps out into the main room, about twenty minutes have passed.

He stops in the doorway.

You’re back already, leaning against his tiny kitchen counter, a microwaved bibimbap bowl balanced in your hands.

Then you look up and immediately choke.

Your eyes widen so hard they practically jump out of your skull, and you lift the bibimbap container like a shield in front of your face.

“Shit- put on a shirt, will you?!”

“…It’s my house though. Why should I?” Seongje mutters, ruffling the towel through his wet hair, “and grow up.”

He limps over to his gaming chair and drops into it with a low exhale, letting the towel fall over his eyes. Water still clings to his shoulders, dripping occasionally onto the floor. His arms drape lazily over the chair’s armrests, every muscle exhausted.

You stand there for a few seconds, glaring over the edge of your plastic bowl, but eventually the shock fades. Your footsteps pad softly across the floor, and he hears the rustle of the convenience store bag beside you as you sit down on the floor in front of him.

“Why do you get into fights so often?” you ask suddenly.

He shifts the towel just enough to peer down at you. You’re sitting cross-legged, bibimbap in one hand, the plastic bag at your side like some kind of picnic setup. 

With your free hand, you rummage inside the bag and pull out a rice ball. You hold it up toward him.

“Mm. Here. Thought you might be hungry.”

Seongje stares at the rice ball for a second. Eventually, he takes it from your hand, flipping it to read the flavor.

“…I don’t know,” he answers your earlier question, “I guess it’s fun.”

“No,” you say immediately, eyes tracing downward; over the bruises blooming across his stomach, just below his ribs, the faint swelling around his hip, “nothing that makes you… all fucked up like that is fun.”

He laughs but the sound never comes out.

Instead, he tears open the rice ball wrapper and takes a big bite.

“What d’you think I should do instead then?” he mumbles around the mouthful, “Knit? Draw? Gaming- ”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” you scold instantly, brows pinched as you dig your spoon into your bibimbap.

He pauses, chews slowly this time, swallowing before he speaks again.

Then Seongje sighs, deciding to not dodge the truth.

“It’s exciting,” he admits, eyes unfocused as he stares at some point past your shoulder, “The fights, I mean. Your enemies… they’re unpredictable. And for me, I like the thrill of that. Not knowing what’s coming. Not knowing what someone’s gonna do.”

He takes another slow bite of the rice ball.

“It makes me feel alive,” he adds, barely above a whisper, “even if it fucks me up. Especially if it fucks me up.”

“…You don’t need to almost die to feel alive, you know,” you say it softly, eyes dropping to your bibimbap before flicking toward him again.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you shrug lightly, using your chopsticks to poke at the rice, “like, look at me. I’m running away from home to feel alive. I’m taking a… vacation. I’m not out there looking for trouble wherever I go.”

He scoffs under his breath.

“Well,” you say, spreading your legs forward, so that the tip of your toes lightly brush against his, “trouble finds me. I don’t go hunting for it with my fists.”

A beat.

Then you add, quieter:

“There are other ways to feel alive, you know. Good ones.”

He stops chewing on his food, “really? Like what?”

“I don’t know. Talking to someone. Spending time with someone. Whatever works for you. Try experimenting with everything- not just fighting. That can’t be all that defines you, is it?” you say, taking the last bite of your food, chewing slowly. 

He watches you the whole time.

“For me… I’m still looking for what makes me feel alive,” you add, referencing your plane ticket, your reckless week, everything you’ve done that led you here.

Seongje mutters after a few seconds, “…how romantic.”

You laugh under your breath, shy, running a hand through your hair as you push yourself up from the floor. You smooth down your clothes- pointlessly, because nothing is out of place- and carry your empty bibimbap bowl to the sink. 

The water runs, and you wince a little when the splash hits your fingers.

And maybe it’s the weight of the day, the sting in his foot, the conversation with Baekjin- maybe it’s the way you’re here, right now, rinsing dishes in his cramped kitchen, because Seongje lets something slip.

He finds the urge to, just like you said, talk to someone. 

“Baekjin doesn’t trust me,” he starts, putting the rice ball down on the table. 

Your movement stops. Even with your back turned, he can see the way your shoulders tighten at the sound of your childhood friend’s name.

“I’m taking a break from the Union,” Seongje continues, “I told him that. And he still didn’t- still didn’t make the effort to make me stay.”

The frustration in his voice is thinly veiled, but the hurt is loud. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

The faucet runs, a steady stream filling the quiet between you. You set the empty bibimbap bowl in the sink, fingers lingering against the rim before you answer.

“He doesn’t trust anyone,” 

you say. It isn’t defensive, or angry. Just sad. A fact spoken from someone who’s known Baekjin far longer than he has.

“I know,” Seongje mutters. “I’m stupid to think otherwise.”

“…That makes the two of us,” you sigh.

You turn the faucet off and face him. Your expression mirrors his; not with the same raw hurt, but something gentler. Something nostalgic, like you’re remembering old versions of you, Baku, Baekjin.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed loosely over your chest.

“But…” you add quietly, “if it was me, and you walked away? I’d go after you.”

Seongje’s eyes flick up instantly. He swallows once, hard, his jaw tightening as he sits there in his chair- sweatpants loose, towel around his shoulders now, bruises blooming across his stomach.

He feels completely exposed in a way no fight has ever made him feel.

“…Why?”

You look away, playing it off with a faint shrug, “you’re not so bad.”

Then you laugh lightly, “Baekjin’s an idiot. And staying away from the Union is a good thing,” you continue, leaning your hip against the sink. “And if you’re bored… I’ll keep you company. Like I am now. So…”

You smile at him- gentle, reassuring in a way he isn’t used to.

For a moment, the room feels warmer.

Then you yawn, stretching your arms above your head.

“I gotta shower too.”

Seongje sees a flicker of realization hit you mid-stretch. 

Your hands lower slowly, your expression shifting into mild horror.

He furrows his brows, wondering what you’re thinking.

“Shit…I have no clothes,” you admit, wincing, “Or a towel…”

The realization hits him too. His nose scrunches in thought; yeah, you’ll definitely need to go shopping tomorrow. But for now, he thinks he might have some smaller things that’ll work.

“I can borrow you,” he whispers, pushing himself up. He limps toward his barely-qualified walk-in closet and flicks on the lights.

You follow after him, and he immediately regrets it when he sees your eyes sweep over the disaster inside.

“Looks like a hurricane flew by,” you comment, leaning against the doorframe.

Seongje pretends he didn’t hear that and digs around until he finds a pair of his boxers. He holds them up for a second, then tosses them to you. You catch them and examine the fabric with a resigned frown- one that screams Well… like I have a better option.

“You do do laundry, right?”

“...Fuck off,” he mutters.

You laugh. He grabs one of his smaller shirts, drapes it over your shoulder, and nods toward the bathroom.

“There’s another towel in there,” he says.

As he squeezes past you through the doorway, your hips brush. He flicks off the closet light behind him.

He plops back onto his gaming chair and opens the device. He needs to check up on his game stats. As you make your way to the bathroom, you suddenly turn around.

“Hey… um, thanks. For everything. For letting me stay here and teaching me all that stuff. I didn’t know I would need it; but thanks. After all, I’m just a stranger to you.”

Seongje turns to look at you, and he catches the way your cheeks redden at your own words. 

Cute, he thinks. He wants to say, You’re not a stranger anymore, but that sounds cringe and cheesy, so he just gives you a quick smirk.

“Get out of my face,” he jokes.

You giggle softly, and as Seongje turns back to his screen, he hears the bathroom door click closed. Seeing that his game stats are okay, he checks his friends list and realizes that your character has leveled up significantly. He smiles at that. 

Then he picks up the half-eaten rice ball and takes a bite.

Remembering the convenience store bag; and wondering what you could’ve possibly bought that needed a whole bag; he turns toward it. 

He picks it off the floor, scrounging through what’s inside.

His hand pauses.

Inside, wrapped neatly in plastic, is a bunch of medicine and bandages.

For his stabbed leg.

He stares for a moment, thumb brushing the edge of the box.

A strange warmth crawls up his neck. 

He glances toward the closed bathroom door, listening faintly to the sound of running water. The corners of his mouth twitch upward without him meaning to.

He sets the box back into the convenience-store bag and drops it gently to the floor, then turns back to his computer. 

A few rounds slip by; he’s so deep into the game that he doesn’t realize how much time has passed. By the time he finally leans back and cracks his neck, he notices something he somehow missed.

…You’re already done showering.

Not just done- you’re in his bed. Asleep. Completely knocked out under his blanket.

Seongje blinks.

…You really are a rich girl’s daughter, aren’t you? Just climbing into someone else’s bed like it’s yours.

He checks the time; late. Later than he thought. 

With a soft exhale, he pushes out of his chair and walks over to you. You’re curled slightly toward his side of the bed, mouth parted the smallest bit, a soft breath escaping.

Pulling out his phone, he snaps a few photos; different angles, trying to bite back his laughter so he won’t wake you. When he’s satisfied, he sets his phone on the bedside table.

For a moment, he just looks at you.

Then he reaches out, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face with careful fingertips.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, smiling to himself.

He crosses the room to switch off the lights. 

When he returns to the bed, the mattress dips slightly under his weight. You’ve taken up most of the space, of course. So Seongje pulls the blanket just enough to cover himself and lies on the very edge, body tense, making sure he doesn’t touch you even accidentally.

But he’s still smiling when he closes his eyes.

——

The morning light slips through the curtains, a thin, warm beam cutting across the bed and landing right on Seongje’s face. Even with his eyes closed, he feels it: his body naturally pulling itself out of sleep, brain rebooting, instincts nudging him awake.

He peeks one eye open, squinting as everything comes into focus.

And then he freezes.

You’re awake.

And you’re staring right at him.

Not in a creepy way; not really. There’s something soft in your expression, something gentle and unguarded, like you were lost in thought. But the second his eyes open fully, your own widen in surprise.

You turn around so fast it makes the bed shift, scooting onto your side with your back to him, arms tucked under your head.

Seongje blinks.

…Have you been staring at him sleeping?

He exhales slowly, staring at the back of your head, hair messy from sleep, the blanket pulled up to your waist. Only a third of the sheets cover him, but he decides to let it go. Instead, he sits up, stretching lazily as his joints crack faintly.

“What time is it?” he asks, ruffling a hand through his hair.

“…Eleven,” you whisper, still turned away from him.

He scratches his stomach absently and gets up. 

In the bathroom, he pees with his brain still half-asleep, then washes his hands. 

He’s brushing his teeth a moment later, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, foam building up at the corners of his lips.

A soft knock on the doorframe makes him glance sideways.

“You have an extra?” you ask quietly, stepping into the tiny bathroom. You nod toward the toothbrush in his hand.

Seongje, still brushing, pulls open the mirror cabinet. He rummages for a second and then takes out a toothbrush still sealed in its packaging, handing it to you without pausing his brushing.

You whisper, smiling, “Thanks.”

He watches you through the mirror as you unwrap the toothbrush, squeeze toothpaste onto it, and start brushing too. Side by side, you stand close enough that your shoulders almost touch, breaths mixing with the minty smell of toothpaste. Your movements sync up naturally, the soft scratch of bristles filling the cramped bathroom.

You catch his eyes in the mirror and smile around the toothbrush.

He smiles back. 

It’s not entirely awkward, but rather shy. Intimate, almost. 

Seongje nudges your hip with his, and you shoot him a scolding glare through your brows. He leans closer to the sink, you shuffle back to give him room, and he rinses his mouth first, then splashes water on his face, wiping it off with the small towel hanging beside the mirror.

He leaves the bathroom before you finish, limping to his closet. He pulls on a black shirt and a pair of sweats, then grabs a random jacket and tosses it onto the bed for later. Reaching for his phone, he checks through his notifications with a barely-there frown, thumbs tapping quickly.

Then he moves to his gaming chair, sitting back and spinning once out of habit. He scrolls for a moment, waiting for you to be done.

His eyes catch on the convenience store bag again.

Right. The medicine you brought.

He sighs through his nose before he leans down to grab the bag. He pulls out the antiseptic spray, the gauze pads, the small roll of bandage wrap.

He clicks his tongue softly.

You really thought of everything.

Seongje props his injured foot onto his knee. He peels off the old bandage; wincing when the dried corner tugs at his skin- and tosses it into the small trash bin by the desk. The cut is still angry and faintly swollen, but not as bad as it was yesterday. He’s supposed to clean it at least twice a day… he kind of doesn’t.

He grabs the antiseptic spray first and hisses sharply when the cold sting hits.

“Shit-”

Once the worst of the sting fades, he presses a fresh gauze pad over the wound and wraps the bandage around his foot with practiced movements; tight enough to protect, loose enough that he can still move.

He’s just smoothing the edge of the wrap when you step out.

“I didn’t know what you might need- so I kind of got everything,” you say, your voice awkward but hopeful, “Um… can I borrow some clothes?”

Seongje glances up, and he nods. 

You click on the closet light and step inside, sifting through his shirts and jackets, a little overwhelmed but curious. Meanwhile, Seongje sets his foot down carefully, testing the bandaged area, and picks up his phone to scroll through notifications absentmindedly.

Ten minutes pass. 

He starts to frown, muttering to himself, “shit… what’s taking so-”

You step out. You’re wearing your own pants from yesterday, but draped over your shoulders is one of Seongje’s favorite windbreakers, slightly oversized.

A strange warmth creeps up his neck. 

He studies the sight for a long, heavy second, his lips twitching into a grin he can’t quite hide.

“Wow…it looks way better on me.”

You roll your eyes and stretch your shoulders, the fabric shifting comfortably around you, “Duh, it’s yours. But it’s the least ugly one in there. Hey, let’s go shopping,” you say, the excitement in your voice practically vibrating, “You don’t have anything to do today anyways, right?”

“Money?”

“Money?”

“Money.”

“You have it,” you remind him, a teasing note in your voice, referencing the money he stole from you.

Seongje scoffs, standing up slowly. “Okay, sure,” he waves it off, shoving his phone into his pocket and grabbing the jacket he left on his bed. He slips it on, the fabric settling across his shoulders, while you grab your phone.

The two of you put on your shoes; Seongje with his slippers because of his injury, you with your sport shoes; ready to head out together.

——

First stop: the glasses store. 

Seongje stands in front of the display wall, staring at the endless rows of frames. He scans up and down, searching for the model he used to wear- the one he thought looked the best in.

But before he can find it, your voice cuts in.

“Oh? What about this one?” you say, plucking a pair of white-framed glasses off the rack.

Before he can protest, you step right into his space and lift them toward his face. 

He instinctively leans back a little, brows pulling together; but he still lets you. You slide the glasses onto him. On purpose, you angle them slightly crooked.

You break into laughter, pointing at him with a bright grin.

“Mm-hmm. Suits you.”

He clicks his tongue and adjusts the glasses properly, turning to the nearest mirror.

He stares.

…Meh.

He takes them off and hands them back to you. “You have bad taste.”

“Yours isn’t any better,” you shoot back, placing the frames neatly back on the rack.

Seongje ignores that, continuing down the display until he spots the pair identical to his old ones. He grabs it, waving over a worker. They explain he’ll need to get his prescription checked again in the back room.

He nods, and as the worker leaves to prepare the machine, you jog up beside him.

“But… why don’t you wear contacts?” you ask, a little curious tilt in your voice.

“Never tried.”

“Then why don’t you try them?” you nudge, eyes brightening, “they’re nice. Kinda life-changing.”

Seongje raises an eyebrow at you, “Life-changing? They’re tiny pieces of plastic.”

“Tiny pieces of plastic that looks better,” you correct, crossing your arms.

He snorts.

He considers it for half a second before giving a barely-there shrug, the kind that means he won’t admit he’s interested, but he kind of is.

“…try them. You won’t regret it.”

He’s about to reply when the staff calls him in. The exam is quick; letters, blinking lights, instructions to stare at a tiny red dot. When he steps out again, you’re already waiting near the contact lens section, holding up two boxes like you’re choosing between snacks.

“Which color?” you grin.

He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “…Uh. I guess just brown.”

“Pff. Boring.”

He ignores you and heads to the counter with his new prescription. But when he glances back at you, comparing different colored contacts against your own eye color for fun, a strange warmth creeps up his neck. He represses the urge to scratch it away.

A few minutes pass. 

While waiting for the shop to finish his lenses, the two of you wander through the rows of glasses again, this time trying on pairs for pure chaos. At one point, Seongje grabs the ugliest neon green frames on the entire display and shoves them into your hands.

Eventually, the staff calls his name. His new glasses are ready.

They make final adjustments, then; finally- Seongje slides them on.

He blinks a few times, adjusting to the clarity… then instinctively turns his head toward the very first thing he wants to focus on.

You.

Standing there with your arms half-crossed, head slightly tilted, smiling at him.

His world has never sharpened more clearer than now.

He swallows, his heartbeat tripping over itself.

“…What?” you ask, clueless, scrunching your brows at the way he’s just staring.

Seongje immediately looks away, pushing his glasses up even though they don’t need adjusting.

“Nothing,” he mutters, “just- checking the prescription.”

A strange warmth creeps up his neck.

Fuck. 

Seongje turns to pays for his stuff, feeling the heat of your presence beside him; close enough that he can sense where you’re looking without needing to glance.

The staff hands him the receipt, then smiles at you both.

“Your girlfriend is really pretty.”

You react faster than he does.

“…I’m not his girlfriend,” you say quickly, polite but firm, offering the staff an embarrassed smile.

The staff apologizes. You step aside.

And something in his chest lurches.

Seongje tucks the contact lens box into his pocket and pushes open the door to leave the shop, the bell chiming overhead. The moment you’re both outside, he lets the question slip before he can stop himself:

“…That was a quick rejection, wasn’t it?”

You blink,“Huh?”

“Well- I mean, uh…” he scratches the side of his neck, suddenly annoyed at himself for caring this much, “is being my girlfriend bad or something?”

You stare at him; the answer is painfully obvious.

“…We’re not dating though. That’s the truth.”

“Right,” he mutters, looking forward as you begin walking ahead of him. But- once he catches up, “think we’d look weird or something?” 

You stop abruptly, turning to meet his eyes.

“Yes. Very weird. Now drop it.”

He does. Mostly because he suddenly feels stupid for even asking, and the silence that follows is heavy enough to keep him in check. You walk side by side through the rows of stores, but Seongje refuses to look at you; too focused on pretending he isn’t bothered.

He ends up walking a few steps ahead without realizing it.

Then- 

A sharp tug yanks him backward by the jacket.

He turns just as you pull him closer to your side.

“That top is so cute,” you say, pointing enthusiastically at a mannequin in the window, eyes sparkling.

It’s some thrift shop, mannequins dressed in outfits that look exactly like the kind of things you’d gravitate towards.

You don’t even wait; you grab his wrist and drag him inside.

Inside, it’s warm, scented faintly of fabric softener and citrus. The shop is cluttered but cozy; racks are crammed with colors and textures, tiny accessories displayed in baskets, soft indie music humming from a speaker in the corner.

You drift instantly, fingertips grazing fabrics, your eyes lighting up every few seconds as you hold something against your torso, checking your reflection in the nearest mirror. Seongje just follows behind, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

Every time you glance over your shoulder and ask, “This one?” he shrugs.

“…yeah. Sure. Looks fine.”

You roll your eyes and grab more clothes; tops, skirts, sweaters- piling them into his arms before heading toward the dressing rooms.

“Hold these,” you instruct, already halfway through the curtain.

He stares down at the clothes shoved into him.

“…What am I, your fucking assistant?”

“Yes,” you call from behind the curtain, “be useful.”

He scoffs loudly, but he stays right where he is.

With nowhere else to go, Seongje finds a low seat against the wall and drops into it. He tosses the pile of clothes onto the space beside him and pulls out his phone, scrolling through whatever notifications he missed. 

Roughly two minutes pass.

Then you step out.

Seongje looks up lazily… and then does a full, unmistakable double take.

Wow, he thinks, the word echoing through his head before he can stop it.

You’re smiling at him, giving a small twirl like you’re showing off for a runway.

He’s momentarily stunned.

“What do you think? Looks good, right?”

“…I’ve seen better,” he whispers, trying to play it off.

Your shoulders drop a little as you turn to the mirror to inspect the outfit again.

He clears his throat, gaze flicking away. “Don’t- ” he starts, softer than before, “don’t come out to show me. If you like it, you like it.”

The lie is so immediate it tastes bitter.

Because the truth is?

A strange warmth creeps up his neck again; hotter this time, impossible to ignore.

“You’re right. Your opinion doesn’t matter anyway,” you giggle before slipping back into the changing room.

Seongje clicks his tongue, scratching the side of his neck as he forces his eyes back onto his phone.

“Whatever,” he mutters to himself, scrolling; though he’s not actually reading anything.

True to his words, you don’t come out to show him any more outfits.

But he is the one who grows restless. He keeps glancing up at the curtain, shifting in his seat, checking the time.

Finally, the curtain swishes open and you step out, not to model another outfit, but to show him the small stack of clothes you’ve decided are worth it. 

You glance at the pile beside him, sift quickly through it, choose the pieces you actually liked, then straighten up proudly.

“I’ll get these,” you announce, batting your lashes at him.

Seongje scoffs, pushing up from the chair and shoving his phone into his pocket.

“Sure. It’s your money anyway,” he mutters.

You snicker under your breath as the two of you walk together to the cashier. You place the clothes down, smoothing them out while the cashier scans them and folds each piece with practiced speed.

And then; when the total flashes on the screen, Seongje slides his card out and taps it against the reader.

You walk out of the store holding two big bags of clothing, a quiet smile tugging at your lips. Behind you, Seongje follows at his own slow, limping pace; but he’s smiling too, one that mirrors yours. 

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word count: 12k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: does being in close proximity with each other grow attraction?

——

The club is a riot of noise and bodies- bass shaking the floor so hard it feels like your ribs are vibrating, lights slicing through the dark in sharp flashes of red and neon blue. Sweat, perfume, and cheap liquor mix into a thick, dizzying haze. People grind against each other like they’re trying to forget something, voices lost under the music that’s turned up way past ‘too loud.’ 

The air is hot, sticky, pulsing with the kind of chaos Seongje feels most at home in.

“Just say hi to her,” Baekjin’s order rings in his ears as he leans near the bar, eyes scanning the crowd for you, using only the photo he gave him. Alone, just as he prefers, lone wolf through and through- he debates whether to give up the search. 

But this has Baekjin written all over it; if it were truly simple, why assign his second-in-command?

“Shit,” he mutters, sliding a cigarette between his lips. Just as he’s about to light it, he sees you, walking past him with another guy, up the stairs toward the private booths.

He blinks, tilting his glasses down to double-check his sight.

The picture Baekjin had given him was of a young girl; innocent, pristine in her uniform, like it had never seen a day of dirt or trouble.

But this… this is different. Dark makeup, a tight black dress, hair a little messy, eyes heavy with exhaustion or maybe drunk. 

Are you the right girl???

His gaze follows you as you let some other guy lead you upstairs; hands too eager, movements that are just plain pervert-like. 

He doesn’t like playing the ‘savior’ or the ‘good guy’… but he does like a good fight. 

Sliding the cigarette back into its packet, he follows up the stairs. Upstairs is slightly quieter, the bass of the club barely seeping through. Rows of doors stretch down the hall, each with a small light above it: red for occupied, green for empty. 

He starts scanning, moving systematically.

He presses a hand against the first door, then knocks- hard. The kind of pounding that rattles the walls and can be heard through everything. 

The door swings open almost immediately.

“What the fuck?” a guy snaps, eyes narrowing at Seongje. “Who the-”

He glances inside, sees the room full of people- but not you. Seongje just smiles coldly, “wrong room.”

The guy rolls his eyes and shuts the door.

Seongje turns, noticing some nearby booths now open as people peek, curious about the noise. He moves along, checking each one; quick glances.

No sign of you.

Except for one door: occupied, untouched, its light a bright red.

He starts pounding. Ignoring the stares of onlookers, he mutters under his breath, fist clenched, “open the door, you fucker…”

A few seconds pass, nothing.

He grabs the doorknob, and steps back, shoulders tensing, and rams into the door with pure force. The wood splinters slightly as it swings open under his strength.

Immediately, his eyes lock on you. Sprawled on the small sofa, head tilted back, a lazy, smitten smile playing across your lips as the guy next to you starts peeling off his shirt.

You lift your hooded gaze, and his eyes narrow.

“What the- we’re busy here!” the guy exclaims.

Seongje sighs, tired, bored already. He strides forward and yanks the guy by the ear, and a squeal of pain escapes him instantly, “fuck out of here.”

“Shit,” he murmurs, and once Seongje lets go, he runs off like a rat towards the sewers. 

Seongje glances over his shoulder. The crowd instinctively steps back, whispers spreading: “Maybe her boyfriend?” “Is she cheating?” though, in reality, not even Seongje knows what’s going on here.

He pouts his lips sourly, eyes locking onto you. You narrow yours in return, trying to get a good look at him. The dress isn’t doing either of you any favors; your discomfort obvious, his gaze struggling to stay polite.

He sighs again as he walks closer to you.

One hand snakes up to cup your face, caressing the skin there… then, then he slaps you.

Not as hard as his punches- but enough for you to snap out of it temporarily.

“You awake now?” he growls, eyes burning into yours.

You must’ve comprehended that sting, because your hand slowly cups the aching spot. A trail of saliva streams from the corner of your lips. You blink a few times, then look back up at him, your eyes carrying a softer tone. “What?…”

Seongje leans down, tilting his head as he studies your smeared makeup. You look like a kid trying to act like an adult; something that both intrigues and annoys him at the same time.

“Nice to meet you. I’m… Geum Seongje,” he says, deliberately emphasizing his 

name, as if hoping it triggers something in you. Then he adds, “From the Union.”

He’s not sure if it’s the alcohol, or if you’re just slow, but you remain unfazed. His shoulders slump; he’s getting nothing from you, no reaction, not a slight clue why he’s sent here. There’s no way you’re that important… ‘connected my ass. You look like every other client that begs for more money and drugs. 

He pulls out his phone, and opens the camera app. 

You look even more fucked up in the camera lens. 

He laughs to himself; his sadistic manner slipping through as he orders softly, “alright, smile, hmm? One, two, three-“

Your hand shoots up, grabbing his phone. Fingers brush against his as your brows furrow and your head tilts, voice slurring, “who… are you?”

Heat radiates from your touch, and Seongje reacts instantly. He swats your hand away, pushing you back by the shoulders. For a brief second, he steadies you, muttering under his breath, “shit…”

Then, without missing a beat, he lifts the phone and snaps a photo of you. 

He lets go; and sends the photo to Baekjin. ‘This her?’ He captions. 

Turning back to you, still dazed and unsteady, he presses a finger to your forehead, nudging you back onto the couch. You slump, a silly, drunken smile curling on your lips.

Seongje straightens, eyes dragging over you; not in admiration, but in assessment. He pat-downs the couch beside you first, then your pockets, your sides, even the small space beneath your thigh. He’s subtle about it, quick flicks of his fingers, checking for a wallet, a phone, anything worth taking.

Nothing.

Not even a cheap coin purse.

He clicks his tongue, mildly offended by the lack of opportunity. “Broke and drunk,” he mutters. “Figures.”

“Well… nice meeting you,” he mutters, amusement laced with disbelief.

He thinks to himself, wry and certain: he’s definitely never seeing you again.

——

The next day

“It’s boring. Get someone else to do it.”

Seongje leans back in his gaming chair, one hand still casually resting on his mouse as the respawn timer ticks down on-screen. He’s holed up in his usual internet café, headphones crooked around his neck, neon lights reflecting off the empty cans piling beside him. 

It’s supposed to be his one day off- but of course Baekjin ruins it.

Seongje holds the phone between his shoulder and cheek, eyes still on the game as Baekjin’s annoyed voice blares through the speaker.

‘You just left her there??’ Was all he started for the call to turn sour. 

Seongje clicks his tongue, irritated at both the accusation and the fact that he can’t pause a ranked match. “She was alive. Breathing. Annoying. What else do you want?”

“That’s not the point,” Baekjin snaps.

“Forget it. Get. Someone else. To fucking do it,” as if finding himself talking a bit too harshly, he adds a warmish laugh at the end. 

“Everyone else is an idiot.”

“Wow… so I’m the smartest one here? I’m so honored,” he laughs, loud and mocking, then snaps his fingers at the guy sitting next to him- one of the lower-status minions who always hangs around him.

“Pack of cigs,” he orders without looking, and the guy immediately scrambles off.

Seongje brings the phone back to his ear, “Ya, she’s… you said she wasn’t in debt, that she’s ‘connected.’ So who is she, hmm?”

The other line goes silent. 

Seongje pokes his tongue against his cheek. 

“…y/n y/ln.”

Seongje’s eyes narrow as he types your name into the search bar. The results load instantly.

Your profile is the first thing that pops up, and even at a glance, it’s obvious: you come from a level of wealth completely removed from reality. Your family isn't just rich; they’re embedded deep in the upper ranks of society, part of a massive conglomerate, the kind of corporate empire that expands across industries and continents. Old money. Generational power. Influence that trickles down through every connection, every handshake, every carefully curated public appearance.

“Tsk…” He scoffs under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching into disbelief.

He scrolls through the photos that surface. There’s nothing scandalous, nothing messy, nothing interesting. It’s all sterile and polished: you standing stiffly beside your parents at charity galas, you in expensive designer dresses at corporate events, you smiling like a porcelain doll. You look like a sad little princess trapped in a castle made of money; exactly the type of girl whose life is controlled down to the breath.

“So you want me to babysit?” he mutters into the phone, amusement dripping from his voice.

He keeps scrolling, checking your father’s profile next. There’s no dirt. No hidden affairs, no offshore scandals, no corruption leaks. Everything is clean; so clean it’s suspicious. The kind of clean only possible when someone has enough power and money to keep their world spotless.

And for the first time since the call started, Seongje actually sits up straighter.

This isn’t some random girl.

This is someone important.

Someone dangerous to mishandle.

Someone he suddenly understands exactly why Baekjin is so insistent about.

But more than that; someone who just handed him the fastest shortcut to a pile of money…

and a huge amount of entertainment on the side.

He thinks back to last night; your smeared makeup, your unfocused eyes, the way you smiled at nothing. The complete opposite of the polished photos in front of him now. The contrast makes him grin, slow and crooked.

“...you want me to do it?” he asks into the phone, his voice dropping into something low and amused.

Seongje doesn’t specify exactly what he means; he doesn’t need to. He just wants some sort of acknowledgment, some hint of approval. Asking isn’t his style, but hearing Baekjin’s confirmation, even faint, lets him know that he’s still operating somewhere within the radar of authority.

It’s a small reassurance, but enough to let him grin, already imagining how the night might unfold.

“…don’t overdo it,” Baekjin says, his voice a bit strained. 

“Hmm,” Seongje replies, ending the call with a flick of his thumb. 

A low, wholeheartedly laugh escapes him as he shakes his head, returning to his game. 

——

 Later that night….

He flicks the cigarette onto the hallway floor, watching the ember die before stepping up to the door and pressing the doorbell. It’s just him tonight; no entourage, no backup, just the way he prefers it. His hands sink into his pockets as he waits, shoulders relaxed, expression unreadably bored.

The address had been easy enough to track down. Not by his own hands, of course; he made the lower-status guys, the weaklings who spend their days running errands and digging through boring details, do the legwork. Useless for most things, but perfect for gathering information he can’t be bothered with.

He glances around.

It’s not a terrible place. For this crappy town, these apartments count as the ‘better’ ones; cleaner hallways, fewer rats, doors that don’t look like they’ve been kicked in every other week. 

But still…

A strange place for you to be.

The daughter of one of the richest men in the entire country living here? It doesn’t add up.

He clicks his tongue, tilting his head as he studies the door again.

“Open up,” he murmurs.

When nothing happened, he tilts his head, noticing the shadow under the door; yours. An amused laugh slipped out of him. Were you actually scared?

He kicks the door once, not to break it, just to watch your shadow jolt. Then he leans in, staring directly into the peephole with that lazy arrogance he wore so naturally. “Come on,” he said, pressing the door bell again, “you really gonna make me stand out here all night? Shit.”

Bringing his mouth closer to the door, he lets his voice drop lower, “I know you’re there. I saw your shadow.”

“…Who are you?” 

“Open the door and I’ll tell you,” he replies smoothly, smiling up at the peephole,“I’m unarmed.” He lifts both hands in the air as proof. 

But as he counts down to five seconds, no response, he drops his hands. 

“Shit,” he pokes his tongue against his cheek, glancing around the empty hallways when-

The door opens. Only a sliver, the security chain still firmly hooked in place. 

But that was enough. Seongje immediately leaned in, planting his foot against the bottom of the door so you couldn’t shut it on him (not that you noticed).

He finally got a proper look at you. No heavy makeup this time. Your hair was slightly neater, not styled, just natural. You’re wearing pajamas. You stare at him with wide eyes and furrowed brows, your lips pressed together.

And all Seongje saw was money.

Money. Money. Money.

It blazed in his mind like neon. From just that thin crack in the doorway, you were the brightest thing he’d seen all week; his ticket, his opportunity, his win.

He smiles, slow and delighted, like he’d just been handed a gift.

“…nice to meet you,” he whispers, and he pauses for you to register who he is from last night. The thought even crosses his mind; technically, he saved you. 

Your eyes reflect a ghost of a girl, dead or alive, and the light bouncing in them is so pretty it makes Seongje want to pluck it out and keep it, like a little souvenir.

“…do I know you?”

You don’t remember. 

He pushes his glasses up the ridge of his nose, wondering how he should carry the conversation in order to get in your place. 

“Geum Seongje. I’m your neighbor downstairs,” he says smoothly, tilting his head with practiced friendliness. The lie rolls off his tongue without the slightest hitch.

“I heard some noise earlier,” he continues, lowering his voice so you have to lean in a little to catch it, “just wanted to check if you’re alright.”

He watches your eyes flicker, the way your grip tightens on the edge of the door. 

Every small reaction feeds him.

His foot stays wedged where it is; “Can I come in for a minute? It’ll only take a second.”

“What for?” You shoot back, “and I’m fine, thanks for… worrying, I guess.”

You move quickly, trying to close the door, but it stops dead against the solid block of his shoe. You glance down at the obstacle, realization settling over you. He can tell the moment it hits you; there’s no getting out of this unless he allows it.

He leans forward just slightly, enough for his shadow to spill into your apartment.

“Open the fucking door, you bitch,” he threatens, his voice flat and cold. The fear flashes across your face instantly, and that reaction alone makes him chuckle under his breath. He softens his tone a beat later, almost playfully, “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I’m kind.”

You force the door shut on instinct, slamming your weight against it. But Seongje reacts faster. His hand darts through the narrow gap before you can fully close it, fingers hooking the chain lock, unfastening it from the inside.

With one powerful shove, he swings the door wide open.

You stumble back automatically, retreating into the room as he steps in after you. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the two of you inside the small apartment. 

When he turns his gaze back onto you, amused, you’re already holding a butter knife in your hand, knuckles white around the handle, your breath tight in your chest.

His eyes travel to the knife, then back up to your terrified face.

“Don’t come any closer-“

“What? Are you going to stab me with that?” Seongje sighs, throwing his head back slightly, “I told you I’m kind though…”

“Who the fuck are you?” you scream. Your eyes are red; glossy, swollen with tears you’re trying too hard not to shed.

That sight makes him straighten slowly, a smirk pulls at his lips as he watches you shake with fear you’re struggling to control. 

He’s always a lover of fights; so maybe this one will be good. 

“Geum….Seong….Je,” he answers your question, dragging out each syllable as he closes the distance between you, eyes locking onto yours like he’s already decided you’re prey, “from… the… fucking… Union.”

Your shoulders slump, “the…Union?” you whisper, disbelief making your words shaky. 

“Mhm,” His hand darts for the knife in your grip. 

You swing at his face. 

He catches your wrist instantly, twisting it, prying the knife free, letting it clatter to the floor.

You don’t stop. 

Your knee slams into his lower abdomen; hard- his breath rips out in a harsh grunt, 

“Fuck!” 

He releases you on instinct, and the moment his hand slips, you run.

You run, stumbling and desperate, but he recovers with terrifying speed. His hands clamp around your waist, lifting you off the ground as you scream, kicking and thrashing in panic. 

“Help!” you scream, kicking wildly.

His palm flies over your mouth, but your teeth sink into his skin immediately.

“Shit-!” He snaps his hand back, shaking out the sting, but he doesn’t let you go. 

Your body thrashes in his grip, legs flailing, fingers clawing; 

…so he makes an impulse decision; acting in sheer rage and adrenaline.

He swings you and slams you against the wall.

The impact knocks the air from your lungs.

Then your body crumples, the fight drained instantly, your eyes fluttering before rolling back as you collapse. Unconscious, your body’s finally still, and silence fills the apartment, broken only by Seongje’s heavy breaths as he stands over you, smirking despite the ache in his abdomen. 

“Ahhhh… is that all you’ve got?” he laughs, sliding his hands into his pockets. He plucks a cigarette from the pack and dangles it from his lips, smirking, “very underwhelming.”

Seongje lights it with a soft click, takes a slow drag, then lowers himself to the floor beside you. His free hand pushes away the strands of hair plastered to your cheek. He cups your face, squishing your cheeks together as he studies you; tilting your head left, then right.

He lets go; his fingers then tracing along your jaw, down your neck, stopping just at the top of your chest. “Huh,” he exhales, something curious flickering in his eyes before he stands.

He turns his attention to your apartment. It’s gloomy, dim, cluttered, clothes thrown over chairs, convenience-store food wrappers, books scattered like you gave up halfway through all of them. There’s a belt lying across the bed, and he grabs it with one hand, cigarette still tucked in the corner of his mouth.

Dragging you by the arms, he pulls you toward the nearest dresser. The belt tightens around your wrists as he binds them together, tight enough that he’s pretty sure your hands will go numb by the time you wake.

With you unconscious and no one to interrupt, he takes another lazy drag of his cigarette and starts wandering through your space, eager to explore what he’s gotten himself into.

This looks….like no place a princess like you would be in. 

His eyes scan the room until they settle on the root of it all: an open suitcase by the bed. 

He crouches down, pushing aside the clothes piled on top, and discovers what any teenager (including himself) holds dear; an iPad, chargers, headphones, skincare products, and snacks. 

He moves to the cupboards, opening them to find nothing but emptiness. Your nightstand offers no surprises either, and the bathroom only contains a few makeup items and a pair of panties hanging to dry. 

There are no secret rooms, nothing hidden….except for one thing. 

His brain moves as fast as his legs does, and in quick strides, he returns to your bed and kneels down, peering underneath. 

His fingers brush against something solid, and he laughs darkly, “ahhhh, fuck,” he mutters. Pulling it out, he reveals a red duffle bag. “Jackpot,” he says under his breath, tossing it onto the bed.

He smudges out his cigarette against the sheets, leaving a stain, and opens the bag. 

…out spills stacks of American dollars. More than you can count- more than enough to feed an individual for the rest of its life.

His mouth falls open, and he flips through the bills, inhaling their rough scent, eyes sparkling at the sight of green. 

Seongje then turns back to the suitcase. 

He flips it closed, zipping open the front pockets. 

Inside, he finds your passport and an airplane ticket to a place far away from here. 

Everything clicks in his mind; you ran away from high society to live somewhere like this. 

The rough rattle of drawers and belts snaps his attention toward you. 

You’ve stirred awake, a heavy moan escaping as you try to sit up, the painful aftermath of being thrown against the wall crawling through your body. 

Seongje sits down on your bed across from you, grabbing your passport and flipping open your ID. Sure enough- your name, date of birth, parents, the pristine photo of you inside. The millionaire’s daughter.

“Good morning,” he taunts, pulling out his phone. He holds your passport next to how you’re sprawled on the floor and snaps a picture, “y/n.”

“Shit,” you groan again, tugging harder on the belt as the reality of how tied up you are sinks in. Your gaze drifts over your cash, passport, and the stranger sitting casually in front of you. You scoff dryly, “What? Gonna kill me and steal all my shit?”

Seongje shrugs, leaning back with a lazy grin, “yeah… pretty much. What? Got a flight to catch?” He watches you gulp and look away, his eyes narrowing slightly with amusement at your unease. “Relax,” he adds smoothly, “I’m not in a rush… yet.”

You snap your head toward him, pushing yourself to sit up straighter, staring directly into his eyes. He lets you have the moment, casually letting you check him out. 

After a few seconds, you speak again, “did my dad send you, ajussi?”

Seongje’s brows furrow slightly, caught off guard by the word, “what?” 

You nudge your chin toward his jacket, “aren’t you years older than me?”

“…we’re the same age,” he replies, a little defensively, glancing down at his tracksuit. It’s a little loose, the color bright, not exactly stylish- but he doesn’t care. The outfit is practical, comfortable, and unbothered- just like him.

He notices the way you hold back a laugh, a stark contrast to the scared, struggling version of yourself from moments ago. “Geum… Seongje?” you repeat his name softly, letting it roll off your lips. He licks his own lips at the sound, a low hum of appreciation escaping him.

“And you’re… from the Union? Are you Baekjin’s minion? Is it fun?” Your tone is light, taunting. 

He tilts his head, curiosity and amusement flickering across his face, enjoying the rare boldness you’re showing, “very. So that I can find bitches like you and kill them.”

“Wow…”

Seongje’s eyes stay on you, sharp and unblinking. After a beat, he asks, casually, yet laced with suspicion, “…How do you know Baekjin? You close?”

You purse your lips, shrugging, “well… I’ve been here the past week. I talk to people.”

He tries to decide if you’re lying or just stupidly fearless, but gives up altogether.

“…You’re not taking me seriously, are you?”

You look back at him with a tired sort of impatience, “undo me first.”

He pauses; somewhere between offended and entertained- his jaw tensing as if deciding whether to hit you again or laugh. You can see both impulses in his eyes.

“…I really will kill you,” he warns.

Your gaze flicks toward the duffel bag beside him, deliberate for him to catch it, “And don’t you want more of that?”

Slowly, a wicked smile crawls across his lips; the kind he wears when the switch flips inside him.

“Is it more fun than killing you?” 

Your gaze drops, sharp and hateful, a look that makes something in Seongje bristle. His pulse kicks up; he’s always been too quick to enjoy defiance.

Slowly, you lean forward, pulling against the belt with enough force that the frame behind you gives a faint rattle. You drag yourself closer to where he sits on the edge of the bed, meeting his eyes with a flat, bitter challenge.

“You’ll be disappointed.”

You yank on the belt again, “now undo me,” you bite out, “you sick fuck.”

Seongje presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, fighting a laugh- and losing. The sound slips out of him, as his eyes flick behind him, catching the edge of your phone on the pillow.

“Oh?”

He rises to his feet, grabs it, before crouching down in front of you in one smooth motion. The sudden nearness has you instinctively leaning back until your spine hits the dresser.

He holds your phone up between you, unlocking it with a lazy swipe.

“Let’s not waste any time then, hmm? What- you call your daddy on this?”

He opens the call log.

Nothing.

He switches to messages.

Also empty.

His brows draw together, “…what?”

His confusion lasts only a heartbeat; then melts into a grin.

He sets your phone down beside your thigh, almost gently… then fists your hair and yanks your face up to his. He pulls you toward him, your breath brushing his jaw as he forces your chin up.

“Spit out your daddy’s number and I’ll let you go.”

Your breath stutters, your hands pulling uselessly at the belt restraining you.

“Shit- fine-“

Seongje picks your phone back up, his fist still knotted in your hair as you bark out the numbers. He types them in one-handed, attaches the photo he took of you sprawled helpless on the floor, and sends it.

Then he calls; straight to voicemail.

His jaw shifts, a skeptical click of his tongue. Maybe you lied, or maybe your dad really is too busy to pick up a call. But from his own daughter? Shit. 

He sighs and finally lets go of your hair. Your head snaps forward from the release, and the moment you catch your breath, you spit out, “I’m killing you once I’m free.”

Seongje glances at you, and he flicks a finger against your forehead. You wince. “Sure,” he says, “I’ll be waiting.”

He pockets your phone, zips up the red duffel bag stuffed with money, and swings it over his shoulder.

He turns toward the door.

“Hey! You promised to undo this once I gave you-”

“I lied,” He doesn’t look back when he says it, assuming it was a known fact. He unlocks the door.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he mocks, his voice song-like as he laughs afterwards. 

The door clicks behind him.

——

The day after- afternoon

The door bulges inward as Seongje forces it open with his shoulder; remembering he forgot to take your keys yesterday. 

This morning had been… productive.

First thing, he exchanged parts of the American bills in that duffel into clean Korean won. Then he went straight to his usual internet cafe to finally buy the game upgrades he’d been saving for. The moment he clicked purchase, the level he’d been stuck on for two weeks became laughably easy.

That alone put him in a good mood.

Next came the real indulgence: clothes.

A new jacket from Adidas- actual Adidas, not the knockoff markets. Black, fitted, sharp. He took his time choosing pants, shirts, shoes, even admiring himself in every mirror.

And honestly? He got so caught up in the rush of it; new money, new clothes, new power- that he nearly forgot you existed.

Nearly.

He could’ve told one of the newer guys to come check on you, sure. That’s what minions are for. After all, he got what he wanted. Money. Fun. Thriller. But then he remembered how Baekjin told him he was the one responsible for this job.

So here he is; his new jacket zipped halfway, hands in pockets- stepping back into your tiny room with the same energy as someone checking on a stray cat they left in a box overnight.

He scans the room, eyes flicking immediately to where he left you tied up.

…And you look like shit.

Your head lifts toward the light slanting through the doorway, your eyelids heavy and unfocused. When his gaze locks with the ghost of you, you manage to summon the last scraps of your energy and tug weakly at the belt binding your wrists.

“My stomach hurts,” you mutter, voice scratchy, “undo this fucking thing.”

Seongje shuts the door behind him. As he steps inside, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth- pleased with himself. He walks toward you until he’s standing directly in front of you.

He takes in the full state you’re in: every detail reflects the night you spent tied, aching, hungry, and alone- utterly miserable.

“Yah- he didn’t reply though,” Seongje says casually, referring to the photo he sent to your father. He spent all morning checking, refreshing. Nothing. He’s convinced that it’s a fake number-

“Of course he didn’t, idiot. It’s a burner,” you say flatly, “you really thought I’d tell you?”

For a moment, he just stares at you; then lets out a laugh, throwing his head back.

“Ahhh, seriously…” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

He shifts his weight and draws his leg back, clearly preparing to deliver a hard kick to your stomach.

“Kick me,” you warn, quick to catch on, “and you won’t get anything from me.”

The threat lands. His foot freezes mid-air.

He lowers it slowly, tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek, irritation sparking in his expression. Even though he would still kick you for the hell of it; he thinks better of it. 

You continue on your path of negotiation, “let me take a shower first.”

“…Stop looking to me like that. I’ll pluck your eyes out.”

The threat makes you flinch; just barely; but he catches it. And he smiles, small and satisfied.

Then, unexpectedly, his hand reaches toward your wrists.

Even he seems faintly surprised when he begins undoing the belt, fingers brushing your skin where the leather has already burned it raw.

“No funny business,” he murmurs, a lazy threat. 

The belt unravels. Your arms drop into your lap, numb.

He looks down at you, that new jacket half-zipped, cigarette smell still faint on him, eyes tracking every micro-expression you make as blood returns to your hands, “go on then,” he says, chin lifting slightly, “show me how bad you want that shower.”

You push yourself up. Even that small movement strains you. He watches you like someone watching a baby deer try to stand for the first time; amused, entertained, and judging silently whether or not he should intervene.

You manage to grab a few clothes from the messy pile on your bed. You limp your way toward the bathroom, exactly where he expected you to go.

“Don’t close the door,” he calls out, carrying enough weight to guarantee obedience.

“Pervert,” you mutter under your breath; just loud enough for him to hear, right before you shut the bathroom door… leaving only a thin crack.

He laughs, sliding a cigarette between his lips as he settles back on your bed, “…how fun.”

Lighting it up, Seongje pulls out his phone and starts playing games, letting the smoke curl lazily around him. Fifteen minutes pass, the only sounds the faint tapping of his thumbs and the distant hum of the city outside.

When you finally emerge from the bathroom, he smudges his (already) second cigarette against the bedsheets, flicking his gaze up at you. 

The sight of you makes him pause; cleaned up, hair tamed, skin fresh and glowing. Not unattractive, but different from the chaotic mess from before.

“I’m hungry. Let’s go,” Seongje says, the thought having lingered in his mind for a while. He gets up and walks toward you. Your shampoo scent hits his face, and he tries to keep the momentary sting out of his expression.

“…I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Aren’t you hungry?” he tilts his head slightly. 

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Forget it,” he says, knowing he took all your money, “I’ll treat you. Besides… I can’t let you go. Daddy’s looking for you.”

He walks past you and opens the door; then waits for your submission.

It takes a second before you finally step out after him.

“I’m feeling generous today… let’s go get some beef,” Seongje sighs.

The two of you walk down the hall, stopping at the elevators. He taps the button, and while waiting for the doors to crawl up from some lower floor, he glances at you. He towers over you, gaze dragging along the side of your face, following every line, every curve; he doesn’t even know why.

The elevator dings open. You step inside without looking at him, and he follows, whistling as the lift descends to the first floor.

The doors slide open, and the two of you walk out together.

Then, the second you're outside the building- 

you run.

Seongje actually laughs first, “fuck.”

Of course you’d try something like this; sooner or later. But whatever, he likes the chase.

He bolts after you, shouting, “yah! Where are you going?” His tone is mocking, playful.

Surprisingly, you run fast; faster than some of the Eunjang kids he hunts down for fun. You dart into a narrow alleyway, knocking over crates and bags in your path. Seongje jumps over them easily.

“Stop it already!” he yells after you.

But you keep running.

Just as you turn the next corner, he closes the distance; fast- and catches you from behind by the collar of your shirt. You choke out a pained groan, your hands flying up to claw at his wrist.

“It hurts, you lunatic!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, not letting go. Instead, he hooks an arm over your shoulders, dragging you flush to his side to trap you completely.

He laughs under his breath as he steers you forward, forcing you through the infamous tunnel, Baku’s spray-painted message glaring from the walls.

“You’re so interesting,” Seongje says to himself, before reaching over to ruffle your freshly fixed hair; messing it all up again.

——

The waiter retreats with the menus, and silence settles between you.

You stare down at the table, practically radiating gloom and resentment, and Seongje can feel it; heavy, suffocating, boring.

He hates boring.

So he breaks the silence.

“So you gave me a fake number?”

You look up, and the moment your eyes meet his, he instantly realizes that maybe that wasn’t the best opening line. He braces himself, half-curious, half-regretting it already, waiting to hear what you’ll say.

“It’s his secretary’s,” you breathe out, reaching for your cup.

When you lift it to your lips, there’s the faintest flicker playing at the corner of your mouth, like a shadow passing over light, gone before he can grab onto it.

“…Is that funny?”

“Well, yeah. Because my dad’s secretary doesn’t care for shit like this,” you shoot back, setting your cup down. You’re… basically bullshitting, and you both know it.

“Stop playing with me,” he warns; and he can feel the conversation tilting back toward familiar territory, slipping into the rhythm he knows best: threats, pressure, control.

“Take me to the police station, he’ll show up,” you say, your tone matter-of-factly, “I told you, you’ll be disappointed.” 

Seongje pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, eyes shifting away, jaw ticking. He hates but admires at the same time, the way your confidence needles him; calm, certain, like you already know the ending of a game he hasn’t even finished playing.

That’s when his pocket vibrates.

He fishes out his phone, expecting the fake number situation to magically become real.

It’s not yours.

It’s his phone.

Baekjin.

Seongje’s expression freezes for half a second. Fuckkkkkk.

Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it.

“What?” 

“…Where is she?” Baekjin’s voice cuts through the speaker.

“Who?”

“…playing dumb?”

“Mmm, I don’t know,” Seongje mocks, as his eyes stay on you, how you now direct your attention around the restaurant, busying yourself by the small details that linger in this small space. 

“…there’s a photo of you and y/n eating right now. Are you not?”

Seongje’s brows knit together. His eyes flick around the room too. Not many people here… but any one of these students could be a spy right now. Someone at a corner table. Someone pretending to study. Someone pretending not to stare.

He actually laughs at the idea- Baekjin watching him, tracking him at his every move.

Smart bastard. Paranoid bastard.

“Well,” Seongje drawls, leaning back in his seat, “I’m just doing what you told me to.”

And Seongje knows you’re secretly listening in, your eyes flickering at him for a second. 

“I told you not to overdo it.”

“Or what? You want me to do something else?” Seongje replies, “It’s just… my hands have been itching lately.”

That’s when the food arrives; two bowls of beef stew. Once the waiter walks off, you immediately dig in.

Seongje smiles despite himself.

You eat fast, but somehow still neatly, elegantly; even the people at the table over glance your way because your appetite weirdly encourages theirs. And Seongje tilts his head, realizing that maybe you are pretty- pretty for a gold spoon kid.

His thought is sharply cut off by Baekjin’s voice, “…does Humin know yet?”

Seongje’s jaw tenses. He knows Baekjin’s obsession with getting Humin (Baku) to join the Union, but this is a stretch. “What does this have to do with him?” he snaps, already half done with this conversation.

Baekjin starts to say something else, but Seongje cuts him off. His patience is thin, and hunger is starting to chew at his mood. “My food’s here,” he mutters, voice low and dismissive, “bye.”

He hangs up. 

“Baekjin?” you ask, your voice a little too quick, a little too high the moment he picks up his spoon.

Seongje’s brow twitches.

He looks at you; and something in him decides he’s done skirting around this.

“You know him. And Baku.”

“I told you I heard rumors- ”

“Cut the crap,” he murmurs, scooping up a spoonful of stew along with some rice. 

“I don’t owe you an explanation though-“

“I practically own you now. So you do.”

You pause, then a slow, mischievous smile curls at your lips, “Okay. Then let’s make a trade-off.”

You lean back slightly, eyes glinting, “you want the ransom money… or do you want the secrets of two little bitches?”

To rephrase your words; money, or gossip? 

Seongje presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, lips curling into a smile that mirrors yours. He already has a fat bag of cash sitting in his place; money’s not the thrill it used to be. And keeping you around without danger, without enemies nipping at the edges? Boring.

But secrets- 

secrets can start fires.

And Seongje loves watching things burn.

“Money’s temporary. Screams last longer,” he leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing with interest, “Spill it.”

“Baku, Baekjin… and me. We were childhood friends,” you’d said flatly, before focusing on your food again. “But you know… Baekjin joined the Union, Baku hated him, and I was stuck in the middle. Then I left this dump to study somewhere else. That’s it.”

“…That’s it?”

“Yes. Now leave me alone.”

Seongje can’t believe he traded money for that piece of information. Everyone knew Baekjin and Baku had some kind of love-quarrel going on, but a girl in the mix? Intriguing to others- but not enough for him.

He takes another bite of his food, chewing slowly, when something catches his attention. Your flat tone doesn’t tell the whole story. Beneath it, he notices a subtle undercurrent.

The shift in your mood is immediate. Your brow furrows, lips pressing together, and you stare down at your plate, frowning. It’s small, almost imperceptible to anyone else; but not to him.

…and something tells him it’s more complicated that ‘just friends’.

——

Four days later

A phone goes off in Seongje’s place. 

Not his. 

“…what the fuck?” He curses, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray as he stood. The ringtone kept echoing; and it was buried somewhere beneath the avalanche of clothes scattered across the room.

He follows the sound, shoving aside a hoodie with his foot, then kicking away a crumpled jacket. The ringing grew louder as he dug through the mess, irritation creeping up his spine.

Then he found it.

A small, cheap burner phone tucked between the fabric.

The burner phone you had given him; the one tied to the ‘fake number’, or the one you claimed belonged to your father’s secretary.

And the familiar number glowed on the cracked screen, vibrating insistently in his hand.

Seongje froze for a beat, eyes narrowing. A slow, disbelieving smile pulled at his lips; just when he thought his storyline with you was over, it’s just beginning. 

“…no way,” he picks up the phone; holding it to his ear, “hello?”

“…Do you have Miss y/n y/l/n with you?” a voice asked from the other end; polite and controlled. 

Seongje let out a laugh, pure instinct and adrenaline, “yes, yes, she’s right here.”

“Can we see her- ”

“But you took way too fucking long, no?” he cut in, leaning back with a grin.

“…Let us see her.”

“You can see her. If you give me the money.”

A long pause.

“…Do you know who you’re threatening right now?”

“Do you know who has a knife to her throat?” Seongje fires back instantly; like the lie was already sitting on his tongue.

“…Another photo. For us to confirm she’s fine. Or no money. And you can choose the place and the time.”

“And the amount (of money)?” Seongje laughs, twirling another cigarette between his fingers. He’s thrilled, practically buzzing.

Another pause.

“Okay. Deal,” he answers for them, cutting off their silence, “What’s your name?”

“…Secretary Kim. I answer to Mr y/l/n (your dad).”

“Okay. You answer to me now.”

Seongje hangs up.

——

The next day. 

Seongje made his way to Daesung Motorcycles, another Union location used for storing stolen vehicles, holding late-night beatings, and generally serving as a hangout for members. 

He got straight to work; ordering the two goons he had sent the night before to find you and bring you here overnight. He had only sent two men to bring you in, because sending a whole group would’ve made a scene. Too many people talking meant rumors, rumors meant Baekjin might hear.

When Seongje opened the door, he immediately saw you lying on the floor. 

You were out cold. Fucking beaten up. Blood had dried at the corner of your mouth. Your neck was marked with red bruises, and your clothes were twisted and rumpled from rough handling.

Seongje’s eyes narrow, a faint click of irritation in his chest. 

Unacceptable. Not for himself, definitely not for you; just for the way they handled it. If he shows up with you like this, all fucked up, they might not pay him the money. Fucking morons. 

The two goons looked up from the couch, where they had been lazily playing games.

“Ah- Seongje,” one says quickly, shoving his phone into his pocket, “we did as you said. Brought y/n here.”

Seongje’s brows furrow, “that’s not what I said.”

“What?” The two of them exchange looks, “oh, you mean, she’s…uhhh, asleep? Oh, she put up more of a fight than we expected-“

Seongje let out a short laugh, humorless, before his expression snapped back into an irritated frown.

“Motherfuckers,” he says. There was something possessive in his tone- whether for the money or for you even he couldn’t quite tell- but his sadistic nature registered only one thing: this was a failure. And that alone soured his mood.

His gaze flickers to you, unconscious, then back to them. The disgust simmering under his calm expression was unmistakable.

“Come here,” Seongje whispers, his voice suddenly lilting, almost sing-song.

The two approached hesitantly.

The moment they were close enough; Seongje struck.

One clean punch to each face; both men dropping instantly.

As soon as they hit the ground, he didn’t stop. He kicks them; Hard, repeatedly. Each impact thudding against ribs, stomachs, wherever he could reach. He didn’t yell, didn’t snarl; just breathed rough, sharp exhales as he kept going, grunting with the force he put behind every blow.

By the time he stopped, he was slightly out of breath, glasses crooked, hair a mess.

“Shit,” he mutters, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

A simple punch would’ve taken you down; were they actually that stupid?

His gaze shifts to you, still lying on the floor. 

Without a word, he strode forward and lifts you effortlessly, princess-style, hooking his arms under your legs and lower chest. You felt lighter than he remembered from just a few days ago; lighter than when he had picked you up to slam you against the wall. He couldn’t help but think that you needed a proper meal, after probably eating convenience stores for days.

He carries you toward the small room, noting each step carefully as the few stairs rose beneath him.

At the top, he kicked gently kicks the door open, and stepped into what was more of an office than a storage space. He lowered you onto the leather office chair, placing you down with a care. Your head lolled against the backrest, your body slumping sideways.

Seongje leans against the table in front of you, your knees brushing his thigh. 

He pulls out a cigarette, plucking it between his lips as he watches your chest rise and fall.

Tch.

As he flicks his lighter open, an annoying thought emerged…where the hell is that first-aid kit? Do we even have one?

With a low sigh, he pushes himself off the desk and walks over to the water dispenser. He opens the cabinet beside it; and, unbelievably, bingo. He finds it on the first try.

“Lucky me,” he mutters dryly, grabbing the kit and carrying it back to the desk. 

He drops it beside you with a dull thud, smoke curling lazily around him as he pries it open.

Inside were the basics; what you’d find in every kit. 

He reaches for the disinfectant first; of course. Step one: clean the blood. He knew the drill, even if he’d never admit how many busted lips he’d patched up after his own fights.

Seongje plants one knee between your legs, pushing them apart just enough to step in. The cigarette stays tucked between his lips, the smoke trailing up past his cheek. The alcohol wipe packet crinkled in his hand as he tore it open with his teeth.

His other hand rose to your face.

He brushes your hair back and cups your jaw, tilting it toward him.

Your skin was soft; and his thumb moved without thinking, stroking small, slow circles against your cheekbone.

A strange quiet, settled pause floats into his mind, stronger than the effect nicotine has on him. 

Then he seemed to catch himself, his thumb stills.

He tightens his hold on your jaw, firming it to force your face upward at the angle.

Just as he presses the alcohol wipe to the corner of your lips, your eyes snap open.

“What-” your voice cracks out, barely above a breath.

You flinch as the realization settles in, instinctively pulling back, but his hand barely budges. His strength swallows the movement.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, cigarette glowing between his lips as he exhales. Smoke drifts across your face, mixing with the sting of disinfectant.

“What are you doing?” you breathe out, trying to twist away from him, but the pain hits you first.

Your lower stomach, where you’ve been kicked, punched at, stings, and your body jerks with it, throat tightening around a wince.

He watches the pain bloom over your face; eyes narrowing, and a smile on his lips. Because for a second, you stop fighting.

He dabs the alcohol wipe at the corner of your mouth again, fingertips grazing the curve of your lips. When the wipe comes away pink, he clicks his tongue and reaches into the kit for a clean gauze pad.

He presses the gauze to your lip, “Hold it,” he mutters around the cigarette.

Your hand overlaps his as you take the gauze from him. The moment your fingers brush his, his eyes flick to yours; and the pressure of your stare makes his throat go tight.

Then he jerks his chin toward your stomach, cigarette tip glowing as he exhales. 

“Take your shirt off.”

“…what?” Your voice is small, raspy. 

“Shirt. You’re bleeding, stupid.”

“…I’m not stripping for you.”

He steps closer, knee brushing your thigh again, fingers reaching for the edge of your shirt- not to yank it up, but to show you just how little patience he has.

“Don’t make this a thing. Lift it.”

Your breath stutters, pain flickering again through your body. You swallow hard, eyes burning up at him.

“…Fine.”

And slowly, wincing at the pull on your bruised skin, you lift the shirt just enough to expose the mottled violet bruising along your stomach- your hands trembling as you hold the fabric up.

His cigarette pauses halfway to his lips.

“…fuck,” he mutters, as he takes in the damage.

He hopes, annoyingly, that it’ll heal enough before the transaction. He rips open another alcohol wipe and lowers himself, dabbing against the darkened patches of skin. He leans in close, close enough that your shaky breaths fan warm across his temple.

Silence stretches for a few seconds.

“Why didn’t you do as they said?” he asks, “you could’ve died.”

Your hand suddenly lifts and plucks the cigarette from between his lips. Before he can react, you flick it to the floor and grind it out under your heel.

You meet his eyes, “you fucking stink.”

Seongje scoffs; then presses the alcohol wipe harder into your wound.

You jolt, a choked groan escaping your throat, and that’s when his arm circles your waist, pulling you in, keeping you still, forcing you to ride out the sting in his grasp.

“So why didn’t you?” he murmurs, right against your cheek. 

Your breath stutters, pain mixing with the heat of his hold;

“…because I’m not scared of dogs,” you say, as Seongje continues to take care of you, “why did you bring me back? What, you like me or something?”

“‘Like you’?” Seongje laughs, “I barely know you.”

“So what, then? You told Baekjin about me? You wanted him to know you had me?”

“…You think I report to Baekjin?” His arm around your waist tightens, just enough to make your ribs ache.

You swallow a hiss of pain, eyes narrowing.

“Then why bring me back?”

His jaw flexes, “Money.”

Silence hits the air like a dropped blade- and he can see the moment the locks click into place.

Then you shove his hands away; both the one around your waist and the one hovering with the alcohol.

“What happened to that ‘money is temporary’ bullshit, mm? You fucker.”

You push yourself up, pulling your shirt down, ready to shoulder past him. But Seongje is quicker, grabs your wrist, yanks you back, and forces you down into the chair again. The wheels squeak under the weight.

He brackets you in, hands on the armrests, caging you without touching.

“What about you, hmm?” he murmurs, eyes dropping briefly to your lips before dragging back up to your gaze, “I saw that (plane) ticket.”

He leans in further, shadows slicing across his face, “What are you running from? Where’s a princess like you going to go-”

“I’m not a princess,” you’re fast to say, “and I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“…And don’t you want to plead your case?” he asks, “Before I sell away your freedom?”

Seongje must’ve chosen his cards right; speaking right where it hurts.

Because your jaw tightens, eyes flaring with anger, almost as if sparkling with tears too. 

Seongje scoffs quietly, pushing himself away from you as he reaches into the kit for a clean gauze pad. Without his order, you lift your shirt again, eyes fixed on the far wall, refusing to meet his.

He crouches slightly in front of you, expression unreadable as he starts to dress the bruised, reddened skin along your stomach. The poor lighting flickers overhead, but even then he catches it; the faint red shimmer at the corner of your eye.

“I wanna be a romantic,” you whisper, as if telling a secret, “leave this place. Start fresh.”

Your fingers curl against your shirt, “I’m just… so alone sometimes. Even with all this money, all these…connections, I wonder whose really on my side.”

His hand stills; hovering just a breath above your skin.

For a split second, the world goes mute.

Because the truth of it lands harder than any punch he’s ever taken:

He understands that feeling. Too well. That gnawing, private kind of loneliness; the kind that rots you from the inside when the world thinks you have everything. 

The kind you can’t confess to anyone without sounding pathetic. The kind you bury under fights and laughter and cruelty, because showing it makes you weak, and weak people get eaten alive.

Seongje thinks, hats off to the romantic.

It’s weird; a new kind of respect rises in him, inconvenient and warm.

He finishes patching your wounds, then he stands.

“Okay. Deal.”

You blink. Slowly drop your shirt back into place. Your head tilts as you look up at him,“…you’ll help me?”

He smiles, his gaze flickering to your lips, “I’ll help you.”

You sit straighter; suspicious laces your tone, “...Help me? With what?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know either.”

You exhale through your nose, unimpressed, “well, you can start by giving me my money back.”

He raises a brow, lips curling. “I spent it all,” he lies.

“…The whole thing? Just in… in five days?”

He nods, barely containing the laughter bubbling in his chest.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand through your hair, pushing the chair back a little in frustration. You’re already replaying every bad decision in your head, and he can see it clearly- so he cuts in.

“I’ll help you,” he repeats, louder this time. When your eyes meet his, he adds, “you fucking wimp.”

You scoff, “Forget it. If you’re not getting my money back, I don’t- ”

“I’m not just talking about money.”

His head tilts, “you couldn’t even get past those fucking morons.”

You stiffen.

“Look at you,” he continues, stepping closer, voice dropping into something low, mocking, but annoyingly honest. “Running away with no plan, no muscle, no backup… you’ll die.”

You glare at him, but he only smirks deeper.

“So if you want to leave,” he says, tapping a finger against your forehead, “you need me.”

“‘I need you’?”

He scoffs. “Or do you want Baekjin? Or Baku?”

He watches the way your expression changes. It tells him more than any explanation. He presses the knife in deeper. “Baekjin is on the hunt for you,” he reminds you, “for who-knows-what. And Baku? Shit for brains.”

You swallow hard, arms wrapping around yourself.

“You. Need. Me.”

The worst part is that even he doesn’t know why the words come out sounding desperate… like he wants you to pick him.

He shakes the thought off immediately.

You sit there for a moment, thinking, and the fire that was in your eyes earlier…dims.

Finally, you nod, defeated and convinced, “…okay.”

Seongje takes another cigarette from his pocket, plucking it between his lips.

“I’ll find you,” he says, already turning toward the door, “don’t go anywhere.”

“What about my phone?”

“I lost it,” he lies. He just wants to hold onto it a little longer, in case…. 

“What’s in it for you?”

He doesn’t turn to face you, shoulders brushing past yours as he moves toward the door.

“…it’s fun.”

….in case it gets dull. 

-------------------------------

word count: 11k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it! if you've been following along; you would know that this was supposed to be an oneshot! originally at 34k words, i had to cut down due to the word limits T_T but hope you like this miniseries!

You pull in a breath, never getting used to his bluntness; especially since you’ve seen him break down in tears before. 

He takes a slow drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke curl around him like a halo of danger. “You look like a mess,” he murmurs. 

Silence for a brief moment; and you wonder if his heart aches at the sight of you.

“Cry all you want. It won’t change anything,” Seongje plots down onto his gaming chair, legs spread wide, tapping slowly on his inner thigh, “what are you still standing there for?”

Your brows furrow. 

He really thinks this is just another one of your ‘silly’ fights- the kind where you call him names, grip his shirt, throw weak punches, and then melt into a kiss afterward.

You let out a cold laugh, voice sharp and bitter, “I’m leaving you, you asshole-”

“I can’t hear you from over there,” he yells, laughing, taking another deliberate drag of his cigarette. His grin is maddening. Every word, every gesture, is designed to tick you off, to see you react, to see you break, to make this fight your punishment as much as his pleasure.

You run a hand over your hair, quickly wiping away the tears. You don’t even know why you’re crying. 

You step in front of him in a few steps; looking down at him as you take your place between his legs. 

Seongje looks up at you, his head tilted as the smirk slowly fades away. 

“Stop looking at me like that, or I’m gonna kill you.”

The words hit you with all the force of a paper tiger- empty, useless, almost pathetic. He’s a sick fuck who gets off on the pain of others, yours being the most addictive. 

You lean down, closer to his face, keeping the same glare in your eyes through the tears. 

“We’re over. You hear me now?” You drag ever word out, ignoring the way your heart throbs, the smoke clouding your senses, the smell of tobacco mixing with his cologne; the smell that’s ruined you a hundred times over.

Seongje doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He just watches you, jaw flexing once, cigarette burning between his fingers.

“‘Over’? ‘We’?” he repeats, like the words taste funny in his mouth. Then he laughs, that low, careless sound that always feels like a slap, “Baby, that’s cute.”

He flicks ash to the floor as his face moves closer to yours, lips barely an inch away, “Say it again,” he murmurs. “C’mon, cry some more. Make me beg for you, mmhm? Is that what you want?”

You make the mistake of glancing down at his lips, “I gave up on you, for you, you sicko-“

“Ahh, fuck… you and your mind,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair. Then, in one fluid, terrifying motion, he yanks you by the waist, pulling you onto his lap. You collapse against him, heart leaping in panic. “Stop lying with that shit, alright? What the fuck?”

“Let go off me-” you snap, pounding at his arms, and in your frustration, you knock the cigarette from his fingers.

His eyes flare as he grabs both your wrists harshly, the sudden force making your chest tighten. You freeze instantly, your breath catching, heart hammering against your ribs, as his gaze locks on yours.

He’s not smiling anymore. Not taunting, not laughing.

For once, Seongje looks… rattled.

“You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?” he growls, “saying you gave up everything? For me?” His grip tightens, “don’t fucking lie to my face.”

You swallow hard, pulse hammering against his fingers, “I’m not lying,” you whisper.

“Yeah? Then why the hell are you shaking?”

His face is inches from yours, breath warm, eyes burning into you like he’s trying to tear the truth out of your skin.

You let a soft laugh escape, trembling but defiant, “because I’m fucking tired of you. Tired of your pathetic ways of getting me to stay around, tired of the games, the fights, the way you- ”

Your words spill out, a flood of everything you’ve been holding in: the sleepless nights, the constant worrying, the way your chest aches every time he disappears or lashes out. You rant until your voice cracks, until your throat burns from holding back sobs.

And then, suddenly, he bucks his hips up hard, and you freeze as you feel the growing length beneath you.

At the same time, he pulls out his phone. 

You blink. Your chest heaves. And then you notice the tears streaming down your face, hot and unstoppable. 

You’re crying, again. 

You’re crying, just how he likes it.

You’re crying, just like the other photos of you on his phone. 

“Fine. You done?" he finally says, voice eerily calm, cold and businesslike. “Sure, let’s call it quits, but-”

Hatin' me ain't gon' get you love.

His other hand snakes up to the base of your neck, fingers brushing in a way that’s both commanding and intimate.

“Let’s have fun, mhm? Last time.”

-------------------------------

word count: 1k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: i think i have a type, no? rafe cameron, geum seongje.....anyways, long time no see and im writing about someone that's not rafe or drew??? hell yeah, hell yeah i have free will, hell yeah hell yeah

Now, Drew lies on his bed, tossing and turning. The afternoon light spills through the window, catching the bracelet you gave him- the one he still wears, though he doesn’t know why. He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. But he hasn’t taken it off.

The sheets may not smell like you anymore, but the room still does. His dorm feels like you- louder in your absence than it ever was in your presence.

Every time he opens his dresser, there it is; your bra, your underwear, bits of your clothing folded next to his. His roommate still nags him about the hair ties lying around the room. They’re all yours, waiting to be claimed. 

But it’s only the first sixteen days of this ‘breakup’, isn’t it?

He’ll get over you by the thirtieth day- he’s sure of it. 

——

It’s been officially, twenty-five days since he last saw you. 

If he doesn’t count the illusions- your face showing up in strangers on the street, your voice echoing in songs at the gym, the dreams where you’re still tangled up beside him, or the physical remnants of you scattered around his dorm, then yes. 

Technically, it’s been twenty-five days.

The random hookups have stopped on day twenty. 

Drew hasn’t seen his friends in over a week. 

Their usual jokes and bragging, which used to make him laugh, now feel gross and uncomfortable. Not all their jokes- just one specific kind. The way they talk about you, like some object or conquest, in a way that feels disrespectful and downright ugly.

It hadn’t bother him before. 

So when the guy who was laughing the loudest cracked another joke about you, something inside Drew snapped. 

Without thinking, he punched him hard enough to send him sprawling. Then he left- without a word- and never went back to that place again.

He didn’t know why he did it. Whatever it was, it felt good to punch a guy- as if releasing all the anger and guilt he’d denied for so long. Yet, despite that momentary release, the pain still lingered.

He wondered if you felt the same- if you were lying in your bed, wishing Drew was there with you, if you looked at his clothes scattered around your place, sniffing them, touching them, searching for something familiar. Did you ever wonder whether to call him or text him again? He wondered if you were restless too, with dark circles under your eyes from sleepless nights, flinching whenever someone mentioned his name, or if you caught the scent of his perfume passing down the street and it made your heart ache. 

And he wondered, as he thought about the answer to you- was it still casual?

——

Day forty. 

You’re…definitely fine. 

Actually, you’re more than fine. 

Across the field, Drew stood still, catching sight of you on the bleachers- laughing, leaning in slightly as you spoke to someone new. Some guy he didn’t recognize; with his messy hair, thick glasses, and a lousy outfit. 

And for the first time, it hit him.

You look beautiful.

You always had- but this is… different.

You weren’t just beautiful in the way he remembered; tangled hair, sleepy eyes, wrapped in his hoodie at 2 a.m. This was something else entirely. There was a lightness to you now, a calm he’d never quite seen when you were with him.

Newly friend-less, still single, and restless for what felt like forever, Drew felt his chest tighten as he watched you from across the field.

He wants to walk up to you.

It felt strange, almost surreal, to see someone else sitting in the spot that used to be his. The bleachers, your laughter, the way your shoulder brushed against someone else’s- those things had once belonged to him.

You had once belonged to him.

And now, you weren’t even looking in his direction.

Who is that guy anyway? Your classmate? Friend? Boyfriend? 

…Nevermind. Why does Drew care, anyway? He had nothing with you.

It was all casual.

——

Day fifty. 

Drew’s ever-wise roommate had finally come to a conclusion: all of Drew’s restless nights could be traced back to a simple lack of romantic interaction.

"When was the last time you even went on a real date?" he’d asked, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe.

Drew had paused, then shrugged. If you didn’t count the ones with you- which technically weren’t dates- it had been over half a year.

So tonight, he went on one.

A proper dinner date. The restaurant was a bit over budget, but his roommate had promised the girl was worth it. 

Drew had barely slept the night before; another restless stretch he couldn’t explain, so his roommate's girlfriend had stepped in, offering a compact bag of concealer to mask the shadows under his eyes. A clean shave helped somewhat, and the suit, though a little snug at the shoulders, lent him a polish he hadn’t felt in a while. Of course, it wasn’t his- it belonged to his roommate too.

Now, sitting across from the girl whose name had already slipped his mind, Drew looks…more presentable. 

When the waiter arrived, Drew ordered the cheapest steak available. She, on the other hand, picked something absurdly overpriced- clearly assuming Drew would cover the bill.

He didn’t bother speaking much- not that she seemed to notice. She was too wrapped up in her own excitement, likely imagining how impressive it must be to land a date with Drew Starkey- the campus golden boy, the guy everyone talked about, envied, or wanted.

But halfway through his meal, he hears it- your laugh.

It cuts through the restaurant’s hum of background noise: clinking glasses, murmured conversations, waiters weaving through tables. The place isn’t exactly crowded, but it’s noisy enough to blur most sounds. 

Still, somehow, your laugh threads through it all and finds him.

He’s going crazy. 

Drew lifts his wineglass to his lips, but the moment he takes a sip, he hears it again.

The glass meets the table with a dull clink as he sets it down, and goosebumps prickles at the back of his neck as his eyes scan the room.

He doesn’t even try to be subtle about it.

His neck twists sharply, shoulders turning as he openly searches for you.

Where could you be, where could you be-

And then- just a few tables ahead, a figure rises from her seat. Your back is to him at first, and for a moment, he can only take in the silhouette, the elegant curve of your dress, and how confidently you carry yourself.

Then, you turn.

It’s you.

His breath catches, and his blue eyes go wide. For a second, everything else disappears. You look… stunning. More than stunning. You look radiant in a way that makes everything around you dim. There’s a soft smile on your lips, the kind he used to know, and your eyes are brighter than the jewelry catching light on your neck and wrists. 

And as you walk toward the restroom, he remains frozen, watching.

It’s only after you’ve disappeared from view that something else clicks. He looks back at your table.

Sitting there, sipping from a glass and scrolling through his phone, is the same guy Drew had seen with you at the bleachers, just a few days ago. The same guy you were laughing with, leaning into.

This isn't just dinner; this is a date. Hell, of course it is, who else would take their friend to a fancy place like this? 

Drew wipes his mouth with a napkin and rises from his seat without a word. He doesn’t even think- his body just moves.

He weaves through the restaurant, ignoring the confused glance from his date, his feet carrying him toward the back where the restrooms are tucked away in a quieter corner.

He stops just outside the entrance. There’s a wall-length mirror near the door, and instinctively, he runs a hand through his hair, trying to make himself look... like he has a reason to be here.

His palm is sweating.

His heart is pounding so hard it’s in his throat.

It’s only now, standing here like an idiot outside the women’s restroom, that it finally sinks in- he has absolutely no idea what he’s going to say.

What the hell am I even doing?

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, cursing himself under his breath. It feels like he’s been standing there forever, spiraling through every bad decision that led him to this moment. 

In reality, it’s been three minutes.

Then- he hears it; the soft click of the restroom door unlocking.

The door pulls back, and before he can even take a step back, you're there; standing so close your perfume whips into his nose. 

Your face is right near his chest, and when you look up, startled, your eyes meet his. 

And just like that, he forgets every half-formed sentence in his head.

Because now that you’re this close, now that he’s looking at you under the hallway lighting, it hits him all over again- how beautiful you are.

Damn. That makeup really does bring out your eyes.

"fuck-“ you let out a surprised laugh, one hand flying to your chest. Your eyes search his face, unsure.

Drew gulps, mouth slightly open, caught somewhere between speaking and breathing.

He hasn’t heard your voice in a while- not since that day, but it still sounds as soft, as disarming, as heartbreakingly familiar as he remembered.

He’s not dreaming now, is he? 

“What- what are you doing here?”

“I…I- that’s my question,” Drew murmurs. Shit, why is he stuttering? His hands feel heavy, aching to reach out and touch you, just to make sure you’re real. But he keeps them at his sides, clenched.

You smile up at him.

That soft smile. The kind only you could give. There’s tenderness in your eyes, something unspoken sitting just behind your lashes. And it absolutely wrecks him.

He goes still.

Fifty days. It’s been fifty days since he last saw you.

“Hey, you,” you whisper, like it’s an inside joke between you and him. Maybe it is. You and Drew always had too many.

“Hi,” he whispers back, barely able to get the word out.

Your eyes search his, dancing between blue and hesitation. And he mirrors it- tracing the outline of your gaze.

“You look beautiful,” he says suddenly, honestly, helplessly.

“Thanks,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Drew licks his lips, trying to swallow down the lump rising in his throat. He watches you shift, glance briefly toward the hallway that leads back to your table. And then you say it; “um… guess it was nice seeing you.”

No.

No, no, no.

His brain scrambles for something, anything, to keep you here- to stop you from walking away again.

Say something. Don’t let this be it.

“The food here is awful,” he blurts out. 

You pause, lips parting slightly, brows lifting. Then- you laugh. It’s not loud, carefree, but that held-back laugh you used to have around his friends.

“Yeah,” you say with a trace of amusement, “it… it sort of is.”

“Yeah?” he echoes, a small, hesitant smile tugging at his lips, “What’d you order?”

“Probably the cheapest steak on the menu.”

Drew lets out a low laugh, eyes lighting up, “fuck, so did I.”

You laugh again- this time a little louder, less held back. 

“…you didn’t even look at the rest of the menu?”

“Um… yeah, no, I kind of panicked and just picked the first thing I recognized.”

He smiles as if imagining you doing so, “of course you did.”

“It was… not great.”

“I’know,” he says, grinning, “mine was still mooing.”

That gets another laugh out of you. You cover your mouth, embarrassed, “Oh my god-”

“It was so bad,” he says through a chuckle, but really, he’s laughing more because you are.

When your laughter fades, Drew shifts slightly, straightening up. His tone softens,  “y/n… what are you doing here?”

Your name leaves his mouth like it’s been waiting to. He hasn’t said it out loud in weeks- maybe longer.

You glance up at him, smiling faintly, “I’ve got a friend with me.”

“…friend?” he echoes, trying to hide the flicker of disbelief in his voice.

You nod, casual, but there’s something guarded in your tone, “yeah, you remember him.”

“…I do?”

“Yeah. Mike.”

And that’s when it all clicks. The guy from the sports bar. The one from the library, always conveniently around. First year, eager, constantly orbiting you back when you and Drew were still… whatever you were. The one who made it painfully obvious he had a thing for you.

And of course he’s the first to jump in after you and Drew 'broke up’.

He swallows, nodding slowly, “right. Mike. And- and he’s… your friend?”

Drew doesn’t even realize how it sounds until he sees the shift in your expression, and the next words to leave your mouth; 

“It’s… it’s none of your business.”

Drew bites down on his bottom lip, as if that might stop the ache from setting in. As if those words- from you- aren’t some of the worst he’s heard in days. Maybe ever.

He nods, slowly. “yeah, yeah, I get it.”

You offer him a polite smile. The kind people give when they’re done with a conversation.

And somehow, standing in this semi-fancy restaurant, just outside the women’s restroom, Drew realizes how wrong this all feels.

You shift slightly, and he senses it- you’re ready to go.

So he swallows whatever pride is left in him and softly says, “y/n?”

He doesn’t know how to say please stay without sounding pathetic. So instead, he whispers, again, “you look beautiful.”

He says it like a promise.

Then you whisper, “…so do you. Nice makeup.”

There’s a flicker of teasing in your voice, just enough to make him laugh under his breath.

“…Is it that obvious?” he asks, eyes squinting with a grin.

“Wouldn’t be,” you murmur, stepping closer as you pass him, “unless she was kissing you.”

Drew scrunches his nose in embarrassment, a laugh caught in his throat. He wants to explain- She’s no one. She doesn’t matter. It’s not a real date.

And he wants to ask- How did you even know I was here on one?

But he says none of it.

Instead, he forces a weak smile and breathes out, whispering to himself, “alright… bye.”

He watches you go, your perfume drifting in the air behind you.

After a minute, maybe more, he finally moves and walks back to his table. He tells himself he just wants to finish his meal, but really? He’s hoping to catch one more glimpse of you.

But you’re already gone, and so is your date. 

He sits down across from the girl he’s supposed to be on a date with- and mumbles something about not feeling well. He doesn’t care anymore, he had no mood at all to deal with anything or anybody that wasn’t you. 

So he sent her home without asking to stay in touch. 

——

Back at the dorm, Drew doesn’t say a word.

He pushes past his roommate’s questions, unbuttoning his shirt, pulling off the borrowed tie, dropping everything on the floor. 

He sinks into his bed.

Drew lies on his back in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling, heart beating in his ears. His room is as quiet as a dead mouse. And no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop thinking about that moment outside the restaurant bathroom. How close you were. The exact curve of your smile. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear. The shift in your eyes when you said, “It’s none of your business.”

And he keeps trying to replay the conversation differently. Like maybe if he hadn’t asked the wrong thing, or said something better, you would’ve stayed longer.

But no matter how many times he rewinds it in his head, it ends the same way. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He shifts under the covers, turning onto his side, then his back, then back again.

And the longer he lies there, staring into the dark, the harder it becomes to pretend.

He misses you.

Not vaguely. Not in some nostalgic, ‘yeah, that was nice while it lasted’ kind of way.

He misses you.

He misses you.

Your laugh. The way you’d roll your eyes at him but still smile anyway. The sound of your voice in the morning. The way you made everything- everything- feel a little warmer, a little easier to breathe.

He’d spent so long convincing himself what you had wasn’t serious. That it wasn’t a thing. That maybe you had both just been filling time, keeping each other company.

But lying there now, with the dark pressing in on all sides, Drew finally admits it.

None of it was casual. 

Not even close.

You mattered. You still matter. More than anyone ever has.

And he’s a big fucking idiot for letting you go. For saying nothing when you were practically begging him to say something.

And lying in his empty bed, heart sinking further with every passing minute, realizing that the only thing worse than messing it up… is knowing you might not give him the chance to fix it.

Because you looked happy tonight.

You looked beautiful and light and free, and the worst part is, he wasn’t the one making you feel that way.

But fuck- he wants to be.

——

And maybe for the first time since you left, Drew doesn’t want to pretend anymore.

He’s done acting like it was casual, or that he’s fine, or that waking up without you hasn’t made every morning feel like something’s missing.

So the next day, after another night of tossing and turning, he finally gets up, takes a rushed shower, makes sure his hair looks good, and that his jacket doesn’t smell like shit. 

He takes the route he hasn’t walked in forever; the one to your dorm.

He passes people, shoulders bumping into theirs, with his feet moving faster than his thoughts.

When he turns the corner, your door comes into view. 

He stands there for a second; before raising his hand and knocking against the wood. Drew knows your schedule; never forgot it actually, so he knows you’ll answer. 

He leans back against the wall beside the doorframe, dragging a hand down his face. His other hand is clenched at his side, lip caught between his teeth.

He waits, he waits, he waits- 

The door opens.

He straightens up immediately. 

There you are, standing in the doorway- wearing a loose shirt and shorts, hair lazily done, like you’d just rolled out of bed. There’s sleep still soft around your eyes, and somehow, it knocks the breath right out of him.

The scent of your room hits him first. Warm, familiar, and obvious that you’re in the middle of a late breakfast, and behind you, he catches hints of whatever candle or spray you always used, the one that clung to your clothes and pillows and slowly, over time, to him.

You smell like home-

“Drew?”

Your voice cuts through the fog in his chest, and it takes everything in him not to fall into it completely. The tiredness he’s been dragging around for weeks lifts, just a little.

“Good morning to… to you too,” he says, trying for a smile, his voice quiet, a little hoarse.

Your brows knit together as you glance past him, like maybe you’re checking if someone else is with him.

“What- what are you doing here?” you ask.

“I wanna talk to you.”

“Say that again.”

Drew knows damn well you heard him the first time. 

“I… I wanna talk to you.”

You look up at him, eyebrows pulling slightly, contemplating. 

Drew, on the other hand, is already planning for the worst. If you say no- should he beg? Should he apologize right here, in the doorway? The desperation's already starting to rise in his chest, but- 

“Okay.”

You murmur it, barely louder than a breath. Then you turn your back to him and walk toward the small counter in the room.

He’s stunned for a second. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth pull into the tiniest smile, the kind he tries to hide.

He steps inside, and closes the door behind him.

And for the first time in fifty days, Drew Starkey is standing in your space again.

He takes it in, eyes darting around the room, scanning for any small changes. There’s not much, really. Your clothes are still scattered in the same careless way. Books piled unevenly on your desk, a coffee mug half-forgotten. The same posters on the walls, slightly peeling at the corners.

It’s all familiar. But something’s different, too.

The room doesn’t feel like yours and his anymore- it just feels like you.

“So?”

Your voice pulls him back. You’re leaning against the counter now, arms lightly crossed, sandwich untouched beside you. The light from the window hits just enough to catch in your hair, and for a second, Drew forgets how to start.

“I can’t stop…” he starts, then swallows, “stop thinking about you.”

Your eyes flick to his, narrowing just slightly, not in anger, but in cautious disbelief. He watches the way your expression shifts, the way your body stiffens just a little. 

“I can’t stop thinking about you, y/n,” he says again, firmer this time, his voice more certain as he takes a few slow steps toward you.

You immediately let out a small, amused sound; and turn your face away from him. 

He’s standing in front of you now; feeling your presence and smoking in your scent. He’s close enough to know how uncomfortable you are, but far enough to reach you, touch you. 

“Why are you here, Drew?” you ask, meeting his eyes.

He blinks, “to see you.”

“No, really, why are you here? Did you forget something? Do you need something from me? Because- ”

“To see you,” he repeats, voice low. His brows knit together, confused that you’d think there’s any other reason.

“…I think you should leave.”

Drew’s expression falters. His brows draw in tighter, and his jaw clenches. He swallows hard, blinking once, then again, as if your words are still sinking in.

“You should leave, Drew-“

“You don’t mean that-“

“Leave, because-“

“I’m not going anywhere-“

“because you’re being ridiculous right now,” you don’t raise your voice; just enough to shut him up. 

“Ridiculous?” He repeats, as his blue orbs watch you take a step away from him, “for wanting to talk to you? For missing you?”

You shake your head slowly, “you don’t miss me, Drew.”

“That’s not true,” he says immediately, and runs a hand through his hair, fingers dragging roughly.

He didn’t even know how hard it would be, trying to get real feelings out, until now. Until he’s standing in front of you, stripped down to the raw parts he’s spent weeks trying to bury.

“Look, I’m sorry, about how I was before. I didn’t treat you right- and it’s all my fault. Just- just give me another chance-“

“Stop- stop talking. I’m really, uncomfortable right now,” you interrupt, arms folding around yourself. You’re frowning, eyes somewhere just past him.

Drew feels his chest tightening up, using everything in him not to close the distance and hold you, comfort you. 

He keeps silent for a few seconds, listening to your breathing, his breathing, the hum of the fan, as his eyes trace your features.

And its exactly a minute later, awkward in your own space, when you speak again. 

“What are you still doing here?” 

Drew swallows, eyes flickering to the floor then coming back to you, “you.”

“No, get out of here. I’m tired,” you say, exasperated. You brush past him before he can say anything else. But the second your shoulder leaves his reach, Drew’s body moves instinctively, trailing behind.

“But it’s just the beginning of the day,” he murmurs.

“Leave me alone.”

“I’m not doing that-“

You don’t respond. Instead, you walk into your small bedroom-like space and sit on the edge of your unmade bed. The bedsheets are still tangled from sleep, a faint imprint of your body left on the mattress. Drew lingers near the doorway, his frame filling it, barely inside.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he says, voice low, steady. “Please, just… give me another chance.”

“I really can’t, Drew-“

“Why not?”

“Because,” you breathe out, voice shaky as you look away, eyes dropping to the floor, “I know I’m desperate enough to let you in. Y’know the power you have over me. You know-“

“It’s not-“

“You could say one nice thing, touch my hand, and I’d fold. And that’s- god, that’s pathetic-”

“That’s not true.”

“-and when we catch feelings, then what? One of us leaves, I wait for another month for you to realize you miss me?” You laugh once, bitter, “I can’t do that again, Drew. I don’t-“

Drew’s brows knit together, and he moves- to kneel right in front of you. He didn’t expect do something like this, but he is, with his hands hovering, not knowing where to put them. But his eyes are locked on yours, pleading.

“It’ll be different this time,” he says, “I’m different this time.”

“No, Drew, you’re being mean right now-“

“-Will you just listen to me?”

You blink fast, heart racing, but the words spill anyway. “I need certainty, Drew. I like being a girlfriend. I want to be a girlfriend. I want to be wanted like that.”

“Okay,” he says quickly, voice shaking. “Then be mine.”

“I don’t want that with you, you’re- you’re unreliable-“

“Maybe-“

“You’re- you’re, look at you- when’s the last time you showered?”

“This morning-“

“You’re slow. You’re stubborn, cocky- you’re everything that I should avoid when looking for a boyfriend.”

“I was everything that you should've avoided-“

“I don’t want to waste my time with you, Drew Starkey.”

It feels like he’s been slapped in the face. He gulps hard, trying to act like a knife wasn’t just stabbed into his chest, with you twisting to harder for him to bleed out in the snow. 

But Drew’s not easily defeated, ‘cause yes, maybe he’s- he was unreliable, slow, stubborn, cocky, but he still is stubborn. 

“You won’t be,” he says, softer this time, and he puts a hand on your knee, soothing it. And surprisingly, you don’t pull away, your eyes dropping to his hand. “Please- please let me prove you wrong. I’ll be a better boyfriend, if that’s what you need-“

Your brows pull together immediately, “‘’If that’s what I need’?”

“Shit- I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Forget it, Drew, I’m not getting back with you just for you to call us casual again.”

“Why are you making this so difficult-”

You shift on the bed, scooting back instinctively, and his hand falls from your knee. The space between you grows like a wall. “What? Hey- you’re the one begging me to get back together-”

“I’know, and I’m sorry-”

“You’re an awful person, Drew.”

“I’m not,” he says quickly, “y’know that I just… I say shit without thinking-”

“I don’t know, Drew. I really don’t, because there’s so many sides of you-”

“There isn’t-”

“Yes, there is, because you act like you love me, you touch me, kiss me, hold me like I’m everything to you. But then you tell your friends how fuckable I am, lie about those roses, denying to everyone what we had-“

Drew’s brows pull together, stunned. So you know about the roses, his friends- everything. “I was stupid-“

“But I told you this a month ago, didn’t I-“

“-Okay? I was stupid, and selfish, and I took you for granted.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, “you did. And I- I don’t think I can ever trust you again.”

“don’t say that-“

“It’s the truth-“

“You don’t really think that, y/n,” Drew’s well aware of how exposed he must look right now- how the vulnerability seeps into his voice, saturating every word, bleeding through his posture, his face, his hands. And still, he doesn’t back down. 

He stands slowly, knees aching from where they pressed into the hardwood, and carefully takes the spot beside you on the bed.

His kneecaps burn, but nothing hurts like this conversation.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, “y’know what we had. That was… that was more than casual. And I was stupid for pretending otherwise.”

He pauses to breathe.

“I’ve changed. The past month, without you, it- it wrecked me. I’ve missed you everyday. I miss your voice, your laugh, your- your jokes. And I’ve tried to forget it- to forget you, to move on. But I can’t, because-”

He pauses. 

“-because I love you, y/n.”

Even now, when everything’s tangled and raw, when you’re angry and distant, even when he doesn’t deserve you.

In his mind, it all plays out vividly- the softness you hide behind your walls, the fire in your voice when you’re frustrated, the way you mask what’s really wrong with a small smile, the way your eyes brighten when something catches your interest, and that shy confidence you carry as if you don’t even realize how beautiful you are. He loves every part of you, the pieces you show the world and the ones you keep guarded, and it’s those pieces that have stayed with him, haunting and holding him all this time.

Drew thinks of the way your eyes flash with anger, the set of your jaw when you try to push him away, and still, beneath it all, the parts that don’t want to let go.

“I love all of you, y/n. Even when…even when right now, you hate all of me.”

Drew’s eyes fix on your face, and then- a single tear escapes, tracing a slow path down your cheek. Panic flickers in him, and he inches closer, but the more he moves in, the more the tears come, falling harder. He reaches out, wrapping his arms around you gently, trying to hold you, but your hands still tremble as they weakly push him away.

“You- you just like to ruin me, don’t you?” you whisper, voice cracking as you fight to stop the tears.

Drew’s arms hover mid-air, wanting to comfort you, but you move away. And when your eyes drop from his, refusing to meet the soft, pleading blue that once made you feel safe… he knows.

This is it.

This is the end of it.

He’ll never see you again; the two of you becoming familiar strangers that pass each other in crowded halls with forced smiles and hollow nods.

He lowers his arms, and he slowly stands.

He murmurs more to himself, voice thick with regret, “I guess- shit.” Unsure how to keep standing, he adds, “I’ll leave.”

Drew walks himself to the doorway, and doesn’t even hear the door close behind him. 

The weight in his chest is suffocating, because he knows he won’t be able to get you back no matter how hard he tries. His feet move slowly down the hall, but his heart feels like it’s dragging behind him, back in your room, still sitting on the edge of your bed, begging you to love him one more time.

His throat burns, and his eyes sting.

He doesn’t know what to do now. How do you go back to pretending the world is normal when the one person who ever made it feel just rejected you?

He just lost you, and it feels fucking awful-

“Drew!”

He freezes.

He turns, fast, and there you are- barefoot, breath uneven, tears still clinging to your lashes as you take a few steps toward him.

And he doesn’t move. He just stands there, eyes wide, as you throw yourself into his arms, burying your face into his chest with a sob. 

His arms instinctively wrap around you, tight, holding you like you might disappear again.

And when he’s sure it’s not his mind playing tricks on him, he softens, easing his arms tighter around you, careful not to overwhelm. You don’t resist anymore- instead, you lean your head against his chest, letting the sobs come quietly, and for the first time in a long time, Drew holds you, exactly as you are- the whole world cradled in his arms. 

“Were you being serious, Drew?” You whisper through your sobs after a few seconds. 

He strokes your hair gently, “I meant every word, and much more.”

“…okay.”

Drew leans down and presses a kiss to the side of your face. Your fingers curl lightly into his shirt, and his eyes close for just a moment, breathing you in. 

You both stay quiet for a while, letting the silence say what words can’t.

“…are you my boyfriend now?”

“Yes.”

“…am I your girlfriend now?” 

“Of course.”

“…you promise to be better this time?”

“I promise.”

Drew’s lips graze your temple again. You close your eyes at the warmth of it, trying to breathe through the tightness still curling in your chest. His thumb rubs a slow circle on your arm, and for a while, neither of you speak.

You stay like that- pressed into him, forehead against the soft cotton of his shirt, listening to the beat of his heart like it could tell you the truth better than words ever could.

And maybe, with your heartbeat steady against his and your fingers still curled in his shirt, Drew finally understands what he’s been denying all along- that it was never casual. Not the way you smiled at him, not the way he memorized your laugh, not the way it hurt when you were gone. 

It was always something deeper, something that scared him into pretending it wasn’t real. But it is. And now, with you in his arms again, he finally stops pretending.

——

A few months later. 

The air at the pier is warm with summer, and your laughter floats above the sound of the waves hitting the wooden posts beneath you. 

You’re sitting cross-legged near the edge with your usual group of friends sprawled around-someone’s passing around fries, someone else is talking about a playlist that apparently ‘defines July.’ 

There’s a certain pressure near your side- and not from your judgmental friends, but a more loving, warm-fuzzy feeling.

Drew. 

He’s there too, leaned back on his palms beside you, his knee brushing yours every so often like a reminder. 

And he’s been trying with your friends. You’ve noticed it in the smallest things; how he’s dropped the crowd that never really suited him, how he shows up- really shows up. How he listens when they speak, cracks careful jokes, says thank you when someone passes him a drink, makes space on the bench without being asked. Slowly, he’s turned those skeptical glances into something closer to acceptance.

But more than that- it’s in the way he is with you.

How he always keeps a hand near yours, or on your back, or tangled with your fingers, grounding himself in you. He doesn’t shy away in public anymore; he doesn’t keep you secret. When someone stares, he doesn’t drop it. How he now introduces you- without hesitation- as his girlfriend, in front of friends, strangers. How he took you home to visit his parents and, the first thing he says, “this is my girlfriend.”

He brings you little gifts now, not to impress, just because. A book you mentioned in passing, your favorite drink when he knows your day’s been long, or roses, soft and red and carefully picked. Sometimes he leaves a note with them. Other times, just your name, written in his messy scrawl, like it’s the most important word he knows.

He remembers everything; the songs you love, your deadlines, your moods- but now it’s not just surface-level. He listens, really listens, and shows up in ways he never did before. The texts wishing you luck, the quiet pride in his voice when he talks about you, the way he lets you be yourself.

Before, it was easy to doubt him, because the words and actions didn’t always match. 

But now, there’s a steadiness beneath it all- a kind of quiet commitment that wasn’t there before.

And that makes all the difference.

He fits now, with your friends, easily, naturally- like he’s always belonged in this picture. 

Occasionally, one of your friends teases him, and he just grins, tossing something back that makes everyone laugh. But every few minutes, his eyes find you.

As your friends keep arguing about their music taste, Drew nudges your side and scoots closer to the edge of the pier- closer to you, if that’s even possible.

“Hey, you,” he whispers, wearing the biggest, most love-struck grin. His eyes shine, catching the sunlight just right.

“Don’t fall,” you tease, your smile matching his.

“I won’t,” he glances back at your friends, as if making sure they’re lost in their own world, while the two of you exist in yours, “I wanna ask you something.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you wanna... I don’t know, move in together?”

You freeze- the casual way he says it catching you off guard.

“What?”

“Move in together.”

“Move in together?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“...I don’t know. Maybe your dorm? Maybe somewhere else?”

“Move in together.”

“…are you a parrot?”

“Drew, this is serious. Moving in together?”

“You think I'm not serious?”

“No, I just... I dreamt about this the other day- ” 

Drew wraps an arm around your shoulders, letting you lean against his chest as you both stare out at the sea.

“You dream about me?”

“- and, I... I don’t think you’d be a good roommate,” you finish, teasing him on purpose.

He laughs softly, squeezing you gently, “aw, my baby dreams about me.”

“…Are you sure about this, Drew?” Your tone drops to a more serious note, your smile fading just a bit.

He keeps smiling, “I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t.” His eyes flicker down to your lips for a moment, then back up to meet yours. “But are you sure about this?”

There’s almost no hesitation in your answer as you smile, “I am if you are.”

“That’s not an answer…” Drew whispers, leaning closer, his eyes locked on your lips. He’s got that look- he’s going to kiss you.

“Yes, Drew,” you murmur.

“Say the whole thing,” his lips hover an inch away.

“I’ll move in with- ”

Before you can finish, Drew closes the distance, lips lock into yours with passion, hunger, and a certainty that wasn’t there before. You feel the curve of his smile against your own, his arms wrapping around you firmly, holding you close as if he never wants to let go.

And in that moment, everything felt right. 

The past didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was here, now, in his arms, where you both belonged. No doubts, no what-ifs, just the steady certainty of love that was finally ready to last. 

Was it ever casual? 

No, and it never could’ve been. 

-------------------------------

word count: 6.7k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: this is the final chapter of the series😔😭 i hope you enjoyed this series, and this ending that i find to be happy. if you didnt enjoy it...welp.

btw follow me on letterboxd bc when im not writing, im watching movies @ chleem.

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