ೃ❀࿔ my safe space ₊𖤐˙

“You couldn’t have picked someone normal to bond with?” you ask the dragon.

Sukuna blinks slowly, entirely unfazed, then shifts his massive head a fraction closer to your shoulder. His scales catch the sunlight like dark, wet marble, but the way he’s leaning into you gives him all the menace of a particularly clingy housecat. A housecat with fire breath, razor claws, and the ability to level a village if he ever got bored enough.

Satoru, stretched out on the grass beside him, grins. “Don’t blame Sukuna,” he says, resting his weight back on his palms like he owns the hill, the sky, the whole bloody island. “He can’t help liking you better.”

“Everyone likes me better.”

“Mm. Bold claim.”

“True claim,” you retort. You scratch absentmindedly under Sukuna’s jaw, right where the scales give way to smooth skin, and he lets out a deep, throaty rumble of pleasure. It vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, a sound that would send most of Berk sprinting for the hills. You barely flinch. He’s impossible not to soften toward—something Satoru has weaponised far too often.

“I’m just saying,” Satoru drawls, “you might be his favourite person on the island.”

“He doesn’t have many options,” you say.

“Wow. And here I thought we were friends.”

You roll your eyes. “We are not friends.”

“Acquaintances?” he tries, silver hair glinting in the sunlight and blue eyes far too bright and mischievous and knowing.

“Barely.”

“Brutal,” he says. “You talk to all your barely-acquaintances this much?”

“Only the ones who refuse to shut up.”

“That’s most people, though.”

“Maybe you’re the problem,” you shoot back.

It’s exhausting, really, how he manages to talk in italics, every word tilted just enough to keep you bristling. He’s the single most aggravating man on the entire Isle of Berk—and that’s saying something, considering the place is full of dragon riders who think personal boundaries is a suggestion, not a rule.

You’d like to say you hate him. Really, you would. It would make things simpler. But hate implies he occupies actual space in your head, and the problem—the infuriating, inescapable problem—is that you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“Why are you even here?” you demand finally, because you’ve learned the only way to deal with Satoru Gojo is to stay on the offensive.

“Sukuna wanted pats,” he repeats.

“Pretty sure Sukuna can find his own way here.”

“Yeah,” Satoru says, grinning wider, “but I can’t.”

You blink. “Are you—are you implying you used your dragon as an excuse to see me?”

“No,” he says immediately, dragging the vowel out. “Definitely not. I have so many better things to do.”

“Name one.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks for a second. “…Patrolling?”

“That’s not better.”

“Depends on who you ask.” He falls back fully onto the grass, folding his arms behind his head, one long leg bent at the knee. The picture of ease, like he hasn’t just dropped the suggestion that he wanted to see you and then refused to elaborate. Like he hasn’t steadily been driving you insane since the day you met him.

The wind shifts over the hill, carrying with it the salt of the distant sea. Berk stretches out below—scattered houses of stone and timber, smoke curling from chimneys, dragons wheeling in the sky above the watchtowers. Out past the cliffs, the ocean flashes silver under the sun, calm for now but never for long.

“Illegal trapping’s been getting worse,” Satory says idly after a moment.

You glance at him. “And yet you’re here annoying me instead of dealing with it?”

“Hey, I’m off-duty.”

“You’re never off-duty.”

“True,” he admits, shameless. “But my boss doesn’t need to know that.”

You roll your eyes. The boss in question is Yaga the Vast, chief of Berk, who has approximately zero patience for stragglers like Satoru and yet, somehow, keeps putting him in charge of things anyway. Probably because when he isn’t being insufferable, Satoru is annoyingly good at his job.

Sukuna shifts closer again, massive head nudging your shoulder with a low whuff. The force of it nearly knocks you off balance.

“He’s so needy,” you mutter, scratching under his jaw again.

Satoru props himself up on his elbows to watch. “You love it.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do—”

“Finish that sentence,” you warn, “and I swear I will throw you off this hill.”

He smiles, unbothered. “Can’t, gorgeous. Sukuna would just catch me.”

“Shame,” you say.

Sukuna rumbles again, louder this time, as if laughing at the both of you. Which is ridiculous, obviously. Dragons don’t laugh. Probably. You’re still scratching absentmindedly at his jaw when the shout comes from below the hill.

“Gojo! We’ve got movement near the cliffs!”

It’s one of the younger riders—Yaga’s apprentice, maybe. You don’t remember his name. He’s sprinting uphill, out of breath, waving both arms wildly.

Satoru sighs. “And here I was enjoying my day off.”

“Trappers?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah.” He pushes to his feet. “Looks like it.”

The apprentice finally reaches the top, panting. “They spotted nets near the west cliffs,” he manages. “Could be setting up for a catch.”

Satoru dusts off his hands lazily, as though he hasn’t just been summoned to go handle the exact kind of people who would love to get their hands on a Night Fury. On Sukuna. You glance at the dragon, who’s gone very still beside you. His tail flicks once, sharp and restless.

Satoru notices too. “Relax,” he tells him softly, before turning that insufferable grin back on you. “Rain check on the head pats?”

“Not my dragon,” you remind him.

He winks. “Technicality.”

With that, he swings easily onto Sukuna’s back, all long limbs and practiced motion, like he was born in the saddle. Sukuna launches into the sky a moment later, wings snapping wide, dust kicking up in their wake. You watch them go, a dark shape against the sunlit clouds, until they’re nothing but a speck over the cliffs.

You’re still staring at the empty sky when the young rider clears his throat.

“Uh… hi,” he says awkwardly. He’s about your age, maybe a bit younger, with a nervous energy that makes you want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to relax. He’s holding a map, which he’d pulled out of his pocket and now folds and unfolds with frantic hands. “You’re, uh, you’re the mapmaker, right? The one who lives by the sea?”

“That’s me,” you say, forcing yourself to look away from the horizon.

He nods, relieved. “Right. Yaga said to give you this. It’s the new coastline for the north. He said you’d be able to sketch it out better than anyone else.” He holds out the piece of parchment.

You take the map, unfolding it to see the jagged lines and rough sketches of a coastline you haven’t visited yet. The lines are crude, but the general shape is there. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll get on it as soon as I can.”

“Right,” he says. “So… you and Gojo. You guys are… close?”

You stiffen. The question is innocent, but it feels like an accusation. “No. Not at all.”

He looks skeptical. “He talks about you a lot. Like, a lot lot. Says you’re the only person who can keep up with him.

You fight the urge to groan. “He’s a liar.”

“Yeah, he is.” The young rider laughs, a short, nervous sound. “But I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s always, like, looking for you. Or waiting for you.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. It’s too close to the truth. You just shrug, then look at the map. “I should get going. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Right. See you around, then.” The rider turns to leave, jogging down the hill with a newfound energy, happy to escape the awkwardness.

You look at the map, then at the sky where Sukuna and Gojo disappeared. You can’t stop thinking about the way Gojo smiled when he told you that Sukuna was just an excuse to see you. It was a joke, you know that. He’s always joking, always playing with words. But the way he said it… it felt like there was a kernel of truth in it, a tiny, infuriating admission that you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You trace the lines on the map, but your mind is elsewhere. You’re picturing him, the way he looks when he’s serious, the way he talks when he’s trying to get under your skin. You’re picturing Sukuna, the way he leans into your touch, the way he rumbles with contentment. You’re picturing the two of them, a perfect pair of chaos, a storm of annoying energy.

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You have work to do, a map to sketch. But you can’t help but wonder if Gojo and Sukuna are okay. You can’t help but wonder what he’ll say the next time you see him.

A soft breeze, smelling of salt and distant rain, carries the sound of Sukuna’s contented rumble. You look up from your work, the firelight from your cottage flickering on the parchment in your lap. The Night Fury, a silhouette against the moon, lands with a soft thud, a dark shadow in the growing dimness. You can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. It’s a happy sound, that snort of his, and it’s hard not to feel a little bit of warmth toward the gigantic reptile. The smile vanishes the moment you see Satoru Gojo dismount.

He slides off the dragon’s back and lands on the packed dirt with a huff. His silver hair, usually perfectly styled, is now adorned with a scattering of leaves and twigs. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

“Looks like you had a hard day,” you say, voice dry. You don’t bother looking up from your map, a new survey of the eastern coast that is proving to be a nightmare of jagged inlets and hidden reefs.

“The hardest,” he replies, walking toward the fire. Sukuna follows, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he nudges your shoulder gently. You stroke the smooth scales under his jaw.

“Did you, by any chance, get your head stuck in a bush?” you ask pointedly.

He laughs. “Just a little turbulence. But don’t worry, it was for a good cause.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“Well, you know,” he says, pulling a stray leaf from his hair. “I had to make sure the trappers didn’t get away. Can’t have them messing up the ecosystem, can we?”

“But your impeccable hair and abysmal flying skills get a pass, I suppose.”

“Priorities, you know.” Satoru sits down on a log across from you, the firelight glinting in his bright blue eyes. “What are you up to? Still drawing pretty pictures of rocks and water?”

“I’m creating an accurate navigational chart for the fishing fleet,” you correct. “So that they don’t end up on the bottom of the sea.”

“Right, right. Important work,” he says. “You’d be a lot faster if you had some help.”

“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, “a second pair of eyes could be useful. Especially mine. They’re very, very good eyes.”

You roll your own. “I’m not interested in your help, Gojo. Or your eyes, for that matter.”

Sukuna, who had been contently nuzzling your shoulder, chooses that moment to let out a slow, mournful sound, as if he understood the conversation and is deeply disappointed by your attitude. He nudges Gojo’s head with his own, then your shoulder again. He goes back and forth, like a pendulum. It’s slightly annoying.

“See?” Gojo says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Even Sukuna agrees. He thinks we should be friends.”

“Sukuna thinks you should be less annoying,” you counter, reaching out to pat the dragon’s large head. He lets out a low rumble, pleased.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Satoru says. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He told me on the way here that he thinks we would make a very handsome couple.”

You snort. “He has terrible taste. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you for a better rider.”

“Impossible,” Satoru scoffs. “I’m the best. And he knows it.”

“And the most modest, too,” you mutter.

Sukuna lets out a deep, throaty rumble, and gently nudges you closer to the fire. The action is subtle, but a piece of your parchment slips off your knee and lands with a quiet rustle on the ground near Satoru’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his long fingers brushing against yours as he hands it back.

“Clumsy,” he says, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not talking about the paper.

You ignore him, focusing on the map, but your hand trembles slightly, and the ink bleeds on the line you’re trying to draw. You let out an exasperated sigh, and Sukuna, with a loud huff, settles down between you and Satoru. It’s a deliberate move. The dragon’s nothing more than a massive, scaly chaperone.

“Look at him,” Satoru says, his voice softer now. “He’s tired. Trappers, you know. They’re more persistent than usual.”

“Did you catch them?”

“Most of them. They had nets—one almost got Sukuna. If he hadn’t been so fast, it would have been a rough night.”

You look at the dragon, who is now snoozing with one eye open, the firelight catching the dark, wet-looking scales on his hide. A sudden wave of protectiveness washes over you, a familiar feeling when it comes to the dragon. But then you look at Satoru, and see the deep weariness in his eyes, the faint lines of stress etched around his mouth, and that familiar wave of protectiveness becomes tangled with something else, something you refuse to name.

“You should get some rest,” you say, the words feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue.

He looks surprised. “Worried about me?”

“I’m worried about Sukuna,” you shoot back, and the warmth in your stomach curdles into a familiar acidity. “He needs his rider to be in top form. The last thing he needs is to be stuck with a tired, insufferable oaf.”

He laughs. “You wound me. But thank you. It’s nice to know someone cares.”

“I don’t care,” you insist, and you know you’re lying. You also know he knows you’re lying. It’s a game you play, a tense, stupid dance.

Sukuna lets out a snort. He flicks his head towards Satoru, then towards you, as if to say, just talk to each other, idiots. You want to kick him. Affectionately, of course.

“Well,” Satoru says. “I suppose I should go. Duty calls and all that.” He stands up, stretching his arms over his head before shaking it.

“You’re going back out?” you ask, a note of alarm in your voice that you can’t control.

“Nah,” he says, smiling a little softer now. “Just kidding. Yaga told me to stay put until morning, ‘cause he said I caused enough trouble for one day.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

He reaches down and ruffles Sukuna’s head, though his words are addressed to you. “I’ll be back tomorrow for some more pats, okay?”

Sukuna huffs happily in response.

Satoru turns and walks away, a long, lanky shadow disappearing into the darkness. Sukuna watches him go, then turns his gaze back to you, his garnet-coloured eyes flashing. He nudges your hand again. You know what he wants. He wants you to talk to Gojo. He wants you to go after him.

You sigh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not his keeper. I’m not yours, either.”

Sukuna snorts, a clear, exasperated sound, and settles his massive head on your lap. He’s warm, a solid weight of comfort in the cool night. You don’t bother to shoo him away. You simply sit there, under the moonlight, and stare into the dark where Gojo disappeared.

“It’s a fool’s errand,” you say, dropping the rolled-up parchment onto Yaga’s desk with a resounding thud. The Chief of Berk, a man with a beard as formidable as his temperament, looks up from the horn he’s polishing.

“What is?” he asks.

“This,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the map. “The north coast. It’s impossible to draw from the ground. I’ve only been there twice, and I spent most of the time trying not to fall to my death. The cliffs are sheer drops. The inlets are jagged and hidden. I need to map it from above.”

Yaga stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. You hold his stare, a silent challenge. You’ve never been one to back down from the Chief, a fact that both annoys and impresses him.

He sighs. “Fine. You’re right. You’ll need a rider.” He looks around the hall, his eyes scanning for a likely candidate. Your heart sinks into your stomach when he lands on the very last person you want to see.

“Satoru!” he bellows.

Satoru Gojo, leaning against a support beam, in the middle of conversation with Yaga’s apprentice, gives you a little wave.

“Yeah, boss?” he calls out.

“You’re taking our mapmaker to the north coast,” Yaga says. “She needs to draw it from the air.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Chief,” he says, sauntering over to the desk. “North coast, huh? A little chilly for you, isn’t it?”

You resist the urge to punch him. “I’ll manage. Let’s just get this over with.”

He claps his hands together. “Excellent! My calendar is wide open.”

The next morning is cold and brisk. A light mist hangs over the village, and the air smells of wet stone and woodsmoke. You’re waiting by the flight academy, a satchel slung over your shoulder and your sketchbook clutched in your hands. You’ve been waiting for ten minutes, which is ten minutes longer than you’d like.

Just as you’re about to turn and leave, you hear a loud, familiar whoosh of wind and the deep, throaty rumble of a Night Fury. Sukuna lands right in front of you. Satoru leers at you, seated on his back.

“Ready to fly, gorgeous?” he asks.

“I’m ready to get this done,” you correct.

You climb onto the dragon’s back, settling behind him on the saddle and placing your sketchbook and charcoal pencils carefully in your lap. Sukuna lets out a low purr, a rumble that you can feel vibrating through your body. He nudges his head back, giving your hand a soft, affectionate lick.

“He’s excited,” Satoru says. “He loves when we all go out together.”

“He’s excited about the snacks I brought him,” you say, pulling a piece of dried fish from your satchel and holding it out to Sukuna. He devours it in one gulp.

“You brought snacks?” Satoru asks. “For the dragon, and not for your very handsome and talented pilot?”

“You are not my pilot, and you are not getting any of this fish.”

He kicks his feet against Sukuna’s side, and the dragon launches himself into the air. You grip the saddle, your knuckles turning white. The wind whips at your hair and clothes, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of flight wash over you. It’s a feeling you’ve never gotten used to, and it’s always a little terrifying, a little exhilarating.

Satoru leans back. “You’re good at this. Not screaming, I mean.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m a mapmaker, not a child. I’m used to dangerous situations.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re the one who saved my ass, remember?”

The memory of that night, of his blood on your hands, of the raw fear in your gut, flashes through your mind. You shiver, a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the wind.

“I’d rather not,” you say.

He doesn’t respond. Sukuna, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, lets out a low, questioning snort. He banks left, heading toward the northern cliffs.

The gentle, rolling hills of Berk give way to a brutal, unforgiving coastline. The cliffs are dark and jagged, the sea a churning mass of white foam. You pull out your sketchbook and begin to draw.

You work for hours, meticulously sketching every rock formation, every inlet, every hidden cove. You direct Satoru to turn this way and that, and he, for once, doesn’t argue. He lets you work, his body a steady, comforting presence in front of you, ensuring Sukuna’s movements are smooth and controlled.

At one point, you get so focused on a particular series of sea caves that you lean too far over the edge of the saddle, and almost lose your balance. A long, strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, solid chest. You stiffen, your body rigid with surprise.

“Careful,” Satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t want you falling to your death.”

You push him away, heart pounding. “I had it under control.”

“Sure, you did.”

Sukuna lets out a low, knowing chuff, a sound that makes you want to smack him. You ignore him, focusing back on your drawing, but it’s hard to stop thinking about the feeling of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his body against yours.

“You’re quiet,” he says after a while.

“I’m working.”

He hums. “Right. I just thought, you know, we could talk. Get to know each other. Since we’re going to be hanging out more often, we might as well be friends.”

“We are not going to be friends,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time.

“We are,” Satoru says. “We’re a team. You and me. And Sukuna, of course.” He reaches forward and strokes the Night Fury’s head, and the dragon rumbles with contentment.

“He’s your dragon,” you mutter.

“He likes you, too. More than me, I think,” Satoru says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—something soft and genuine—that makes you look away from your sketch and at him instead. His eyes are fixed on you, a strange mixture of warmth and… something else. You can’t quite place it.

You look away, your heart pounding again. You can’t handle this. You can’t handle this man, this dragon, this strange, dangerous intimacy that has sprung up between you.

You land back in the village as dusk is falling. The air is colder now, and the stars are beginning to peak out. You slide off Sukuna’s back, your legs shaky from the long flight. You feel a hand on your arm, steadying you.

“You did good,” Satoru says.

“So did you,” you say.

He smiles, a real smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a smile that you realise you haven’t seen very often. It’s a smile that makes the hollow cavity inside your chest where your heart lies skip a beat.

You turn away, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. “I’ll bring this to Yaga in the morning.”

“Right,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”

You walk away, but you can feel his gaze on your back. You can feel the warmth of his hand still on your arm. You don’t look back.

You make it to your cottage, but you don’t go inside. You sit on the stone step, your sketchbook still in your hands, and stare at the sky. You think about the north coast, about the cliffs and the caves, but also about Satoru. About the way his arm felt around your waist, about the way his smile made you feel, about the way he wasn’t being annoying for once.

You hear a soft thud. Sukuna stands behind you, a small branch in his mouth. He drops it at your feet. A branch from a Night Fury’s nest. He jabs at your hand with his nose, his eyes fixed on yours.

You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you that Satoru is not so bad. There’s a place for you in his life, in their life.

You reach down and pick up the branch, then look back at the dragon. You sigh, a long, drawn-out sound.

“You’re a terrible matchmaker, you know that?” you whisper to him.

Sukuna lets out a low purr and nudges you again. You don’t know what to do. You’re a mapmaker, a person of logic and order, and this man and his dragon are nothing but chaos. There’s absolutely no way anything good could ever come out of this.

“Head pats? Again?” You shoot Satoru an unimpressed glare, though the effect is rather diminished by the fact that you’re hanging upside down, trying to fix a hole in your roof. “At least come up with a better excuse.”

“Can’t. The dragon wants what the dragon wants,” Satoru says. “And what the dragon wants, the dragon gets.”

You grunt, shoving a loose thatch of straw back into place. Your ankles are looped around a wooden beam, your torso dangling over the edge of your cottage’s roof. The world is a strange, inverted place from this angle. The grass is a vibrant green sky, the clouds are a white, fluffy ground. Satoru Gojo’s annoyingly perfect face is floating in the air below you. He’s leaning back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with a smile. Sukuna is a little ways off, chewing on a large branch.

“And what the dragon wants is for me to risk breaking my neck just so you can make a terrible joke?” you ask.

“No, no, the dragon wants head pats,” Satoru corrects, shaking his head. “I’m just here to deliver the dragon to the head pats. A simple go-between.”

“You’re a go-between for your own dragon?”

“Look, it’s a complicated relationship,” he says. “He’s a very discerning dragon.”

You roll your eyes, a motion that makes your head throb. You pull yourself up, muscles straining, and clamber onto the roof. You sit on the ridge, straddling the peak, and pull a loose piece of wood from the hole. The wood is rotten, and the smell of mold and wet earth makes you wrinkle your nose. A sudden gust of wind snatches a loose piece of cloth from the edge of the roof, and you watch as it flutters to the ground and lands directly at Satoru’s feet.

He picks it up and says, “Lost something?”

“It’s just a rag,” you say.

He examines it, shaking it out with a flourish. “Looks like a perfectly good rag to me.”

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s old and worn out. Just leave it.”

He doesn’t. He folds it carefully and places it in his pocket, before walking over to where Sukuna is lying, and pulls out a piece of meat from his saddlebag. He tosses it to the dragon.

“So,” Satoru says. “Roof problems?”

“No,” you say, “I just enjoy dangling from high places.”

He laughs, a clear, loud sound that makes your stomach feel weird. “I get it. You’re a thrill-seeker. It’s one of your many charming qualities.”

“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” you say. “I’m a mapmaker. I prefer quiet, predictable things.”

“Still,” he says, “here you are, hanging from a roof, and here I am, your friendly neighbourhood… well, whatever I am.”

You groan. “You’re a pain. That’s what you are.”

“And you’re my favourite pain,” he says. “You’re the only person on the entire Isle of Berk who doesn’t fall all over themselves to talk to me.”

“That’s because I have a working brain.”

He laughs again, and you find yourself staring at him. He’s leaning against Sukuna’s side, his arms crossed over his chest. His silver hair catches the sunlight, and his bright blue eyes are fixed on you. He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met, but you can’t deny that he’s also breathtaking.

You tear your gaze away, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You turn back to your roof, your hands shaking slightly as you try to hammer a loose piece of wood into place. You miss, and the hammer clatters to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the grass.

“Fuck,” you say, eloquently.

Satoru bends to pick up the hammer, turning it over in his hands. “For someone who claims to like quiet, predictable things, you have a funny way of living on the edge.”

You scowl down at him from the roof ridge. “I’m fixing a hole, Satoru. Not fighting a dragon barehanded.”

“Could be both, if you fall on Sukuna.”

Sukuna, hearing his name, glances up, tail flicking idly. He looks like he’d catch you if you fell. Probably. Maybe. If he felt like it.

“Very reassuring,” you mutter. “Give it back.”

“Come get it,” Satoru says, grinning.

You glare at him. He leans back against Sukuna’s side, one long leg crossed over the other. He looks like he could stay here all day, bothering you from ground level while you slowly lose your mind above him. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The sun’s beating down hard, pressing heat into the back of your neck. Your hands are already splintered from the wood, your hair sticking to your cheeks. You have an entire day’s worth of mapping to do but here you are, arguing with Berk’s most irritating dragon rider over a hammer.

“Fine,” you say. “Keep it. I’ll just tell everyone you bullied me into falling off my own roof.”

“But you didn’t fall,” he says. “Yet.”

You wish you could throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. Like a rock. Or maybe the entire cottage.

Instead, you clamber down from the roof ridge to the small platform just under it, wiping your palms on your trousers. From here, the world tilts alarmingly close. Satoru watches your careful descent with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

When you reach the edge, you stretch your hand out. “Hammer.”

He taps it against his chin thoughtfully. “What do I get in return?”

“Your continued survival.”

“Tempting.” He tosses it up, easy and careless, then finally lobs it towards you. It arcs through the air, spinning end over end, and you snatch it out of the air just in time, the impact jolting through your wrist.

“Show-off,” you say.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

You don’t dignify that with a response, instead crawling back to the hole and fitting the new piece of wood into place. The hammer thunks steadily as you nail it down, the sound mingling with the wind and the distant crash of waves against cliffs. Satoru hums something under his breath, a lazy, tuneless thing. It carries upward, curling under your skin despite yourself.

You focus very, very hard on the roof.

When the piece finally holds, you sit back, wiping your forehead again. Your arms ache, your knees are bruised, and you can feel bits of straw clinging to your hair. Glorious, really.

“Done?” Satoru asks.

“For now,” you say.

“Good,” he says, pushing off Sukuna’s side. “Because Sukuna’s patience is running out.”

At the mention of his name, the dragon lets out a short, sharp huff, nostrils flaring. The branch he was chewing lies in two neat halves at his feet. His pupils have gone wide, round as coins—his version of puppy eyes.

You narrow yours. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“It’s effective,” Satoru says cheerfully, already strolling over to you. “C’mon, he’s been waiting all day.”

You glance from the dragon’s enormous, hopeful stare to Satoru’s infuriating grin and feel, very distinctly, like you’re being tag-teamed.

“Fine,” you mutter, hopping lightly off the lower edge of the roof. You land in a crouch, knees absorbing the impact, then stand and dust yourself off. “But only because he asked nicely.”

Satoru bows low, one hand over his heart. “As the humble messenger of the dragon, I thank you for your generosity.”

“Shut up,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Sukuna lowers his massive head as you approach, scales gleaming like wet stone. He makes a low, thrumming sound as your hand comes to rest between his eyes, the tension in his frame melting instantly. It’s absurd, how such a creature—so powerful, so feared—can melt into warmth at something as simple as a touch.

You scratch behind his jaw, feeling the rumble travel through your palm. “You deserve a better rider,” you murmur, just loud enough for Satoru to hear.

Satoru presses a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely gutted.”

“You’ll live.”

He leans against Sukuna’s shoulder, close enough that you catch the faint scent of wind and leather and something warm underneath. “You always say that like you’re sure.”

“I could be wrong,” you say sweetly.

“Now who’s emotionally blackmailing who?”

You roll your eyes. The wind picks up again, tossing Satoru’s hair into his eyes. He doesn’t move to fix it, just grins at you through the mess like he knows exactly what kind of picture he makes—irritatingly golden in the sunlight, with the dragon at his side and the whole damn world under his heel.

“You really are full of yourself,” you say finally.

He tilts his head. “Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, did I tell you about the trappers that thought they actually had a chance against Sukuna? Even I don’t stand a chance against Sukuna, and that’s saying something.”

“Trappers?” You raise an eyebrow, keeping your hand moving against Sukuna’s scales. “I thought you lot scared them off two weeks ago.”

“We did,” Satoru says. “Or so we thought. But the funny thing about pests—” He leans lazily against Sukuna’s massive shoulder, folding his arms. “—is that they always crawl back when you’re not looking.”

You frown, not at him for once, but at the idea of it. “Where?”

“Southern Coves,” he says. “A little group at first—three, maybe four men. We figured they were amateurs, probably thought they’d make their fortune dragging a few Terrible Terrors back in cages. Easy enough. Send them running, burn a net or two. Job done.”

The way he says it—casual, dismissive—doesn’t sit right with you. It rarely does, when Satoru Gojo talks about problems like they’re inconveniences rather than… well, problems.

“But then?” you prompt.

“But then,” he says, drawing out the words, “we found another group. Bigger. With better equipment. Steel nets, reinforced cages, the whole shebang.”

Your hand stills against Sukuna’s jaw. “Reinforced cages?”

“Mhm.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction like it’s more interesting than the story itself. “Not something you find lying around unless you’ve got coin. Or connections. Or both.”

Sukuna shifts beneath your touch, nudging his head into your palm like he can sense the tension in your shoulders. You scratch harder, both to soothe him and yourself. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence,” you say.

“It doesn’t sound like much of anything,” Satoru counters flippantly. “Could just be a few desperate men pooling what they’ve got. Could be something else. Either way, we’re keeping an eye on it.”

“And by we you mean…”

“The riders. Me, Suguru, Kento, Haibara—the usual.”

You narrow your eyes. “You mean the same group that considers dive-bombing into cliffs a legitimate training exercise?”

“Worked out fine for me,” Satoru says with a shrug.

“Everything works out fine for you,” you shoot back.

That earns you a flash of his grin—bright, boyish, and infuriating. But it fades, just a little, and he says, quieter, “Doesn’t always.”

It’s the kind of admission that makes your stomach twist, because it’s true. Riders don’t always come back. Dragons don’t always survive. Trappers—real trappers, the kind with coin and steel and a hunger that isn’t easily sated—don’t play fair.

You exhale slowly. “You think they’re after Sukuna.”

“Everyone’s after Sukuna.” He says it like it’s a joke. “Last Night Fury, blah blah blah. People can’t help themselves.”

You glance at Sukuna. His pupils are still round, content beneath your touch, but his tail lashes once, like even he knows the weight of those words. A rare thing: fear dressed up as restlessness.

An unease worms its way beneath your ribs. It feels like the calm before a storm, the air just a shade too still, the sea too quiet. The trappers Satoru described don’t seem like scavengers chasing scraps. They’re organised. Equipped. Waiting for something—or someone. You hate it. You hate that Satoru can stand opposite you, hands tucked in his pockets, as though the world isn’t about to tip over its edge.

“You should be more worried,” you say finally.

“I worry plenty.”

“You don’t act like it.”

“Would it help if I wrung my hands and wept dramatically at your feet?”

“I’d pay good money to see that,” you say automatically. Sukuna nudges you again, harder this time, nearly knocking you off your feet. You steady yourself with a laugh that comes out thinner than you’d like. Satoru watches the two of you, his smile softened into something that almost looks like thought. Then, just as you’re about to ask another question, a shrill whistle splits the air from somewhere down the hill.

“Show time.” Satoru straightens, stretching his arms overhead. “Sounds like they’ve spotted another group near the coastline.”

Your stomach sinks. Already?

Satoru clicks his tongue, turning back to Sukuna. “Up, big guy.”

The Night Fury rises in a smooth, graceful motion, all coiled muscle and gleaming scales. His wings snap open, blotting out the sun for an instant, and you step back instinctively. Satoru sings into the saddle. He doesn’t look at you until Sukuna’s already crouching low, ready to launch.

“Don’t worry too much,” he says. “We’ve got it handled.”

“You don’t know that.”

He grins down at you. “Sure I do. I’m me.”

“Again?” You stare at Yaga the Vast like he’s sprouted another head—which, considering the man’s already broad shoulders and beard thick enough to hide a small family of sparrows, would be quite a sight. “You want me to map out the north coast again?”

“Yes,” Yaga’s voice rumbles, his arms crossed over his chest. The firelight in the great hall casts half his face into shadow, making him look even more immovable than usual. “But this time, you go deeper. Past the cove, beyond the breakers, to the inlets we’ve yet to mark. Unless we map out our neighbouring areas, how will we be able to defend Berk?”

You blink slowly, as if stalling will make the task shrink back into sanity. “Defend Berk from what, exactly? The world’s deadliest flock of puffins?”

“From anyone who thinks Berk is ripe for the taking,” Yaga replies. His thick fingers drum against his arm. “We can’t pretend we’re isolated forever. Already, the trappers sniff at our borders.”

You mask the prickle of unease that shivers down your spine with a scoff. “So your solution is to send me to traipse along the most dangerous stretch of coast known to dragon or man?”

“You won’t be alone. Take that scoundrel of a dragon rider with you.”

You groan, dragging both hands down your face. “Not him.”

“As if there were any other scoundrel I could mean,” Yaga says, almost indulgent.

“Satoru Gojo,” you say, lowering your hands and scowling, “is less of a companion and more of a—what’s the word—parasite. Loud, obnoxious, impossible to get rid of once he latches on.”

“He’s effective,” Yaga says.

“He’s insufferable,” you say.

“Both can be true,” he says. “And if you want Berk defended, if you want us to have some place to safely hide, or if you want your precious maps to mean something, you’ll take him with you. End of discussion.”

You gape at him, outrage coiling hot in your chest. But before you can muster a reply sharp enough to singe even Yaga the Vast’s vast beard, a familiar voice cuts through the hall.

“Did somebody say my name?”

Of course. Speak of the devil and his Night Fury, and both shall appear.

Satoru Gojo strolls in; his hair is a windswept mess of silver, his tunic is half-untied, and there’s a cocky grin already plastered on his face. Sukuna pads in behind him, the great black beast moving silent as shadow, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim hall light.

“Perfect timing,” Yaga says. “You’ll be escorting our mapmaker along the north coast. Deep waters. High cliffs. Dangerous territory. See to it that she comes back alive.”

“Yes, boss,” Satoru replies. His gaze slides to you, and his grin widens. “Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Believe me, if I had a choice between this and swimming naked through eel-infested waters, I’d be halfway to drowning by now.”

“Romantic. You always know how to make a man feel wanted.”

Sukuna rumbles low in his throat, the kind of sound that could be a laugh if dragons were capable of such a thing. You swear he’s mocking you, too.

Yaga heaves a sigh. “Enough. The pair of you leave at dawn. Supplies will be waiting at the stables. Make sure you chart everything—caves, currents, shoals, nesting grounds. The more detail, the better.”

You open your mouth to argue, to plead, to hurl one last desperate objection into the flames. But Yaga fixes you with the kind of look that ends battles before they begin. You clamp your jaw shut.

“Fine,” you mutter. “At dawn.”

“Looking forward to it,” Satoru says brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. “You, me, the sea, a few deadly cliffs. It’ll be fun.”

You glare at him. “You have the worst definition of fun I’ve ever heard.”

He leans down, so close you catch the faint scent of leather and salt. “That’s because you haven’t tried my kind of fun yet.”

Before you can throttle him, Yaga clears his throat. “Gojo,” he says. “I want your usual post-mission report for this one as well. How Sukuna flies, how he fights—everything. Not a single detail should be omitted.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Satoru says. “Wingspan, firepower, mood swings. Got it.”

“Not just that,” Yaga presses. “Every maneuver. Every burst of speed. How he responds under pressure. The trappers are adapting. If they’ve learned to counter one type of dragon, they’ll learn to counter another. We need to be ready.”

“Of course, boss.”

Satoru says it so confidently that it makes you want to hit him with the nearest tankard. He doesn’t care about reports—he’s probably never written anything down properly in his life—but somehow Yaga keeps trusting him with “observations” and “evaluations.” And somehow those “reports” always end up getting him exactly what he wants: more freedom, more lenience, more time spent to annoy you.

“I’m serious,” Yaga says. His gaze sharpens, sliding briefly to you before returning to Satoru. “I want precision. Not exaggerations, not flourishes. If there are trappers along that coast, I want to know how they move, what they use, where they hide. If Sukuna faces them, I want to know every reaction. Understand?”

It’s subtle, that pause on Sukuna’s name, but it hooks in your gut like a barbed fishing line.

“Your last report,” the chief continued, “was ten pages of what Sukuna ate, and a drawing of your own face in the margins.”

You can’t help it—a bark of laughter escapes you. Satoru grins wider, like he’s proud of the memory.

“Historical accuracy,” he defends breezily. “Someday, bards will want to know I was the handsomest man alive while Sukuna was saving lives.”

Yaga doesn’t look amused. In fact, the firelight catches on the hard planes of his face, casting the deep creases at his brow into shadows that look almost like cracks. “Enough,” he says, but this time there’s a finality to it—like stone slamming into place, sealing a tomb.

You should probably let it go. Keep your head down, accept the assignment, and try not to imagine all the ways you might die tomorrow. But Yaga’s words stick in your ears like thorns. He’s always been thorough, sure, but the way he said it makes something twist uneasily in your gut.

Why does it feel less like he wants a record of Berk’s defenses and more like he wants a catalogue of its weaknesses?

You frown, shoving the thought down before it can root itself. Paranoia. That’s all it is. Spending too much time around Satoru Gojo rots the brain.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Satoru says, snapping a salute. “We’ll chart your cliffs, your caves, your currents, your… cozy little hidey-holes. And if the trappers do come sniffing around, we’ll have a nice little map all drawn up for them, won’t we?”

It’s meant to be a joke. You know it is.

Yaga’s eyes cut to him, sharp and assessing, but then—to your surprise—soften into something close to approval. “Just bring me the report.”

You’re dismissed. Or maybe exiled. Hard to tell with Yaga.

Satoru stretches like a cat as you both step out into the night air, his hair catching silver in the moonlight. Sukuna slips behind him, shadow melting into shadow, only the gleam of his garnet eyes betraying him.

“This is gonna be fun,” Satoru says.

You snort. “You heard him. Reports, details, flight maneuvers—like you’re some glorified scribe. What’s he going to do, publish a book?”

“Who knows? Maybe Yaga just really likes bedtime stories.”

“You’re going to fall if you keep bending over like that.”

The words brush the back of your neck, almost lost to the roar of the wind. Satoru’s voice, of course, because if anyone was going to ruin the thrill of flight over the North Sea cliffs, it was going to be him.

“I’m not bending over,” you snap, leaning forward on Sukuna’s broad back to adjust the rolled parchment strapped at your hip. “I’m securing the maps so they don’t blow away. Some of us actually care about documenting this trip.”

“Mm,” he hums, far too close behind you. “You say that, but it looks a lot like you’re presenting yourself to me.”

You jerk upright so fast you nearly throw yourself off balance. “I will throw you off this dragon.”

Sukuna rumbles beneath you, wings slicing through the wind. The cliffs roll past below—jagged teeth rising from the sea, waves smashing themselves to froth at the base. A treacherous coast, all jagged rocks and narrow inlets, the sort of place even seasoned dragon riders avoided unless they had a death wish. But, you remind yourself, you’re riding with Satoru Gojo. Death wishes are practically stitched into his skin.

“Relax,” he says lazily, shifting so that his chin rests on your shoulder, bold as anything. “If you fall, Sukuna will catch you. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Eighty percent sure.”

You elbow him hard in the ribs. He laughs. The wind whips against your face, tugging at your hair and lashing past your chin. You should be focusing on the coastline, on the cliff formations and hidden coves Yaga wanted mapped. Instead, you’re stuck with Satoru practically wrapped around you like an overgrown barnacle.

Below, the sea shifts from deep sapphire to frothing white, currents curling against each other in unpredictable swirls. You sketch the outline hastily, balancing parchment on your knee, your fingers stiff from the cold. The smell of salt, the tang of brine—it all presses sharp in your nose, mixing with the faint smoke curling from Sukuna’s nostrils as he exhales.

“You’re making that bay too small,” Satoru says, peering over your shoulder. “It’s at least twice that size.”

Your head snaps towards him. “You’re a dragon rider, not a cartographer. Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he says. “If you want this to be accurate, maybe listen to the guy who’s actually looking down at it.”

You jab your charcoal against the parchment with unnecessary force. “I am looking down. You think I’m staring at the clouds?”

“Wouldn’t blame you. They’re very fluffy today.”

You grit your teeth. It’s either throw him off Sukuna’s back or commit to your map and pretend his voice doesn’t grate against your ears.

The coastline curves sharply, forcing Sukuna to bank hard. The sudden tilt knocks your knee against the saddle, the parchment slipping sideways in the wind. You swear under your breath, catching it just before it can flutter away.

“Careful,” Satoru drawls. “Wouldn’t want all your precious squiggles to drown.”

“They’re maps,” you snap, tucking the roll more securely under the leather strap. “Not squiggles.”

Sukuna lurches again, this time with a force that wrenches you off balance completely. One moment you’re clinging to leather straps, the next, you’re weightless—dangling over empty air, your stomach dropping out as the sea roars up to meet you. Your scream is swallowed by the wind.

Cold air slams against your face, your limbs flailing as the ocean surface rushes closer, white spray licking like fangs. You think, absurdly, that this is it. Yaga will get his precious map back water-stained and half-torn, and Satoru will laugh at your funeral pyre.

The sea devours you whole. Salt scorches your mouth, icy shock steals the breath from your lungs, and the water closes like a fist around your ribs. You kick, thrash, but the waves drag you under, tangling your limbs. The North Sea swallows you whole, dragging you down, down, down. Your maps slip free, parchment dissolving into sodden clumps as the current claws them away. Panic claws harder.

Through the blur of bubbles, a shadow streaks above—massive wings cutting the sky. Sukuna. You can just make out the gleam of his scales as he dives, but the current twists you sideways and drags you deeper.

You feel hands.

Hot even through the freezing water, strong fingers hook beneath your arm and haul you against a solid chest. Your head knocks against leather and chainmail. You cling without meaning to, nails biting into Satoru’s sleeve as he kicks upward, legs cutting the water with terrifying strength. The world tilts again, the suffocating weight of the sea giving way to open air as he breaks the surface.

You cough, choking up brine, the cold biting so deep it feels like your bones are splintering. But there’s air—ragged, salty, glorious—and Satoru’s arms are still wrapped around you, keeping you afloat.

“See?” he says, breathless. “Told you one of us would catch you.”

“Shut—” you hack, spitting seawater in his face, “—up.”

With one arm, Satoru signals upward, and Sukuna swoops low, skimming the waves. The dragon’s vast shadow falls over you both, wings slicing the mist. With a smooth, practiced motion, Satoru boosts you toward the saddle. You land gracelessly, half-sprawled, coughing into your sleeve. Sukuna steadies his flight. Moments later, Satoru swings up behind you, water dripping from his hair.

You twist, glaring, salt-stung eyes narrowing. “You dropped me!”

“I saved you,” he says.

“If you’d stop distracting me, I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.”

“Aw, admit it,” he says, tugging you back against him as Sukuna banks into the wind again. “You wanted me to play hero.”

Your jaw locks. You want to scream, punch him, and shove him straight off Sukuna’s back. But the truth sticks bitter at the back of your throat: without him, you’d be a corpse rolling in the tide right now.

Instead, you grit out, “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m too cold to kill you.”

“Sure, gorgeous,” Satoru says, far too cheerfully for someone who just dove into the North Sea like a loon. He pats Sukuna’s neck. “Land over there, big guy.”

Sukuna banks again, wide wings slicing through the mist as he angles toward a rocky shelf jutting from the cliffs. It’s not much—a spit of grass clinging stubbornly to stone, slick with sea spray and battered by wind—but it’s flat enough for a Night Fury to perch. The dragon’s claws scrape against the stone before he settles down.

You peel yourself upright, every muscle trembling from the cold. Water streams from your hair and sleeves, soaking into the saddle leather, dripping in miserable rivulets down your legs. You feel like a half-drowned cat.

Satoru swings off Sukuna and immediately shivers, shaking out his hair. Droplets fly everywhere.

“Ah!” You swipe your face with your sleeve. “Do you mind?”

“Not even a little,” he says.

You clamber down less gracefully, boots squelching against stone. The moment your feet hit solid ground, the wind slices through your wet clothes. Your teeth chatter so hard it feels like they might rattle loose.

“Right,” you say, hugging your arms around yourself. “Let’s make this quick. I need to salvage what I can of the map before—”

“Before your hands freeze off?” Satoru interrupts. He crouches to scratch Sukuna’s chin, even though he’s dripping seawater like a broken barrel. “Sorry, cartographer, but your squiggles can wait. We’re both shaking. That’s a fast track to hypothermia.”

“I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles with a shiver. “We don’t have time to—”

“You’re not fine.” He straightens, eyeing you in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. “Your lips are purple. You’re shivering so hard I can hear your knees clacking. Don’t make me be the sensible one here, sweetheart—it feels unnatural.”

You glare. “If I die of cold, I’ll haunt you.”

“Oh, you already haunt me.” His grin softens the jab. “Now, strip.”

“I— Excuse me?” you splutter.

“Your clothes are soaked,” he says matter-of-factly, already tugging at the laces of his tunic. “Wet fabric sucks the heat right out of you. The best thing we can do is get ‘em off, huddle together, and hope Sukuna doesn’t roast us in our sleep.”

You blink at him, scandalised, even as another violent shiver racks your body. “You’re insane.”

“True. But I’m also right.” He pulls his tunic over his head in one easy motion, tossing the dripping cloth onto the stone. The setting sun’s light catches across his bare skin—broad shoulders, pale scars scattered across his abdomen, lean muscle shifting as he moves.

You pointedly do not stare.

“You’re ogling me,” he says.

“I’m glaring at you.”

“Your glare looks a lot like ogling.”

“Die.”

“Already almost did,” he says lightly, wringing out his sleeves. “Your turn.”

Every inch of you bristles at the command. Still, the damp fabric clinging icily to your ribs argues louder than your pride. You peel off your own tunic with stiff fingers, ignoring his wolf-whistle, and spread it on a rock to dry. The wind hits your bare skin, covered only by the slip you’ve worn inside, cold and merciless, goosebumps rising instantly.

Satoru’s eyes flick toward you, lingering longer than you like. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. The curve of his mouth says enough.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” you warn, hugging your arms over your chest.

“Not one word,” he promises. “Plenty of thoughts, though.”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “This is torture.”

“No, this is survival.” Satoru pats Sukuna’s flank, and the dragon obligingly lowers himself, curling his massive body into a crescent. His wings arch inwards, a living shelter against the wind. Heat radiates from his scaled belly.

“See?” Satoru gestures grandly.

You want to argue. You really, truly do. But your legs wobble under you, and the promise of warmth tugs at you. So you crawl into the nook of Sukuna’s body, pressing against his side. Satoru follows, sprawling next to you, then tugging you firmly against him. His skin is startlingly warm, even damp as it is, and his arm slides around your shoulders.

“Move,” you grumble, trying to twist free.

“Nope,” he says, tucking his chin on top of your wet hair. “You’ll freeze.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“So you’ve said. Multiple times.”

You want to snap back, but the heat of him seeps into your skin. Sukuna’s breathing is a thunderous rhythm behind you, the rise and fall of his chest as steady as the tides. Satoru’s warmth presses into your back, his heartbeat steady against your spine.

The shivering ebbs. Your eyelids grow heavy.

You think, just before sleep drags you under, that maybe it isn’t so bad—being held like this, the storm kept at bay by dragon wings and an irritating idiot who refuses to let you drown or freeze. You’d rather die than admit it out loud.

“Oh, my Gods.”

The voice snaps you awake like a slap. Your eyes peel open blearily, gritty from salt and sleep. The first thing you see is scales—Sukuna’s broad, ridged side, still warm beneath your cheek. The second is pale dawn light seeping over the horizon, turning the sea into hammered silver. The third, and the worst by far, is Yaga’s apprentice standing ten paces away, gawking at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.

You jolt upright so fast your skull cracks against Satoru’s chin.

“Ow—fuck!” Satoru lurches back, clutching his jaw. His hair is sticking up in ten different directions, his chest bare, his arm still heavy across your waist. He blinks owlishly, still half-asleep, then follows your line of sight.

“Oh,” he says. “Morning, kid.”

The apprentice—gangly, freckled, barely old enough to grow a proper beard—turns a shade of crimson so bright it could signal passing ships. His dragon, a lumbering Gronckle, looks pointedly in the other direction as though it, too, is practicing modesty. The apprentice’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—uh—you—Chief Yaga sent me—”

You scramble upright, hugging your damp tunic to your chest as though it might shield you from the apprentice’s wide-eyed horror. “It’s not what it looks like.”

The boy squeaks. “It looks like you and Gojo—”

“It doesn’t,” you snap. Heat crawls up your neck, sharp as the morning chill.

“Actually,” Satoru drawls, still lounging half-naked against Sukuna’s side, “it’s exactly what it looks like.”

You kick him in the shin. He hisses through his teeth but grins anyway. Bastard.

The apprentice makes a strangled sound and stares very hard at the cliffs instead. His ears are scarlet. “Chief Yaga said—he said it was urgent. Two dragons were stolen last night.”

“Stolen?” you ask.

He nods quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but at you. “By trappers. They slipped past the watch posts by the southern coves. Took a Nadder and a Zippleback. Riders tried to give chase, but they were gone before dawn.”

You freeze, cold in a way seawater could never manage. Images slam unbidden into your head: chains biting into scaled hides, muzzles forced over mouths, wings bound and flailing. Dragons screaming as they’re dragged into cages.

“Shit,” Satoru says, the first hint of sharpness cutting through his lazy tone. He pushes to his feet, water-dark trousers hanging low on his hips. Sukuna rumbles beside him, wings twitching restlessly.

The apprentice swallows, wringing his hands, as his Gronckle hovers above the ground. “The Chief sent me to find you. He said you’re needed immediately—both of you. He was… angry that you weren’t at the watch last night, Gojo.”

You flinch. Angry. Of course he was. You were out here, tangled up in a mess of salt, warmth, and sleep, while dragons were dragged away into darkness. Your stomach knots.

Satoru’s hand brushes yours. “Not your fault,” he murmurs.

You want to believe him. You don’t.

“Which direction?” Satoru asks crisply.

“East,” the apprentice answers. “Towards the mainland, we think. Scouts found broken nets on the tide and claw marks on the rocks, but… there were too many tracks. More than just one ship. It’s—bigger than usual.”

You hug your tunic tighter, your unease curdling into something colder. Too many tracks. Bigger than usual. And Yaga, always conveniently aware of where the trappers struck, always pushing for maps that stretched further, deeper, as though he wanted Berk’s vulnerabilities laid bare on parchment. Something ugly stirs at the back of your mind.

“Great job finding us, kid,” Satoru says. “Go on back, tell Yaga we’re on our way to Berk.”

The apprentice nods and urges his Gronckle away. Silence stretches after his wings vanish into the horizon. The only sound is the crash of waves and Sukuna’s low, restless growl.

You finally tug your tunic over your head, the fabric clammy against your skin. “Two dragons. Gone. While we—” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “While we weren’t there.”

Satoru’s gaze flicks to you. “We’ll find them.”

You want to argue. Want to spill the unease clawing at your ribs—that this isn’t coincidence, that someone is feeding the trappers information, that Yaga’s heavy insistence on maps and watch-posts feels less like defence and more like design. But Satoru swings into the saddle, his hand extended down to you, and all you can do is shove the suspicion somewhere deep down where it won’t choke you.

Later. You’ll think about it later.

The ride back to Berk is wordless. Sukuna cuts through the dawn sky with a speed that makes your bones rattle, the wind lashing your damp hair against your cheeks. The village comes into view—first the crooked rocks of the cliffside, then the smoky thatched rooftops, and finally the wide stone courtyard where riders and dragons gather in knots of uneasy conversation.

Yaga waits at the centre of it all, arms folded across his massive chest. His scowl alone could ward off a sea storm. You’ve seen him angry before, but this—this is something else.

Sukuna’s talons scrape stone. Riders hustle across the square, tightening harnesses, checking saddlebags, shouting clipped reports to one another. Dragons bristle and shift, their restlessness bleeding into their humans. You slide down from Sukuna’s saddle, boots hitting the stones. Satoru follows, rolling his shoulders once.

“Come,” Yaga’s voice booms from the centre. “Where were you?”

“Taking the north coast maps you wanted, remember?” Satoru says. “Thought you’d be proud I was finally listening.”

Yaga’s jaw ticks. “While you wasted time drawing cliffs, two dragons were stolen from right under our noses. A Nadder and a Zippleback. Good, loyal beasts, now likely in chains.”

You open your mouth—an instinctive we didn’t know, we would have been there if—but Yaga’s eyes cut to you, and the words wither in your throat.

“And you,” he says, quieter but no less cutting. “Distracted.”

Your cheeks burn hot as a furnace. You force yourself not to look at Satoru, not to flinch under Yaga’s disappointment.

“Careful, Chief,” Satoru says, stepping forward. “Sounds almost like you’re blaming us instead of the ones who actually stole the dragons.”

Silence. Riders shuffle uneasily at the edge of the square, pretending to busy themselves with tack and gear. Yaga exhales. He gestures with a curt hand, and says, “Enough. We’ve no time for excuses. Gojo, you’ll take Sukuna east. Track the trappers. If they’ve gone towards the mainland, we need to know which paths they’re using. Don’t engage. Don’t be reckless.”

“Reckless?” Satoru echoes. “Chief, that hurts me.”

“It’s meant to.”

Yaga turns to you. You think—hope—he’ll send you with Satoru. You’ve flown the coasts enough times now, you know the currents, the cliffs, the possible landing points. Together, you’d be faster.

“You,” Yaga says instead. “Stay here. The maps you made—finish them. Copy them properly, mark all the coves and hideouts. We’ll need every detail if we’re to tighten our defenses.”

“But—” You start. “With all due respect, I should go too. I was with Satoru when we—”

“No.” Yaga’s eyes harden, the finality in them brooking no argument. “We need accuracy more than we need an extra set of hands in the sky. Your maps will serve Berk better than you will.”

Heat floods your chest: anger, shame, suspicion all jumbled together. The same suspicion that had gnawed at you when the apprentice spoke of too many tracks, bigger than usual. The same suspicion that whispers now: why does he care so much about these maps?

Satoru’s hand brushes yours again, quick, almost hidden. When you glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but his mouth quirks, almost imperceptibly, in reassurance.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he says aloud, stretching his arms. “I’ll bring your lizards back safely. Maybe even some extra, if they’re feeling friendly.”

“Go,” Yaga growls.

Satoru vaults back into Sukuna’s saddle. The Night Fury launches skyward in a storm of wings and air, climbing so fast your stomach flips just from watching. He doesn’t look back, but you feel his absence immediately, like the ground beneath you has shifted.

“Chief,” you try again, forcing the tremor out of your voice, “if there are more ships than usual, if this is bigger than—”

“Finish your maps,” Yaga cuts you off, turning away.

You stand there for a long moment, your fists clenching around nothing, as riders murmur and scatter and dragons snort restlessly at their sides. Something in your gut twists again, sharp and certain. Yaga doesn’t just want you out of the mission. He wants you blind, and you don’t know why.

Satoru Gojo doesn’t arrive back with the rest of the riders and it takes you about four hours to swallow down your pride and admit that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.

At first, you tell yourself he’s late because he’s lazy. Because he got distracted chasing a gull or decided to nap on Sukuna’s back somewhere over the cliffs. That’s his style, isn’t it? Careless, infuriating, utterly impossible to pin down. But when the other riders return—faces set in grim lines, dragons shuffling uneasily on the packed earth—there’s no trace of him.

The knot in your stomach hardens into stone.

The courtyard empties slowly, mutters and wary glances trailing after you as you linger by the dragon pens. You can’t ask them where he is, not when your throat is tight with fear. You can’t ask Yaga either—at least, not openly, when you already suspect he doesn’t want you to know the answer.

Instead, you find the apprentice.

He’s lugging a basket of fish towards the Gronckle pens, shoulders hunched. You stride over and plant yourself in his path.

“Where’s the Chief?” you demand.

The boy nearly drops the basket, mackerel slopping over the edge. “Wh-what?”

“Yaga,” you say. “Where is he?”

He stammers. “He—uh—he’s in the great hall, I think. With some of the elders. I’m not supposed to—”

You move before he can finish. The great hall looms at the centre of Berk. Its roof rises steeply, carved dragon heads snarling from the beams. The heavy double doors are shut, but a warm glow seeps from the cracks—torchlight, flickering against the chill dusk. You shouldn’t be here. Yaga will flay you alive if he catches you sneaking where you don’t belong. But the thought of waiting, sitting idly while Satoru doesn’t come back doesn’t sit right with you.

You slip inside.

The hall stretches wide and long ahead of you, the walls lined with shields and old weapons that gleam in the light. Long tables stretch out across the floor, empty, a few littered with tankards and scraps of parchment. The far end is dominated by Yaga’s chair, carved from mahogany, massive enough to dwarf even him.

It’s empty.

You turn away from the chair—because on the nearest table is your map.

Or rather, it should be there. The stack of parchment you left after your last session of furious sketching is gone, only a faint smear of charcoal dust staining the wood. The straps you’d used to tie them together still sit at the edge of the table, neatly coiled, but the maps themselves have vanished. Your stomach lurches.

The map of the north coast. The one you risked half your life to sketch, nearly drowned for. Every cove, every inlet, every hidden path marked out in careful strokes of charcoal—gone.

Your hand curls tightly around the strap left behind, the leather cutting into your palm. The room spins, your thoughts snarling into one conclusion: if Yaga has the maps, he didn’t take them to protect Berk. And if he doesn’t have them, then someone else does. And Satoru still hasn’t come back.

You hurry out of the hall, past the empty pens, past the wary stares of villagers who pull their cloaks tighter as you barrel through. The sky is already bruising into night, gulls wheeling overhead in harsh cries that grate against your nerves. You don’t think. You just turn—towards the cliffs, the only place that makes sense. The north coast, where your maps pointed. Where Satoru isn’t supposed to be.

The path narrows as you climb. The wind rises, sharp and cold, tugging at your tunic. The sea roars below, white foam smashing itself against black rock. Each gust shoves at your balance, each step rattles your teeth. You know these paths—you’ve sketched them, charted them—but tonight they feel alien, hostile.

Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. Still, you push forward, clutching your side, muttering curses under your breath.

A shadow moves above you, massive fast, cutting across the purpling sky. The figure drops lower, angling towards you. You stumble to a stop, heart hammering, and tilt your head back.

Sukuna.

The Night Fury flies through the dusk, scales glinting dark blue where the light catches. His cry rips through the cliffs—sharp, haunting, enough to send a flock of puffins exploding from their nests. The wind from his wings slams into you, sending you staggering backwards.

He’s alone. The dragon banks sharply, almost skimming the sea, and you see a saddle still strapped tight, leather dark with seawater, reins dangling loose.

He lands on the cliffs just ahead of you, talons tearing furrows in the stone. His wings flare wide before folding in, each movement rippling with tension. He’s restless, furious, his chest heaving and his tail lashing like a whip.

“Sukuna,” you breathe, your voice cracking.

He turns at once, those twin rings of garnet eyes locking onto you. Recognition flares, but it’s not soft. It’s sharp, wild, like he’s on the edge of bolting right back into the sky. His nostrils flare, smoke curling as he huffs out a growl.

Your legs move before your mind catches up. You rush towards him, arms out, words tumbling uselessly from your mouth. “Where is he? Where’s Satoru?”

Sukuna lowers his head, nostrils flaring again as though scenting the wind. His scales are slick with salt, his wings ragged from the flight, his whole body coiled tight with an agitation you’ve never seen in him before. He paces, restless, claws scraping sparks against the stone. The saddle’s empty. Satoru’s gone.

The thought claws at your skull, frantic and ugly, but you push it down, shove it away, refuse to let it root. “Take me to him,” you say. “You hear me? Take me to him!”

Sukuna freezes. His head tilts, eyes narrowing, sharp and assessing. You think he’ll refuse, that he’ll vanish into the sky without you. But he shoves his massive snout against your shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock you flat. His wings flare again. It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.

Your hands fumble with the saddle’s straps as you clamber up, fingers numb, stomach twisting. The moment you’re seated, Sukuna surges forward, leaping into the air and spreading his wings. The world drops away beneath you, cliffs shrinking, sea spreading endless and merciless below. Wind tears at your face, your hair, your clothes. You clutch the straps tightly, the air freezing your cheeks, your heart slamming so hard you can’t tell if it’s fear or relief.

Sukuna doesn’t soar, doesn’t play with the air currents or bank lazily just to terrify you the way Satoru likes to. He cuts through the night like an arrow, wings beating ruthlessly, each downstroke flinging you forward until your stomach lurches. The North Sea yawns before you, and the cliffs crawl past in uneven shadows.

“Where are you taking me?” you shout, though the wind steals most of it away. Sukuna’s neck stiffens, his flight angled low, purposeful.

The further north you go, the rougher the landscape grows. The cliffs rise higher, crueler, sharpened by centuries of waves gnawing at their base. The moon breaks through the clouds in flashes, silvering the rocks. You’ve charted these shores on parchment, every inlet and alcove, but in the dark, they look unfamiliar.

Sukuna dives. The drop rips the breath from your chest and tears your stomach into your throat. You can only cling and pray as he folds his wings tight and plummets. At the last possible instant, he flares his wings wide, landing with a shuddering crash onto a stretch of uneven stone, claws biting through moss and shale.

You scramble down, your boots skidding on slick rock as Sukuna growls. Ahead, the cliffs hollow into a cove, a natural amphitheatre of stone and sea. Torches burn inside, small orange flames that lick against the rock, wrong against the wild dark.

In the centre of it all: Yaga.

The Chief of Berk stands with his arms crossed, broad shoulders squared and cloak snapping in the wind. His great beard glints ruddy in the torchlight. But it isn’t him that makes your heart stutter. It’s what’s at his feet.

Satoru.

He’s on his knees, wrists bound in thick rope, head tilted at an insolent angle that doesn’t quite hide the blood streaking down his temple. Even half-slumped, gagged with a strip of cloth knotted cruelly between his teeth, he radiates infuriating carelessness—eyes narrowed, expression hovering between boredom and mockery.

You make a sound—something strangled, something useless—and stumble forward, only for Sukuna to block you with a sweep of a wing. He growls again.

“Finally,” Yaga says. His voice booms off the rock, heavy, immovable, the kind of voice that fills halls and commands loyalty. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned him.”

“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.

“What I should’ve done the moment that creature set foot on Berk.” His eyes cut to Sukuna. “That dragon is too dangerous to be left in the hands of a fool. Or worse, shared between fools. Give him to me, and I may let Gojo live.”

Satoru makes a muffled noise behind the gag, rolling his eyes so hard you half-expect them to stick. You can almost hear his voice anyway: Don’t listen to the old man, gorgeous. He just wants my dragon ‘cause he doesn’t have one of his own.

Your chest feels too small, your pulse hammering against your ribs. “You—you can’t mean that. Sukuna’s not a weapon. He’s not—”

“He’s a Night Fury,” Yaga says. “Do you have any idea what that means? The power he carries? No village could stand against us if he were ours. No trapper would dare threaten us. Berk would be untouchable.”

“He’s not yours,” you say.

Yaga’s gaze flicks past you. “And yet here he stands, listening to your commands. Think, child. You’ve seen the cliffs, the danger at our borders. Berk is one storm away from ruin. I won’t gamble its survival on the whims of a dragon who answers only to Gojo.”

Satoru gives a muffled, derisive laugh that earns him a kick to the ribs. He tips his head back, gag muffling whatever clever retort he tries to spit out.

“Is that why you funded the trappers to surround your own village, Yaga?” you ask, mustering up all the courage you own.

Yaga stills. His boot rests against Satoru’s ribs, his shadow thrown long against the cove wall. His lips twitch beneath his beard—not surprise, not shame. Annoyance.

“You shouldn’t know that,” he says slowly. “The apprentice talks too much.”

“You set them on us. You set them on him.”

A sound splits the night—metal ringing against stone, boots crunching over gravel. From the shadows at the edges of the cove, men appear. Rough-spun leather, ragged furs, nets rolled thick over their shoulders. Their faces gleam with salt and grease, their eyes hungry. Dragon trappers. You know them by the stink alone: fish oil, blood, old smoke. They slip from the dark like wolves, more than a dozen, their movements practiced, circling.

The torchlight catches iron chains coiled in their fists. Hooks. Bolas. Shackles built for wings, not wrists.

“You’re working with them?” you say.

“I’m using them,” the chief says. “They have the means, the tools that I don’t have.”

You think of the maps gone from the hall, the apprentice’s trembling mouth, the sidelong glances of riders who returned without their strongest, without him. Pieces snap into place with a sickening clarity.

“You sold us out,” you whisper again. “You sold him out.”

“I did what I had to. Berk survives because I make hard choices. You, girl—you make sketches. You play at your little maps, but I—I see storms on the horizon. Dragons beyond counting. Trappers fattening themselves on our weakness. Do you think a village of fishers and smiths can stand against that? No. But with a Night Fury—with that beast, Berk rules the seas.”

Sukuna’s growl reverberates through the rock beneath your feet. His pupils pinprick, his wings hitch upward, every line of his body coiled to strike. You know he understands enough: tone, intent, threat. He does not know, yet, how to forgive.

“Tell me,” Yaga says, low and inexorable, “what’s one boy’s life against the safety of a whole people?”

Satoru chooses that exact moment to lurch upright against his bindings, muffling something sharp and entirely unhelpful through the gag. You catch the roll of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. One boy? Try national treasure, old man.

You almost laugh.

Chains rattle. The trappers are closing in. Their boots scrape the shale, torches lifting higher, nets poised to fly. The scent of pitch and iron stings your nose. There aren’t raiders in passing—they’re hunters, professional, and they’ve been waiting.

You step forward, planting yourself between them and Sukuna’s flank before you even think it through. “If you think he’ll ever obey you, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” you bite out. “Sukuna isn’t a weapon. He isn’t yours to wield.”

“He will be.”

The nearest trapper lunges. A net arcs through the air, weighted corners sparking as they whip forward. You throw yourself sideways, but you needn’t have bothered—Sukuna’s blast rips it to cinders mid-flight. The explosion lights the cove for a split-second, dazzling white, searing afterimages into your vision. Rock shatters, smoke plumes, men scream.

The Night Fury roars.

The sound is primal, thunder given flesh. Sukuna surges forward, plasma bursting from his jaws in ragged, relentless blasts. Trappers scatter like startled crabs, some diving for cover, others spinning their chains desperately to keep him back. One man screams as his bolas ignite mid-spin, molten metal splattering his arm.

You drop to Satoru’s side in the chaos. He turns his head sharply, eyes catching yours, blue in the firelight, furious and alive. Your fingers fumble at the knots. The rope is soaked with seawater, swollen tight, cutting into your palms as you fight with it.

“Hold still,” you hiss, though he’s hardly moving.

He snorts through his gag. The knot slips at last. The rope slackens, and Satoru jerks his wrists free with a hiss. He tears the gag from his mouth, coughing once before grinning up at you, that same insufferable smile that somehow hasn’t dulled even after being tied and bloodied.

“Miss me?” he drawls.

You shove his shoulder. “Get up.”

“Oh, I plan to.” Satoru’s gaze flicks past you, to Yaga still looming at the centre of it all.

Sukuna lashes his tail, knocking two trappers flat, and whirlls his head back towards you both, plasma building in his throat again. The trappers rally, more of them pouring from the shadows at the mouth of the cove, their nets glowing with oil to withstand fire, their bolas gleaming with sharpened edges meant for wings. Their shadows jitter grotesquely against the cove walls, wolfish and endless. Sukuna’s blasts have rattled them but not broken them—they circle tighter, nets at the ready.

A horn splits the night.

It’s high and keening, rolling down from the cliffs above: Berk’s call to arms.

Shapes tear through the dark sky. Dragons. Not one, not two—a little less than a dozen, wings beating hard, riders silhouetted against the clouds. Their cries cascade through the air—the iron thrum of Nadder wings, the heavy, beating thunder of a Gronckle, the shriek of a Zippleback.

The riders dive. Bolas meant for Sukuna snap backward, suddenly tangled in fire. A trapper screams when a Deadly Nadder’s spines pin his arm to the cove wall. Yaga’s apprentice clings desperately to his dragon—far too small for this fight, a Gronckle, wings buzzing frantically—but his horn blast keeps sounding, rallying the others.

“Traitors!” Yaga bellows. His face is red with fury, veins bulging in his temple. “Do you side with him over your own chief?”

“Over a traitor, yes!” the apprentice shouts back.

The cove fractures into chaos—dragons wheeling, trappers shouting, nets burning in mid-air. Sukuna tears through them, plasma lighting up the night. You turn towards Satoru, only to freeze.

Yaga’s hand clamps down around your arm, thick and brutal, yanking you off your feet. The world spins; your back slams against his chest, his arm like an iron band around you. He drags you towards the cliff’s edge, gravel skittering into the black maw of sea below.

“Stop!” His roar drowns even the dragon cries. “Or she falls!”

Sukuna halts mid-pounce, talons gouging sparks in the stone. The other riders hover, their dragons’ wings beating the air in slow, heavy pulses. Even the trappers hesitate, chains slack in their hands. The sea crashes below, white foam gnashing against the rocks, a drop so sheer it makes you feel nauseous.

Yaga’s breath rasps against your ear. “The Night Fury, girl. Give him to me or you’re gone.”

You twist, fighting against his grip, nails digging into his arm, but he’s immovable, a wall of muscle and conviction. He jerks you closer to the edge, and the heel of your boot slips on loose gravel. Your weight tilts towards the abyss.

Somehow, impossibly, you make eye contact with Satoru—astride Sukuna. His white hair gleams in the torchlight. Sukuna crouches beneath him, plasma pulsing faintly in his throat, tail still twitching.

Satoru’s lips move.

Eighty percent.

You blink, barely comprehending. “What?” you croak out.

Eighty percent.

Suddenly, you know. He wants you to trust him. He wants you to fall. It’s insane. It’s impossible.

The apprentice screams your name from somewhere above. The riders shout warnings. The trappers lunge forward, seeing their chance. Yaga tightens his grip, preparing to hurl you like discarded cargo into the sea.

You make the choice first.

Your knees buckle, and you let yourself go slack. His grip loosens in shock—just enough. You wrench sideways, twist hard against his hold, and throw yourself forward into the air.

The sea roars up to meet you. Wind tears your scream to shreds. There’s only the black water yawning wide, jagged rocks slick with foam—until Sukuna dives down, his wings folded tightly. He rockets down the cliff face, plasma sparking in his jaws. You glimpse Satoru’s silhouette against the stars, leaning low in the saddle, eyes locked on you.

The air sears past your skin, the spray of the sea already stinging your face. Claws close around you.

Sukuna’s talons scoop you from the air. The force of it nearly rips the breath from your lungs, but the relief, the sheer surge of it, blinds you more than the wind. He angles upward in a steep climb, wings snapping wide, hauling you clear from the rocks and the ravenous waves.

You’re pressed tightly against his chest, his claws curled just enough to cage you without harm, his scales hot with exertion. Above you, astride the saddle, Satoru twists in his seat, grinning down at you.

“See?” he calls. “Told you. Eighty percent.”

You want to kiss him. You also want to scream. Instead, all you manage is a hoarse, furious, “You’re an idiot!”

Your first kiss with Satoru Gojo occurs because of Sukuna.

Not because you wanted it to. Gods, no. You’d rather have wrestled a Gronckle with one arm tied behind your back than admit you were even remotely tempted by the smirk plastered across Satoru’s stupid face. But Sukuna, traitorous beast that he is, decided that enough was enough.

It starts when the Night Fury refuses to let either of you down. You’re sore from the fight, ribs aching where Yaga had grabbed you, salt still drying and sticking to your skin. You’ve been through enough for one night, and all you want is the ground. Just solid ground beneath your feet.

Sukuna, it seems, has other ideas.

He lands not on the village cliffs, not near the dragon pens, but on the highest bluff overlooking Berk. A windswept place where he knows neither of you can escape quickly. He lowers his head, eyes narrowing with that calculating look he always gets when he’s three steps ahead of everyone else.

You try to slide off the saddle. His tail lashes, blocking your path.

“Really?” you snap, shoving at the scaled wall of muscle. “I’ve had enough for today.”

“He just doesn’t want us to leave,” Satoru supplies. “Can you blame him? We make such a great team.”

You whirl on him. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

“Nearly. Keyword.”

Your teeth grind. The wind snaps your hair into your eyes, the sea growls far below, and Satoru is—well, Satoru. All flippant grins and infuriating calm, as if Yaga’s betrayal, the trappers, the near loss of Sukuna, none of it left so much as a scratch on his spirit.

You jab a finger at his chest. “You think this is funny? You were gagged and tied and—”

“—and you swooped in and saved me,” he says. “Admit it, you couldn’t stand to see me suffer.”

“You—” you splutter. “I— That’s not—”

Sukuna rumbles, wings settling around you both like a barricade. His eyes gleam faintly in the dark, twin garnets pinning you where you sit. You realise too late: he’s cornered you.

Satoru tilts his head. “You hear that? He’s saying we should kiss and make up.”

“He is not,” you say flatly.

“He definitely is,” Satoru insists. He leans in just slightly, enough to test the boundaries, enough for your heart to betray you by stumbling over itself. “C’mon. Wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s had a rough day too.”

You glare, but the problem is that Sukuna seems to agree. He nudges the both of you closer with the blunt force of his snout, nearly toppling you into Satoru’s lap. The dragon huffs smoke, satisfied, before curling into the stone and laying his head flat as though to say, Now behave.

You should shove Satoru away. You should storm off, make the climb down the cliffs yourself, risk the dark. Anything but this.

The adrenaline of the fight still thrums through your veins. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since you saw him bound on his knees, blood dripping from his temple, smirking like a madman even then. You remember the feel of the ropes cutting your palms as you freed him, the wild terror that maybe you’d been too late.

Maybe that’s why you don’t shove him away. Maybe that’s why you let him close the distance, why your lips meet his halfway in a kiss that’s less a decision and more a consequence, inevitable as the tide.

It’s clumsy, at first. You’re too angry, he’s too smug. But he softens into it, just a little, and you hate the way the ground seems to tilt under your feet, how the world narrows to salt air and warmth and the reckless promise of him.

When you finally break apart, breathless, Satoru grins like he’s just won a war.

“Knew you liked me,” he says, blue eyes sparkling.

You shove him hard in the shoulder, though your face burns. “That was for Sukuna,” you say.

The dragon rumbles again, smug as any beast can be. Satoru only laughs, tipping his head back, and pulls you in for another kiss.

It’s ecstatic, the feel of Satoru’s tongue lapping at your folds.

His tongue is wet and hot as it laps over the sensitive nerves, and you can feel the way he hums happily as he laps at the juices that drip onto his waiting mouth. You’re sure his face is going to be covered in your slick by the end of this, but it seems like he couldn’t care less, if his moans and groans are any indication. Your fingers tangle in his white strands of hair, gripping hard to keep him where you want him. His arms are wrapped around your legs, keeping them open as he feasts on your cunt. You can see the muscles in his back flexing as he tries to get closer, get deeper, and you can only hold on for dear life, feeling the way he drives you higher and higher towards your orgasm.

Satoru is making a mess of himself, and you know he has a thing for being covered in your slick.

The moment the thought passes through your head, you can’t help the cry that escapes, a full-body shiver wracking through your body. He groans into you, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you feel his tongue move in a way that you know has him spelling his name, over and over again. You tug at his hair, trying to move him, but his arms tighten and he doesn’t budge.

You let out a moan, trying to speak. “Satoru, I—I need you. Inside me. Now.”

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking harshly. “One more, gorgeous. Give me one more, and then I’m all yours.”

You whine, feeling the heat in your stomach build, and Satoru continues to eat you out. Your back arches off the bed, and you grip his hair tighter. Your thighs start to close around him; he lets go of one of your legs to press two fingers into your heat, pressing right into that spot that has you crying out his name, curling his fingers as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your body shakes, and you cry out his name, feeling the way your cunt tightens and throbs around his fingers.

Satoru groans, moving his face away from your core and watching as the aftershocks of your orgasm make your body tremble. He pumps his fingers slowly, prolonging your pleasure, and you whine at the sensitivity.

He smiles softly, kissing the inside of your thigh, before removing his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking the juices that cover them. He lets out a pleased moan, eyes locked onto yours, and moves to kiss you.

His lips are warm, and you taste yourself on his tongue. It only serves to rile you up more when you feel the way his cock throbs where it presses against your thigh. You raise your legs to wrap them around his hips, and you push him lightly. Satoru moves willingly, letting out a moan as he lies on his back. He grips the sheets in anticipation, watching as you straddle his lap. He groans, feeling the way your cunt settles on his thighs. You smile, running a finger down his chest, and he bucks his hips in response.

You let out a gasp when the tip of his cock rubs against your folds. He moans.

Satoru’s hands grip your hips tightly, and his thumb rubs circles on your skin. You can feel the way he trembles under you. Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping lightly; he whines. You position the tip at your entrance, rubbing it against your clit, and moan.

“Stop teasing,” he groans, and you grin.

“Or what?” you taunt, grinding against his length. “Are you going to punish me, Satoru?”

He growls, hips jerking upwards. You gasp, feeling the tip rub against your folds, catching at your slit, and try to lower yourself. But Satoru tightens his hold, not letting you sink further onto his cock. You glare at him.

“I should,” he says, and suddenly his arms are around you, flipping you onto your back.

He settles between your thighs, his arms framing either side of your head. His hair falls into his eyes, and you can feel his cock brushing against your folds. You move your arms to wrap around his shoulders, nails scratching lightly down his back.

Satoru groans, burying his head in your neck, nipping lightly.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, feeling his hips jerk.

The tip of his cock rubs against your clit again. He lets out a breathless laugh.

“I will,” he responds—only to be interrupted by a loud, keening wail from outside your cottage door.

The sound is so piercing, so demanding, that for a moment you think some villager has wandered into mortal peril right outside your door. But no—no, you recognise that guttural, almost petulant cry. You and Satoru both freeze.

“Was that—” you start.

Another wail, louder this time, rattles the hinges of your cottage, followed by the unmistakable scrape of claws against wood.

Satoru drops his forehead against your collarbone. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The Night Fury wails again, insistent, tail thudding against the doorframe. You bite back a laugh, half-giddy, half-exasperated, and say, “I think someone wants attention.”

Satoru lifts his head, hair mussed and eyes narrowed. “He’s the worst cockblock in history,” he mutters. “Tell him to go hunt some haddock or terrorise the chickens, or—Gods, literally anything else.”

The next sound isn’t just a wail. It’s a low, mournful croon that slides under your ribs and squeezes. Sukuna isn’t just loud—he’s lonely.

You soften, even as Satoru makes a strangled noise of despair above you. “Satoru…”

“No,” he says, rolling off you onto his back. “No, no, don’t you dare give him those eyes. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. I was right there, gorgeous—right there.”

You’re already tugging your tunic back over your shoulders, laughing despite the ache in your belly. “He’ll tear the cottage down if we don’t.”

Satoru throws an arm over his face, groaning into the crook of his elbow. “I hate him. I actually hate him.”

But when you slip to the door and crack it open, Sukuna is there, his massive head lowered to the threshold, those garnet eyes glowing with expectation. He snorts the moment he sees you, bumping his snout against your chest.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, your hands automatically smoothing over his warm snout. “Head pats. Happy?”

Sukuna rumbles, pressing harder into your palm. Satoru groans again. “Unbelievable. My dragon just stole my girl. I’m doomed.”

You glance over your shoulder to find him sprawled on the bed, hair a disaster, chest heaving, the blankets thrown over the lower half of his body. He’s sulking. You grin.

“Maybe he just knows when to step in,” you tease, scratching gently at Sukuna’s scales.

“Step in? He barged in.”

Sukuna lets out a little huff and nuzzles harder against your hand.

Satoru groans once more, louder this time, dragging the pillow over his face. “I’m moving out.”

Today’s the day! Wish me luck! I’m going to be on TV! You groan softly as you blearily read the texts before your fingers begin to move along the keyboard quickly. Good luck Pabo! I believe in you. Go be the best weatherman they could ever ask for! Once the text sends you drop your phone back onto your bed and shut your eyes hoping to fall back asleep since you had been up working late into the night. But just as you’re falling back into that comforting black abyss your phone vibrates once again. I’m nervous. I shouldn’t be nervous right? Everything will be fine. Right? Sighing softly you know you’re not going to be getting any more sleep with his quiet spiral starting to happen. Sitting up in bed your fingers move as if they have a mind of their own and you immediately call him. He picks up before you can move the phone to your ear.

“Hey.” he clips out and you know the nerves have gripped him tightly already. Dowoon may come off as nonchalant as anything but this man cares. He cares about doing well and representing himself in a way that others can look up to, he just doesn’t show that very often and likes to hide his nerves. You’ve known him since you were kids, you two grew up together and you knew him like the back of your hand. You were pretty sure you knew him better than he knew himself.

“First take a breath. Relax.” you tell him sleepily and listen as he breathes out shakily. “You are going to be just fine being the weatherman for the morning news station. Crack a few jokes, make some exaggerated movements up there in front of the green screen, and use that natural charm you have. I promise you’ll be fine.” you tell him gently.

“But what if it all goes wrong?” he asks you quickly and you shake your head at him even though he can’t see it.

“D, The only way it will go wrong is if someone holds up the wrong cue cards. And if that happens just make a joke, grin that puppy dog grin you have and all will be forgiven.” you tell him honestly not wanting to lie to him that nothing could go wrong.

“Okay, okay.” he says softly. “You’ll watch it though? The live broadcast?” he asks worriedly after a second.

“I have it already in my calendar with an alarm.” you tell him and he chuckles softly over the phone.

“What are you a simp for me or something?” he asks teasingly and you scoff at him.

“You know what? I hope they make you dress up in the silliest outfit for this thing.” you tell him and he barks out a happy laugh.

“Yeah, yeah. They probably will. Go back to bed workaholic. I’ll call you after the segment.” he says goodnaturedly and you grin softly at his antics. “Thanks, by the way.” he says softly and your grin melts into a warm smile.

“Anytime D. Now don’t forget to get him an autograph from the hot news anchor.” you tell him and he yells out in disgust which makes you laugh delightedly as he quickly hangs up. You flop back into bed after the phone call and slowly shut your eyes so that you can get some more sleep.

You sit on your couch with a steaming cup of coffee as the local news station intro plays loudly on your television. You’re still waking up after getting another hour of sleep as your eyes squint slightly at the flashy colors and bright graphics of the intro. Taking a sip you watch as the news anchors come on screen and run down a few bits of happening news locally before they announce that they had a special guest to report the weather for the day. When Dowoon comes on screen you grin widely at the image of him, he’s dressed in a nice blue button up and black slacks with his hair styled to fall over his forehead in a pretty arc. And then you laugh as you spot the bright almost neon yellow rain coat with a hood that they’ve dressed him in, not to mention the obnoxiously clashing colored umbrella he’s holding as a prop. You can’t stop the laugh from building in your chest and slipping out past your lips as you watch him look seriously into the camera exuding professionalism.

The weather segment starts off fine as you sit there watching him hoping and praying that everything will go smoothly for him and he won’t have any issues. He’s confident and moving about the screen pointing to the right numbers and graphics as he talks about the weather from yesterday. But then when he moves on to predict the weather for the day it all goes downhill. 

“Today expect to have some light drizzle in the morning with clear skies in the afternoon with mild winds.” he says as he reads from the cue cards and points to the right graphics on the screen. But just after he finishes speaking there’s a loud booming clap of thunder outside and your eyes dart over to your window to see that it is actually a torrential downpour outside your apartment. A flash of lightning streaks across the sky and you sigh softly knowing that something must’ve gone wrong and they didn’t have the right information for the weather today. Your eyes dart back to the television and you can see Dowoon’s eyes widen just as a loud clap of thunder is heard in the background.

Suddenly your cellphone explodes with dings as a slew of text messages begin to show up on the screen. Is this your boy?? You might want to come get him! Comes a text message from one of your girlfriends from school who knew both you and Dowoon. Oh my gosh! Why is he so wrong? Comes another text from one of your mutual friends and you sigh softly knowing that they’re only teasing but you know how Dowoon is most likely panicking inside right now. 

That little tidbit is confirmed as he tries to continue on with the weather segment with the grace of a stumbling fawn who’s just started walking. He points to the wrong day for the temperature as he tries to catch his footing after the first blunder. But his nerves are large as he says the wrong wind direction and it only spirals from there as he drops the umbrella prop once while he tries to regain his balance. The camera catches his spiral and panic on live television and your heart breaks for him knowing that this would most likely sit with him for a while even though it truly wasn’t his fault.

After you hear him stutter out the end of his weather segment you stand from your couch and move to your bedroom to get changed and grab your own umbrella. Before you’re ready to leave your apartment you make a travel mug full of his favorite kind of coffee prepared the exact way he enjoys it. Within ten minutes you’re out the door and heading to the parking lot on a mission to go save your boy.

Once you park in the parking lot not far from the television station you’ve already received five different text messages from your friends with links to clips of Dowoon’s disastrous weather segment. The station has already posted the clips online and they’ve gone mildly viral. Your eyes flit over the comments and you try to hide your grin even as your heart twists in your chest. 

“Weahterboy with 0% accuracy.”

“They did him so dirty.”

“What’s next, a prediction of a tornado?!”

You stare at the words until they blur and then you sigh out softly. Getting out of your car you make a quick call to Dowoon’s manager letting him know that you’re there and that you’d like to take Dowoon out for lunch knowing that he doesn’t have anything else planned for the day. The manager sighs out thankfully and tells you he’ll let security know to let you through. You then shoot a quick text to Dowoon.

Meteorology isn’t your calling. It’s simple and gently teasing, something you know that he’ll appreciate and want to lean into more than addressing that things didn’t go well. His response is quick, I hate you. You chuckle softly as you come to the doors of the station and wait just outside with your umbrella over your head. No you don’t, you text him back and watch as the typing bubbles pop up but you’re quicker than him, Meet me outside I think you need some liquid lunch to forget about that disaster. It takes him a few minutes to respond but when he does you can hear the text read aloud in his voice, You’re here?! Rolling your eyes at his surprise you chuckle softly while a small smile slips onto your face, Duh I’m here to save you from your embarrassment. So c’mon Mr. Weatherman.

Not even twenty minutes later and you spot Dowoon through the large glass panes of the front lobby as he walks out towards you. He steps outside and you’re immediately moving to cover him with your umbrella. He blinks at you for a quiet moment before he sighs softly. You step close and wrap your arms around him, hugging him tightly. 

“It was so bad.” he says to you softly and your heart breaks for him.

“C’mon, let’s go get in my car before I catch a charge for threatening the television station staff for failing you.” you tell him honestly and he chuckles softly at your words before nodding his head as he relaxes in your hold. The two of you are quiet as you walk to your car letting the rain and thunder fill the air with noise.

When the two of you get into your car you crank up the heat to drive away the chill that’s permeated the air around you. Rain hits your outside of your car in sheets that are almost too dense for you to see through. You turn to him and he’s staring at the floor of your passenger seat, you wait for him to speak knowing that if you don’t wait it’ll stop him speaking and he’ll just let it fester within him.

“They said someone switched out the cue cards at the last minute. It was just a mistake for the afternoon weather segment.” he said dejectedly and you watched him quietly.

“They should’ve been able to catch that though, D. This wasn’t your fault. Please don’t think this was your fault.” you say softly yet firmly trying to reach him through his embarrassment. He nods his head quickly before looking over at you with a sad smile on his face.

“Manager-nim said that the company will spin it in a way to show that idols are human and make mistakes. But it still was really embarrassing and I couldn’t get a hold on it once it went sideways.” he tells you and you nod your head at his words.

“That’s good that they’ll be able to manage it that way but still the station should be held responsible.” you say adamantly as anger rises within you at the embarrassment that he had to face because of their mistake and he stares at you for a quiet moment before grinning widely at you. “What?” you ask him as you notice his grin.

“You always know exactly what to say to make me feel better. You always show up when I need you the most even when I don’t even know that I need you.” he says softly and you smile proudly at him. You’re reminded of all those times when you were kids growing up together, you both had always been there for each other no matter what. Always looking out for each other and making sure you were both alright. Silence settles over the both of you, familiar, comfortable. 

“I’ll always be here. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” you tell him honestly with a cheeky grin on your face. He scoffs while rolling his eyes at you, he then leans over and nudges your shoulder with his own.

“I wouldn’t want to get rid of you anyway.” he said softly and you look at him surprised with how much emotion is packed into those simple words. “Who would be my source of entertainment then?” he asks and you burst out into happy laughter at his teasing.

“Whatever, you’re still the worst weatherman ever.” you tell him and he laughs at you before shaking his head.

“At least I’m not some wannabe Kdrama lead with an umbrella scene!” he cries out and you blink at him for a moment before dramatically gasping and pressing your hand to your chest.

“How dare you!” you dramatically gasp out and he rolls his eyes at you. “I’ll have you know I would be the best Kdrama lead for you!” you insist and he grins at you.

“Prove it.” he challenges you with a sparkle in his eyes as he stares at you. Something shifts in the air and for a moment your brain stutters in comprehension before your heart takes over and you reach out and grab him by his shirt before dragging him into a slow, hot, gentle kiss. One that feels familiar and like it’s always belonged between the two of you. Dowoon reciprocates the kiss easily which surprises you but with his challenge you should’ve realized what he was getting at.

When you pull away from him you rest your forehead against his while a grin spreads across your face and your eyes flutter closed. The rain sounds louder as it hits the outside of your car and it makes the inside of your car be consumed with a quiet that just feels warm. He huffs out a quiet laugh sounding relieved before he leans down closer to you his own soft grin on his lips.

“Forecast update,” he murmurs softly and you chuckle softly at him as your eyes flick open to stare into his eyes expectantly. “High chance of me kissing my best Kdrama lead again.” he teases but you grin wickedly at him.

“100% probability?” you ask him cheekily and he laughs at you.

You’ve never been a stranger to attending galas. In fact, growing up, it was all you knew.

While the other little girls in school were having tea parties, you were attending real, adult ones, sat in between your parents while they had adult conversations six-year old you could barely comprehend.

When you reached high school and all your classmates talked about was what dress to wear to prom, you were, too, except it wasn’t prom you were attending, but another one of your parents’ charity events you couldn’t care less about.

Hell, it was so beyond inescapable that it was also where you found you were getting married.

You haven’t been to an event since— not until tonight, that is— and even though it’s been a while, it’s nothing you’re not used to. The only difference is that you’re here as Brian’s plus-one now, and though you’re relieved that you could just stand there and sip on your champagne while he does the talking, there’s one thing you haven’t expected to have to account for.

Brian’s conversation with one of his associates blur into the background when your eyes land on something— rather, someone. A lady, one you don’t recognise, a few tables away from you, champagne flute in hand as she talks, red lips pulled into a smirk. But her eyes aren’t on her friend, they’re on… Brian.

Your Brian.

You take a sip from your own drink, studying her through the rim of your glass. What the hell is this girl’s deal?

Subconsciously, you find yourself leaning towards him, your shoulder now brushing his arm. Brian glances at you, lips still moving, but you don’t look up as you fiddle with your glass. You know he’s surprised— it isn’t like you to initiate touch at all, let alone in public.

Slowly, he brings a hand to rest on your lower back, barely-there, but firm enough for you to feel the heat of his palm seep through the silk of your dress as he wraps up his conversation.

And when his acquaintance finally excuses himself—

“You okay?” Brian bends down to whisper in your ear.

You turn to him. His eyes sweep across your features as he waits for your reply, as though to really check if anything’s wrong. He’s standing close, close enough for his cologne to warp your senses, and because you could practically feel that woman’s eyes still zeroed on him— your husband— you do the one thing you never would’ve expected yourself to do in public.

You tilt your chin to place a kiss on his jaw.

You don’t pull away immediately, and when you do, the red of your lipstick remains on his skin.

And that leaves Brian stunned, his brows shooting upwards, but he quickly recovers as he pulls you closer to him, a small smile on his lips. “Hm? What’re you doing, baby?”

You hum, non-committal, bringing a thumb to the stain you left. Not to rub it off, but merely just to touch.

“Nothing.”

Brian looks like he’s about to say something else, but before he could, a shrill voice snaps the both of you out of your bubble.

“Younghyun? Kang Younghyun?”

You turn, and the lady from earlier now stands before you, a cheshire grin on her lips. Instantly, you note the way her eyes study Brian— your Brian— from head to toe, like a predator canvassing its prey.

You don’t like it one bit. But with the way Brian’s still holding you, one arm around your waist and the other resting on the cocktail table, hand enveloping yours, you can’t help but to let the small feeling of satisfaction bloom in your chest.

Because no one gets to look at your husband like that— especially not this woman who looks like she’s undressing him with her eyes alone.

“Yumi, hey. How are you?” Brian greets politely, the way he’s been doing to everyone here the entire night.

“I’ve been well. Landed just this morning, actually. Then my parents told me there was a gala tonight, so I decided, why not?” She flips her hair. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I see you’re doing good.”

Finally, her sharp eyes turn to you, and you match her scrutiny with a glare of your own.

“I heard you got married. Congratulations.” She continues, hawk eyes not leaving yours. Her lips tug at the corners, like she knows something you don’t. “She looks like… she takes care of you well.”

You feel Brian tense. “Yumi-”

“I do,” you cut him off brusquely, before plastering on a smile that matches hers. “Every night, without fail, actually. He never has a reason to complain. Do you, baby?” You murmur as you turn to him, fingers brushing the ring on his finger.

Brian’s staring at you, and you recognise the look in his eyes. It’s how he looks at you when you’re the one leaning in first; when you forget to be shy. It’s how he looks at you when you stop holding back, when you decide you want him just as much as he’s always wanted you. It’s a look between restraint and want, with you being the only thing he sees while also being the one who makes it hard to breathe.

Your hand finds his face again, though this time you do swipe the lipstick away. Not all, though, making sure to leave just enough for that woman to see. You simper up at him sweetly.

She scoffs. “Well, you’ve always been easy to please. I’ll tell my parents you said hi.” She smiles tersely, giving Brian one last look before stalking off.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath, while a humourless chuckle leaves your lips. “What a bitch, your ex-girlfriend is.”

Brian’s arm tightens around you, and when you look at him, his jaw is clenched, eyes still trained on you. “She’s not my ex,” he mutters.

“Regardless.” You shrug flippantly as you look down to your conjoined hands, mostly to break away from his intense gaze. You figure you’d been too caught up in your emotions earlier to notice how he’s looking at you, but with that woman now gone, it’s all you’re aware of.

“She’s had to mean something to you, right?” Against your better judgement, the words slip out under your breath. Your words are dry, but if there’s anyone who could make out the edge in your voice no matter how subtle, then it’d be Brian.

He inhales sharply. “Let’s go home.”

You look up, brows furrowing. “Weren’t you supposed to meet-”

“I’ll just call him tomorrow. Just- let’s go home, baby. Yeah?”

The urgency in his voice causes you to nod, though you’re still slightly confused at the sudden shift in mood. You don’t think he’s angry at you given he’s still calling you baby, but the knit in his brows and tick in his jaw tells you that something’s definitely up.

Maybe you’d crossed a line without meaning to. You were never one to be so crass— at least not after marrying him anyway— but you did call his ex— or whoever that woman is— a bitch. And bragged about your sex life like it was something to be proud of.

Or maybe it was because you’d kissed him in public. The faint red still stains his skin, catching in the streetlights during the drive home, a reminder of your temporary lapse in judgement when you’d decided it was a good idea to mark him like some kind of wild animal.

And suddenly, you feel shame wash all over you, and you quickly turn your head to the window. Did he not like it? Did you misjudge the look in his eyes after you told that woman off?

Did you… embarrass him?

You’re racking your brain to blurt out some sort of apology when you reach home, trailing behind him as he unlocks the door.

But the moment you enter, it barely clicks shut before he’s on you.

You gasp when your back hits the wall, Brian’s arms already finding your waist. He kisses you like he’s been holding his breath the entire way home— urgent, hungry, but still impossibly gentle when it comes to you.

“Brian-” you try, only to gasp when his lips move to your jaw.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs against your skin, words half sigh, half groan. “Do you know what that did to me? Looking at me like that- touching me like that, and I couldn’t even-” he stops short, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

You shiver under his touch. “I thought you were mad,” you manage to whisper, clutching onto the lapels of his suit like it’s the only thing that can hold you upright.

“Mad?” Brian lifts his head to look at you, eyes glassy, and you can feel how hard he’s trying to steady himself. “Never. Never at you.” He lets his lips brush yours, and he smiles weakly. “Were you jealous, baby?”

Your breath hitches. “N-No.”

“No?” He echoes, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Then why’d you look at me like that?”

You shake your head, breathless. “I wasn’t-”

He hums. Another kiss. “Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you were jealous. I want to hear it.”

“Brian,” you whine, eyes fluttering shut as you pull him closer in hopes that he’d drop the teasing and just take you already.

But he doesn’t, his breath still fanning your lips, as though he won’t do anything until you answer him.

“You hated it, didn’t you?” He asks. “When she called me Younghyun.”

This time, you nod, partly because there’s no use lying anymore, but mostly because your resolve is rapidly breaking with the feeling of his chest against yours, and his hot breath against your skin. You can't lie anymore— not to yourself, and not to him. So you decide to give it to him. You want to give him everything.

“I was so fucking jealous, Younghyun,” you breathe.

“There she is.” He smiles against your mouth, and when he finally kisses you properly— slower, deeper— you stop fighting it. You stop pretending you don’t want him, and just let yourself fall.

taglist: @zozojella @worldpeaceforyoongi @def-not-daria @bbirongkke @xsyuxx @jazziwritesthings @hykiu82 @sxfterhearts @kwenchanha @cherryhwas @outroprpsed @bootiful-jinki

I. [YOU, THIRTY SECONDS AWAY FROM A MELTDOWN]

You’ve been told that hitting the big three would be a bit like being reborn, a chance to get a fresh start and to leave your past self behind in your twenties… or at least, according to Wonpil, it was. He wasn’t exactly a wild child back in the day, so you weren’t sure where all of this was coming from, but regardless you still decided to take his advice with a spoonful of trust— not only because he’s your best friend, but because you believed in his mantra too.

There’s been some talk going around about a promotion, and with you having worked for this airline for a good seven years now, you know the title of Senior Flight Attendant is practically within reach. You’re ready to enter your thirties with a clean slate, a sharper uniform, and the kind of certainty that maybe, everything was finally falling into place—

Except it isn’t.

“We’re letting you off.”

The smile fades from your lips slightly, and the room settles in a pin-drop silence as you process the words that left your supervisor’s lips.

“I’m sorry?”

“The airline is going through some budget cuts, so we’ve got no choice but to let some people go,” he explains robotically, as though he’s reading off a script. Your heart starts to thump in your ears as the weight of the situation finally settles in, and your smile wipes off completely. “This has nothing to do with you, obviously. You’ve been a great worker and contributed much to the company-“

“So you’re firing me?”

Your supervisor stutters. “Well- you will be getting severance pay. And some additional farewell benefits as compensation. That aside, we’re extremely sorry to let you go. We wish you the best in your future endeavours.”

He bows slightly, and you don’t stop the humourless chuckle that escapes your lips.

Even as you step out of his office, your termination letter already crumpled under the tight grip of your hand, you refuse to fully acknowledge the dread in the pit of your stomach— not until you reach home, and you’re dialling for the one person who could help you make sense of this entire situation.

As usual, Wonpil is all smiles as he picks up, but it instantly disappears when he sees your face. “Wow. Did you get fired or something?”

You flop onto your couch, tossing your blazer aside. “That obvious?”

Your best friend gapes, but he quickly recovers. “Wha- are you serious? What happened?”

“Said the company’s downsizing… or whatever.” You shrug as you stare blankly at the ceiling, and you sense Wonpil shift through the screen. With it being a weekday afternoon, he’s probably still at work, but you couldn’t find it in you to care for disturbing him. “What should I do, Pil?”

“Hey, don’t worry too much. You’ll find a new job in no time! You’ve got the experience and the skillset. Just take this as a stepping stone towards a better opportunity. A silver lining, you know?”

You glance at your phone, and Wonpil is already grinning at you through the screen. You know that’s just the teacher in him talking, and right now, you feel like one of his students after failing a test. Wonpil has always been supportive, so despite your own dejection, you find it in you to smile at him weakly. “Thanks, Pil.”

And even though you’re not really confident in his words, you’re still grateful for his optimism, and maybe some of that is just what you need.

II. IT’S YOUR THIRTIETH DAY OF REJECTION.

You don’t think being optimistic could help you out of this rut.

You’ve been applying to countless of other airlines, only to be rejected by most of them— the rest hadn’t even bothered to reply.

You know what it is, and it’s the harsh truth you’re only beginning to swallow. Age bias has always been prevalent in your industry, and even though you know you’re nowhere near being a grandma, it’s likely the reason why you aren’t getting any offers.

Wonpil has been by your side throughout, though it’s mostly just been you pathetically moping around while he tries to talk you into trying something else— like a job at the airport lounge (seeing your ex-colleagues would only make you miserable) or concierge at a hotel (serving foreign pilots and flight attendants would make you even more).

Which is why, after much debating (not like you were left with much of a choice whatsoever), you landed yourself a job at a café. Basic, but simple, and safe.

The only problem is that you hate it.

It’s only been a few shifts, and you know you wouldn't be able to last any longer. Even though serving people coffee is technically still a customer service job, there’s just something about the mind-numbing repetition of it that makes you itch to walk out the door.

And so, you do.

“Are you serious?” Wonpil scoffs. “You’ve dealt with entitled businessmen and screaming toddlers thousands of feet in the air, but a little coffee spill is where you draw the line?”

“You think I want this to happen?” You grumble in frustration, avoiding his gaze as you busy yourself with the loose thread on your sleeve. “I just can’t, Pil, okay? Gosh, maybe what I need is a break.”

“You know, that’s not a bad idea. You could use the tickets the airline gave you to go somewhere. Figure things out," he suggests.

“Please,” you scoff. “That pathetic thing they call a severance package barely does me any good. You think I’d have a good time overseas knowing my wallet is shrinking?”

“Then maybe you should visit your grandparents, or something.”

A few beats pass as you let his words hang in the air, and your eyes widen with sudden realisation. “Wonpil, you’re a genius,” you whisper before turning back to him, and he only furrows his brows in confusion. “I could rent out my apartment for a few months while I stay in Jeju— to figure things out, like you said. That way I could make money without actually having to work!”

“I mean, I guess…” Unlike what you’ve been expecting, your best friend looks uneasy with your idea, and before you could ask him why, Wonpil continues, “it’s just- if you’re planning on staying there for that long, are you sure you could actually do it? I mean, village life. It’s no joke for city people like us.”

You roll your eyes. “Relax. I visited my grandparents a lot when I was little. And like you said— if I could deal with entitled businessmen and screaming toddlers in the air, a little sun and farming wouldn’t hurt me.”

“What if someone spills coffee on you?”

You nod solemnly. “Then I’ll know for sure that I was never meant to work a day in my life.”

III. THE WEATHER SAYS IT’S THIRTY DEGREES OUTSIDE. The humidity of Jeju-do is quick to catch up to you the moment you step off the plane, and by the time you manage to drag your bags to the taxi stand outside the airport, you're already slick with sweat, with your hair stuck to your neck and makeup halfway down your face.

And because the universe seems to hate you (you haven't gotten a single stroke of good luck since the day you got sacked), there aren't any taxis around.

Not a single one. Of course.

You take in a deep breath before trudging towards the bus stop, the wheels of your luggage squeaking pathetically behind you. No matter— you aren't about to let a little hiccup get in the way of your retreat when it's barely just started. Even if it would take around another two hours for you to reach Pyoseon-ri by bus, and even if the smell of manure in the air is beginning to cloud your judgement and make you wonder if moving on impulse was a good idea to begin with.

Still, you're adamant on not letting up so soon. You make sure to greet the driver when you board the bus, make sure to smile at the other passengers apologetically as you struggle to haul your luggage up the steps. 

The driver doesn't wait for you before he floors the pedal, and that sends you crashing into a random stranger's shoulder. No one reacts. The stranger doesn't even blink.

You let out a slow exhale. Maybe Wonpil did have a point.

✦ ✦ ✦

By the time the bus wheezes to a stop, you're exhausted and completely out of it. Still, you can't help but to marvel at the sights around you as you alight, and it brings a certain warmth to your chest.

Pyoseon looks exactly like how you remember it, with its stone-lined streets that stretches on for miles on end and clear, vast skies you don't get to appreciate in Seoul. The old convenience store you used to frequent still stands, painted walls still chipped and red sign still faded. You spot the tiny, two-room clinic at the corner where you once cried over a scraped knee. It's also the same place you brought in an injured baby chick you found at the side of the road.

You pause for a moment, just standing there as you take in the village. Barely nothing has changed, and you think that's what throws you off the most. After years of chasing new cities, new skies, new routines... it's disorienting to return to a place seemingly still frozen in time.

You grip the handle of your bag tighter before making your way to the village hall. With your grandfather being the village chief, it's the place he'd most likely be at, and at this timing, you figure he'd probably be doing something... mayor-y. Whatever that meant.

The gravel crunches under your shoes as you trudge down the narrow path, and you're becoming increasingly aware of the curious glances and murmurs thrown your way as you near the village hall. You're not sure if people remember you, but one thing's for sure is that you hadn't prepared yourself for any kind of attention at all.

You let out a soft sigh of relief when the familiar one-story building comes into view, and there's loud chatter coming from somewhere behind it— probably the other village elders lounging around on the pyeongsang under the big zelkova tree. The thought of making a sudden appearance sounds awkward— another thing you hadn't accounted for— but when you hear the undeniable sound of your grandfather's laughter echoing in the air, you know you're not really left with any other option.

So you round the corner— and that's when it happens.

SPLASH!

A torrent of water hits you square in the chest, soaking you from the neck down. You don't even register your luggage tipping over as you stand there, dripping, jaw on the floor.

"Oh, crap, I'm so-"

The voice pauses, and you look up at the culprit: a too-tall, too-familiar guy with a bucket still dangling from one hand. You only barely manage to catch the panic on his features before he's squinting at you, and that's when you finally realise—

"Peach?"

"Younghyun?!"

You say at the same time.

He laughs, his hand lowering to his side. "No way. It's really you, huh? The princess of Seoul who swore she'd never come back. Welcome home, Your Highness."

You chuckle humourlessly. "That's rich, coming from you. Not everyone gets to run away to Europe and come crawling back like they never left."

Despite your blatant jab, he grins in response, shameless and insufferable as ever.

And yet another thing you hadn't accounted for— freaking Kang Younghyun. If you'd told Wonpil just how unprepared you are for this trip, you're sure he'd have a heart attack.

The last time you saw the village boy had to be almost ten years ago, before your visits to Jeju started to grow less frequent as you got older and busier. Last you heard, he'd stayed, all up until the last couple of times you visited and he wasn't around. Your grandfather had said something about him working on his masters overseas, and you'd scoffed at that— mainly because of how ironic it was. Kang Younghyun, the boy who used to tease you relentlessly for being too "city-fied" had gone off and did the most city thing of all. Left for a higher education. Abroad.

And now he's back. And so are you.

He's still the same as you remember, with mischief tucked into the curve of his smile and a teasing glint in his eyes. He still has the same thick eyebrows you used to make fun of, and dimples that would appear on both cheeks whenever he smiled too wide, but something about him feels different too.

He's gotten taller. Broader. The sharp lines of his jaw are more defined now, with cheekbones you don't remember being that sharp. You hate that you even notice the glint of sweat on his sun-kissed skin, and you're quick to dispose that thought. Because you hate Kang Younghyun, and you'd rather not admit that he's gotten kind of... stupidly good looking.

"There you are!"

Grandpa appears behind Younghyun, waving as though nothing is amiss. He barely even glances at your drenched state, patting Younghyun on his back.

You scowl. Your first day here, and your own blood is already favouring that smug asshole over you.

"Younghyun-ah, be a dear and give her a ride back home, would you? She must be tired from the journey."

You gape. "Wha- Grandpa, I'm drenched."

"Mm, you'll dry. Help yourself to the food in the fridge and come back here once you're rested, okay? Your grandma will be thrilled to see you once she returns from the district's women's council meeting." The old man is already walking back towards the village hall, but not before patting your head on the way. He glances over his shoulder. "Bicycle's around the back!"

You stand there in stunned silence before turning back to Younghyun, who's already grinning at you like an idiot. He gestures towards the tree behind him, where an old, rusted bicycle leans against the bark.

"Oh, no." You almost laugh at how absurd the situation you're in. "Oh, no, no."

"You heard the man, Peach," Younghyun adds cheekily. "Hop on."

You glower at him. "I'd rather walk barefoot through cactus than get on that thing with you."

Younghyun only laughs, like he knows you're playing a losing game. And he's right, because five minutes later you're clinging to the back of the bicycle, left hand gripping onto the handle of your luggage tightly as you let it drag along the gravel, while Younghyun pedals lazily like it's the most amusing thing that's happened to him all week. You don't even need to look at his face to know that he's grinning widely.

"So, still sweet on peaches?" He asks casually. You can practically hear the smirk in his tone.

"Shut up."

He laughs again.

IV. EVERYTHING IS ABSOLUTELY PEACHY... NOT. You return to the village hall later that night in an old t-shirt and a pair of floral pants you snagged from your grandmother’s wardrobe. You figure if you’re going to be staying in the countryside, you might as well look the part, though you find that it did little to help ease the turmoil in your heart. You think it has something to do with Pyoseon and everything to do with yourself— and annoyingly, maybe just a little to do with Kang Younghyun’s smug face greeting you at every turn. 

You scowl at him before he could say anything, shoving past him by the door and into the living area where some of the village elders are lounging. You instantly spot your grandmother, mid-conversation before her eyes land on you, and she immediately beams.

“My granddaughter!” She immediately stands up to engulf you in a hug, and despite yourself you find yourself smiling. Grandma has always been one to dote on you, and after the terrible first-half of the day you just had, a little comfort is just what you need.

She pulls back just enough to study your face. “Oh, look at you! Have you not been eating? Sleeping? Aish, I keep telling you to take care of yourself! Whatever it is, I’m glad you’re here to stay now, sweetheart. You need some real food in your system to make up for all those years of flying around.”

Someone snickers in the background, and you turn to see Younghyun, leaning against the doorframe casually with his arms crossed.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Something funny?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, no. It’s just- you’d think a city girl would’ve upgraded her diet by now. Still running on iced tea and whatever’s closest to the microwave?”

You laugh sharply. “Stop acting like you know me, Younghyun.”

“Oh, but he does, doesn’t he? You two used to be so close!” Grandma pipes in unhelpfully, and you turn back to her with warning eyes. Not like she noticed whatsoever. “How much I struggled to keep you at home because you’re always running off with this boy doing God knows what. And that peach orchard you kids used to frequent so much-"

“Okay, Grandma.” You force out a smile through clenched teeth, easing yourself out from her hold as you join the other elders on the floor, face burning for some reason.

“Ignore him. He’s just messing with you.” One of the elders pats your hand mindlessly before turning back to the group. “But enough talk about that. Where were we?”

“Ah, yes. The signboards! We need to retrieve them from storage to get them painted. The tent materials can wait until we’re done with housekeeping, so until then, let’s focus on cleaning up the area.”

You blink before whispering to the old lady. “What are we talking about?”

“The annual harvest festival, my dear! You remember, don’t you? We’re doing a big event this year— food stalls, performances. The whole village is coming together!”

Your lips part as you nod. After all these years, you’d forgotten about the harvest festival that takes place in the summer every year. You’d attended a couple of times back when you were younger, but your visits were never long enough where you actually got to help with the preparations beforehand.

There were a lot of food, and lanterns, and dancing— that much you could recall, and you vaguely remember failing miserably at ring toss while Younghyun laughed at you. Subconsciously, you glance at him, only to find him already looking at you with a lopsided grin on his lips.

You turn away.

“Well, now that we have an extra pair of hands, it seems that we have nothing to worry about this year, do we?” Grandpa appears from the kitchen. “Don’t underestimate my granddaughter. She may be a city girl but she’s a tough one.” He grins at you, and the compliment makes you smile.

“Good! Then you and Younghyun can get started on washing the sheets tomorrow.”

Your smile instantly drops. “Me and who now.”

Grandma ignores you. “Our machines aren’t able to handle the load, so you’d have to do it by hand. Don’t worry, Younghyun will guide you through it!”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” you mutter, though it falls on deaf ears.

The elders are quick to move on, chattering about what needs to be done for the festival preparations. You lean on your hands with a sigh, until you feel someone settle in the empty space next to you.

“So, looks like it’s me and you tomorrow, Peach.”

You don’t even need to look at him to know that he’s smirking. Younghyun slides something towards you, and you glance down to see that it’s a bottle of peach tea. You narrow your eyes at it suspiciously, and he laughs.

“Relax. It’s not like I poisoned it. Consider this a peace offering for earlier. Plus, thought it suited you.”

You turn to smile pleasantly at him, purposely batting your eyelashes. “Because I’m sweet?”

Younghyun leans in, his voice teasing. “Because you bruise easy.”

You instantly scowl, and Younghyun laughs heartily as he stands up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Princess. If we finish on time, we could even go disturb Grandpa Han at his orchard like we used to.”

“I hope you choke.”

"That's the spirit," he coos, patting your head before whistling his way out.

You don’t think you’ve ever hated a person more.

V. PEACHY CLEAN! OR SO YOU THOUGHT. The sun is high by the time you reach the courtyard of the village hall, shades resting on the bridge of your nose and a popsicle in hand. You don't stop the pleased smile that graces your lips when your eyes land on Younghyun, looking pathetic with his back to you as he hunches over a large basin, elbow-deep in soapy water.

"You seem to be hard at work."

He only spares you a glance over his shoulder. "You see, I am a man of my word. Unlike somebody over here."

You roll your eyes wordlessly, finishing the last of your popsicle before squatting down next to him. You've never washed a whole bedsheet with your hands before— not like Younghyun needed to know, obviously. All you had to do was spin it around in soap a few times before washing it out with water. Can't be that hard, right?

"Fill this one with water so I can rinse it out," he instructs, nodding towards the red basin to his left. You decide to swallow down your complaint about how you'd just squatted down, getting back on your feet to step to the faucet begrudgingly. You pick up the hose lazily, angling it to the basin next to Younghyun before turning the tap on. If you're being completely honest, this seems like a one-person job, one Younghyun looks totally capable of doing on his own, but you wouldn't be surprised if the only reason you're here is because he wants to see you miserable.

You squint at his back, the man clearly unaware of you throwing daggers at him as he continues to scrub the bedsheets with his hands. You note the way his brows furrow in concentration, the flex of his muscles with every wring, and the droplet of sweat formed on his temple...

You smirk.

"Say, Younghyun?"

"Hm?" He hums in reply, clearly too distracted to catch your overly-sweet tone.

You don't say anything as you flick your wrist, and in an instant the water from the hose arcs through the air, hitting him square in the back and soaking the fabric of his shirt.

Your grin grows wider. "Oops."

Younghyun freezes, far too long for it to be comfortable than you'd like to admit, before he lets out a low chuckle. He stands up slowly, but he doesn't face you yet.

"Peach."

Your smile falters slightly, but you tilt your chin upwards. "What?"

He finally turns to you, jaw tight and face devoid of any humour. He's dripping from the neck down, similar to how you were yesterday, and you can't help the satisfaction that blooms in your chest. Even if it's at the expense of you potentially getting killed by Kang Younghyun in the next five seconds.

He takes a step forward, and you don't wait for him to say anything else before you drop the hose, making a run for it. Unfortunately for you, Younghyun is fast— of course he is— because the next thing you know, you feel yourself get yanked backwards harshly towards his chest, and he doesn't even hesitate before drenching you with the hose.

"Let go of me, you freak!" You shriek as the ice-cold water hits you, thrashing against his hold.

Younghyun laughs— completely loud and completely unbothered— the running hose still in one hand while the other grips on to your waist tightly.

"Should've thought of that before you decided to mess with me, Princess."

"You splashed me first, asshole!"

“To which I gave you a peace offering! A peach offering, if you will-"

"Yah! What are you two doing?”

The both of you freeze. Younghyun is the first to let you go, and you slip slightly on the wet ground. He steadies you by the wrist.

“Didn't I tell you these needed to be done before noon, boy?” One of the elders squint at you and Younghyun from afar. “And you still have to collect the signboards from the old storage hut, remember? Now you’re behind!”

You tense, parting your lips to utter out an apology (since this was clearly a two-man disaster), but Younghyun beats you to it.

“Sorry, Grandpa. That’s on me. I’ll get it done.” He bows his head, water still dripping from his bangs. 

The old man grumbles under his breath before walking off.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, glancing at Younghyun awkwardly. “I-“

"You should go dry off,” he mutters, almost casually as he wrings his own shirt. "Before you catch a cold and blame me for the rest of your life."

You’re still stunned, but you still find it in you to scoff. “What, so you’re kicking me off sheet duty now?”

"Peach, I'm serious." Younghyun finally looks at you, and it's an expression you're not quite familiar with. He hands you a towel from one of the baskets. “Go. I'll finish the rest, okay?"

You want to make a sarcastic remark about him caring for you, but you bite your tongue, accepting the towel wordlessly instead. Younghyun goes back to tending to the sheets (but not before shooting you a wink, of course; that idiot), and you’re left staring at his back while your heart thumps wildly in your chest.

You’re not sure what this feeling is. Some of it has to be guilt, you believe. A small part of you is grateful, and the rest…

The rest, you think you’d rather not acknowledge.

VI. IF ONLY YOUR PAST IS AS FUZZY AS YOU FEEL. You lean against the windowsill of the village hall, phone tucked between your ear and your shoulder as you watch the quiet afternoon roll by. Chickens cluck in the distance, the occasional breeze rustles the trees, and the scent of freshly-cut grass wafts lazily in.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure I’ve developed a healthy loathing for dirt and manual labour. And the fact that freaking Kang Younghyun insists on making my life a living hell every single day, but apart from that it’s not all bad, I guess,” you mutter. “Better than being jobless in Seoul.”

“You? Hating manual labour? Shocking,” Wonpil chuckles. “You know, I still don’t know what happened between you and that guy. I mean, didn’t you have a crush on him for like, half your life-“

“Shut up,” you hiss, glancing around to make sure no one had heard. Fortunately, nobody else is in the kitchen besides you, the elders all gathered in living room. “I was young and stupid, okay?”

“You were twenty.”

You don’t respond immediately. Speak of the Devil— your eyes fleet to Younghyun’s figure outside as he hauls some crates onto the back of a small truck, his hair swept back messily and shirt clinging to his back with sweat.

Still irritatingly attractive, unfortunately.

“It’s… it’s stupid,” you mumble, looking away. “We were good friends. Until we weren’t.”

Wonpil is quiet for a beat. “He broke your heart?”

You inhale sharply, your mind instantly going back to that one fateful night, many summers ago. It’s been ten years, yet the memory still plays fresh in your mind like it’s just happened yesterday.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow,” Younghyun mutters, hands stuffed in his pockets as you walk side by side. It’s dark, the two of you having spent the whole day outside, and now he’s walking you home. You don’t know how to tell him that you don’t want to go back.

“Uni starts in a week. I have to prepare,” you reply just as quietly, as though going any louder would contribute to the growing tension in the air between you two.

“Yeah, but-“ Younghyun stops walking suddenly, moving to stand in front of you. “Couldn’t you- I don’t know- stay till then? Your parents have to be okay with that, right? Hey, maybe if I talk to them, they’d give in.”

He grins down at you boyishly, but you could still make out the hopefulness in his voice. Stupid Kang Younghyun. If only he knew how the sight of his smile alone is already enough to convince you to stay. Hell, even his stupid beach blond dyed hair that’s constantly unkempt and constantly needed to be held back with that stupid bandanna of his is making you reluctant to leave, no matter how much you make fun of him for it.

You think that’s just because you’re hopelessly in love with him.

"I'll come visit. I promise."

His smile grows softer, and he raises a hand to tuck a loose hair behind your ear. "I know, Peach."

You bite your inner lip, your heart thumping erratically at the nickname. You've always called him out for it, you think it's stupid and childish, but Younghyun has never agreed to let down. "You've made me climb peach trees for you since we were kids, and your cheeks always grow pink when I call you that. What else should I call you if not Peach?" He'd say, and that'd shut you up every time.

Tonight, however, you can't help but feel like there's more to it. Like a certain weight neither of you is willing to acknowledge.

His fingers linger on your skin, and you don't miss the way his eyes fleet to your lips. It makes your breath hitch, the way it always does when you catch him staring at you for too long but not doing anything about it.

So right now, you do. You lean in first, pressing a hesitant kiss to his lips. It's clumsy, but it's soft, and just as you think he's about to meet you halfway, Younghyun pulls away.

“I- we shouldn't have done that," he mutters, just before you could say anything. He avoids your gaze as he runs a hand through his hair, and you scoff softly.

"Really?" You whisper, taking a step back. "Seriously, Younghyun, why do you keep doing that?"

He finally looks at you, his expression passive and not at all like the boy you thought you knew.

"You think I don't see the way you look at me? Like- like I'm the only girl in the world that's worth your time? You think I don't notice whenever you want to kiss me, only to hold yourself back at the last second because you're scared?"

Younghyun chuckles dryly. "Don't flatter yourself."

His words hit you like a slap, and anger courses through your veins. "What- so you're telling me none of these ever mattered to you? That I don't mean anything to you?"

"I never said that," Younghyun cuts you off, his voice low. "You don't get to do that, okay? You don't get to leave, only to come back and pretend like nothing's changed. I'm not about to be a chapter you come back to when things get boring."

"Is that really what you think of me?" You ask, voice trembling slightly. Younghyun stays quiet, and that's about all the answers you needed.

"Fuck you, Younghyun," you laugh slightly, wiping the tears that are already streaming down your cheeks. "You know, just because you're mad that some people can make it in the city and you can't, doesn't mean you get to take it out on me. You asshole."

You meant to hurt him, and you know you did, with the way he clenches his jaw at your words. Still, he scoffs humourlessly as he takes a step back, and in that moment, you know you're about to lose him.

"Then I guess we were never meant to be in the first place."

"Yikes."

"Yeah. But it's whatever. I'm over it."

"Really? Because it sounds like there's still some pent-up resentment-"

"I'm over it, Pil."

Wonpil pauses. "Alright, fine, yeah. Anyway, your birthday's in a few days. Thirty's supposed to be a fresh start, remember? Do you have anything planned yet?"

You scoff. "Maybe I'll go down to the farm and smear myself with cow dung."

"You're gonna jinx yourself."

"Whatever," you mutter, turning around as you push yourself off the wall, only to still when your eyes land on Younghyun, already looking at you with a brow raised.

"Hello?"

"I'll call you back," you mumble before ending the call. You clear your throat, crossing your arms as nonchalantly as you could. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to hear you want to smear yourself with cow shit. I didn't know you were into that kind of thing, Peach."

"Shut up." Your cheeks burn as you move to leave, but Younghyun blocks your path.

You look up to glare at him. "What?"

"I have to go to the local market to deliver some crates." He shrugs. "Wanna go for a drive?"

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. "What's the catch?"

He chuckles. "Seriously, how low do you think of me?"

"Can't blame me for thinking that now, can you?" You blurt, and a flicker of something flashes across Younghyun's face. Before he could say anything, you beat him to it. "Fine. Lead the way."

You're surprised that he remains quiet after that, and for a moment you let yourself dwell on the possibility that maybe, he remembers that night just as vividly as you do.

Younghyun swings the door of his truck open for you, which you respond with a glare.

He grins at you cheekily. ”Knew you liked my company, Peach."

And just like that, the moment is ruined. 

✦ ✦ ✦

It's a short drive to the market. You'd tried not to enjoy the scenery too much— you knew Younghyun would be smug about it— but it was nice nonetheless. It reminded you of the drives you used to take with Grandpa when you'd follow him around to run errands, though most of the time you'd stay inside his truck to admire the stretches of farmland and clusters of wildflowers along the road.

The locals wave at Younghyun as he backs up into the unloading area, and you hop off as soon as he puts the truck in park. You don't wait for him to tell you to unload the crates (you're not really keen on a repeat of the bedsheet incident), greeting the uncle at the delivery bay as you get to work.

"Hey- what are you doing? Let me do it." Younghyun appears beside you, taking the crate from your hands effortlessly before he sets it on the ground.

You raise your brows. "Isn't that why I'm here?"

"No. I only asked you if you wanted to tag along, not to get you to do manual labour. These are heavy, Peach." 

You huff, crossing your arms. "What, just because I'm a woman-"

"Princess," Younghyun sighs, turning to face you. "I asked you to come because I wanted your company, not because I needed a second pair of arms. So just... sit there and look pretty, okay?"

Your mouth falls open in disbelief, though you can't fight the heat that's beginning to creep up your neck. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He grins, already turning back to unload the rest of the crates. "Pretty privilege. Take advantage of it."

"You're actually insufferable."

"So I've heard."

"Aigoo, I've always known you two would get together eventually," the uncle muses as he helps Younghyun. "Only took a couple of years, huh boy?"

"I- we're not together," you utter stiffly.

"Really? Then why don't you go do something about it?" The uncle smacks the back of Younghyun's head lightly before he turns to you. "Do you know how grumpy this boy's been since you left town? I haven't seen him smile this widely in years."

"Uncle," Younghyun groans as he rubs his head. "I'm not gonna deliver your fish for you anymore. I don't want to."

"Quit sulking, boy. It's not cute." The older man rolls his eyes. "But, little lady, since you're here, Grandpa Han just delivered a fresh batch of peaches earlier. Go get some for the drive back, okay?”

You don't know whether to be impressed or embarrassed that practically everybody remembers of your little... obsession, with the fruit, but you nod and thank him regardless. You don't wait to see if Younghyun follows you before you wander into the market, mostly keen on getting away from him before he could notice the rising blush on your cheeks.

The marketplace is bustling with people, but not in a way that overwhelms you. If anything, the crowd kind of reminds you of home, except here, everybody seems to know who you are.

“Isn’t that the chief’s granddaughter?” Someone murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear as you pass.

“Oh, you’ve grown so pretty! Just like your mother.” One aunty beams, stopping you as she reaches out to squeeze your arm affectionately. “I’m sure your grandparents must be so happy you’re back for good!”

“Um, I-“

“Excuse us, Aunty, sorry. We’ve got a delivery schedule to keep.” Younghyun suddenly appears next to you, his hand finding the small of your back as he gives the lady a polite smile.

“Oh, Younghyun-ah! Don’t forget, I need you to fix my gate for me!”

“Will do!” He calls out over his shoulder as he gently steers you away, and you could only afford to blink.

“Quite the talk of the town, aren’t you?” He bends down to whisper teasingly in your ear, to which you quickly shove him away.

“Shut up,” you mutter. You try not to notice the warmth that disappears from your back when he drops his hand.

You spot the fruit vendor at the end of the market, but just as you’re about to head towards it, a small stall tucked between two others catches your eye first. You find yourself making a beeline towards it instead.

The table set up is filled with handmade trinkets and an assortment of dried tea leaf pouches— basically stupidly cute handmade stuff you rarely ever see in the city. You don’t stop the soft smile that makes its way to your lips as you pick one up— a small hand-sewn pouch stamped with tiny peaches.

“If you buy one of these necklaces, I’ll give you the pouch for free.”

You smile at the uncle as your eyes fleet across the jewellery display, all dainty chains with pressed flowers encased in resin as charms.

“They’re all so beautiful,” you murmur.

“Each one has their own meaning. Like this one.” He picks one up. “The chrysanthemum symbolises health and good fortune. Or if you’re looking to get a gift for a friend, the sunflower would be a good pick,” the uncle explains before he looks at someone next to you, and that’s when you notice Younghyun’s been there all along. “What about you, son? Looking for something?”

Younghyun gives him a dimpled smile, shaking his head. “Just looking around.”

You thank the uncle, telling him you’ll come back another time. It’s almost lunchtime, and you figure you should probably get back soon to help Grandma get started on food prep.

You don’t realise that Younghyun’s stayed rooted to his spot as you wander off towards the fruit stall, his gaze fixed on your back.

“You sure you’re not looking for anything?” The uncle muses knowingly.

Younghyun turns to him, a small chuckle escaping his lips. His gaze drops down to the display again, scanning each charm carefully until one in particular catches his eye.

“This one.” He points towards the purple one, neatly pressed with its petals still intact. “What does it mean?”

“Ah, the lilac.” The uncle nods as he picks the chain up. “This one’s for first love.”

There’s a pause. Younghyun’s eyes flick to you once again, blissfully unaware, talking to the fruit stall vendors as you carefully pick out your peaches.

A faint smile touches his lips as he nods.

“Wrap it, please,” he tells the uncle, softer this time as he takes out his wallet. He makes sure the necklace is packed safely in the peach-patterned pouch he saw you eyeing earlier before pocketing it.

It’s just a small thing, Younghyun tells himself. A mindless gesture. A gift for your upcoming birthday which he still remembers after all these years. Or, if he wants to be honest with himself— a silent apology for all the things he’d left unsaid. For the way he hurt you on purpose before you left.

Maybe it’s foolish. Hell, maybe it’s even too late.

But if a flower could say what he never could, he figures it’s a start.

VII. THIRTY, FLIRTY DIRTY, AND… NOT THRIVING.

It's your birthday.

Grandpa had also tasked you to work at the farm today.

He'd said something about cleaning out the cowshed, as the farmer was down with a flu. What he failed to mention was that you'd be working with Younghyun— though at this point, you're not even surprised anymore.

So that is how you find yourself at the farm at the far end of Pyoseon, arms folded across your chest as you wait for Younghyun to lead all the cows out into the pasture. You narrow your eyes at him as he works, looking far too chipper for someone who’s about to be surrounded by animal shit.

You don’t like how the sight of his grin is making your heart accelerate. 

Wanting something else to do, you quickly grab the shovel leaning by the wall before stepping into the shed. Your nose scrunches at the smell— it’s warm, earthy, and a little too natural for your liking. Not like you’re left with a choice, anyway. You hesitate slightly before stepping into the first stall, the floor caked with straw, mud, and… well, the obvious.

You clench your teeth as you slowly manoeuvre between the piles, the mud squelching with every step you take. The sound makes you cringe.

And as if you’re not overstimulated enough, the straps of Grandpa’s overalls he’d loaned you keeps sliding off one shoulder, and his old rubber boots which are at least two sizes too big feel like they’re actively plotting against you.

You groan, pausing to hitch the fabric higher while you adjust your foot in the boot, all while hoping you could make it out of here unscathed.

You don’t hear him approach.

“Boo.”

You scream. And promptly lose your footing.

And the next thing you know, you’re on your butt, right in the middle of a particularly wet patch of cow dung. A few beats passes as you process the situation, and you look up to glower at the absolute menace before you. The asshole even has the audacity to look amused, his shoulders shaking as he tries to stifle his laughter.

“Kang Younghyun,” you mutter lowly, your gloved fingers already fisting the mud around you. “You have five seconds to run.”

He coughs to conceal his chuckle. “I mean-“

“Five.”

Younghyun yelps before he bolts away, and you immediately take off after him. “You coward! Come back here!”

The sound of his boisterous laughter as he sprints down the road is mocking, and you’re left screaming his name while simultaneously hoping that he’d trip over a rock and plant his stupid, handsome face to the ground.

You slip a little in your boots as you chase him, but you think it’s the pure fury that fuels you to catch up to him. Younghyun is fast— damn him— but you’re faster when you’re angry.

You soon catch up to him, and with a warrior’s scream you launch yourself onto his back.

“Wha-?”

Somehow, by some ungodly miracle, Younghyun doesn’t fall. He does stumble once, but he quickly recovers as he readjusts his grip on your legs, all while he continues to run for his life— with you clinging on to his back like a koala. The asshole’s still laughing, the sound much closer to your ears now that you’re on him, and for some reason, you can’t stop the incredulous, yet amused scoff that escapes your lips.

“I hate you!” You shriek despite yourself, punching his shoulder repeatedly with one hand while your other arm clings around his neck.

“I noticed!” Younghyun is grinning from ear to ear as he glances behind at you. “Did you eat bricks, or something?”

You gape. “Put me down, then!”

“Never,” he replies, almost sing-songy as he slows down, only to start spinning you around like some deranged carnival ride. You squeak, squeezing your eyes shut as your arms tighten around his neck, while your chin finds his shoulder as you will yourself not to fall.

His laughter eases into something softer then, just as he turns his head to meet your eyes. You gasp softly at the sudden lack of distance between you both. You’re close— so close, that if you were to just lean forward, your noses would touch. You could make out the specks of brown that dances in his irises, though they’re no longer filled with the mirth you’ve gotten used to since you arrived a week ago.

No— because right now, Kang Younghyun is looking at you the way he did back then, with that quiet, unspoken tenderness that always made you wonder if he loved you.

“You okay?” He asks, quieter now.

You don’t answer immediately, only now realising that you’re not even spinning anymore. You loosen your grip on him, letting yourself slide down his back.

“What do you think?” You mutter. “I smell like actual shit.”

Younghyun chuckles, but he doesn’t tease. He stares at you for a moment before he reaches towards you, like he wants to move a stray hair off your face.

Like the way he used to.

But he pauses at the last second, and you see the way his jaw ticks before he drops his hand. And just like that— the easy smile makes its way back to his lips. Like nothing’s ever happened.

You don’t dwell long enough to wonder if he’s faking it or not.

“We should probably get back to work if we don’t want to get yelled at again.”

You narrow your eyes at him, talking as if this whole thing isn’t his fault to begin with. You opt to bite your tongue, glancing towards the shed instead.

You turn back to him. “Last one to reach the stalls scrapes cow poop off the wall.”

Younghyun startles. “Wait, what wall-“

But you’re already gone, kicking up mud in your wake.

You hear him shout out your name, that stupid nickname you claim to loathe so much, before his footsteps follow after you, deliberate and teasing. He’s not even trying to catch up to you, and you know it.

And for the first time since you’ve arrived here, you don’t stop the laughter that bubbles out of your chest.

✦ ✦ ✦

It takes a few showers to completely get the smell off of you, and by the time you’re done, you’re starving.

The house is empty, just like you had expected, but what you didn’t expect was for there to be no food under the food cover on the table.

You frown as you turn to the fridge, where a particular note catches your eye.

Preparing for festival. Come to the village hall if you’re hungry. 

You’re seriously considering having sleep for dinner given how tired you are, but you’re also really famished, so that’s what eventually makes you drag your feet outside, not bothering to remove the towel from your neck as you trudge lazily towards the building a few houses down.

The village hall is dark as you near it, and you figure nobody’s inside and there’s probably just some leftovers for you in the communal fridge. You push the door open, and—

“Surprise!”

You nearly drop your towel.

The light in the living room flickers on, and you’re met with a crowd of familiar faces— including Younghyun who stands right in the middle, looking stupid with a party hat that’s far too small for him on top of his head. Someone sets a party popper too late, and the speaker screeches before blasting birthday trot music loudly. There’s even a banner with your name and a collage of your photos from when you were young to right before you left for university. And along the wall leading to the kitchen, is a long table packed with all your favourite dishes.

You blink, stunned. “I- what is this-“

“Your party, silly!” Grandma steps forward as she takes your hands into hers, smiling at you fondly. “Did you really think we’d forget our favourite granddaughter’s birthday?”

The tears are quick to pool in your eyes. “I’m your only granddaughter,” you manage to chuckle through a sob.

“Yes, but we’re not your only grandparents, are we now?” She motions to the elders behind her. “Go on.”

You barely have time to protest before you’re ushered away, pulled into a flurry of hugs and too many plates of food. You’re quick to get lost in the warmth of it all, though every so often, you still find yourself searching for the one person who demands your attention even in a room full of people.

And every time your eyes would meet across the room, he’d give you that same soft smile— the one that admittedly makes your chest twist a little.

It isn’t until much later when the laughter starts to die down and the crowd starts to thin do you slip outside the back door for some fresh air. It wasn’t like you were looking for him, but you’re still grateful to find him there, sitting on the steps, staring into the distance with a bottled drink in his hand.

Younghyun looks up, lips settling into an easy smile when he sees you. “If it isn’t the birthday girl.”

You don’t reply immediately as you sit next to him. “I didn’t think anyone remembered.”

He’s silent for a while before he replies softly, “I never forgot.”

Your breath hitches at his words. Younghyun chuckles under his breath before he inhales, looking at you. “Well, it’s not every day you turn thirty, huh? I know it’s probably different than how you would’ve done it in Seoul, but we make do.”

“I don’t think I would’ve enjoyed it in the city anyway.” You smile faintly, wrapping your arms around your knees as you hug them to your chest. You know Younghyun’s still staring at you, but you don’t look at him— not yet. “I … lost my job. Spent years flying all over the world, only to be grounded by age in the end. If you’d asked me a month ago, I would’ve told you I was miserable. But now that I’m here…” you pause to take a breath. “I guess thirty isn’t so bad when you’re surrounded by an ageing community.”

Younghyun laughs, even despite your poor attempt at a joke. It’s quiet for a while, but not the uncomfortable kind, until you feel him shift beside you.

You look at him as he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small bag.

You recognise it instantly from the small stall at the market a few days back.

“Happy birthday, Peach,” he says, handing it to you.

You’re stunned, and it takes you a while to accept it. The fabric is delicate in your fingers, and as you pull apart the string to open the bag, a necklace drops onto your palm, the delicate lilac charm catching in the moonlight.

“It’s really pretty…” You feel your throat begin to tighten, but you don’t cry yet. “What does this one mean?”

Younghyun laughs under his breath, looking back to the view. “You’ll figure it out.”

You scrunch your brows at his obscure answer, but before you could press, he’s already handing something else to you. “Here.”

It’s a book— a planner, it seems— the numbers 2015 embossed on the cover.

You scrunch your eyebrows in confusion as you flip it open. Inside the front cover, scrawled in fading ink is a small note:

For all the stories you’ll live out there. Write them down and don’t forget about here.

Don’t forget about me.

— Younghyun

“I was supposed to give this to you back then. Before- you know,” he trails off.

You blink, only for a single tear to drop on the page, right next to the words he’d written for you.

“I was stupid,” Younghyun continues quietly. “I thought hurting you would make it easier to let you go. But it didn’t,” he chuckles. “It only hurt me even more.”

You shut the book. “God,” you mutter, biting your lip to stop it from trembling. “God, you suck, Younghyun.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles breathlessly, reaching out to brush his thumb gently against the moisture on your cheek. “I know, Peach.”

You laugh, but it comes out as watery. “You made me cry on my birthday,” you sniff, looking at him through your bleary vision. “You ass.”

Younghyun’s smile softens, and he shifts a bit closer. His hand lingers on your skin, like he’s afraid to let go.

You don’t want him to.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, quieter now. “I’m so sorry, Princess.”

You didn’t need him to say more— not when the tremble in his voice is evident, like its holding the weight of the ache you’ve shared over the last ten years. For every silence, and for every what-could’ve-been.

And as you lean on his shoulder, his arm coming up to wrap around you, you start to feel at home again.

VIII. THINGS ARE SWEET LIKE SUMMER FRUIT.

The next morning, the air feels different. 

Not drastically so. Younghyun still teases you when you trip over the uneven path outside your grandparents’ house. You still threaten to hit him with your sandal every few minutes. But there’s something between the both of you, something soft and unspoken, unsaid but understood.

You’re sitting on the pyeongsang behind the village hall, a stack of signboards between your legs as you work on painting the one on top. You’re relieved to get a bit of downtime after being roped off to help with harvesting earlier, while Younghyun had gone off the collect the tarps and poles from the old storage hut.

You haven’t seen him since then, though you’re sure he’s probably just around the back where the tents are being set up. You’re almost tempted to go take a look, bother him for no reason, maybe even trick him into getting you an ice cream from the convenience store.

You don’t even realise you’re smiling to yourself like an idiot until Grandpa appears.

“There you are!”

You look up, brows furrowing slightly to see that he isn’t alone. You don’t recognise the man next to him, but the thing that catches your attention instead is his suitcase, attached to it a tag with the words: FLIGHT CREW. 

And judging based on the white dress shirt he dons, the shoulder tabs empty where a pair of epaulettes should be, you know who— or rather, what, he is—

“You’re a pilot,” you blurt.

The man laughs, though you could tell he’s slightly taken aback by your words. “I… yeah. Wow. I actually wasn’t expecting anyone to catch on.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I work as a flight attendant. Well, used to,” you quickly correct yourself. You wipe your hands on your pants before standing up, muttering out an apology for your lack of manners before introducing yourself meekly.

“This is Sungjin,” Grandpa says. “He’ll be staying over at the inn for a while. Thought I’d introduce you both since, you know, you have something in common.” Grandpa turns to him, patting his back. “You came at the right time, son! The harvest festival is taking place in a few days. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”

Sungjin smiles, bowing his head politely. “If you need help with anything, please, let me know.”

“Ah, don’t be silly. You’re a guest! Though I’m sure my granddaughter would be more than happy to show you around, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

“I- of course!” You stutter slightly, not expecting for the conversation to be thrown back to you. “I do need to go to the market later. Why don’t you tag along?”

“That sounds great, actually.” Sungjin nods. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah.” You bite your inner lip to suppress a smile, though you don’t think it’s working very much.

Sungjin’s really handsome, and even from the short conversation you’ve had with him, you already know he’s effortlessly charming. It’s rare for Pyoseon-ri to receive visitors, let alone someone with a noble job like his.

“What’s got you smiling so prettily?” A new voice asks a few moments later, and you turn to see that it’s Younghyun.

“No one,” you mutter, before clearing your throat. “I mean, nothing. Are you done with setting up the tents?”

Younghyun shrugs, hands gripping the towel slung around his neck. “We’re putting up the lanterns tonight. Wanna come with me to the market?”

You gasp, a smile making its way to your lips as you set down your paintbrush, standing up eagerly. “Actually, yeah. There’s someone I want you to meet— I'll introduce you to him later. Pick me up at the inn in an hour, okay?”

“Him?” Younghyun echoes, but you’re already skipping back towards the village hall, blissfully unaware.

He watches you go, the warmth of your smile lingering even after you’re long gone. He exhales softly before turning back to the shed, though for some reason, he can't shake off the feeling of unease that’s beginning to bloom in his chest.

✦ ✦ ✦

Younghyun tightens his grip around the steering wheel.

You’re seated right next to him, knee bumping into his every time his truck goes over a hump, but even despite the lack of distance between you both, your attention isn’t on him.

It’s on Park Sungjin.

Younghyun hasn’t said a single word since he picked you and your new pilot friend up in his truck; he couldn’t, even if he wanted to. There’s an ease between the two of you— shared lingo, familiar gripes, jokes only people in the aviation industry would understand. It’s comfortable, natural.

And in the driver’s seat, Younghyun is anything but.

You’re laughing at something Sungjin had said, and the sound causes him to inhale sharply— not like he had meant to. But that must've caught the pilot’s attention, because he soon turns to him.

“What about you, Younghyun? Have you always been at the village?”

He could tell the question is genuine, but his lips still twitch in irritation. “Yeah,” he utters, keeping his voice level. “I did leave for a few years to do my masters, but now here I am.”

“You know, you never told me what you studied,” you pause before an excited gasp leaves your lips. “Was it music? You know, Younghyun’s really good with instruments.” You turn back to Sungjin. “Back when we were younger, he’d always have his guitar with him, even if it was just to go to the convenience store. It was so annoying-“ you laugh before your voice grows softer, “but everybody always looked forward to hear him play.”

Younghyun’s breath hitches at your words, though he’s not quite sure if it’s because you’d remembered, or the fact that he hasn’t heard you this animated since you came here.

You’re still turned towards Sungjin, cheeks flushed with laughter, and he watches the way you light up in a way he hasn’t seen— not for him, at least. Not like you did last time.

A flicker of something bitter coils in his chest.

“It was environmental law,” he utters curtly, knuckles paling as he squeezes the steering wheel again.

“Wow, really?” You sound genuinely surprised.

He chuckles dryly. “Why? Didn’t think I had it in me?”

“No.” You frown. “I just- wasn’t expecting that.” You’re quiet for a few seconds before you continue, “then… why did you stay?” You ask tentatively, as though unsure on whether your question would be deemed offensive or not.

Younghyun takes a beat to reply, but his words are sure. “Because Pyoseon’s my home.”

The ride is silent after that.

IX. YOUNGHYUN IS IN A BIT OF A JAM.

It seems like the harvest festival has gotten everyone’s hands on deck, because Younghyun hasn’t spoken to you in days. He’s seen you, of course, but most of the time you’re either busy helping out the grandmas in the communal kitchen, or out in the fields harvesting fruit as you giggle with Sungjin about God knows what.

Younghyun strikes down his axe with a little more force than necessary, the wood log splitting into two in one go. He just doesn’t get why Sungjin has to linger around, offering to help, but more importantly— why did he have to stick with you?

“Need help?”

Younghyun pauses, glancing over his shoulder to see that it’s the man himself, two cans of beer in his hands. He offers one— and because Younghyun doesn’t want to seem like an asshole— he accepts.

“So, is the harvest festival a big thing you guys do every year? Seems like everybody is involved.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Younghyun utters, tapping his fingers mindlessly on the rim before cracking the tab open. “It’s mostly out of tradition, not money. The elders have been doing it for years now.”

“I see. I like it, though.” Sungjin smiles wistfully. “The village spirit, I mean. You don’t really get to see that elsewhere.”

Younghyun hums, taking a sip of his beer for the mere sake of needing something to do. It’s not like he has anything against small talk, but it’s obvious from the get-go that him and Sungjin are worlds apart. That, and—

“You don’t like me very much, do you?”

Younghyun raises a brow before he chuckles, though he’s sure it comes off more sarcastic than amused. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, for starters, you always look less than thrilled every time I’m around. Even now, you’re gripping on to that can like you have a personal grudge against it.” Sungjin nods towards the can in his hand, which, true to his words, is being held in an iron grip. Younghyun relaxes his fingers.

“I’m just not too keen on newcomers,” Younghyun mutters under his breath, taking another swig from his drink.

“No.” Sungjin pushes himself off the wall behind him. “You’re just not too keen on me.”

Younghyun laughs humourlessly. To think that he thought he was being stupid for not liking the dude when he hasn’t done anything wrong— scratch that. He thinks he might actually hate the guy now.

“And it’s all because of a certain someone, isn’t it?”

He didn’t even need to say your name. The knowing glint in his eyes is enough.

“Well, I don’t blame you,” Sungjin continues lightly. He takes a slow sip of his beer, eyes still on Younghyun. “She’s easy to like.”

Younghyun’s jaw tightens.

Oh, he’s really starting to hate this guy.

“There you are!”

The sound of your voice causes Younghyun to look away first, breaking whatever staring contest he was having with Sungjin. You approach them with a smile, clearly unaware of the tension in the air.

“Can somebody help me lift the fruit crates? They’re heavier than they look,” you huff, brushing your hair behind your ear while your other hand stays on your hip.

You’re sure you’re looking a mess right now, your skin flushed pink due to the heat and your shirt clinging to your body with sweat. You’ve been on your feet since daybreak, and you think your limbs might just fall off if you so much try to carry something with your arms.

“I got it.”

“I’ll help.”

Both men say at the same time, and your eyes widen before you let out a chuckle. “Okay. Didn’t know I was so in-demand,” you attempt at a joke, but only Sungjin laughs.

“What can I say? It must be your lucky day.”

Your smile drops a fraction as you glance at Younghyun, who only looks away when your eyes meet.

He still hasn’t looked at you properly since your conversation with him in his truck, and you’re stuck wondering if he’s mad at you— that you’d crossed a line without meaning to.

You thought things were better now— they were supposed to be, because what the hell was that night on your birthday, then? Or that little moment you had at the farm?

Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe you’d been looking too much into it.

Or maybe, Kang Younghyun's still the same boy you knew from ten years ago— bad with words, and even worst with emotions.

✦ ✦ ✦

The three of you end up working side by side, but even then, you can't stop your eyes from drifting to Younghyun every now and then.

He's quiet, mostly keeping his focus on the task at hand and barely speaking unless he has to.

Now you know that something's definitely up.

You wait until Sungjin excuses himself to take a call before stepping closer. "Hey," you say softly, tentatively. "Can we talk?"

Younghyun glances over his shoulder. "Sure," he exhales before facing you completely, wiping his palms on his pants. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I just..." you trail off, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve as you think of your next words. "The other day? In your truck. I'm sorry if I said something out of line. I never meant to make you feel like your choice wasn't good enough."

Younghyun tilts his head, almost in confusion as his brows furrow. "Wha- Peach," he sighs as he steps closer. "You didn't say anything wrong. Did I really make you feel that way?"

"I don't know." You shrug, averting your gaze. "I guess I just thought you were mad at me."

"I'm not mad at you. I could never be mad at you, Princess," he murmurs. "I'm so sorry. I worried you, didn't I?"

You meet his gaze again, and for the first time in days, it feels like he's really looking at you.

You bite your inner lip, and Younghyun's gaze softens. He doesn't hesitate before bringing his palm to your cheek, caressing your skin gently. "I'm just... figuring things out," he says quietly. "Don't think about it too much, okay?"

You're not convinced, and you're sure he could see through you, but Younghyun settles for a smile— soft, genuine, and unlike the teasing smirks he'd always shoot your way. You can't help but wonder if things really are changing between the both of you.

"Tomorrow," he continues softly. "Would you make some time for me? During the festival?"

You don't know why he even felt the need to ask. "Of course, Younghyun."

His smile grows wider then, but it still doesn't reach his eyes. "Then that's enough consolation for me."

You don't know what he means by that, but you decide to let it be for now.

Because maybe, you were wrong. As much as Kang Younghyun is still bad with handling his emotions, it didn't mean that he's still the same boy you left ten years ago.

Because this time, he's not pushing you away.

This time, he's finally trying.

And you're not going to let the same thing from before happen again.

X. BEFORE THE STORM IN THE PIT OF YOUR STOMACH...

Lanterns glow overhead, casting the village in a warm haze. The air smells of sweet teok and grilled seafood, and as much as you’re tempted to help yourself to another round, the fireworks show is about to start, and you’re still yet to find the one person you’ve been looking for since the festival started.

You’re breathless by the time you spot Younghyun, over at the game booths where he’s currently competing in ball toss with one of the village kids. He’s looking far too engrossed and far too set on winning that he doesn’t even notice you, only doing so when the game ends and he turns to give the kid a high-five. The bright smile on his face grows softer then, and you step towards him.

“You couldn’t have let him win?”

Younghyun chuckles. “He’s twelve. He’ll be fine. You didn’t see me give him my prize?”

“I did. I just wanted to tease you.”

The soft smile is still etched on his lips as he gazes at you. Quietly, he says, “come. I want to show you something.”

You nod, letting him lead the way. The chatter and laughter of the crowd grow more distant the further you set out, and soon you’re surrounded by nothing but the occasional chirping of crickets and the sound of your own footsteps.

“You’re not kidnapping me, are you?” You ask warily. “At least let me watch the fireworks first.”

Younghyun laughs as he glances over his shoulder. “You’ll get your fireworks, Peach. I’m not that cruel.”

You roll your eyes, though it lacks any real bite. It’s dark out, making it difficult for you to actually tell where you are— that is, until the path you’re on starts looking a little too familiar, and you realise—

“The peach orchard?”

Younghyun nods with a proud grin. “I just thought it was weird we haven’t been here since you arrived. So I figured, why not tonight? For old time’s sake.”

You let out a short laugh as you step forward, taking in the scene before you. It’s still the same as you remember, with the four-seater swing under the oldest tree where you used to spend too much time eating peaches on, and the solar-powered garden lanterns that would only turn on at night lined along the pathway.

You turn to Younghyun to say something— anything, at that point— but the sudden series of whistles and crackles in the sky cause you to look up instead.

You marvel at the explosion of colours, streaks of red and gold sizzling at the edges before dissapearing into smoke.

“So pretty,” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

“The prettiest,” Younghyun replies just as quietly, and you turn to see that he’s already looking at you.

His gaze doesn't waver, not when the sky lights up again, not when the boom rattles around you. You wonder how long he's been watching you instead of the fireworks.

"You haven't changed," he continues. "You still light up like that when you're happy."

You heart thunders in your chest. "I- what do you mean?”

Younghyun smiles faintly. "Your birthday. The day at the farm. This moment right now," he exhales. "I've been holding myself back from saying it all this while, but I don't think I can keep doing that anymore."

Another burst of light reflects in his eyes when he finally turns to you fully.

"I never stopped loving you, Peach.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, and when you see the way his eyes flicker to your lips, you’re sure you stop breathing completely.

Slowly, Younghyun leans in, his fingers reaching up to brush against your cheek. You don’t pull away, and the moment his breath hits your skin, you close your eyes.

But just as his lips are about to touch yours—

Your phone pings.

You flinch, hands fumbling to silence it. But Younghyun’s already glanced down, catching the name on your screen.

Sungjin.

He inhales sharply. It’s quiet, but you catch it anyway.

“We should head back,” he mutters, taking a step back. “Before somebody else notices you’re gone.”

“Younghyun, don’t do that,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I’m not letting you push me away. Not again.”

“I’m not pushing you away, I just-“ he pauses to sigh. “He likes you too, you know?”

“So?” You scoff. “Sungjin’s just a friend, and he’s literally leaving next week. It’s not like he’s staying here forever.”

“And you are?”

His question sounds simple, but it carries a certain weight you’ve been dead set on avoiding. You look away. 

“I don’t know.” It’s silent for a while before you sigh. “He told me there’s an opening at his airline. I- I haven’t said yes yet, but-“

“But you’re thinking about it.”

You nod slowly. “It’s a good opportunity.”

“If it’s something you want.“ His eyes drift to the sky. “Then you should go for it.”

You remain silent as you search his face, trying to find a hint of sincerity. But his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and that tells you all you need to know.

“Do you want me to?”

“If it makes you happy,” Younghyun quips simply, like that in itself is enough— it isn’t.

You step closer towards him. “That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what matters,” he corrects you, and your heart twists. Because as much as he’s saying all the right things, you can see right through him— the ache he’s trying to swallow down.

And suddenly, it feels like you’re staring at twenty-two year old Kang Younghyun again, only this time, he’s not just letting you go— he’s bracing for it.

XI. PEACH BETTER HAVE MY HEART.

You ended up taking the job.

You didn’t tell Younghyun, but he found out anyway. Word spreads fast in the small village of Pyoseon— that, and that Sungjin had already told him, the day he was set to leave.

"I don't know what happened between you two, but I think you fucked up, dude," Sungjin muttered as he loaded his bags into the taxi. He turned to Younghyun. "But anyway, she already said no to me. Do what you will with that info." He smiled briefly, patting him on the shoulder. "I don't suppose you'd be up for a drink the next time I come here?"

Younghyun chuckled, and for the first time, there wasn't any hint of malice in it. "Have a safe journey, man."

And that led him to now, in his room, lying down on his bed as he stares at the ceiling blankly.

Younghyun knows he's in no place to blame you for not letting him know. After all, it was him who had run away like a coward— all because he was far too afraid to tell you that he wanted you to stay. Needed you to stay.

But who is he to do that? Who is he to stop you from chasing your own happiness? You'd left ten years ago and managed to make a name for yourself— that alone was evidence at how well you could thrive without having anything holding you back. Meanwhile, his masters degree is collecting dust somewhere in his drawer, all because he couldn't bear to leave the village and the people he calls home.

Maybe this is what it means to love someone. Wanting you to be happy, even if it doesn't include him.

But of course, what he doesn't know is that he's missed the point entirely— because there's no damn way you could be happy without him.

You stare out of the window blankly, the fields passing you by. You don't notice the way Grandpa keeps stealing glances at you as he drives, far too caught up in your own thoughts.

"He'll show up. Don't worry."

You turn to look at him. "Huh?"

"Younghyun."

You scoff humourlessly. "I highly doubt it."

"Even then, what seems to be the issue? You're finally getting back on your feet. Soon you'll be flying again, and you won't even remember it happened."

"I don't think I could ever forget him," you say quietly. "I never did. Even when I left ten years ago. Even when I kept coming back to visit and he wasn't around. Even when-" you pause, fiddling with your fingers. "Even when he hurt me. Pushed me away."

Grandpa sighs. "Did he ever tell you why he left?"

"Yeah? To get his masters."

"No," Grandpa chuckles. "Well, he did, but that wasn't all to it. Said he wanted to give it a try— do something new. Just like you did." He smiles wistfully. "So he took on environmental law. And he was good at it, you know? Until he came back and said it wasn't for him."

He shakes his head. "But I knew it wasn't his job he disliked— it was the system. He realised he'd be spending more time fighting paperwork than actually making a change, so... he left. Because in this day and age, where everyone wants to sell and modernise, someone has to stay behind and say no."

You swallow harshly. "I didn't know that."

"He never stopped talking about you, you know?" Grandpa glances at you softly. "About how much he admired you for going out there, living life in a way he never could've imagined himself to do."

You remain wordless, though your heart rings loudly in your ears.

He sighs then. "He never wanted to hold you back. A quiet life in a quiet town? That's Younghyun. But it isn't you, is it?"

"I could be." The words tumble out of your mouth before you could stop them, and when you turn to Grandpa, wide-eyed, he's already smiling at you softly.

"What's stopping you, then?"

Your pulse beats faster now, louder, and though your next words come out in a hushed whisper, you've never been more sure.

"Turn back around, Grandpa. Please."

✦ ✦ ✦

Younghyun isn't home by the time you reach his place. Grandpa's already left, and so that leaves you with no choice but to sit at his front doorstep— not like you even wanted to leave, anyway. You'd wait all night for him if you have to, just so you could scream at his face and call him stupid and then kiss him senseless. In that order exactly.

You don't notice how much time had passed— definitely far too long, that's for sure— as you tremble in the cold, fiddling with the charm of the necklace he gifted you; like doing so would give you some semblance of hope that he'd return.

And he does, hours later, his hair unkempt like he's brushed his hand through it one too many times, face sullen and eyes red like he'd been crying.

He spots you the same time you look up, and Younghyun stops in his tracks, lips parting.

"Peach-"

"You weren't even going to say goodbye?" You whisper harshly, getting to your feet as you step towards him until you were toe to toe. "I waited for you." Your voice trembles, and you know you're about to start crying. "I waited for you and risked almost missing my flight, but you never came. And then Grandpa told me we had to go, and I did, and then I told him I couldn't do it and asked him to turn back around and- and you weren't even home!"

Younghyun gazes at you silently before he looks to his shoes, exhaling shakily. "I went to the airport," he murmurs as he clenches his fists, knuckles turning white. "I thought- I thought you left. That I was too late. That I missed my chance to fix things again-"

"Then why do you keep doing that?" You question him exasperatedly. "After everything! My birthday, the fireworks— you told me you never stopped loving me. And you were just going to let me leave?" 

"Because I knew you'd stay," he fires back, voice cracking. "And I didn't want you to drop everything just because I asked you to."

"God, Younghyun," you chuckle bitterly. "That isn't your choice to make!"

"You think I don't know that?" He exclaims, frustrated. "You think I haven't kicked myself for every second I spent not running after you?"

Younghyun clenches his jaw as he turns away, tears pooling in his eyes. "Ten years ago, I let you go because I was scared— scared that loving you from halfway across the country would wreck me. And maybe it would have. But watching you leave again, not because you wanted to, but because you thought I didn't care— that broke me worse."

You're quiet as you let your first tear fall.

"I didn't let you go because I didn't love you," Younghyun whispers, meeting your gaze again. "I let you go because I did. So much. And I didn't know how to hold on to someone whose dreams would always take her to anywhere else."

"That's why you didn't fight for me?" You ask quietly, shakily.

A humourless scoff escapes his lips. "I didn't think I deserved to."

"Idiot." A choked sob escapes your lips, followed by a short laugh as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand. "I love you too, you know?"

Younghyun gazes at you sadly through his own tears.

"Grandpa told me everything," you continue, lips still trembling. "The actual reason you stayed. And if you'd just told me—" you hiccup. "We could've figured something out. Anything. Because I don't think I'd be able to leave a second time knowing I'm not the only one still holding on," you pause. "Am I?"

"God, no." Younghyun runs a hand through his face. "Never."

"Then let's take this chance," you whisper, taking his hands into yours. "We've lost ten years already, so don't you dare push me away because you think you're not enough. Let me decide if it's worth it."

Younghyun chuckles softly, and he lets you reach up to wipe the moisture from his cheeks, still staring at you like you're the only thing that matters in his world. You are.

"I'm not staying for you, Younghyun. I'm staying with you. Remember that."

Finally, he pulls you in, and this time, Younghyun holds you like he's afraid you'd slip through his fingers again. You let him, clutching the back of his shirt like it's the only thing anchoring you to the ground.

"Okay," he murmurs, his lips brushing the crown of your forehead. "I don't want to run anymore. Not if you'd still have me."

"Stupid. Of course I'll still have you," you mumble against his chest before pulling back to look at him. "But you'd have to spend the rest of your life making it up to me."

He smiles, thumbs brushing the sides of your face. "I wouldn't dare think of doing otherwise."

And then, he kisses you, and it feels like a new life has been breathed into you once again.

It isn't loud, or overwhelming— just the steady beat of two hearts finally catching up to one another.

Home.

You unlock your tablet. “No worries, sir. You have a quarterly review with the board of directors at 8:30, which is in, uh, T-minus negative twelve minutes. They’re already waiting inside, and President Kim does not look too happy,” you utter. “Mr. Park has a last minute conference to attend today so he won’t be able to make it for your 3:00. You have a free slot tomorrow at 4:30 if you’d like me to move it to then?”

“I promised Mirae I’d bring her to the aquarium tomorrow, so no. Tell him I’ll contact him when I’m free.”

You nod, and the two of you stop right before the meeting room.

“I really hate to ask you this, but could you…” Mr. Kang nods towards the toddler in his hold.

You smile. “Of course, sir.”

Your boss lets out a short breath of relief as he slowly sets her down, though it doesn’t seem like she’s planning on letting go of him any time soon with the way her face is still buried in his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

“Mirae, Daddy has to go to work now. Would you be a good girl and wait outside with Aunty Secretary?” He asks gently, to which she replies with a firm shake of her head.

Mr. Kang sighs. “Mirae…”

“I got it, sir,” you tell him, and he nods, probably willing to do anything at this point.

You crouch down. “Hi, sunshine,” you say softly, but not reaching out to her yet. “Guess what? I brought cookies today. Remember the ones you said you liked?”

At this, the little girl shifts just enough to peer at you shyly.

“I think I saw one with extra chocolate chips,” you whisper like it’s a secret. “But since nobody wants to have it, I guess I’ll have to eat it myself…”

“No!” Mirae suddenly yelps as she stumbles towards you, like she wasn’t just fixed on staying with her father a few seconds ago. “I’ll eat it! Please?”

You grin as you stand back up, taking her small hand in yours.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Mr. Kang mumbles, to which you reply with a proud grin.

“Food is the best way to a girl’s heart. Good luck for your meeting, sir.”

You wait for him to enter before you set off, stopping by the pantry to get Mirae her cookie as promised before bringing her over to the lounge. It’s become something like an unofficial childcare zone at this point, a place you’ve found yourself in more and more since Mirae started warming up to you. Of course, you hadn’t expected for babysitting to be a part of your job scope when you started working here a little over a year ago, but you couldn’t say that you minded.

You help Mirae up on the couch as she nibbles on her cookie, before moving to one of the drawers to take out a bunny plush toy you keep there for days like these. The little girl lights up upon seeing it, her free hand reaching out for before hugging it close to her chest.

“I didn’t want to go to school today,” she states absently after a few beats of silence, small legs kicking the couch as she swings them back and forth.

“Yeah? Your dad said that. Wanna tell me why?” You prompt gently.

Mirae fiddles with the ear of the bunny. “My friends… my friends say my family is weird,” she mumbles, voice suddenly small. “They all have drawings with three people. Mummy, Daddy, and them. But I only have me and Daddy. They said maybe I’m not good enough so my mummy ran away.”

“Oh, baby,” you murmur, moving to sit next to her. “Sometimes, kids say a lot of silly things when they don’t understand something.” You stroke her hair. “Not everybody’s family looks the same, and that’s okay. That doesn’t make you weird. It makes you special.”

Mirae peers up at you, eyes glassy. “Special?”

You nod, smiling warmly at her. “You have a dad who loves you so much, he brought you to a boring grown-up building just to make sure you felt safe today.”

Mirae giggles at that, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “Daddy tells me he loves me every night before I go to sleep. But he doesn’t like it when I ask him about my mummy.”

You don’t say anything to that. As much as people around the office love to engage in cheap gossip about your boss’ life, you try to stray away from it. It isn’t any of your business, and you couldn’t see how it mattered— not when his daughter is safe and loved, the only thing that should matter.

“But that’s okay! Because I like you, Aunty Seki!”

“Mirae,” Mr. Kang sighs at the door, seemingly having stepped out of his meeting. You quickly put on a smile as you stand up, hoping he hadn’t heard your prior conversation.

“It’s secretary, not seki. I told you not to call her that.”

You chuckle. “It’s fine, sir.”

He turns to you with a raised brow. “You do know what it sounds like, right?”

“Mhm.” You grin as you help Mirae off the couch, dusting the crumbs off her skirt.  “It doesn’t bother me.”

“What would people think of me if they knew I let my child call you a bad word?”

“It’s not a bad word if it’s said with love. Isn’t that right, Mirae?” You smile sweetly, to which she returns with an enthusiastic nod.

Mr. Kang chuckles, shaking his head before offering his hand out to his daughter. “Grandma is waiting for you downstairs, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

Mirae turns to hug your legs, chin tilted upwards to beam at you. “See you tomorrow, Aunty Seki!”

“Nope. You’re going to school tomorrow, little lady. Go on.” Mr. Kang ushers her to the elevator, but not before turning to mouth a thank you at you.

You laugh. And somehow, you find it difficult to wipe the smile off your face even after you’ve returned to your desk.

The afternoon sun beats down on you through the windows of Mr. Kang’s car. It’s quiet for the most part, only the low hum of a 90’s pop song humming through his stereo filling the air between the both of you.

It isn’t rare for you to join Mr. Kang on client meetings outside. According to him, he’s bad with jotting down meeting minutes and even worse with remembering the finer details, so having you there would at least help him with that. Though sometimes, you wonder if he just prefers having someone to shoulder the note-taking while he talks.

“I need to pick Mirae up from school before we head back. She ends early today. Hope you don’t mind,” he tells you casually.

“Of course not,” you tell him.

If there’s one piece of office gossip that you do entertain and believe in— but only because you’ve witnessed it one too many times before— is that Brian Kang flat out refuses to get a babysitter for his daughter. There was a time when he’d gotten you to cancel a week’s worth of meetings when Mirae had fallen sick and refused to be with anybody but him; a few days into his leave, he’d returned to the office with the little girl in his arms, bundled in blankets and a cool pack on her forehead, just so he could resume working while taking care of her. There was also a time when he’d passed up on a potential client because they were unwilling to reschedule their meeting which clashed with Mirae’s show-and-tell at school. 

And between it all, somehow, he makes it work. As much as you know how much of a workaholic your boss is, you also know he would never put his work before his daughter, and that’s something you admire about him. More than you’d like to admit.

“I’ll be just a second. You can wait in the car,” Mr. Kang says as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

You’re only realising that you’re already parked by Mirae’s school. Before you could get a word out, he’s already out of the car, leaving you to sit awkwardly in the passenger seat. And because it feels far too weird, sitting alone in your boss’ car like you’re the higher-up, you step out as well, stretching your limbs while you’re at it.

It isn’t long before Mr. Kang reappears, a pink princess bag over one shoulder with Mirae in his arms. She doesn’t see you yet, far too busy chattering to him about something as he listens attentively, a small smile playing on his lips.

You look away.

“Aunty Seki!” Mirae squeals when they approach you, earning a small sigh from your boss.

You chuckle, giving her a small wave. “Hi, sweetheart.”

You’re glad to see that she’s happier today, the little girl still babbling animatedly as Mr. Kang buckles her in her carseat. You wait for him to be done before you enter the car again.

“How was school today, baby?” Mr. Kang asks as he pulls out of the parking space.

“Teacher gave me a gold sticker for my drawing!”

“Yeah?” A proud smile tugs on his lips. “What did you draw?”

“I drawed Muffy! Like the one I want for my birthday!” You see her turn to you through the rearview mirror. “Aunty Seki, did you know that Daddy is going to bake me a cake? I’m turning four years old!”

You have no idea what (or who) Muffy is, but still, you humour her. “Is that so?” 

Mirae nods enthusiastically.

Mr. Kang scoffs dryly. “I also told you I have no idea what I’ll be doing, baby, but I promised you I’d try, didn’t I?”

“Aunty, can you bring cookies to my party?” She asks you, ignoring her father completely.

“Oh, uh-” you glance at Mr. Kang, unsure of what to say. Mirae’s birthday party is clearly a family affair, and you didn’t want to promise her anything if you know you’re not going to be there.

“Mirae, you can't just ask for presents like that. It’s not nice,” he chides gently.

The little girl pouts. “I’m not asking for presents. I want Aunty to come to my party,” she mumbles.

“Then maybe you should ask her nicely, sweetheart,” Mr. Kang replies, sparing you a glance that tells you to just go along with it.

“Aunty Seki? Will you come to my birthday party?” She asks, almost shyly.

You smile. “Sure, honey. I’ll be there.”

And just like that, all her bashfulness is replaced with pure, contagious excitement. “With cookies!”

You nod, turning around to look at her. “With cookies.”

✦ ✦ ✦

At 5pm, Brian manages to catch you just as you’re about to leave for the day.

“Hey, I’m sorry about earlier. I wasn’t expecting her to… you know. Spring that on you like that.”

You shake your head, giving him your usual polite smile. “It’s alright, sir. I’m more than happy to make her a batch.”

A pause. Then,

“I’m not talking about the cookies.”

You tilt your head, prompting him to continue.

“The party,” he starts tentatively. “I’d really appreciate it if you could come. You don’t have to stay long, but…  just know she’ll be looking for you.”

You stay silent, and somehow, that is what causes Brian’s pulse to accelerate. He never gets this nervous during presentations, or when meeting clients, but somehow, your answer matters more than all of that combined. Maybe it's because of the way Mirae lights up whenever you’re around, and the thought of letting her down is just unbearable.

“Consider this a formal invite,” he adds. “I’ll pay you for your time.”

“Oh, sir- no. You don’t have to pay me, really,” you quickly say.

He raises a brow. “I’m making you give up your weekend.”

“You’re not making me give up anything,” you assure him with a smile, one that admittedly is not helping ease his nerves at all. If anything, it only makes his heart beat faster, and Brian wonders why. 

“I’d do it for Mirae anyway.”

And that only sends his already-quick heartbeat into overdrive.

Brian has never been good at cooking.

Still, he tries.

Every Saturday morning is spent in his kitchen, phone propped against his kitchen roll holder as he follows a YouTube tutorial on what his little lady boss wants to eat for the day.

He wants to believe he’s getting better, but some days do end up with him going to his mother’s house to take home some side dishes.

Today, however, he’s combating a totally different problem.

Mirae is sitting on her high chair as usual, munching on some apple slices he’d cut for her, while he’s standing at the counter, eyes squinted on the measuring spoon in his hand as he very carefully pours out from a box of baking powder. The lady in the video isn’t even using a spoon, but Brian knows better than to do that now (the last time he tried, his cake ended up exploding in the oven, and Brian is set on not wanting that to happen again).

“Daddy?”

“Yes, my girl?” He mumbles distractedly.

“You’ll make my cake look like Muffy, right?”

At this, Brian glances at her, Mirae already looking at him with hopeful eyes as she clings onto her soft toy. He’d gotten her the birthday cake Jellycat when she turned three last year, and she’d been inseparable from it since. She’d been talking about wanting a cake that looked like it for a while now, and of course, Brian didn’t have it in him to say no.

He smiles, reaching for an egg. “I’ll try, baby. It’s why Daddy is practicing now, so you can have the best cake among all your friends.”

A few beats of silence pass.

“Daddy?” Mirae calls out again.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Am I weird for not having a mummy?”

At this, Brian finally turns to her fully. It isn’t the first time Mirae would ask her about her mother, and it seems that she’s been getting more curious since she started school. He knows it's inevitable and that he’d have to have a serious conversation about her one day— not today, though.

“Who told you that?”

“My friends.” Mirae shrugs like it’s nothing, her legs swinging in the air.

Brian puts down his whisk, stepping towards her. “What did I tell you, Mirae?”

“That families can look different,” she mumbles as she looks down, as though aware of the sudden shift in the air.

“That’s right. Some families have one mummy. Some have two, and some have none at all. You have me, but that doesn’t make you any less loved, does it?”

Mirae peers at him through her lashes, shaking her head.

“Then… can I get a new mummy?”

Brian laughs as he returns to his batter. “Like who, baby?”

“Like Aunty Seki!”

He chokes.

Mirae continues rambling, completely unaware. “She’s nice, and she’s sooo pretty, and she loves me!”

Of course. It’s not like Brian hasn’t noticed how kind you are. Or how pretty you are. Or how good you are to Mirae. Because he has. But you’re his secretary, and he’s your boss, so he’s never dared to entertain his thoughts any further than that.

Still, it’s difficult to forget the time he'd first met you in person— how you’d walked into his office with that bright, polite smile you still wear to this day. There wasn’t a hint of nerves in your voice as you introduced yourself, nor did you crack when you were handed a pile of paperwork that even he deemed too much for someone new to the job.

And when Mirae peeked from behind him to look at you, you’d crouched down instantly like you’ve known her forever. By the time he realised you’d handed his daughter a tiny origami crane you’d folded from a sticky note, you’d already gone back to your desk.

Brian clears his throat. “Secretary, Mirae. Not seki.”

“Se-tree-ca-ry.”

He sighs. “You know, I’m sure she’d be happy if you just called her by her actual name.”

“But you said real names are only for family! Grandma calls you Younghyun but everyone else calls you Bwian.”

“Not what I meant,” he mutters. “Also, it’s Brian, Mirae, not Bwian. Roll your Rs, please.”

Mirae hums as she busies herself with pronouncing his name properly, but now, thanks to her, he’s left thinking of you. Even the first cake in the oven that doesn’t seem to be rising reminds him of you, how you’d occasionally come in the mornings with a freshly-made batch of bakes in your hands for the office pantry—

And that’s when it clicks.

You’re already at your desk by the time Brian walks in.

“Good morning, sir!” You greet him politely, tablet in hand as you walk with him to his office.

“You’ve got a meeting with the design team in 10 minutes, a call with the Tokyo office at 11:00, and then lunch with Mr. Han at The Ginger at 1:00. There’s a reminder here for Mirae’s parent-teacher conference at 5:30, so I’ve pushed up the financial report discussion to 3:30,” you list as he settles in at his desk.

“Sounds good.”

You nod, locking your tablet. “Have a good day today, sir!”

You turn to leave, but Brian finds himself calling out your name before you could do so.

“Yes?”

“About Mirae’s party,” he starts tentatively, causing you to tilt your head in question. “I, uh… tried baking over the weekend. Thrice. All three cakes ended up in the trash.”

You feel your lips tug up into a ghost of a smile, but you don’t say anything yet. Just the thought of Brian Kang, all cool and composed with his crisp dress shirt and not a single hair out of place, losing to a cake is almost too much to handle.

Mr. Kang clears his throat. “As you already know, Mirae wants me to bake a cake for her birthday. The only problem is that- I’m not good at it. So I wanted to ask… if you’d be able to teach me how. Since- you know- you’re good at baking and all that.”

If you weren’t already staring at him so intently, you would’ve missed the pink creeping up his neck and ears. You’d never thought there’d come the day when you’d see your boss this flustered— but at the same time, this wasn’t at all where you’d expected this conversation to be going.

You thought he was going to ask for your help to outsource it from somewhere else— maybe even bake it for him— but you realise now that he’s serious about wanting to be the one to make the cake for his daughter.

It’s… sweet.

“You don’t have to give me an answer now. Take until the end of the day to think about it,” he continues coolly, though you could tell he’s a little embarrassed. “Of course, if you do decide to take on this offer, I’ll pay for the ingredients and your time.”

A laugh escapes your lips before you could stop it, though it isn’t mocking— just amused, and also because you find it endearing.

“I’ll be happy to help, sir. I’ll bring in some recipes tomorrow,” you tell him. “And no need for overtime.”

Today, you find yourself looking forward to work a little more than usual.

Your eyes still dart to the elevator every so often as you wait for Mr. Kang to come in, but not because he’s running late, or anything— oddly, you think it has something to do with the blue notebook tucked beneath your work tablet, its contents just waiting to be shared.

And when he does come in and you’re done listing him his agendas for the day, you lock your tablet, hugging it to your chest before placing the book on his desk. “As promised, sir.”

Mr. Kang raises a brow, but only for a split second as he registers what it is that you’ve given him.

“There are a few recipes in there, so you can look through and let me know which one Mirae would like. Or whichever you think is easiest.” You grin.

At that, he laughs, and for the first time, you realise how much younger he looks when he smiles— dimples forming, and eyes crinkling in a way that makes him seem almost… boyish. 

“I trust your judgement.”

And when your name slips at the end of his sentence, something feels… different. There’s an unfamiliar feeling in your chest, a feeling you can’t quite place, but know for sure that it’d linger in your mind.

You quickly shake the thoughts from your head.

“I’ll go on a grocery run later before fetching Mirae. Oh, but I ought to show you what cake she wants. It’s very specific, and I don’t know if we’re going to need any extra ingredients for that.”

He unlocks his phone to go to his gallery, and the screen flashes a photo of him and Mirae.

She looks younger here, her hair shorter, and she’s hugging a Jellycat plush toy shaped like a cake, soft layers of sponge topped with frosting and felt strawberries with a candle in the middle.

But your gaze soon drifts to your boss instead, dressed simply in a casual button-up, unstyled hair falling loosely across his forehead. Outside of his usual suit and tie ensemble, Brian Kang looks younger. More carefree, like the sharp lines of his work persona has softened. And there it is again— that smile.

“I got this for her birthday last year. She’s been inseparable from it since,” he muses, as though reminiscing the memory.

“That’s adorable,” you say when you finally find your voice. You clear your throat. “We’re going to need frosting and a few dyes. If you’d like… I can come with you later.”

Mr. Kang nods, exhaling as he leans into his chair. “Good. Because I have no idea what I’m doing,” he mutters. “We leave at 5:30.”

✦ ✦ ✦

The supermarket’s fluorescent lights hum softly overhead as Mr. Kang steers the shopping cart, you next to him with your recipe book in hand.

“Vanilla essence,” you murmur, more to yourself as you stop by one of the aisles, eyes scanning through the array of glass bottles arranged neatly on the shelves.

Mr. Kang hums in acknowledgement as he picks up a random one. He no longer has his suit jacket on, his tie loosened, but there’s still something so precise about the way he reads the label like its fine print.

“Which one do you usually get?” He asks, and you turn to him.

It’s rare for your boss to ask for your opinion— not like it’s a bad thing. Making decisions is part of his job anyway, but somehow, you tend to forget that outside the office, he’s not always the man in the crisp suit calling all the shots.

“This one.” You pick your regular from the shelf. “It’s organic, and the flavour’s a little more mellow, so your cake won’t turn out as sweet.”

Mr. Kang nods. “We’ll get that one, then.”

And that’s how it goes for the rest of the trip— quiet, but not exactly awkward. If anything, it feels like any regular workday. But every now and then, when your fingers would accidentally brush his over the cart handle, or when you would catch him watching you from your peripheral vision as you compare chocolate brands, you’re reminded that maybe… this is a little different.

The thought lingers right up until you’re back in his car, pulling up into an unfamiliar neighbourhood to pick Mirae up from his mother’s house— and suddenly, it feels like you’ve just been let in on a part of Brian Kang’s personal life that not many people get to see.

Mirae is already asleep by the time Mr. Kang reappears, the girl slumped over his shoulder. You help him with the car seat, him muttering out a small thanks as he carefully buckles his daughter in, careful not to wake her up.

“We can always reschedule to tomorrow if you’d like?” You offer as he drives down the familiar streets back to the office. He’d suggested using the communal pantry earlier since it had an oven (and it worked in helping avoid any awkward talk about whose kitchen to use), but with Mirae now asleep, you’re not sure if doing so would make things any more convenient.

“No, it’s fine,” he mutters, eyes trained on the road. “Sorry. Mirae doesn’t like spending the night at her grandma’s, so it probably won’t be long until she wakes up and realises I’m not there with her, anyway.”

Something in your chest tugs at his words, warm and unexpected. You don’t say anything after, turning your gaze to the window before you could linger on the thought for too long.

Even when you’ve both arrived at the office, Mr. Kang setting his daughter on one of the lounge couches where he could see her from the pantry, you try not to dwell on the fact that maybe, this feels far too personal for it to be just a work thing… and the worst part?

You don’t think you mind. At all.

“Let’s start with the basics of making a cake,” you tell him with a smile, though it’s mostly to ward off your own jitters. “Once you get the hang of this, we can move on to assembly on another day.”

“Sure, sounds good.” Mr. Kang nods, rolling up his sleeves.

“What do you mostly struggle with?” You ask as you unpack the ingredients on the table.

“Some days, it doesn’t rise. Other days it’s… completely raw.”

You smile, amused. “It’s important to set your oven to the right temperature before you start. The size matters too, so if your oven’s too small but the heat is on too high, you might burn the outside of the cake before the inside cooks. Too big, and the heat might not be consistent enough for it to rise fully.”

“Yeah, they don’t say that in the tutorials,” he mutters.

You laugh softly, stepping towards the oven. “My recipe says to put it on 175 degrees, but since this oven’s quite small, we can do maybe around… 160?” You adjust the dial. “We’ll check the doneness a little earlier too, just to make sure it doesn’t burn.”

You turn to your boss with a grin. “Are you ready to bake, sir?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he answers dryly.

As it turns out, Mr. Kang isn’t all too bad with preparing the cake batter, and you assume it’s because he’s done it before. Though, you find that he can be a little clumsy at times— like how he’d accidentally knock over your measuring cups or spill flour all over the counter.

Still, the tight knit of his eyebrows as he focuses tells you that he’s trying, and that’s really all that matters.

Even after you’ve popped the cake in the oven and he’s wiping the table beside you, the quiet look of determination lingers, like he’s still running through each step in his head.

“Coffee?” He asks eventually.

You nod, already stepping towards the coffee machine. “Sure. I’ll get it.”

“No. You sit,” he says, almost absently as he reaches for two mugs. “It’s the least I could do after making you stay late to teach me how to use an oven properly.”

You don’t register his teasing tone until a few seconds later, making you realise that this might be the first time your boss has actually joked around with you.

You chuckle. “It’s really not a problem, sir.”

He sets down a mug before you, steam curling from the chocolate-coloured liquid. You pause for a beat, the familiar aroma making you wonder how— and when— exactly he learned how you take your coffee.

You try not to dwell on it, even when the minutes leading up to the cake being done feel prolonged, and even when you’re growing too aware of him sitting on the stool next to you, shoulders almost brushing as he sips on his coffee.

What is going on?

The oven eventually dings, and you’re the first out of your stool to retrieve the cake.

“Looks like it’s done.” You poke the middle of the cake with a toothpick, and it comes out clean. “Well done, sir. Your first successful cake!” You turn to him with a grin, handing him a knife. “Want to do the honours?”

He chuckles, cutting out two slices while you grab the plates and forks. Mr. Kang doesn’t even wait for it to cool down, only blowing on it slightly before he takes his first bite, and you note the way his eyes widen.

“So…?”

He turns to you. “Best cake I’ve ever tasted in my life.”

You laugh, relieved.

“She’d love this,” he murmurs as he takes another bite, eyes finding his daughter as she snoozes on the couch.

“Mirae’s really lucky,” the words slip out of your lips before you could think twice, and it’s only when Mr. Kang looks at you do you realise what you’d just said.

You clear your throat. “To have a father like you, I mean,” you add, knowing it’s too late to backtrack on your words now as you avert your gaze to your plate. “My mum raised me and my brother alone, too. She was a nurse so a lot of times, it was only the two of us at home. I had to learn how to cook at 10 years old.”

His lips quirk. “‘That how you learned how to bake?”

“Yes, actually,” you chuckle. “It started off with microwave cakes, then instant cake mix… a lot of trial and error.” You smile at the memory. “I don’t think people realise how difficult it is to raise a child on their own.”

There’s a pause before you continue.

“I mean, my mum did what she had to do to keep a roof over our heads. To keep food on the table. But she wasn’t around much. But you… you’re able to juggle both work and the being-there part so well. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit for that.”

Mr. Kang is silent, and you quickly turn to him. “I-I’m really sorry. That wasn’t any of my business-”

“No,” he cuts you off. “You’re right. I think I really needed to hear that, actually.”

Your heart catches in your throat, but before you could reply, a soft cry comes from the lounge.

Mr. Kang is out of his seat in a second, instantly scooping Mirae in his arms as he calms her down.

You glance at the time, deciding it’s best to leave soon, anyway. You busy yourself with clearing the remaining dishes, though you know it’s mostly to distract yourself from the unfamiliar feeling that’s starting to make home in your chest.

“Aunty Seki?” A quiet mumble comes from behind you, and you turn to see Mirae, face half-buried in her father’s neck as she peers as you through wet lashes.

“Hi, sweetheart. You okay?”

“I had a bad dream,” she sniffs, voice shaking at the end.

“I’m here, baby,” Mr. Kang mumbles, placing a kiss on the crown of her head before turning to you. “Let’s pack up? I’ll drop you off.”

“Oh- it’s really okay, sir, I’ll just take a cab. You should bring Mirae home straight.”

“No, it’s late. I don’t want you going home by yourself at this time,” he says in a tone that tells you it’s non-negotiable.

“... Okay. Thank you,” you reply, a little awkward. “Should I pack the cake for you?”

“No, leave it. The staff can have it tomorrow morning,” he mutters mindlessly as he adjusts Mirae on his hip. “Ready to go?”

You nod, carefully placing the cake on a serving stand before covering it with a lid. Grabbing a pen, you scribble on a post-it before pasting it on the glass.

Baked fresh from last night. Feel free to take a slice!

The next morning passes in a blur of emails and spreadsheets, and by lunch you could feel your eyes drying behind your reading glasses. You blink blearily, trying to make sense of the illegible streak of words on your screen, until someone clears their throat and cuts you out of your haze, causing you to jump in your seat.

“Woah! Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” the voice laughs lightly, and you realise that it’s Jaehyung from marketing.

“Hey, Jaehyung. It’s alright, I didn’t see you there,” a small chuckle leaves your lips as you remove your glasses. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Kang isn’t in right now. Do you need me to leave a message?”

Jaehyung raises his brows, almost in confusion before he shakes his head. “Oh- no, I’m not here for him.” He smiles, albeit shyly. “Um, I just wanted to say, the cake you left in the pantry? It was a hit. Everyone loved it! Seriously, you might just be the office hero right now. I mean, not like you haven’t already been, but yeah.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head slightly, having not expected to hear that at all.

Sure, Jaehyung has always been vocal about his compliments on your baking, but technically, this one wasn't even baked by you. Still, you choose not to say anything; as much as you and Mr. Kang haven't discussed on whether your baking lessons are to be kept secret, you wouldn't want rumours to spread should you say the wrong thing.

“Well, I’m glad. Nothing wrong with a little sweet treat to begin your mornings, right?”

“Spot on!” He grins, eyes crinkling behind his circular glasses. “But, speaking of sweet treats…” Jaehyung places a drink on your table. You recognise the logo on the cup to be from the café next door. “I was just out on a coffee run so I figured…” he motions to the cup. “As a thank you. I hope you like americanos?”

“Oh.” You’re surprised, again.

You don't know Jaehyung very well, apart from the occasional crossing of paths in the mornings at the elevator lobby or in the pantry.

But that was about it. He’s never visited your desk before— never had a reason to. The marketing team sits at the far end of the floor along with the rest of the departments, and your desk outside of Mr. Kang’s office is slightly isolated from the main floor traffic. It’s rare for you to get visitors unless they had appointments with your boss… which in Jaehyung’s case, has never happened. Until now.

Before you could answer— maybe even utter out a thanks— the elevator doors slide open with a ding, and out steps Mr. Kang.

You perk up instantly. “Afternoon, sir!”

He nods in reply before his eyes land on Jaehyung, brows raising ever so slightly.

Jaehyung quickly bows as a greeting before turning back to you. “Well, I’ll see you around!” He chirps before leaving.

“It’s rare for people to be here but not for me,” Brian mutters as he places a file on your desk. “Did he need anything?”

“No, sir. He just wanted to say everyone really loved the cake.”

Brian scoffs under his breath. “Could’ve been an email.”

“What was that, sir?”

“Nothing.” He clears his throat. “I need you to review these and finalise the contract documents before our meeting with Legal.”

“Got it.” You take the file into your hands. “I’m in the process of cross-checking the paperwork, so I’ll get all of it to you before 3:00.”

He nods, not saying anything else as he walks to his office— only to stop, turning to look at you again.

You look at him expectantly, as though waiting for him to say something, but the words catch in his throat.

“Good work today,” he says stiffly, not waiting for your reply before leaving.

It’s only when he’s finally in his office does he let out a long exhale, leaning against his chair as he tugs on his tie that suddenly feels all too tight. “What the hell was that?” He mutters to himself.

Since last night, Brian’s been feeling kind of… weird. He doesn’t know what it is, but there’s definitely something. Something… about you that’s been harder to ignore. It didn’t help that the memories of yesterday kept resurfacing during his meeting with a client earlier, as though his brain couldn’t pick any other time but that moment specifically to think about you; the way you laughed quietly under your breath as though you didn’t want to offend him when he spilled some batter on the table, or the way you smiled at him through the rim of your coffee mug.

It was all… foreign.

And so when the first thing he saw upon reaching the office was seeing that guy— Jaehyun? Jaehyung? leaning against your desk and chatting you up like he didn’t have anything better to do, it’d caught Brian off-guard.

But it wasn’t like he was annoyed, or anything. Why would he be? It’s not like he cares who you talk to. Then again, Park Jaehyung had no business being anywhere near you during office hours. None at all.

It was just… odd. That’s all. And Jaehyung had been really close to your desk.

Brian looks up, glancing at the small glass pane of his door where he could see you. You’re picking up the cup from your desk— the cup he saw Jaehyung leave for you— before taking a tentative sip, only for your nose to scrunch up at the bitterness.

Brian scoffs to himself. If Park Jaehyung knew anything about you, he would’ve gotten you a latte instead.

The pantry smells like vanilla and sugar once again. Two sponge cakes rest on a cooling rack— finally unburnt, and finally risen to perfection.

But as proud as Brian is about finally getting it right, he doesn’t want to gloat just yet. Not when he’s faced with his next challenge, which could potentially make or break Mirae’s birthday for good.

“Hold it like this,” you instruct gently, fingers brushing his slightly as you adjust the piping bag in his hands.

He tries to focus on the task at hand, but it’s damn near impossible when you’re standing so close, the lack of distance for some reason making his chest tighten.

It’s ridiculous, truly. It’s just frosting. Just instruction.

So why the hell is his heart beating so fast?

Brian clears his throat. “Like this?”

“Not so much pressure. Hold it gently, and…” you squeeze your own bag, a neat dollop of cream forming on the tray. “Like that.”

Brian stares at the bag in his hands like he has a personal grudge against it before he copies you— rather, attempts to.

The bag sputters pathetically, cream blobbing messily next to your perfect one.

You let out a laugh, soft but unguarded, and the sound goes straight to his stomach. “Okay… maybe not like that.”

Brian chuckles under his breath. “I figured.”

Still, he tries again, because your encouragement makes him want to do well— makes him want to do it until he gets it right. Though at this point, it’s less about the cake and more about how focused you look when you tilt your head to examine his work, the faint crinkle in your eyes when you smile, and the quiet patience you always give him, both in the office and here.

And when you finally say “there! Perfect,” with a grin that reaches your eyes, Brian doesn’t bother stopping the thundering in his chest, because finally, he’s ready to admit that he’s falling— fast.

✦ ✦ ✦

“Should I pack this for you?” You ask, already unfolding the cake box you remembered to bring with you just now morning.

Mr. Kang shakes his head. “Leave it. I wouldn’t want Mirae to see this before her birthday, anyways,” he says as he starts on the dishes. “You should pack yourself a slice.”

“I think I’ve eaten enough cakes to last me a lifetime,” you laugh as you lift the cake onto the glass serving tray, covering it with the dome lid.

You can’t help but to smile at it fondly. It’s not perfect; some of the frosting leans uneven, and one of the strawberries at the top looks like it’s about to fall off. The resemblance to the actual Jellycat is loose at best, and the simple attempt at the two dots for eyes and curve for a mouth along with the clumsily-piped shoes at the base makes you laugh, but it still looks like a cake. A real one, and that alone makes the ridiculous amount of effort worth it.

“It’s late,” Mr. Kang murmurs as he dries his hands on the dish rag. “I’ll drop you off before picking Mirae up.”

“Oh- sir, you don’t have to-”

Mr. Kang cuts you off with your name, and you blink.

For some reason, the way he says it makes you falter— you don’t know why. He calls you by your name all the time, if not Miss Secretary, but something about it this one feels… unfamiliar. Quieter, like it carries more weight than it should. Like it means something you don’t quite dare to name.

“It’s late,” he adds upon your silence. “Please?”

You nod, not quite trusting your mouth to do the talking.

You keep the cake in the fridge while Mr. Kang turns off all the lights, and soon you’re standing side by side as you wait for the elevator. Neither of you say anything, and for the first time, the silence that would often settle between the two you feels too loud.

The doors slide open, and you lift your gaze from your shoes to step in— only to find a familiar face  already inside.

“Oh- hey!” Jaehyung seems just as surprised as you are, but quickly recovers as his lips settle into a boyish grin. He turns to Mr. Kang as the both of you step in. “Late night, boss?”

“You can say that.” Mr. Kang gives him a brief smile, tone clipped before facing the doors.

Jaehyung turns to you. “Hi.”

“Hey.” You smile warmly. “What are you still doing here?”

“Had to sort out some paperwork. And then had to get the big printer upstairs to work. Do you think printers can smell fear, or is it just me?”

You laugh, and Jaehyung’s grin widens. “Anyway, lucky coincidence! You need a lift? I could give you a ride.”

“Oh, uh…” You glance at Mr. Kang who doesn’t say anything, but even from the side you could see the way his shoulders tense.

But the doors soon open and he walks out first, and you’re left wondering if it was merely a part of your imagination.

“It’s really fine, Jaehyung. I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way…” you attempt weakly.

It’s not like you have anything against Jaehyung— maybe you would’ve accepted his offer on another day— but tonight, it somehow feels… different.

“Nonsense! I offered, didn’t I?” Jaehyung takes out his keys, twirling it around his index finger. “So? I mean- no pressure, though! Only if you want.” His eyes flicker to Mr. Kang beside you, as though only now realising that he’s still here, and as though aware that maybe, he’d complicated things without meaning to.

You glance at your boss, only to find that he’s also looking at you. But his gaze is quieter, heavier, like he’s waiting for your answer more than Jaehyung is.

Something tugs in your chest. It’s probably because of how tired he looks, the dark bags under his eyes now more evident under the fluorescent lights of the basement. Your mind goes back to the other day when he’d mentioned offhandedly how Mirae doesn’t like sleeping over at her grandma’s house, and quickly, the answer becomes clear to you.

Even if it’s not necessarily the one you want.

So you look back to your colleague, forcing a smile. “Sure. Thanks, Jaehyung.”

If Jaehyung notices, he doesn’t say anything.

You turn to Mr. Kang to bow. “Have a good night, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He nods once, eyes glancing at Jaehyung for a beat longer before walking away.

You try to ignore the sudden shift in the air as you follow Jaehyung to his car.

Suddenly, you’re not so sure if you’d made the right call.

Brian finds himself not being able to focus.

He’d downed three cups of coffee before lunch alone, and even maximised his to-do list on his monitor so he could stay focused. But it doesn’t work— not when his eyes would flick every so often towards the window pane that separates his office from your desk outside.

You’re just… there, completely unaware that he’s studying you like a creep, gaze trained on your monitor as you focus on your work, as though last night didn’t happen. As though Jaehyung didn’t stand beside you in that damn elevator. As though you didn’t accept his damn offer just because you felt bad.

Yes, he knows. Knows you well enough— probably more than that damn Park Jaehyung ever will— to see right through you. And while that should make Brian feel better… it doesn’t. Because deep down, he knows Jaehyung has more of a chance than he ever will.

He lets out a frustrated grunt as he stands up. Maybe another cup of coffee would help.

He tries not to look at you as he walks past your desk, but of course— his own gaze betrays him.

You meet his eyes, and as much as he’d expected you to give him your usual smile, you stand up instead, and that causes him to halt in his tracks, brows raised.

“Sorry,” you apologise meekly, realising that you’d surprised him. “Um, I just saw my account earlier, and, uh…” you trail off, not really knowing how to piece your words. “I was serious about not wanting overtime.”

Brian sighs, partly in relief that it wasn’t something else.

“I know,” he replies coolly. “Take it as a token of appreciation.”

You hesitate before nodding, bowling slightly. “Thank you, sir.”

Somehow, that name causes his throat to tighten in a way it’s never done before. He thinks it could be because of how easily Jaehyung’s name slips from your lips, but not his.

What the hell is going on?

“Take the afternoon off,” he blurts, and you perk up.

“I’m sorry?”

Brian clears his throat. “The party starts early tomorrow. You’re going to need time to bake those cookies Mirae asked for.”

“I shouldn’t… it’s really not a problem, sir.”

“You know, you’re the only person I know who refuses to take overtime pay and a free day off, Miss Secretary,” he muses, quirking a brow.

At this, you laugh softly, and as much as the sight causes his heart to thump loudly, it also makes him feel relieved. Like yesterday never happened, and things between the two of you are normal again.

“Okay.” You nod. “Thank you, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

At this point, Brian can’t even deny that he’s looking forward to it.

Your hand twitches at your side as Mr. Kang’s front door looms before you.

For some reason, your brain has decided for this to be the right time for you to second-guess everything. Are you too early? Did you bake enough cookies? Are you severely underdressed- is it normal for you, a secretary, to be at your boss’ house?!

The door suddenly swings open, and you inhale sharply in surprise. There Mr. Kang stands, and… oh. He looks…

Good. A little too good.

He’s in a striped button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows with the first few buttons undone, tucked in a pair of dark-washed jeans. His hair is gelled, but not in the style he usually wears to office— this one looks more casual, his locks parted in the middle and loosely framing the sides of his face.

You think he looks more youthful this way. More boyish, and more… handsome.

You swallow.

“I hope I’m not too early,” you blurt, and Mr. Kang blinks, as though he too is only now realising the prolonged silence.

“Uh- no. No, of course not. You came at the right time. Come on in.” You barely even notice him stumbling over his words as he opens the door wider to let you in. “Party’s out in the yard. I’ll be taking out the cake in a bit.”

You nod mindlessly, taking in the warmth that strikes you almost immediately— not in temperature, but in atmosphere.

Warm lighting spills over the living room, casting it in a glow that softens the edges of the slightly cluttered space. It isn’t messy by any means— just lived in.

On the floor is a basket filled to the brim with Mirae’s toys, some stranded on the floor as though she’d just been playing with them only moments before.

The walls are lined with photo frames, showing glimpses of their life together. Mirae grinning at the camera with chocolate on her face, Mirae on her first day of school with Mr. Kang crouched next to her with his tie slightly askew. There’s even one of her as a little baby sleeping in his arms.

They’re not the posed portraits that you’d expect from a man like your boss, but real, unguarded moments captured in time; snapshots of the life he tries to build for her.

“Thank you for the cookies,” Mr. Kang’s voice snaps you out of your reverie, and you quickly recover as you turn to him with a smile.

“It’s my pleasure, sir. Should I bring this outside?”

“Please.” He nods, motioning to the patio door, and just as you’re about to walk past him, he calls out your name.

“You don’t…” Brian trails off. “You don’t have to call me that today. We’re not at work, and… it’s kind of weird hearing it outside the office.”

“Oh.” You blink. “Um, what do you prefer I call you, then?”

“Brian’s fine,” he says, and he isn’t sure why it feels strange, hearing his own name tumble out of his lips like that. Heavier, almost, like he’s letting you step past a threshold he doesn’t usually let people cross; both figuratively and literally.

There’s a pause, and Brian could see your hesitance in the way your lips part, as though torn between wanting to test his name on your tongue, or keeping within that boundary the way you always do.

“I-”

“Aunty Seki!” A shrill voice calls out before you could utter out a response, and you see that it’s Mirae running towards you, a pink party hat sitting atop her head.

“If it isn’t the birthday girl!” You coo, your shy demeanor instantly replaced with fondness as you crouch down to meet her height. “Happy birthday, angel. You look so pretty!”

Mirae nods enthusiastically. “Grandma bought this dress for me! Everyone! This is my Aunty Seki from Daddy’s work!” She’s already dragging you away before Brian could tell her to stop calling you that, and you turn around to give him a meek smile as you let her lead you into the yard.

Brian exhales sharply, staying rooted to his spot as he stares at your retreating figure.

“Is this the girl Mirae’s been talking about?”

Brian blinks, slowly turning to look at his mother. “Huh?”

She nods towards you in the distance, a party hat already on your head as you distribute your cookies to Mirae’s friends. “Mirae says there’s someone at work who makes her cookies and plays with her. It’s her, right?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Brian answers stiffly. “She’s… she’s my secretary.”

His mother hums. “She’s pretty.”

Brian groans. “Ma…”

“What? I’m just saying,” she laughs lightly. There’s a pause before she asks, “Do you like her?”

He swallows.

Yes. Yes, he does.

How could he not? How could Brian not like you, when you’re so good with his daughter that it makes his chest ache? How you’re so patient with him even on his worst days, and how you’re so kind, always kind. Pretty, too, on both the inside and the outside, though that word doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Brian’s liked you for a while now. He was just never brave enough to admit it.

“She likes someone else. I think,” he ends up saying instead, the thought of Jaehyung suddenly popping in his head.

“Don’t be stupid, Younghyun,” his mother mutters. “No woman would willingly spend time with a man’s daughter if she didn’t care for him as well.”

“Does she really have a choice if I’m paying her?” He argues weakly.

“Even then, look at Mirae. She loves her. And you know kids are never wrong about stuff like this.” His mother shakes her head. “You shouldn’t let Mirae get too attached if you’re not planning on pursuing her,” she then continues quietly. “It’s easy to give a child— or a lady— the wrong idea without meaning to.”

Brian inhales sharply. “It’s not like I’ve… encouraged anything.”

“You’ve let her into your home, your life, and into your daughter’s heart. That’s encouragement enough.”

He goes quiet— because she’s right. And he doesn’t have anything else to say to that.

“I should go take out the cake,” he mutters, excusing himself to go to the kitchen. Whatever this is— he’ll deal with it later.

By the time Brian steps out into the yard, everyone is already gathered around the picnic table, and he tries not to look at you, Mirae tucked to your side as she grins widely at the sight of her cake.

And so, despite his inner turmoil, he’s reminded of why he’s doing all of this in the first place.

All those late nights of baking and piping, leading up to this one special moment alone. He could practically see the awe in his daughter’s eyes as he nears the table, setting her cake gently before her.

As he lights the lone candle with a lighter and the crowd starts to break out into song, Mirae leaps towards him as she wraps her tiny arms around her neck, practically buzzing with excitement.

“Make a wish, baby,” Brian mumbles through a smile, and Mirae closes her eyes before blowing out the flame, everyone else breaking out into applause.

“This is the best cake ever!” She cheers gleefully, cheek still glued to his before turning her head, kissing his jaw. “I love you so much, Daddy!”

And then it’s a blur of unwrapping presents, and running around with bubbles and streamers, and Brian’s finally given a bit of downtime as he retreats to the kitchen to clear some dishes.

It’s only when he senses a presence does Brian glance over his shoulder, and he sees that it’s you. He turns to you fully, wiping his hands on a rag. “Hey. You’re leaving already?” 

You nod with a small smile, hands holding your purse clasped in front of you. Always so polite. “Yeah. I should, uh…” you trail off, averting his gaze as you clear his throat. “You did really well on the cake. I’m glad Mirae really likes it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

His words make you blush, and you duck to cover your burning cheeks with your hair. “It’s all my pleasure, sir.”

He raises a brow at your slip-up, and you laugh softly, shaking your head.

“Sorry. I know you told me to call you by your name, but… it’s weird. You’re still my boss,” you say quietly, and it finally feels like the both of you are meeting halfway; finally addressing the giant elephant in the room.

“I know,” he answers, though his throat feels tight. “I didn’t… did I make you uncomfortable?”

You exhale lightly. “No, sir. Not at all. It’s just…”

“I know this is strange,” he quickly adds. “Mirae’s never been this comfortable with my past assistants as she is with you, and I realise I may have blurred some lines when my mind has been so set on wanting to make her happy. So if I ever make you uncomfortable…” he steadies his gaze on you. “I need you to tell me, okay?”

“Sir, I’m not doing this because you’re my boss,” you counter carefully. “Mirae’s a wonderful kid. And I genuinely like spending time with her.”

“See, I think that’s the problem, Miss Secretary,” he chuckles dryly under his breath. “You can’t be so at ease with my daughter but still walk on eggshells around me.”

“Maybe because Mirae makes it easy.” The words slip out before you could think twice.

Mr. Kang moves closer towards you. “And me?”

You make me nervous. You make my heart ache in a way like it’s never been before. You… make me feel things a secretary should never feel for her boss.

“You make things complicated,” you say quietly.

Your words hang heavy in the air, and the moment they leave your lips, you wish you could take it back. “Sir, I didn’t mean-”

“Right,” he says curtly, tone clipped in a way you’ve never heard before. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind.” He nods stiffly as he steps back, and even though he’s still standing in front of you, it somehow feels like the space between you two has stretched impossibly wide.

It’s been around a week since Mirae’s party, but the air in the office hasn’t felt any less tense. The words you’d said has been playing in your head again and again like a broken record, and as much as you’ve been trying to apologise, you just haven’t gotten the chance to do so. If anything, it almost feels like Mr. Kang is… avoiding you.

He still talks to you, of course. Clipped sentences that never really go beyond meeting reminders and acknowledgements that feel more like obligations than conversation. But somehow, it feels like you’ve been seeing him a lot less, feeling his presence a lot less, and you don’t know if this is just the product of your overthinking combined with your guilty conscience talking.

“Aunty Seki!”

You would’ve thought you were hearing things if you hadn’t turned to the elevator, and sure enough, there Mirae is, skipping towards you with a wide grin on her face, pastel-coloured backpack bouncing on her back with each step until she’s resting her arms on your lap and peering up at you.

“Hi, sunshine.” You smile, stroking her hair before faking a gasp. “What a pretty backpack! Did someone get it for you for your birthday?”

“You did!” She giggles. “I played at the playground just now and Daddy pushed me on the swing!”

“Is that so? Sounds like you had a lot of fun.”

The little girl nods enthusiastically, but before she could say anything else—

“Mirae? Come in with Daddy, darling.”

You look up at Mr. Kang, who isn’t looking at you but at his daughter as he beckons for her to follow him into his office.

Mirae pouts. “But I want to sit with Aunty Seki!”

“She's busy, sweetheart. Let's not disturb her, alright?” He says gently, though firm.

While he’d usually let her sit with you while you work, that clearly isn’t the case today. You try not to dwell on it.

“Mirae, listen to your Daddy, okay? You can come sit with me before you go home,” you say to her, to which she nods hesitantly.

“Okay…”

You send her off with another pat to her head, trying not to let your gaze linger through the window where you can see your boss, already settled in his chair as he tugs on his tie. He looks tired, drained, and the nagging voice at the back of your head returns.

You can’t help but think that this is all your fault.

✦ ✦ ✦

You’re still at your desk by the time Brian steps out of his office, Mirae already asleep on his shoulder.

He feels your gaze on him, and you don’t say your usual line immediately; like you have to think twice before doing so.

Until eventually, right as he’s about to walk past your desk: “Have a good night, sir.”

Brian wants to ask why you’re still here, why the mountain of paperwork on your desk hasn't seemed to be getting smaller since he last saw it in the morning. He wonders if he’d been giving you too much work without him realising, even though you’ve never had a problem with it in the past.

He should tell you to go home, to settle it tomorrow, but he bites his tongue. Because showing that he cares would be crossing a line— a line you so clearly don’t want to cross, and the last thing he wants is to complicate things.

So he settles with a curt nod. “You too.”

But Brian should’ve known that he’s never been good at sticking with rules, especially ones he deems ridiculous. Because the moment he pulls out of the basement, the sky starts to roar with thunder, and soon the clouds begin to weep heavily.

He tries to ignore it. He really does. Especially with how much Mirae hates rain, he knows he should go home straight.

But it’s hard to ignore the nagging voice at the back of his head, wondering if you have an umbrella, and if it’s even enough to shield you from a downpour as heavy as this. Knowing you, you’d probably just wait in the office until it recedes, and Brian doesn’t even know if that makes it any better.

“Fuck it,” he mutters under his breath as he makes a U-turn, heading back towards the office district, and that’s where he finds you— already drenched, your too-thin cardigan doing nothing to stop you from freezing as you seek shelter under the bus stop.

Stupid, stupid, girl.

He rolls down the window. “Get in.”

Your eyes are wide when you notice him. “Sir-”

“Just get in. Please,” he sighs tiredly.

You nod.

Mr. Kang turns up the heater as soon as you enter his car, drenching the seat almost immediately.

You swallow. “I’m so-”

“Don’t. Seriously.” He doesn’t look at you as he says it, jaw clenched as he keeps his eyes on the road.

So you don’t say anything. Not even when he pulls up to your residence, and the two of you are left sitting in silence, as though waiting for the other to speak first.

Eventually, he does.

“I don’t think I can continue pretending that I’m only doing this for Mirae.”

You inhale sharply. “Sir…”

“See?” He laughs dryly, finally turning to look at you, pained. “Even now you’re still calling me that. And yet, you show up at my house for my daughter’s birthday. Make cookies for her just because. Mirae asks about you when we’re home, and I don’t-” he pauses to catch his breath. “I don’t know how to tell her you’re just my secretary. Someone who works for me. Because it doesn’t feel like that anymore.”

You swallow. “I’m really sorry if I crossed a line-”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” He asks, almost exasperatedly. “This- line, has been long crossed since Mirae got attached to you. I didn’t think much of it at first. How good you are with her. How you make things easier for me without even trying. But then I see you with Park Jaehyung and I realised- I realised it’s a lot more than that.”

You’re stunned, because that was the last thing you’d ever expected to come out of his mouth; that he was jealous. Of Jaehyung, of all people.

“I don’t like Jaehyung,” you say coarsely, and you see the glint of hopefulness in his eyes, like saying that alone was enough for him.

You swallow, continuing, “but I’m your secretary. And you’re my boss. It shouldn’t be this complicated.”

“It’s been complicated for a while,” he counters.

“I can’t afford to make a mistake.” You shake your head, averting your gaze. “I- I need this job, and I need you to stop- whatever this is.”

“You mean stop liking you.”

His words hang in the air. You think you’ve known for a while now— felt it, for a while now— but hearing it so explicitly still makes your heart thunder nonetheless.

Because you like him too. Gosh, you like him. So much. But is letting matters of your heart worth the risk of losing your job?

You stay silent, and that was all Brian had to hear.

“Understood,” he says, voice slightly hoarse. “I’ll back off.”

You nod stiffly. “Thank you for the ride, sir.” And then, you’re gone. Brian couldn’t help but wish you’d turn back, just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, imagining things. Because if he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought that all the warmth, the stolen glances, and the way you make him feel like he’s more than just your boss was merely all in his head.

“Need this done by Monday.” Mr. Kang drops a file on your desk, not quite meeting your gaze.

You nod stiffly. “Sure, sir. I’ll get it to you by lunch.”

“I have a meeting with a client at 10:00, so I’m going to need this before then.”

You stay silent.

Since that night in his car, things have turned… strange, for obvious reasons. As much as you try not to let it get to you, especially not at work, you still couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him.

How could you? How could you just forget about it when he told you he liked you?

And now, you sort of wish you could take it all back. Because now, every little thing he does makes you believe that it’s because you’d ruined everything.

“Is there a problem?” Mr. Kang asks at your lack of response.

“I don’t like this,” you blurt, only for your breath to catch in your throat after.

He tilts his head, a brow arched, and you know it’s too late to go back on your words now.

“Us, I mean,” you continue. “Ever since that night, I just feel like you’re mad at me.” You dare to meet his gaze, and he’s still looking at you, wordlessly.

“It’s just- you’ve been giving me things last minute when that doesn’t usually happen. And I know how ridiculous this sounds because it’s not like it isn’t my job to do it, because it is, but I guess it just feels different lately, and I-” you stop yourself before you could go any further. Before you could ruin things any further. “Nevermind. I’m sorry.”

Mr. Kang clenches his jaw. “Why do you keep doing that?”

You blink. “Doing what?”

“That. Apologising. Backing out of whatever you were going to say. Tiptoeing around me.” He maintains his gaze, icy. “If you want to say something, just say it. Don’t just sit there and pretend like everything’s fine when it’s clearly not.”

You feel your eyes start to burn with tears, and you try to swallow them harshly. You are not about to cry at work. “I just… don’t understand what changed. You barely bring Mirae around anymore. You don’t talk to me unless it’s about work, and it feels like- it feels like I’m just another employee to you.”

There it is.

The words sound foreign as they leave your lips, like you hadn’t planned on saying them at all. You’ve always known that deep down, that was how you truly felt, but hearing your thoughts materialise so loudly makes everything feel more… real.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” He asks, and you don’t miss the pain in his tone. “To keep things professional? I think you made that very clear-”

“And I think I also made it very clear that I like you too, Brian Kang!” You exclaim as you stand up, breathing heavily.

He only stares at you, letting a few beats pass before asking quietly,

“Then what the hell are we doing?”

You exhale, shaking your head. “That wasn’t supposed to-”

“No. Stop avoiding the topic and look at me.”

You do.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

“Of what?”

“Of… this. Of crossing the line. Of losing my job. Of… losing whatever we already have.” You stare at Mr. Kang helplessly, eyes glassy. “I don’t want to mess things up. Not for me, not for you, not for Mirae-”

“You think I haven’t thought about that?” He cuts you off, almost pleading. “But the thing is, we’ve long crossed that line. And I don’t want to go back.”

Mr. Kang steps closer, and you look away.

“One chance,” he whispers. “Let me prove to you that I can make this work. That I can make us work.”

You dare yourself to meet his gaze again.

“And if it doesn’t, I’ll let you walk away. No hard feelings. I promise.”

For the first time, you let yourself believe him. So you nod.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll think about it.”

And then, he smiles, really smiles, and it’s the same one you hadn't realised you missed until now. The one he reserves for Mirae whenever she makes him laugh, and the one you’d gotten glimpses of during your late-night baking sessions. It looks warm, unguarded and just so… him.

You realise, maybe this could all be worth it.

“Need you to sign off on this by 5:00.” Mr. Kang sets the file down with his usual, measured tone.

“Yes, sir.” You nod automatically, and he doesn’t wait for you to say anything else before retreating back to his office.

You pick up your pen, taking the blue folder in your other hand as you flip it open, ready to read through its contents— only for it to be… empty?

Well, sort of.

In the middle is a small, matte cardstock, gold lettering embossed right at the top, and it takes you a few seconds to realise…

It’s a dinner reservation. Saturday, 7:30pm. Two seats. The kind of restaurant you’ve only ever seen in glossy magazines.

You look up, and you can see Mr. Kang through the glass pane, and by the small upwards tug of his lips, you know he knows you’re looking at him. But he keeps his gaze on his screen, refusing to meet your gaze.

You let out a scoff, though you can’t hide the way your heart beats loudly in your chest.

When the clock hits 4:57, you make your way to his office.

“All signed, sir.” You place the folder on his desk, and Mr. Kang stops typing to look at you. “I’ll be there,” you add, softer, and a slow smile spreads on his face.

“Good.” He clears his throat, eyes darting back to the screen as though fighting the same heat in his cheeks as you are. “Don’t be late.”

You’re pretty sure the both of you leave the office that day with the same, ridiculous, goofy smile on your faces.

You arrive exactly at 7:30. Mr. Kang— or Brian, as you figure you should start calling him— is already there, adjusting his cuff links like he’s nervous and needs something to do with his hands.

But when he turns to you, a warm smile blooms on his lips, like he already doesn’t see you as his secretary, but you. Just you.

“You’re right on time.”

You shrug, fighting back a bashful smile. “You told me not to be late.”

Inside, the lighting is golden and low. Your server leads you past rows of tables, buzzing lightly with chatter, and just as you think you’re about to be seated, you end up being brought to a corridor instead, where your server finally stops before a sliding door. He bows politely before ushering the two of you inside.

It’s… a private room. Cozy, warm, and void of the noise you hear outside. No clinking of glasses or laughter from the main dining hall— just the low hum of the jazz music playing in the background.

Brian pulls out a chair for you, and you bite back a smile at his slight stiffness; it's clear to you that this isn’t his usual thing either.

“You booked a private room? Don’t tell me you had to pay extra for this.”

Brian laughs as he settles in his own chair opposite you. “I did, yeah.”

You gape. “Why?”

He shrugs, almost sheepish. “Because we sit at tables every day. In meeting rooms, at my desk, all for people to see. And… I don’t want tonight to feel like that.”

You smile. “What did you want tonight to feel like, then?”

Brian meets your gaze then. “Like it’s just us,” he answers, sounding more sure.

Your throat tightens, but this time, you don’t stop your smile from blooming fully.

Brian tells you to order whatever you want, and the next few minutes while waiting for your food is filled with safe, polite topics. Work. The weather. He talks about how Mirae’s been insisting he braid her dolls’ hair before bed, while you admit how you’ve always wanted to open a bakery.

But as soon as your server brings you your drinks, the air starts to feel lighter, like the both of you are finally allowing yourselves to breathe. Like this isn’t a work dinner between a boss and his secretary, but just… Brian, and you.

“I’m serious, by the way,” he mutters as you near the end of your dinner. “About this. About you. And I really want to make this work.”

“I know. Me too,” you say softly. “Which is why-” you pause for a beat. “I think we should set some ground rules.”

Brian arches a brow, though the mirth in his eyes is obvious. “Ground rules?”

“Yeah. Like… no one from work can find out. We only tell HR once we’re ready.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Brian laughs under his breath, but not unkindly. “Even on our date, you’re so… proper.”

“Well, isn’t that why you hired me?” You shoot back, though slightly embarrassed. “And no flirting at work!”

Brian tilts his head, the small smirk still playing on his lips. “What if I can’t help myself?”

“Then… at least close the blinds first,” your mumble.

He laughs heartily. “My turn. From now on, you’re only allowed to call me Brian. No exceptions.”

Your eyes waver. “Even at work? But… you’re still my boss.”

He leans in with a teasing smile. “And are we not seeing each other, Miss Secretary?”

Your cheeks burn. “No calling me Miss Secretary!”

Brian laughs again, leaning back in his seat. “Is that all?”

“Nothing else from me,” your murmur. “You?”

“Yeah, I got one,” he says, softer now, all humour gone from his voice. “Whatever happens… let’s be honest with each other, okay?”

You stay silent, prompting him to continue.

“I want honesty. From the both of us. That means no pretending how we feel, no more half-truths. If everything starts to feel too much… you tell me, alright?”

You nod, heart thudding. “Okay.”

Brian smiles at you then, and he reaches across the table for your hand. Tentatively, like he’s testing the waters, before he lets his palm envelop yours as a whole.

You don’t pull away.

Work has gone back to normal now. 

At least, for the most part.

“Mr. Lee from the Busan office wants to have a call with you at 12:00, but you have lunch with the Japanese investors then. Would you like me to schedule it to after…?” You trail off when you realise Brian isn’t listening, but staring at you. Just staring, lips tugged into a small smile and chin resting on his hand.

You clear your throat. “Brian.”

“Hm?”

You exhale. “Brian, you’re not listening.”

“I am, though.”

“What did I just say, then?”

He purses his lips before he moves slowly, stretching his limbs like a cat, almost as if to buy time. “Mr. Lee from Busan… wants to have lunch with me?”

You sigh, locking your tablet before letting your hand drop to your side. “I thought we agreed on not letting this get in the way of work.”

“Okay, okay. I hear you. I’m sorry.” He moves from his seat to stand before you, leaning against his desk behind him. He’s close, close enough to take your hands if he wanted to, but doesn’t. “Go on.”

You nod, continuing with listing down his agendas from the top. To his credit, Brian does listen this time, though his gaze on you remains unwavering.

“And that’s all.” You hug your tablet to your chest, finally giving him a smile. “Good luck for your meeting later, Mr. Kang.”

Brian arches a brow, his hands slowly reaching for yours before gently intertwining your fingers, pulling you closer towards him. “Hm? What was that?”

You stiffen, glancing over your shoulder to check if anyone is around. Of course, you’re aware that it’s only the two of you in his office, but still. “Brian.”

“What? Tit for tat.”

You huff, though you can’t stop the smile that’s already tugging on your lips. “You’re impossible.”

He tilts his head, looking at you with an amused grin, but his eyes are fond. Soft. “You still like me though, right?”

You think you’d be crazy not to.

You slowly pack your things, eyes glancing at the clock every so often as you wait for it to hit 5:30.

Brian had invited you over for dinner today, and you’re equal parts nervous and excited.

Nervous, because you’re finally telling Mirae the news today— that you and her father are… dating.

It still feels weird to say that.

It's already been a month— a month of secret touches beneath his desk when you'd brief him on his agendas for the day. A month of him leaning too close when you'd pass him a file. A month of pretending that all the rules you'd set for yourselves didn't exist.

After hours, it's been quiet dinners in his kitchen after Mirae's gone too bed. Long drives home where he'd never let go of your hand once, and stolen kisses in the safety of his living room. A month of learning what it feels to belong— not just to him, but to the little family you're slowly becoming a part of.

But of course, there's still that fear that makes you wonder if it would change things— what if Mirae feels replaced? What if she thinks you’re taking Brian away from her?

Brian had assured you that it’d be fine seeing as she already loves you anyway, and you could only hope that he's right— because gosh, just how much you want this to work.

You feel someone approach your desk, and you think that it’s Brian telling you he’s ready to go, but when you look up, you’re met with Jaehyung instead.

He greets you with an easy grin. “Hey.”

You smile politely. “Hi, Jaehyung. Clocking out?”

“Yeah. Early, for once,” he exhales. “So listen, there’s this new restaurant across the street that I’ve been meaning to try. I was wondering… maybe you’d like to come with me?”

Your breath catches in your throat, but you try to school your expression. You know that Jaehyung’s been harbouring feelings for you— it’s been obvious since the day he sent you home. You’d kind of been hoping he’d leave it at that, but you should’ve known you’d have to deal with this eventually, should he choose to ask you out.

And as much as you hate letting people down… 

“I’m really sorry, Jaehyung. I’m already seeing someone,” you say, polite but firm.

“Oh.” His brows raise in surprise. “Well… that’s okay. I’ll see you around!” He smiles again, and even though you feel bad, you’re glad he’s nice enough not to push.

“Ready to go?”

You hadn’t even noticed Brian standing there, leaning against the threshold of his office as he waits for you. You wonder if he’d heard your conversation with Jaehyung.

“Oh- yeah. Let me just-” you quickly turn off your computer before taking your bag, and Brian smiles at you softly as you walk to the elevator.

“So,” he says when you step inside. “You’re seeing someone, huh?”

Your pulse stutters, and you try to bite back a smile. “Apparently.”

“Apparently?” Brian turns to you. “Guess I should meet him. Make sure he’s good enough for you.”

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” he says, all humour suddenly dropping from his voice. “Is he?”

You turn to him, and Brian’s already staring at you. Not exactly hopeful, but more like he genuinely wants to know.

You don’t think twice before getting on your tiptoes, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. At this point— to hell with the rules you’d set for yourselves.

“He is,” you whisper, soft but sure. 

And when he smiles at you like you’d hung up all the stars in the sky, you know that every risk is worth taking if it’s with him.

✦ ✦ ✦

Mirae had been more than thrilled to have you over, and dinner had gone by smoothly. There was a lot of laughter, a lot of teasing, and for a moment you let yourself wonder if this is what it feels like to have a family of your own.

After dessert, you offer to wipe down the counter while Brian gets started on the dishes, Mirae still in her high chair as she munches on some fruit puffs.

“Here you go, baby,” Brian mutters under his breath as he passes you a wet cloth, his other hand grazing the small of your back.

You freeze. At both the name, and his touch. But touch aside—

Baby. He’d said it so softly that maybe, you think you’d imagined it. You had to have, right?

Until Mirae lets out a loud giggle.

“Daddy, you’re silly! Aunty Seki’s not a baby. That’s what you call me!”

Brian freezes too.

He glances at you, almost helplessly as you try to hold back your own nervous laughter.

Guess we’re doing this now.

“Well, you’re right, baby,” Brian starts tentatively, crouching next to his daughter. “But… Aunty is kind of Daddy’s baby, too. Only, in a different way.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or blush at his choice of wording. Clearly, Brian is inexperienced with this just as much as you are. But when he looks at you again, as though to gauge whether you’re okay with it, you don’t hesitate to give him a sure nod.

Mirae gasps loudly before turning to you. “Are you and Daddy boyfriend and girlfriend?” She whispers loudly, and you hear Brian’s poorly-suppressed snort as he stands back up.

You smile. “Yes, sweetheart. But only if you’re okay with that, of course.”

“I’m okay with that!” Mirae squeals, clapping her hands. “Now I can finally draw three people!”

The room goes silent for a beat as the both of you register her words, and your eyes quickly pool with tears.

You turn to Brian, and he’s watching his daughter with misty eyes before he turns to you, his smile soft and fond, vulnerable in a way he’s only starting to show more often.

And when his hand find yours, you know that this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

EPILOGUE

You’re sweeping the floors when the bell behind you chimes, and just as you’re about to tell the customer you’re closed for the day-

“Aunty Seki!”

Your lips part in surprise before you chuckle, letting the broom drop to the floor as you crouch down, opening up your arms for Mirae who’s already running towards you at full speed.

“Sweetheart, slow down,” Brian utters half-heartedly, strolling in after her with her bag on his shoulder.

“I thought you said you were working late?” You ask as you carry Mirae up, balancing her on your hip.

“Mm, I did, but then I decided I missed my girlfriend more, and I think she deserves a little pick-me-up after working so hard lately,” he murmurs as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Hi, baby.”

You close your eyes at the contact, a smile forming on your lips.

It’s been almost eight months since you quit your job at Brian’s firm, deciding it was time for you to pursue what you’ve always been wanting to do— running your own bakery.

It’d taken a while for you to come to a decision, mostly because the thought of beginning from scratch sounds daunting, but Brian was with you every step of the way. Of course, he’d even offered you the funds as a kickstarter, to which you rejected, insisting that it was your dream and you wanted to earn it on your own.

The day you’d finally cut the ribbon, Brian had surprised you with a home-cooked dinner at his house that night, to celebrate you and to tell you how proud he was of you for taking that step.

And when it was just the two of you alone, cleaning up in his kitchen with Mirae already fast asleep in her room, he’d pulled you in for a kiss that meant everything he’s been wanting to say since he fell in love with you.

“I love you, Brian,” you’d murmured against his lips then, beating him to it. “Gosh, I love you.”

The comment is offhanded, but it still sends a wave of uneasiness down your spine. You know how your mother is— she’s the reason why you’re so wary of people like Brian to begin with. Because everything you assume about him? She’s already proven herself true.

Mr. Kang hums in agreement. “A man like him— steady, responsible. Any girl would be lucky to have him.”

The old man glances at you as he utters the last few words, and your grip tightens around your glass. Whatever it is that’s about to come next, you know you’re not going to like it.

“That’s why we’ve been thinking…” Now, it’s your father’s turn to speak. “It’s time you start considering a more suitable future for yourself. We’ve talked it over, and we believe Younghyun is the right match for you.”

A beat of silence passes by, as though everybody is waiting for you to react first. You even feel Brian’s steady gaze on you, and that’s when you realise— he knew. That asshole knew.

You don’t stop the chuckle that escapes your lips before it escalates into full-blown laughter, and if not for the tears in your eyes, you would’ve caught the awkward glances being exchanged across the table.

“Honey-“

“You-“ your voice comes off as hoarse. “You want me to marry him?”

“It’s a good match.” Your mother takes a bite of her steak, completely unfazed and completely dismissive of your slow descend into insanity.

“For who? For me? Or for your business connections?” You snap.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” your father cuts in, unimpressed.

You scoff, turning to him. “I’m dramatic? You’re literally selling me off in the middle of dinner and I’m dramatic?”

Your mother sighs, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. “Sweetheart, let’s be honest. You were never going to make a sensible choice on your own. We’re doing you a favour.”

Your stomach twists. You know what she’s hinting at. “Excuse me?”

“You’re wasting your time on a boy who barely has enough to pay for his own dinner, let alone yours. How do you expect us to trust your judgement?”

Of course. Of course, they’d bring up Wooshik. Your parents never took a liking to your boyfriend since you introduced him to them two years ago, and while that was an issue you’ve been putting off for a while now, always convincing yourself you’d cross that bridge when you got to it, you just never expected for it to catch up to you so soon.

Then again, you should have known. Your parents always play the long game.

You shake your head, your chair screeching against the marble tiles as you stand up. “You know what? I’m done.” You spare Brian a glare as you do so, the man infuriatingly calm as he watches the entire ordeal unfold ike he’s in a board meeting.

Oh, you hate him.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Your father calls out to you, his voice sharp.

You don’t bother to reply as your storm out of the dining hall, hailing down the first cab you see the moment you exit the country club. There’s only one person you want to see right now, one person who could make sense of this insanity. The one person who, despite what your parents think, chose you for you.

You arrive at Wooshik’s apartment in twelve minutes, your knuckles rapping loudly on his door. In hindsight, you should have given him a call first, knowing that he’s probably already asleep at this time, but in your frazzled state it seems that all sense has left you completely.

The door finally swings open after what feels like forever, but you’re met with someone who isn’t your boyfriend.

“Yes?” The girl greets you with an unimpressed stare. For a moment, you think you’re at the wrong apartment, until your gaze flickers to the number plate above the doorbell. Not that you even needed to; you’ve been here probably a thousand times. There’s no way you’d mistake your own boyfriend’s place, no matter how distressed.

And for the second time that night, your heart drops to the pit of your stomach, only for it to shred itself into little pieces when Wooshik appears, shirtless, eyes widening when they land on you.

“Baby-“

“Who is this?” You ask lowly, shakily, because even despite everything, you still have an inkling of hope that maybe, this is all just a huge misunderstanding. There’s no way that Kim Wooshik, your boyfriend of four whole years, would cheat on you, right?

But he only stays silent, and that was all you needed to hear.

Your heart pounds in your ribs, each beat louder than the last, but Wooshik still says nothing. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t push past the girl in his doorway to get to you. He just… stands there.

And that’s when you realise— he’s not speechless because he’s guilty. He’s speechless because he doesn’t care.

“Oh, wow,” the girl hums, arms crossing over her chest as her eyes twinkles in amusement. “Took you this long to figure it out, huh?”

You turn to her slowly, fists clenched at your sides. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, c’mon,” she pauses to laugh, gesturing lazily to your boyfriend— if you could even call him that. “Look at him! What other reason could there be for someone like him to go for someone like you?” 

When you don’t answer, she raises her hands, rubbing her middle finger against her thumb. As though you needed a reminder— tonight, of all nights— the only thing people truly cared about.

Money.

And it was a good thing you had loads of those too, because being broke sure as hell wouldn’t be able to get you out of what you did next.

You punched her.

You don’t register it until it happens, the loud crack that echoes in the hallway— your knuckles, her nose, you’re not entirely sure which. One thing for sure, you’re seeing red.

She stumbles back with a shriek, but you’re already turning to Wooshik.

“You bastard.”

Your fist collides with his jaw before he could even stammer out an excuse, and his back hits the door behind him upon impact.

“Are you insane?!” He yells, cupping his bruising cheek as he pants.

Maybe. But right now, you don’t care. Even when you feel the stinging of your scalp as the girl fists your hair and yanks you backwards, you recover fast, and you think it’s the pent-up rage from before that spurs you to continue, disregarding your broken nails as you claw blindly and ignoring the contents of your clutch spilling onto the floor as you use it as a makeshift weapon.

“Stop! Stop it- people are looking!“ Wooshik hisses as he grabs you from behind, pulling you away from his mistress. You yank yourself free, whipping your neck to look at him.

“Oh, now you want to care what people think?” You laugh sharply, ignoring the curious eyes of his neighbours as they watch through the cracks of their half-open doors.

Before he could reply, you’re interrupted by the sound of sirens.

Loud. Distinct. And definitely getting closer.

And as the red and blue lights spill through the corridors, it finally registers.

You’re screwed.

The police station is desolate at this time of night, and if it weren’t for the position you were in, you could even say that it’s peaceful.

You’re seated across an officer— Officer Jung, as the placard on his table suggests— who’s flipping through his notes.

“So, wanna tell us what happened?”

You don’t answer, exhaling sharply through your nose— this wasn’t how you imagined your night to end.

“Seeing as there are no serious injuries, we could let you off with a warning and fine. But, if Mr. Kim and Ms. Shin decide to press charges, well, you might have to deal with a court date at a later time. If you tell us what happened, we could help you— make things easier, at least.”

You scoff humourlessly as you keep your gaze on your lap— your bloodied fingers fiddling with your clutch you miraculously still have with you. It’s bent out of shape and not even able to lock properly anymore, leaving you to notice that some of your items are probably still left on the floor outside Wooshik’s apartment.

And then, you notice it— a familiar sleek, black card, hidden away in a tiny pocket on the wall of your purse.

You haven’t used this bag in a while— it’s been almost a year, you believe, but you instantly know to whom that card belongs.

You look at Officer Jung. “I want to make a phone call.”

He looks taken aback at your sudden request, but quickly recovers. “You’ll get your phone call, but talking now could make things easier for you, if you’d just cooperate, Miss.”

You don’t reply, and the officer sighs.

“Fine. One call.”

He pushes the telephone on his table towards you, and you pick up the receiver while you take out the namecard with your other hand. The phone rings thrice before he picks up.

“Brian Kang speaking.”

“I need you to come pick me up.”

A pause.

“Where are you?”

“Gangnam Police Station.”

Thirty minutes later, you hear his voice again, this time in person. Brian is speaking to the officer at the front desk before he’s handed something to sign, and soon he’s directed to where you’re seated at the waiting area.

You turn away, suddenly feeling conscious of your appearance. You’re sure your mascara is smudged and your hair is a hot mess, and while you really couldn’t care less of what anybody thinks of you— much less Brian— you figure there’s only so much humiliation you could take in one night.

“Ready to go?”

You peer at him through your eyelashes, the man only looking back at you patiently like you’re not at a police station and he isn’t here to bail you out. Brian Kang, with his hair styled to perfection and his black tie still in a neat Windsor knot despite it being close to midnight. The only indication that he’s even been through a day is his blazer being unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but even then, he still manages to look presentable.

Oh, how infuriating. You hate him.

You don’t say anything, standing up and smoothing out your dress in the process. Not like it did much, whatsoever.

“Oh, wow. And who’s this?” A voice sounds from the other side of the room, and you turn to see that it’s Wooshik, a lazy smirk on his lips despite the bruise blooming on his jaw. “Guess I’m not the only one who’s been unfaithful, huh?”

Your blood boils. “You-“

You want to lunge towards him, but a firm grip around your wrist yanks you backwards, and you feel Brian’s chest against your back as he holds you firmly.

“No.” His voice is calm but absolute, his grip tightening when you struggle. “Not here.”

“Let me go,” you seethe, but Brian doesn’t budge.

“And what?” He answers smoothly, tilting his head towards the officers who are watching you intently. “Get yourself in more trouble?”

Wooshik snickers. “You hear that, babe? Keep proving to everyone what a slu-“

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Brian cuts in, his tone so sharp that Wooshik actually shuts up.

You take the opportunity to yank yourself free, and giving Wooshik one final glare, you march out of the station.

Brian is close behind you, as you could tell from the sound of his footsteps, and when you stop, he stands right beside you.

“Brian,” you utter without looking at him, keeping your gaze trained on the almost-empty parking lots in front of you. Your fist your hands tightly, unsure if the pain you feel is from your injuries or from the utter betrayal you’ve received from everyone tonight. “Let’s get married.”

He chuckles softly. “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”

You clench your jaw as you turn to him, just in time for him to meet your gaze. There’s a twinkle of something in his eyes— mirth. Amusement. Almost as if he’s teasing you, and you hate that.

“You don’t think I’m serious?”

“I think you’re angry,” he corrects, now turning to face you fully. He places his hands in his pockets, casually, like you’re not on the brink of lashing out and him not on the receiving end. “And people say all sorts of things when they’re angry.”

You can’t help but to let out a humourless scoff at his tone. You’d think that he’d drop his fake-nice act now that it’s just the two of you, but if anything, it’s even more infuriating. Who the hell does he think he is, talking to you like you’re a child— like he’s trying to gentle parent you, at that? Even your own parents don’t do that!

“I don’t like you,” you say bluntly, earning a raised brow from Brian. “But right now, I think I hate my life even more. So, really— marrying you doesn’t even sound like the worst idea.”

Brian exhales a quiet laugh as he shakes his head. “You’re doing this out of spite.”

You jut your chin towards him. “Oh, what, so now you’re a mind reader?”

“No,” he quips as he lowers his head to meet your eye level, and his lips stretch out into a wide grin. “I just know you’d rather set yourself on fire than to admit defeat and let your parents say ‘I told you so’.”

You grit your teeth. “Go to hell.”

He chuckles. “Tempting, but I think I’ll stick around for a while.” Brian straightens up, finally giving you space to breathe as he adjusts his cuffs, acting like he’s having the most normal conversation in the world. “So, rings?”

You frown. “What?”

“For the wedding?” He adds, tilting his head. “Unless you’d rather wing it and let your mum pick them out?”

You roll your eyes wordlessly before shoving past him, the sound of his mocking laughter trailing behind you. You don’t even know where his car is, but you keep walking anyway, desperate to put some distance between you and that insufferable smirk.

Just what the hell did you get yourself into?

Your wedding with Brian was nothing short of excessive extravagance, as is the rock that now sits on your finger. As stunning as it is, a three-carat diamond ring with a pear cut and matching silver band that fits perfectly, it’s a reminder of your legal bind to the man, whom, even over the last couple of months, you found yourself to still despise.

It isn’t easy to live with someone like Brian when he’s the direct opposite of you. Precise, methodical, and annoyingly put-together— that’s him, and he’s everything you’re not. While you struggled to remember in which box you packed your toiletries prior to the move, he was already done with colour-coding his sock drawer. As you were cursing yourself for dropping one of your favourite scented candles, he was quick to appear beside you with a broom and dustpan, and by the time you were done being dramatic, there were no more glass shards for you to accidentally step on.

The only upside that came with your marriage was the fact that you’d never have to deal with your parents’ suffocating expectations again, even if it meant having to coexist with Brian and all his… Brian-ness.

There were no I-told-you-sos, (because you never bothered to disclose the ending of your relationship with your ex-boyfriend), no condescending lectures, just quiet, satisfied approval, because you had done exactly what they wanted— married a man they approved of, and moved into a life that was deemed respectable. In return, that got you out of a house you never really got to call home to begin with, and for a while, that was enough, until you realised that sharing a roof with Brian came with its own set of problems— like the way he insists on organising the kitchen cabinets like it’s a damn grocery aisle.

“That doesn’t go there.”

You glance over your shoulder to see Brian leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed as he watches you place a mug in the cabinet.

You arch a brow. “It’s a cabinet. For mugs. Where else should it go?”

He exhales before nodding to somewhere beside you. “Top shelf. Left side. Next to the tall glasses.”

You scoff, turning to face him fully with the mug still in your hand. “Seriously, Brian, do you hear yourself when you speak? It’s a cup. A cup. Who cares where it goes? Are you running a five-star restaurant in here? Are the housekeepers going to judge my mug placement skills? Does the fate of the world depend on whether or not my mug sits next to your stupid tall glasses-“

In the midst of your rant, you don’t even even notice him stepping forward, plucking the mug out of your hands before placing it exactly where he wants it without so much as a word.

“There. Problem solved.” He dusts off his hands before looking down at you. “Also, it’s Younghyun. I told you, Brian is for business. I’m your husband.”

“And our marriage is purely transactional. I’ll call you whatever I want,” you bite back.

“Hm, fair. Should I start calling you sweetheart, then?”

You know he’s trying to rile you up on purpose, and oh, boy, is it working.

You glower. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He merely smiles— that infuriating, knowing smile— and you know he’s noticed the way your cheeks burn in anger. But, being the asshole that he is, he chooses not to say anything.

And somehow, that only makes it worse.

“Sweetheart, could you pass me the salt?”

Your fingers stiffen around your utensils as you slowly turn to him with a glare, Brian not even looking at you as he continues to cut his steak, like nothing ever happened. Like that damn word didn’t just escape his lips; like he’s been saying it for years instead of just now, in front of both of your families.

He only looks up when he realises your silence, and even has the audacity to raise his brows as though to ask: what’s wrong?

You grit your teeth.

“Oh, I absolutely adore what you’ve done with the house! You know, with a space this big, there’s only one way to truly make it feel like home.” Brian’s grandmother beams from across the table.

You don’t like where this is going, but Brian, the ever-perfect grandson, humours her. “And what would that be, Grandma?”

Grandma Kang claps her hands, grinning in a way that reminds you of Brian when he’s teasing you. Now you know where he got it from.

“Filling it with little feet, of course! A house this grand shouldn’t be put to waste— imagine how wonderful it would be to hear children running through these halls.”

Even though you saw it coming, you still find yourself choking on your food as her words hit you before you could process it.

You grasp for your water, but before you could, Brian beats you to it as he slides his own glass towards you, his fingers brushing yours as he does so.

“Careful, darling,” he says, his hand coming up to pat your back. You barely get to register the warmth in both his touch and his voice before it leaves you completely, and he’s back to sipping on his wine by the time you turn to him.

Like nothing ever happened.

“We’re still young, Grandma.” Brian returns to the conversation with an easy smile. “What’s the rush?”

“Yes, but I’m not getting any younger, son,” Grandma Kang hums disapprovingly. “I do want to see at least one of my great-grandchildren before I die. You two haven’t even gone on a honeymoon yet! That won’t do— newlyweds should take time to celebrate.”

“Don’t say that,” Brian chides gently. “You’ll be around to spoil a whole football team’s worth of great-grandkids.”

You kick his shin from under the table, to which Brian doesn’t react— of course he doesn’t.

“I hope you don’t feel like I’m pressuring you, dear.” She turns to you. “It’s just that, I want to see the both of you happy and settled while I can.”

You settle with an awkward smile, though you’re sure it comes off as more of a grimace.

Out of everybody in this room, the old lady seems to be the only one who doesn’t make you feel like you’re under a microscope. She’s warm, affectionate, and genuinely delighted to have you in the family, which is why you can’t find it in you to tell her the truth— that you’re not in love with her grandson, and you don’t think you ever will be.

“But, speaking of honeymoons.” Brian swallows his food. “I do have a work trip coming up. Maybe we could make something out of it. What do you think, love?” He turns to you with a boyish grin, and you swear, if you hear another one of his stupid nicknames leave his mouth, you might just combust.

In anger, of course.

You frown. “A work trip is not a honeymoon.”

“It is if we say it is.” He shrugs, nonchalant. “Especially if it’s in the city of love.”

“Ooh, Paris!” This time, your mother gushes. With the way both Brian’s parents and yours have been quiet throughout the entire duration of dinner, you’d almost forgotten that they were there to begin with. Of course, your mother wouldn’t be your mother if she has to stay silent for very long, and the moment her sharp eyes meet yours, you know that the decision is already made for you.

You’re going to Paris.

You haven’t had a good sleep in days.

With the new project at work and your trip coming up, your schedule is packed, and with the endless emails and phone calls that don’t seem to stop, you’re not given the time to breathe, let alone rest.

It’s nearing midnight, and you find yourself still in the living room, the chandelier dimmed and your only source of light as it accompanies you while you finish up your report. You’ve been at it for hours, and your eyes are starting to blur from the screen, but you force yourself to push through.

You barely even hear the sound of footsteps until Brian stops next to the television, leaning against the wall as he watches you.

“You’re still working?” He asks, his tone quiet and laced with something you can’t really put a finger on. A part of you has a hunch, but you don’t want to acknowledge it.

“Yeah. I just gotta finish this before we leave. I’ll be fine,” you mutter distractedly, not even bothering to spare him a glance.

Brian doesn’t say anything as he continues to watch you, and you continue typing, hoping he gets the hint and leaves you alone.

“You need to take a break,” he finally says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

“What I need is to finish this report, Brian.” You finally look up to give him a glare, and you’re surprised to see that for once, he’s being serious, devoid of the usual teasing shit-eating grin he always wears. Still, you don’t waver. “You’re not exactly helping by being here.”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. You haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. You need a break,” he repeats, his tone more firm this time. Still, there’s no real anger in it, only concern, and that’s the one thing you’ve been trying not to acknowledge. Your chest starts to twist uncomfortably, unfamiliar with this side of him.

You roll your eyes wordlessly, knowing starting an argument with him would only take up your time, and that’s the one thing you don’t have enough of right now.

You hear Brian sigh before he steps towards you, gently taking the laptop off your lap before placing it on the coffee table in front of you.

“Seriously-“ you scoff before getting to your feet, heart thumping erratically as your frustration finally bubbles over. “What’s it to you? Why do you keep acting like I’m helpless?” You snap. “I can handle this! I don’t need you to tell me what to do every five minutes!”

Brian doesn’t flinch. “I’m not telling you what to do, I’m telling you what’s good for you. And what’s good for you right now is to take a damn break.” Despite the tick of his jaw, his voice is calm, too calm. “You’re not fine,” he continues, a quiet challenge in his voice. “And you don’t have to pretend with me.”

That is what makes you crack.

You don’t know what it is, maybe it’s the exhaustion, mixed with anger— hell, it’s probably all the emotions you’ve been suppressing since you got cheated on and then getting married the following month— because the next thing you know, you’re crying uncontrollably with no signs of stopping.

You drop to the sofa, burying your face in your hands as you sob, your shoulders trembling with the weight of it all. You don’t even want to look at Brian; the last thing you need is his sympathy.

“Just go,” you croak, voice muffled behind your hands. “I’m fine. I’m just tired, okay?”

Brian doesn’t say anything, and for a moment, you think he actually left, until you feel him kneel down in front of you, gently prying your hands off your face.

For some reason, you let him.

He brings his hands to your face, cupping your cheeks gently as he wipes your tears. You shake your head to get him to stop, embarrassed, but he doesn’t move away, only holding you firmer.

“You’re not fine,” he murmurs, his voice a lot quieter now, but his tone is one you haven’t heard before. Soft. Almost tender. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to do this alone. Not as long as I’m here.”

His words catch you off-guard. You hadn’t realised just how much you needed to hear that, too used to carrying everything yourself, always being the strong one, so hearing Brian say that feels like a lifeline.

The fact that he’s actually there, not telling you to fix it or get over it, but simply… acknowledging it, makes everything feel a little less impossible, especially after he says:

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

You sniff before looking away. “You’re so annoying,” you mumble, taking his hands to remove them from your face, but you don’t let go as you let them rest on your lap.

Neither does he.

“You bring this up tomorrow, and I’ll kill you.”

Brian laughs, his eyes crinkling as he does so, and somehow, the sight doesn’t annoy you as much as you know it should.

“You’re joking,” you deadpan, fingers resting loosely on your luggage handle as you stare at the room before you. You turn to Brian. “One bed? Why the hell would you book a suite with a single bed?!”

“Grandma wanted to gift us. I couldn’t say no,” he utters with absolute indifference, like you’re both not standing before a king size bed with flower petals scattered all over it in the shape of a giant heart. The sight makes you shudder.

“It’s fine. I’ll just take the couch.”

“You better,” you murmur, too tired to deal with his nonchalance today. You had just gotten out of a fifteen hour flight— like that wasn’t already terrible enough. The fact that it was Brian Kang that you flew with made it all the more agonising.

He was the type of person who insisted on arriving at the airport way before necessary— which, in your case, meant that the three hours you thought you had to pack your luggage were cramped into a single, stress-filled one.

It didn’t help that Brian had a lot to say about your lack of preparation, chastising you for not packing earlier, which of course, then naturally spiralled into an argument that lasted twenty minutes (though, it was more of you yelling while he remained infuriatingly composed).

By the time you were good to go, you’re exhausted, out of breath, and completely over it. Meanwhile, Brian loaded both your luggages into the car with effortless ease like it was nothing.

Like the responsible adult he was, he had checked in for the both of you on time, and even went as far as to listen to the safety instructions in the plane intently like he was in a lecture. At that point, you wouldn’t even be surprised if he were to whip out a notepad and pen to jot down notes.

He was completely insufferable.

And now that you’re finally in Paris, some distance from Brian would do you good, you think— except, of course, he has plans.

While all you want is to sink into the ridiculously plush hotel bed and knock out for a few hours, Brian is already chattering on about his itinerary like he’s pitching a business proposal. Truthfully, you could barely even make out the places he’s listing with how lethargic you are, and he only stops when he realises you’re being weirdly unresponsive.

You’re fast asleep.

Younghyun scoffs to himself as he stares at the slow rise and fall of your back, your body curled up under the covers as you snore softly. Usually, he’d have something to say about how you shouldn’t be lying on the bed without changing out of your outside clothes first, about how you never listen to him when he tells you to get enough rest, maybe even tease you about how you always insist you won’t fall asleep right away, only for you to be knocked out cold the moment your head hits the pillow.

But for once, he lets it go.

Because despite how much you get on his nerves, and no matter how stubborn you are, he knows you’re exhausted. And maybe, he doesn’t mind giving in to you this time.

With a soft sigh, he gets up from the sofa and grabs his coat, making sure not to wake you up as he closes the door behind him softly. If you won’t take care of yourself, then he’d just have to do it for you. And if you’re too stubborn to go out to eat— well, maybe bringing something back would make it easier.

✦ ✦ ✦

By the time you stir awake, it’s dark, and you realise that you’re alone. You wonder if Brian actually did up and leave to go on that walk along the Seine he had been talking about earlier, and for a split second, you feel guilty. You quickly snap out of it, jolting up in the process.

“Am I going insane?” You laugh humourlessly to yourself, running a hand through your tangled hair. “Why the hell should I feel bad for him? He’s not my responsibility. He’s a grown man!” You try to justify, but deep down, there’s a feeling you can’t shake.

You didn’t even ask if he was okay, if he needed help, if he needed something. Nothing.

You groan fall back into the pillows, kicking your feet against the covers in frustration. Your hands find your head once again, and you tug on your hair. “Get out of my head, Brian Kang.”

“Why? Miss me already?”

You sit up again, this time twice as fast and almost falling off the bed in the process.

“I-I wasn’t talking about you,” you manage to sneer, to which Brian chuckles in response as he kicks off his shoes.

“Sure. Come eat.”

You frown, only now noticing the takeout bags he has in his hands before he places them on the coffee table in front of the sofa. As embarrassed as you are, you can’t deny that you’re hungry, so begrudgingly, you pad towards him.

You wait for Brian to shrug off his coat, his coat which you’re now noticing is damp and covered in little droplets. You didn’t even realise that it had been raining, and the same unfamiliar feeling tugs on your heart strings again.

“Really? You couldn’t just wait until the rain stopped?” You mumble, keeping your tone as casual as possible as you start unwrapping your food.

Brian shrugs. “It was just a little rain.”

“Yeah, well, don’t complain if you fall sick tonight and end up having to skip on your meeting tomorrow. I’m not gonna be the one staying awake to take care of you.”

Brian peers at you through his lashes with a knowing smile on his lips, and it only makes you realise how you may have sounded a little too concerned for your liking.

“I-I’m not worried about you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, turning back to your food. You’re not sure if you can continue staring at him without turning yourself into a blubbering fool even more.

Brian laughs, but he doesn’t push it. “Speaking of tomorrow, do you have anywhere you want to visit? We can go after I’m done with work,” he answers breezily, placing a peeled shrimp in your container before resuming with his meal.

You, on the other hand, are frozen in your spot, still trying to process his gesture. You stare at the shrimp in confusion before glancing at him again, but Brian doesn’t even acknowledge you.

“Didn’t you already have a whole itinerary planned?” You ask when you finally find your voice.

“Yes, but seeing as we’re on a honeymoon, we should do things we both like, no?”

“This is not a honeymoon, Brian. Call it what it is, a work trip.”

“Younghyun.” His voice softens in a way that makes your heart tighten. “I know you’ve been working a lot lately, so this is your chance to enjoy Paris. We’ll make the most of it together.”

You want to argue, but somehow the words never come.You know what it is, and you’re finally ready to acknowledge it— the small pang of guilt that creeps into your chest.

“It’s fine,” you say with a sigh. “I don’t really have anything I want to do anyway.” You shrug as nonchalantly as you could, despite knowing that it’s a lie.

Of course, there are things you want to do while you’re here— things that you know Brian wouldn’t necessarily enjoy, and things that certainly wouldn’t fit in his structured itinerary. But you can’t find it in you to say anything, not after everything he’s done.

As much as you hate to admit it, and despite how infuriating and annoying you still think he is, he’s the only one who’s been doing everything while you’ve barely even contributed to the trip. Your mind goes back to his coat again, his stupid, damp coat, and the thought of him being caught in the rain all to get you some food just because you refused to go out today leaves an uncomfortable weight in the pit of your stomach.

So, you don’t say anything— for once, you’ll give in and agree to go along with his plans, even if it means having to drag your feet to the places you know won’t excite you.

Because the last thing you want to do is disappoint him.

✦ ✦ ✦

Brian is already asleep when you step out of the shower, the three-seater sofa only barely accommodating to his tall form. His legs are bent in a way that doesn’t look very comfortable, and he has his arm draped over his eyes to block out the street lights from the window next to him.

There it is again— the dreadful feeling of guilt that twists and turns in your stomach. It doesn’t help that the rain has gotten heavier now, the occasional sound of thunder a reminder that you won’t be getting a peaceful sleep tonight.

With a sigh, you trudge towards the bed, making sure to face the wall and not Brian as you get under the covers. Try as you might, sleep doesn’t come to you very easily, and you’re not sure if it’s because you’ve already had a nap earlier, the relentless rain outside, or purely the guilt from making Brian sleep on the couch. Maybe it’s all three.

You turn on your back, eyes wide open as you stare blankly at the ceiling.

“Are you asleep?” The question escapes you before you could stop it, and you cringe at how loud your voice sounded in the otherwise quiet room.

Surprisingly, Brian hums in reply, but he remains unmoving when you glance at him.

Before you could change your mind, you remove the extra pillow from behind your head, placing it to your right before you quickly turn back on your side.

“Just come here. But any funny business and you’re dead.”

It’s silent for a while, and you think that maybe Brian had gone back to sleep or is simply just ignoring you, until you feel the bed dip.

He exhales a small chuckle as he settles beside you, and even despite the grogginess in his voice, it’s laced with amusement.

“You say that like I’d even dare.”

It’s teasing, but he doesn’t push his luck. Instead, he shifts— just enough to get comfortable, but careful not to press too close. With the pillow now in between the both of you, it’s not like he could, anyway.

A beat passes before he adds, softer this time. “Go to sleep.”

You shut your eyes, opting not to reply him. While that had managed to clear up a little bit of your conscience, there’s still one issue you’re left with: the thunder.

It’s not like you’re necessarily scared of them. They just make you a little jumpy, is all.

Even now, when it booms and splits the dark in a second-long white glow, you yelp, only to bite your tongue right after and hoping Brian hadn’t heard you.

Silence stretches between you, until you feel him reach over to remove the pillow in the middle before it lands on the floor with a thud. You finally turn to peek over your shoulder, ready to ask him what the hell he’s doing.

But of course, Brian doesn’t say anything, eyes still shut like he’s already asleep. In the empty space between the two of you now lies his arm, outstretched, waiting, like a quiet invitation.

Just as you’re about to chide at him, another strike of thunder crashes through the sky, louder this time. So of course, naturally, you jolt.

Forward.

Right into him.

You gasp. “Bri-“

He shushes you. This asshole has the audacity to shush you as he wraps his other arm around your torso, pulling you impossibly closer.

He exhales, his voice low and laced with sleep. “You’re so jumpy.”

Your words get caught in your throat, so for a while, you don’t say anything. You can’t. 

“Am not,” you huff, though it doesn’t really come out as convincing given you’re practically curled against his chest.

He hums, and you know he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t argue. And when thunder strikes for the third time, you feel his arms tighten around you in silent consolation.

You shut your eyes tightly, though this time, it’s not out of fear anymore. No, right now, you’re trying to ignore his warmth that’s already seeping into yours, and the way his featherlight touches are making your throat go drier than a desert.

You think you might need a glass of water, but you don’t exactly want to leave your spot right now.

“One word about this, Brian, and I-“

“You’ll kill me. I know,” he chuckles, the vibration of his chest against yours making you all too aware of how close you are.

You scowl, though it lacks any real bite. Smug bastard.

Still, you don’t move away.

And neither does he.

You wake up to an empty bed.

As you sit up to rub the sleep from your eyes, you almost forget where you are, still disoriented by the warmth lingering on the sheets beside you.

But then you hear the faint rustling from the other side of the room, and that’s when you see Brian by the vanity, currently buttoning up his white dress shirt with his tie still undone and slung over his neck.

Your eyes widen, and you find yourself falling back to the mattress as you stare at the ceiling, breaths slightly laboured.

What the hell is going on? Why is your heart beating so fast? Are you having a heart attack?

You squeeze your eyes shut, even going as far as to press your palms against your cheeks as though doing that would magically erase the memory from your mind.

Nope. Didn’t work. You did not just get flustered over Brian Kang of all people.

No matter how much you try to will it away, the image is already burned in your head— the sharp lines of his collarbones, the way his fingers worked the buttons with ease, the single strand of hair that falls in his forehead despite his conscious effort to style it.

“You okay?”

Suddenly, his voice is way too near for comfort, and your eyes fly open to see Brian peering at you over the side of the bed, his brows knit in confusion.

Thankfully, his shirt is buttoned up all the way now, sparing you from details you don’t want to see (rather, details that you know could potentially cause you to short circuit).

You must have taken a while to answer, gaping at him like a deer in headlights, because you only finally snap out of it when you register him reaching out to you.

“I’m fine!” You blurt, your hand extending out just in time to catch his wrist, his palm already dangerously close to your head.

“You sure?” He asks, not the least bit convinced. “You’re all red. Are you down with a fever?”

“No. Are you?”

Brian only arches his brows at your response, and you finally let him go, scooting further to his side of the bed to put some distance between you two, avoiding his gaze.

“Alright…” he scoffs, a tinge of humour laced in his tone. “I’ll be back before lunch to pick you up, okay? We could go sightseeing if you’re up for that.”

“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble. You had expected him to leave, but he doesn’t, and you finally turn to him again. “What?”

Brian tilts his head slightly, studying you with the same expression that always gets under your skin. Then, without warning, he leans in— just a little, but enough for your breath to catch in your throat.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks again, lower this time, like he knows something is definitely up; like he knows exactly the reason behind why your face is burning and he’s just waiting for you to admit it.

You swallow, gripping the sheets. “I said I’m fine.”

Brian studies you for a second more before he hums, finally straightening up. You don’t miss the flicker of amusement in his eyes, and you know he’s not pushing you further solely because he doesn’t want to embarrass you— at least, more than you already did yourself.

“Okay. If you say so.” He grabs his coat, throwing it over his shoulder. “Get some rest. I’ll see you later, love.”

And with that, he finally turns to leave, just like nothing ever happened.

You exhale sharply, bringing the covers over your head.

You’re so doomed.

✦ ✦ ✦

Your plans after lunch started at the Louvre. It was where you found out that Brian was someone who enjoyed art and history— because why wouldn’t he, right? You thought the gallery was far too crowded and you didn’t see the point in staring at paint splattered on canvas, but seeing how focused he was on reading every single plaque and description, you decided to just let him be.

He’d talk to you about it, too— feed you with fun facts about the artist or history of the painting which really, you couldn’t care less about, but as you took in the way his features would light up whenever he saw a painting he recognised, or the way his lips would twitch into a satisfied smile whenever he shared about something he found interesting, you found yourself holding back on any complaints.

Instead, you nodded along, when in reality you were much more focused on the enthusiasm in his voice and the way his fox-like eyes would crinkle at the corners when he smiled, making him look impossibly more endearing.

That was a thought you were quick to dispose of, of course, because this is Brian Kang you’re talking about. There was no way you were going to admit to anybody that your heart was starting to beat a little too fast to your liking whenever you were around him.

He took you on a boat cruise on the Seine right after, and you did complain this time, bringing up the movie you saw recently about sharks under Paris and how there was no way in hell you were going to let yourself get eaten by one. You weren’t about to tell him that it was boat rides in general that made you uneasy, but it seemed that Brian knew that already without having to ask. He merely laughed and held your hand, and that kept you quiet for the remainder of the ride.

You reach your final destination just as the sun is about to retire for the day, a quiet spot in Champ de Mars facing the Eiffel Tower. Your legs are hurting from all the walking, and with your last meal being lunch a few hours ago, you’re starving.

It was a good thing Brian had half a mind to stop by a sandwich shop on the way here, because your dinner was devoured within minutes, and you’re now left marvelling over the pretty lights that glimmer on the lattice structure before you.

You had no complaints, and it seems that Brian doesn’t have anything to say as well as he too remains quiet, but what you don’t know is that he’s looking at you.

The golden glow of the Eiffel Tower bounces off your skin, catching in the delicate curves of your face. Younghyun might have spent the day at the Louvre, surrounded by centuries’ worth of masterpieces, but hell if you’re not the prettiest thing he’s laid his eyes on.

“Sweetheart.” The name gently rolls of his tongue like he’s been saying it for years, and you hum in reply, clearly distracted, until realisation sets in and your brows furrow ever so slightly as you catch your own slip up.

You turn to him with your signature frown, but Younghyun knows it lacks any real bite. “What?”

He exhales a quiet laugh before pursing his lips, inhaling softly. “I wish you would’ve just told me that you weren’t enjoying yourself today.”

Your expression wavers, but only for a second. “What are you talking about?” You mutter before turning away, like you always do when you’re flustered. “That’s not true. I had fun.”

“You get this look on your face when you’re forcing yourself to have fun,” he muses. “Like you’re watching a movie with a bad plot and you don’t want to admit that you didn’t like it.”

You only scoff, further confirming his assumptions.

“You don’t talk back like you always do. You held back on your complaints when usually, you’d jump at the first opportunity to argue with me. Every time I caught you zoning out, you weren’t looking at what I was showing you— you were looking at me.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Of course, he saw right through you.

“Maybe you just had something on your face.” You glance at him.

Brian laughs. “Even you don’t believe that.”

You roll your eyes, but he isn’t done.

“You should have said something,” he continues, softer this time. “I would’ve done anything you wanted, you know?”

“Even if I wanted to go bungee jumping?”

Brian stares at you softly, a hint of a smile on his face. “I’d tie a rope to my ankle and dive a hundred feet headfirst if it makes you happy.”

Something warm stirs in your chest, but you don’t acknowledge it. You don’t want to, because if you do, then you’d have to admit that this tightening feeling in your chest could be something dangerously close to fondness.

That night, you place your pillow next to you before turning on your side, your back to Brian as he finishes up his work on the sofa.

You feel the weight of his stare as he shuts his laptop, and slowly, cautiously, he gets under the covers next to you, almost like he’s testing the waters.

“Are you asleep?” He asks, voice soft.

You don’t answer right away, not wanting to break the fragile moment. “No.”

He waits for a few moments, almost as though expecting you to elaborate, but when you don’t, he asks, “why?”

You stay quiet again, biting your lip, unsure of what to say. You don’t really have an excuse as to why you’re still awake even after the day you’ve just had. It’s not like it’s raining outside, and it’s not like there’s thunder to keep you up.

It’s not like you were waiting for him.

But Brian doesn’t press. He only stays silent for a while longer before exhaling softly, and just like yesterday, he removes the pillow that separates the two of you before shifting closer, his arm finding your waist as he pulls you flush against his chest.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmurs, like he’s read your mind.

Again, you don’t respond, but you don’t pull away either. You turn in his hold, slipping your arm over his torso just as he pulls you closer, and you try to ignore the unfamiliar feeling that constricts your beating heart.

You should be telling him that it’s wrong, that you don’t need this, but you don’t, letting yourself melt in his embrace instead.

Because for the first time, something about the way he holds you feels right.

Paris was weird, so much so that you were relieved the moment you arrived back in Korea. Even if it meant going back to your routine and getting drowned in backlog at work, it was better than having nothing to do, because having time to yourself meant having time to think about Brian Kang, which you found yourself to do every night before you went to sleep.

At first, you blamed it on the jet lag, but even after a week has passed and you've both well settled back into your usual rhythm which consisted of sleeping in your own separate rooms, you still found yourself thinking about him as you lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling. You wondered if Brian thought about Paris just as much as you did, about how safe he made you feel as he wrapped you in his arms, about how the steady beat of his heart, as opposed to your erratic one, had lulled you to sleep even with the raging storm outside. You wondered if he missed your warmth the way you missed his, and how easy it was to fall asleep beside him, like your body has decided for you that his presence was something to seek comfort in.

You wanted to hate it. Because if you didn't, then you'd have to admit that it wasn't just his warmth that you missed— it was him.

And that was something you weren't ready to face, at least not yet.

So instead, you busied yourself with something— anything, to keep your mind off him. And somehow, that brought you here, standing in the kitchen with his grandmother, sleeves rolled up to your elbows and apron tied snugly around your torso as she guided you with a recipe.

You don't even know how you got here. One second, you were staring blankly at your kitchen counter, contemplating on whether to make yourself some instant noodles, and the next you're on the phone with Grandma Kang— and trust that even the mere thought of this is enough to make you cringe— if she could teach you how to make one of his favourite dishes.

You don't know what it is. Was it guilt? Gratitude? Or maybe— no. You weren't going to entertain the thought that it was something more than that. Perhaps, you just wanted to do something nice for him, to repay him for putting up with you, even make him a celebratory meal for successfully closing a deal after his meeting in Paris.

That was all to it.

"So, how was the honeymoon?" Grandma Kang asks as she stirs pot of kimchi stew.

The old lady, bless her, had arrived within minutes from your phone call, eager to spend time with her— and you quote— her favourite granddaughter.

She was the only who ever really checked in on you ever since you and Brian got married, constantly calling just to ask how you are and reminding you to eat if you haven't. She's just like Brian, and the love you felt from her was one you never really got from your parents. It's warm, unconditional— real.

Which is why you feel guilty.

Because whatever you have with Brian isn't, and all you're doing is deceiving her and letting her believe in something that isn't true.

You swallow, pretending to focus on slicing the vegetables. "It was... nice."

"Just nice?" She muses with a raised brow. "I haven't seen my grandson that happy in a long time, you know."

"He's always happy," you say lightly. "Nothing new there."

"No, dear. This was different."

You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't. You don't want to look too much into the reason behind Brian's unusually good mood, according to his own grandmother.

Grandma Kang sets the spoon down before turning to you.

"I know, you know."

Your grip tightens around hilt of the knife. "Know what?"

She smiles at you. "About you and Younghyun. It isn't real, is it?"

You stomach twists at her words. "Grandma, I-"

"You don't have to explain anything, my dear. I'm old, not blind," she chuckles, turning back to the pot. "My grandson has a lot of love to give," she says gently. "And he does it without expecting anything in return."

You exhale shakily, setting your knife down. "I know that."

She hums. "Then you should know that he's not trying to hurt you. He never has." She pauses to sigh. "Stupid boy. I know he only got married to appease me. His parents set him up with so many girls, you know? He was always polite to them, but his heart was never fully in it. Until you." Grandma Kang smiles at you softly. "It's scary, right? But that's also the beauty of falling in love."

"I don't-" you cut yourself off. Because what could you even say? That she's wrong? That you don't-

You can't. Because then you think you'd be lying.

"Grandma? I didn't know you were coming over." Brian appears in the kitchen, surprise etched on his features. He has his blazer draped over his shoulder, his tie loosened, and the sight makes your throat dry.

His eyes are quick to find yours, and you quickly turn away before he could notice the tears welling in your eyes— tears you're only now registering are there in the first place.

You don't even want to know why you're crying— you seem to be doing that a lot lately— but you may have a hunch.

"Ah, these damn onions, am I right?" Grandma Kang huffs, planting her hands on your shoulders as she moves you behind her; you're silently grateful for that. You take that time to dab your eyes dry, clearing your throat slightly and hoping your red face wouldn't give you away. "Why? Is there something wrong with me wanting to spend time with my favourite granddaughter?"

"Of course not, Grandma," Brian says gently, and you hate how the softness of his voice affects you. By the time you turn around, he's already peering at the dishes on the island, and he looks up at you with a grin on his face. "Did you make all of this?"

Somehow, his question makes your cheeks burn. You think it's embarrassment, having been caught doing something nice for a husband you never wanted in the first place.

You don't even know who you are anymore.

"With a little help," you answer, but your voice comes off as quiet. If Brian notices how uncharacteristically awkward you're being, he doesn't say anything.

"Give yourself a little more credit, dear! Younghyun, a lady who can cook this well? You better treat her right, or I'll come knock some sense into you myself."

Brian doesn't look at his grandma despite her chiding, still looking at you like you're the most valuable thing in the world. "Don't worry, Grandma." His gaze grows softer. "I don't plan on letting her go anytime soon."

✦ ✦ ✦

You find yourself wide awake again despite it being way past midnight. It's turned into a routine at this point, and you have no one else to blame but your housemate who's probably already fast asleep at the other side of the house.

You groan. You hate Brian for making you feel this way, and you really wish you meant it.

Knowing that staying in your room wouldn't do you any good, you decide to head to the kitchen— perhaps a hot drink could help ease the turmoil in your heart.

But alas, your heart only starts to thump faster when you realise the lights are already on, and you find Brian leaning against the counter as he nurses a mug of tea.

"Hey. Can't sleep?"

Your words catch in your throat, so you settle with a nod as you open the refrigerator for the mere sake of wanting something to do.

"You shouldn't be drinking something cold this late. Want me to make you some tea?" He offers, and despite yourself, you still find it in you to roll your eyes at his gentle nagging.

"No, I'm good."

"Milk?"

"I'm not a child."

"I'm afraid that's about all the options I have for you then, love," Brian chuckles before he stops, tone growing softer now. "What's the matter?"

You close the door, finally turning to him. "What are you talking about?"

"You just seem distracted lately."

"I'm fine," you mutter, and even though you know Brian isn't convinced, he doesn't push any further.

"Listen, if you're having trouble sleeping..." he trails off. "You can stay with me."

You blink at his words. "What?"

"If you want to." He pauses as though to gauge for your response, before adding, "would it help?"

You hesitate. You hate how easy the way he says it, so gentle and sincere, giving you an out like he knows how much you struggle with expressing your thoughts.

And as much as you still do, you know there's no use in hiding it anymore when he's already seen through you completely.

So you settle with a nod, a slight one, but one Brian manages to catch nonetheless.

His smile doesn't widen, and he doesn't gloat. Instead, he sets his mug in the sink before he takes your hand. "C'mon," he says softly. "Let's go to sleep."

The walk back to his room is a quiet one, and by the time you step inside, Brian lets go of your hand just long enough to pull back the covers.

"Go on," he says, nodding towards the bed.

You stall, but only for a moment, before slipping under the sheets. The mattress dips as he settles in beside you, and any distance between the two of you disappears in an instant.

Brian shifts slightly, turning on his side to face you. "Better?" He murmurs.

You still don't trust yourself to speak, so you only nod.

He smiles at you then, lips quirking up ever so slightly as he reaches over, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. The touch is fleeting, but it sends something through you.

"Good," he whispers, and like it's the most natural thing in the world, he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close— just close enough for you to hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat you missed.

And with your head resting just above his heart, you note the way his breaths even out as he falls asleep, and you know you should too, but your mind refuses to settle.

"Brian?" You call out softly, so softly you think you never meant for him to hear it at all. Maybe that's for the best.

"I think..." you swallow, gripping the fabric of shirt a little tighter. "I think I'm falling for you."

You let your words hang in the air, fragile yet certain, because you don't regret it at all.

And just like the first time Brian's held you in his arms, you feel like you could finally breathe again.

As it turns out, coming to terms with your feelings was more difficult than you thought, especially when every little thing Brian did seemed to mean something now.

The way his hand would find the small on your back when you crossed the street, the way he always ensured your coffee was the perfect temperature before handing it to you, even down to the way he looked at you— soft, knowing, like he could see right through every excuse you tried to make for yourself.

Still, you tried your best to brush it off. You're a grown woman, not some schoolgirl with a silly crush. You could handle this.

Or at least, that's what you told yourself.

Which is why, when you find yourself at his workplace, lunch bag in hand with a bento box specially prepared (a completely normal, thoughtful thing to do), you ignore the way your heart races at the thought of seeing him.

His receptionist greets you with a smile, telling you that he's inside his office, and you make the short walk down the hallway. For some reason, you're nervous, and while you'd usually blame it on your nerves, you should have known that it was something else this time.

Because there he is, smiling with another woman as she laughs at whatever he'd said. And Brian— that asshole— isn't doing anything to stop her either. He doesn't stop her when she bats her eyelashes at him, leaning in too close for comfort, and he doesn't stop her when she calls him Younghyun.

Younghyun, the one name that for some reason, you couldn't bring yourself to say, yet hated to hear from anybody else.

You left right then and there, slamming the bag on the receptionist's table on your way out.

"Tell him he can eat this if he wants," you mutter without turning back.

The poor receptionist stares at your retreating back before she hesitantly picks up the bag. You're obviously in a mood, and quite frankly, Eunji wanted no part of it. Not like she has a choice.

"Sir?" She knocks on Younghyun's door. "Your wife dropped this off."

Younghyun looks up from his paperwork, brows furrowed when he sees the bag in her hands. "I thought I told you to just let her in if she comes by."

"Well, yes." She tightens the grip on the bag. "I did send her to your office right away, sir, but she left not even a minute later."

Younghyun tilts his head as he stares at the bag. "And what time was this?"

"Five minutes ago, sir. She just left."

Younghyun takes in a breath before nodding. "Okay, just put in on the table. Thanks, Eunji."

Eunji nods before scurrying out, leaving Younghyun to lean against his chair, jaw tightening. This wasn't like you— it wasn't very often that you'd come by his office, only doing so when you started cooking, but the times that you do, you'd usually make him come down to get you, or at the very least, have a snarky remark at the ready as you handed him his food. But this? This was something else entirely.

Of course, the way you've been avoiding him recently wasn't lost on him, and Younghyun couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

He thought everything was fine— better than fine, even, now that you were sharing a bed, falling asleep in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world, but somehow you felt more distant than ever.

He started noticing the little things at first— the way you still curled up next to him at night, but never reaching out to him first. He'd pull you close, only for you to stiffen for a moment before letting yourself melt in his embrace, as though you had to remind yourself that it was okay. The way you used to linger in the mornings, pretending to still be asleep so you wouldn't have to move away from him so soon, only to be the first to slip out of bed now. You barely meet his eyes when you talk to him, and you no longer found fault with him in the littlest things, be it the way he'd organise the fridge or how he'd double check his schedules multiple times even though nothing has changed.

And the worst part? You still made him coffee in the mornings, still took care of his meals, still made sure he had everything he needed— all except you, which was the one thing he actually did need.

The silence where your bickering used to be is almost worst than the distance. At least when you argued, it showed that you were paying attention to him.

Which is why now, when he finally finds you in the kitchen, awake and not pretending to be asleep to avoid him like you do, he decides to end this once and for all.

"You didn't tell me you dropped by earlier," he starts off, as casual as possible as he leans against the refrigerator, watching you do the dishes.

You don't even turn to him. "You seemed busy. Didn't want to interrupt."

"Busy? It was lunch time, love."

You don't answer, and Younghyun sighs. "Alright." He steps towards you before turning off the faucet, and you turn to him with a scowl on your face.

"Bri-"

"Are you gonna tell me what's wrong, or am I going to have to force it out of you?"

You waver slightly, not all used to this sight of Brian. He's isn't necessarily angry, but the edge in his voice as opposed to the usual gentleness that you're used to is enough to tell you that he's, at the very least, annoyed.

Still, you hold his stare. "Nothing's wrong."

"Don't lie to me." He clenches his jaw. "Why are you avoiding me?"

"I'm not avoiding you," you retort through gritted teeth before attempting to move past him, but Brian cages you in between his arms. You glower at him. "Let me go."

"Is this about earlier?" He asks.

Your fingers twitch. "What?"

"You saw me with her, didn't you?"

Of course. Of course, he's seen through you yet again. You let out a humourless scoff, not ready to admit it just yet.

"You think I'm jealous? I don't care what you do, or who you talk to, Brian. I don't care if you want to let other people call you Younghyun, or if you want to flirt, or-"

"Flirt? Youngji's my cousin! She was at our wedding? She's getting married next month."

You part your lips to reply, but nothing comes out. The room feels unbearably still, the weight of your own foolishness settling over you like a heavy blanket.

Brian exhales sharply as he runs a hand through his hair, and he finally takes a step back for you to breathe. "You don't even call me Younghyun," he mutters, scoffing humourlessly. "But you hate hearing it from anybody else."

You shut your eyes. "Younghyun, I-"

"Say that again."

You breath hitches, and when you open your eyes, he's already looking at you.

You lips quiver, and you don't know what possesses you to obey, but his name rolls of your tongue again in a hushed whisper. "Younghyun."

He smiles at you, and you now realise it isn't the same one you see him give to Youngji. It isn't the same as the polite, effortless ones he gives to strangers, or the one he gives to his family, full of warmth.

No, this one is different.

This one is just for you.

And for the first time since this whole mess started, you finally understand.

"Now tell me," he urges gently as he takes your hands into his. "Tell me why it bothered you so much."

It seems like he already knows, and he's purposely giving you the chance to say it.

"Because I want to be the one to make you smile like that," you say quietly, and Younghyun scoffs as he shakes his head.

"Baby, do you even see the way I look at you?" He asks, almost in exasperation as though he couldn't believe you aren't getting it yet. "You think I look at everyone like they hung up all the stars in the sky? You think I smile at everyone like they're the best damn thing that's ever happened to me?" His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. "Because I don't. It's just you. It's always just been you."

You don't stop the tears that roll down your cheeks, and Younghyun is quick to catch them as he cups your face gently before he leans his forehead against yours.

"Tell me," he murmurs. "Whatever it is that you've been holding back. Say it."

"Younghyun." Your lips quiver, and he reassures you with an equally teary smile. "I'm in love with you."

Relief flickers across his face, and despite his own emotions, his lips widen even more in a way that makes your heart ache.

"I knew I wanted you the moment you called me to bail you out of jail," he says softly, as though going any louder would break the moment. "So if you say you love me," he swallows, throat working as he lets his first tear fall, "just know that I've loved you for way longer."

You let out a shaky laugh, biting your inner lip as more tears slip free. He chuckles, wiping them away again as she shakes his head.

"Can't believe you thought I'd look at anyone the way I look at you."

You sniff. "Shut up."

But you don't pull away when Younghyun leans in, and you don't stop him when he finally kisses you— soft and slow, like you have all the time in the world.

And maybe, just maybe, you think you do.

“You didn’t reply to my texts,” Brian says from the couch the moment you enter the door, hands in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You ignore him, heading straight to the kitchen to get some water.

“I was worried,” he says again, his voice nearer as he moves to stand behind you. You roll your eyes, grip tightening on the fridge door momentarily before you turn around. You’re not in the mood for whatever this is, but it seems that Brian Kang always has a way to get on your nerves without trying.

He’s quiet as he waits for your answer. Brian doesn’t look angry, just… tired. Concerned, maybe, if you’d even let yourself believe that. You scoff.

“No one asked you to.” Your gaze hardens. “Why do you care so much when no one’s forcing you to, Brian? If anything, you should hope something happens to me. That way I’d get out of your hair sooner.”

Brian clenches his jaw, the first reaction he’s ever let slip tonight. “Don’t say things like that.” He steps closer. “I’m your husband. I’m supposed to care.”

“There you go again,” you laugh sharply, moving to put some distance between you two. “Throwing that word around like it means something. If that’s the only reason why you even feel obliged to care in the first place, then maybe you’re not as sincere as you claim to be.”

His expression tightens, but only slightly.

“You think I’m pretending?”

“I think you’re only doing this because you have to. And if this is really all that is to you— a duty— then just say that,” you spit.

Brian doesn’t say anything else— not for a while. His eyes flicker away from your face, down to your hand.

“If this doesn’t mean anything,” he starts, voice lower now. “Why are you still wearing it?”

That hits, but you scoff immediately, like it’s obvious.

“Because taking it off would cause more trouble than what it’s worth.”

The words don’t sound convincing, even to your own ears. Because you know you don’t mean it, and you’re sure he knows it too.

But you don’t intend on telling him that, and as always, Brian lets you have it. Lets you believe that all the tantrums you’ve thrown since you got married was because you hated him and not yourself—

Or at least, you thought.

“And that’s it?” He meets your eyes again.

For the first time, he talks back.

You hesitate for half a second, but long enough for him to notice.

“It’s just a ring, Brian.”

“Then take it off.”

His words land heavier than any shouting could.

You blink. “What?”

“If it doesn’t mean anything to you,” he repeats slowly, “take it off.”

You swallow, but you manage to school your expression, tilting your chin upwards. “You want me to?”

“No. I don’t,” Brian answers simply. Honestly. “But if you’re going to keep treating it like it doesn’t matter, then there’s no point in wearing it.”

You clench your jaw. “Fine.”

You don’t think anymore. You don’t pause.

Your fingers find the ring before you pull it out harshly—

and you throw it.

Right at him.

The silver band hits Brian square in the chest before it falls to the ground. For such a small thing, the sound it makes when it hits the tiles is anything but. It’s sharp. Loud.

“There,” you snap, your heart thundering in your ears. “Happy?”

Brian doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, then at the ring, before bending down to pick it up. Gingerly, like it’s heavier than it actually is.

Your eyes waver.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Then, he turns around to leave.

No slammed doors. No raised voices.

Just… gone.

And somehow, the silence that settles feels heavier than the argument you’d started.

✦ ✦ ✦

Brian doesn’t wait up for you anymore. 

So you stop going out.

What use was there in you trying to prove a point when he wasn’t going to give you a reaction?

It isn’t something that was easy to admit to, but all the sleepless nights spent in your room had forced you to reflect on the fact that all this was done not because you hated him, but how he made you feel.

Because Brian is kind; far better than you’d ever be. You’d been angry— at the world, at your parents, at yourself— for far too long, and you’d decided the only way to protect yourself from getting hurt again was to go against the one person who was willing to understand you.

You don’t like how that realisation makes you feel.

“Are you okay?”

You look up from the rim of your mug to see Brian studying you through his glasses. Despite the kitchen being silent, you hadn’t heard him come in.

When you don’t reply, he continues,

“You haven’t slept.”

Not in an accusing way. Just… factual. Like he’d been observing.

For some reason, your eyes flit to his hand. He still wears his ring.

You swallow before placing your mug in the sink. You think you just needed an excuse to turn away from him. “It’s none of your business,” you try to snap, but your words come off as weak.

“Right. Okay,” he exhales. Then, almost like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it,

“Don’t stay up too late.”

This time, it’s a little harder to watch him walk away, but the thing is, you’re not so sure what you want to do. You’re not sure what you need to do… to fix this.

“Stupid,” you mutter, the word catching as your vision blurs. You’re crying again— not like it surprises you. It’s been happening a lot recently.

Maybe you’re ready to admit that something’s wrong— no. That you’re wrong. But that’s not what scares you.

What scares you is the possibility that you’ve gone too far. That whatever this is between you and him isn’t something you’d be able to fix anymore.

That this time… you’re too late.

✦ ✦ ✦

You last exactly six nights before you fold.

Six nights of tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping, hoping for the guilt to dull. Six nights of listening to the echoes of his footsteps in his room, sometimes walking past yours to the kitchen, wondering why he’s still awake.

Tonight, however, it’s quiet. You think that’s what makes you muster the courage to go to him— because even if he doesn’t open the door, at least you could still say that you tried.

You knock once, weakly, on purpose. Because despite everything, you’re still trying to hold on to any semblance of pride you have left.

The door opens.

Your breaths are still staggered from crying earlier, and you don’t think your measly attempt at drying your cheeks with your sleeves work at all, because Brian is looking at you like he knows.

He always knows.

“I-” you start, but your voice breaks immediately. You clench your jaw, frustrated, before you try again. “I can’t sleep.”

It’s not the full truth, but it’s the only thing you can get out.

“Hey,” Brian finally speaks, softly.

“I-” You shake your head, bringing the pads of your palms to your eyes, like that would help stop the tears from streaming; like that would stop the pain ripping apart in your chest. “I’m so tired, Brian.”

He steps aside immediately. “Come in.”

That’s it. No questions, no hesitation. No why are you here?

You’re not sure if that makes you feel any better.

You enter without thinking, before your ego could catch up and make you change your mind.

Brian’s room is dim. Warm. Different from yours.

The sheets are rumpled, the comforter hanging off the edge of the bed like he’d pushed them off in a hurry when you knocked.

You stand before his bed awkwardly, arms wrapped around yourself like you don’t know what to do with them now that you’re here.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Brian asks from behind you.

Out of instinct, you hesitate. But right now, it doesn’t stick.

So you nod.

“Alright.” Brian finally moves, but you don’t look at him— not when he pulls back the covers to let you slip under, and not when he joins you on the other side of the mattress.

For a while, neither of you speak. Despite the distance between your bodies, you’re hyper aware of Brian’s presence behind you, but you don’t turn around. You keep your eyes trained on the wall as you try to regulate your hiccuped breaths, wishing sleep would take over soon and that everything would be fine tomorrow morning.

But you know you won’t get a peaceful sleep tonight, at least, not after you utter out the words that have been resting on the tip of your tongue since you threw your ring at him last week.

“I’m sorry.”

Brian shifts slightly. Then, “what for?”

Even though you’re not looking at him, you frown. “You know what for.”

“Yeah.”

Silence again.

“Do you…” you start before you trail off, deciding it’s too late to backtrack on your words. “Do you still have it?”

Brian exhales. “... Yeah.”

“Can you-” you finally turn around.

Brian’s already facing you, his eyes half-lidded, but alert; the way they always are when it comes to you.

You swallow. “Can you put it back on for me?”

At this, his expression shifts. 

“You’re sure?”

You hate that he even had to ask. That meant you were cruel enough to the point of him having to second-guess your every word.

You nod.

You follow as Brian sits up slowly, reaching over to his dresser to pick up the ring. You hadn’t even realised that it was there— no box, no dustbag. Just… there, like he’d been hoping, waiting for you night after night to come around.

Your heart clenches painfully— and it twists even more when Brian gently slips the band onto your finger, his touch lingering after.

He didn’t even get to do that on your engagement or wedding. It’s the first time he’s ever put a ring on for you.

A tear escapes from your lashes once again, and he only moves his hand to cup your cheek, thumb wiping the moisture on your skin.

There’s a faint, sad smile on his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” You shake your head stubbornly, your tears now falling in a never-ending stream. “It’s not, Brian. I was cruel-”

“You were angry.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“Neither did you.”

You pause at that.

“I know it’s been difficult,” he mutters quietly. “And I’m not asking you for anything you’re not ready to give. Not a timeline, not… your heart. I just-”

His voice gets softer.

“I just want you to let me take care of you.”

Your bottom lip quivers. It’s in that very moment where you realise how exhausted you are— of fighting him, and fighting whatever it is you’re starting to feel for him.

“Okay.” You nod. “Okay, Brian.”

His smile grows this time, though it still remains fond, gentle. You realise then that he doesn’t look at anyone else the same way he looks at you.

And when he pulls you into your arms, for the first time, you feel like you could finally breathe again.

JUNE 2025.

Brian swears he hasn’t been thinking about it.

He swears he hasn’t been waiting for the last snow to melt, for the months on his calendar to change. That he hasn’t been keeping his wallet open longer on purpose just so he could let his eyes linger on the wish voucher you gave him for his birthday a few months ago.

But the moment he spots the first cherry blossom bloom on the tree outside your shared bedroom window— the one you claim to be your favourite— the first thing he does is to pull out his luggage bag from storage.

You lean against the doorframe with crossed arms. “Are you that excited?”

Brian glances over his shoulder to look at you, an easy smile on your lips. “Well, yeah. It’s our first vacation.”

You raise a brow. “We’ve been to Paris together.”

A pause.

“That’s different,” he says softly.

It is.

You move to join him on the floor, your shoulders brushing. He’s barely packed anything yet, the luggage still empty save a few sleep shirts he for some reason already decided to put inside.

“You should bring the white collared shirt. The linen one.”

Brian turns to you. “The one you said looks good on me?”

“I never said that.”

He grins boyishly, but it isn’t mean-spirited. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer to his side before placing a chaste kiss on your temple.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against your skin before pulling away.

“What for?” You mumble, feeling your cheeks heat up at the contact. You hate that even after all these months, you're still affected by his affection.

“For planning this trip for me.”

You scoff. “We’re not even there yet.”

“We don’t have to be. It’s already the best present I’ve gotten.”

You roll your eyes, only pretending to be annoyed. “Keep packing.”

“Yes, baby.” Brian gives you a final kiss before standing up to head to the closet, pulling out the shirt you mentioned earlier.

He hums a tune as he folds it mindlessly, letting it sit on top of his other clothes before reaching for the drawer next to him for his sweatpants.

You tsk under your breath as you grab the shirt to refold it, muttering something to yourself about how useless he is, probably.

Brian smiles, making sure you aren’t looking before he reaches for something else in the drawer, hidden neatly between folded layers of fabric.

A velvet box.

Next to him, you’re still fussing over his shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles like it matters more than it should.

Carefully, he slips the box into the carry-on bag next to him, out from your sight, where it belongs.

For now.

✦ ✦ ✦

The weather is still slightly chilly by the time you arrive in Jeju, but Brian doesn’t mind.

You unlock the door to your lodge while he handles the bags, letting you step in first. You think you don’t show it, but he knows you’d been looking forward to this trip the same way he has.

You immediately disappear into one of the rooms, Brian laughing under his breath as he settles the rest of your belongings. It’s a quaint one-story beach house, all wood furniture and muted colours, the air smelling like the ocean.

“Brian!” You emerge before he could even look for you, a bright smile on your face as you’re practically bounding towards him.

And that’s what makes him still completely.

Because he’s never seen you this radiant, this carefree, smiling without a troubled thought in the world.

Gosh, he’s so gone for you.

“Close your eyes.” Your grin turns into something softer when you reach him, your fingers wrapping around his wrist loosely. “I want to show you something.”

“Yeah?” Brian heeds to your words without hesitating, letting you guide him.

The sound of waves crashing grows louder the nearer he gets, and even though it’s obvious what it is he’s about to see, Brian still waits for your command before he opens his eyes.

And when he does…

The sea looks like it’s within reach from the small patio he’s standing on, striking blue in contrast to the pale sand on the shore. He could even hear birds chirping in the distance, but it isn’t noisy like the sounds he’s used to in Seoul.

It’s peaceful here. Calm.

He turns to you, and to his surprise, you’re already looking at him, eyes gleaming in the sunlight, cheeks tinted red and hair flipping along with the wind.

“Do you like-”

“I love you,” Brian blurts before you could even complete your sentence, and your brows raise at his suddenness.

He doesn’t take it back, though. He would never.

He faces you properly this time, bringing a hand to rest on your cheek. “Gosh, I love you,” he says again, voice hoarser now. “I love you so fucking much I feel insane.”

“Brian-”

“Let me have this, baby,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Fuck. I had a whole thing planned, but I don't think I could wait any longer. Just-”

His hand slips into his pocket to retrieve his wallet, and he feels your eyes follow his shaky fingers as he pulls out a card.

You squint at it. Then, you laugh.

“You’re unbelievable,” you breathe, amused, as you take it from him. “You still keep this? I forgot I even made it.”

“I didn’t.”

It doesn’t seem like you registered his tone yet as you fiddle with the card, the edges slightly creased, but still, unmistakably yours.

Wish Voucher.

Redeemable for any wish.

One time use only.

“You've been saving it all this while? For what?” You tease lightly before narrowing your eyes. “You better not use it for anything weird, Kang.”

“I was waiting,” he says quietly.

Your smile falters slightly. “Waiting for?”

He exhales quietly, his gaze never leaving yours. “For something I couldn’t ask you any other way.”

Your heart stutters. “Brian…”

“Can I use it now?” He asks gently.

You can’t reply. You only nod.

His hand dips back into his pocket.

And this time, when he pulls it out—

It’s a velvet box.

Your breath catches completely.

“I want this,” he starts, opening it to reveal a thin band, an oval cut diamond sitting right in the middle.

Simple. Nothing flashy.

He remembered.

Your vision starts to blur.

“I want you. Properly. Fully. However you’ll have me.” Brian’s voice is steady despite everything. “I want you, not because I’m supposed to. Not because anyone’s decided it for us-” he pauses, “but because I don’t want a life where I can’t choose you.”

Your first tear falls.

“So, this is it. My wish,” he murmurs, a soft smile on his lips before he bends down, getting down on one knee. “Would you marry me? Again?”

You let out a choked sob as you bring your hands to your mouth. “You’re so stupid.”

Brian laughs, but his cheeks are wet too. “Yeah.”

You sniff before you nod, over, and over. “Yes. I’ll marry you, Brian. I’ll always marry you.”

When he puts the ring on your finger, it fits perfectly, like it’s always meant to be. You don’t wait for him to pull you in before you fall into his arms on your own, for this time, you choose him first.

And breathing has never felt easier.

the book of us collection

Tonight, it’s the same; he’s working late again, the same way he has been since the month started two weeks ago. But Brian isn’t in his study— he’s in bed, comforter bunched around his waist as he rests against the headboard, laptop on his lap. You’re next to him, sound asleep.

Brian smiles faintly.

He’d only lasted two late nights in the home office before you’d shown up at the door, cranky and half-awake, asking him to come back to bed because you couldn’t sleep without his arms around you— and in your words, to type with one hand if he has to.

How could he say no to that?

You hadn’t really demanded much of his attention tonight— just your fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist while he worked, until the brightness of his screen got too much and you’re tilting up to murmur a goodnight against his jaw before turning the other way.

Truthfully, Brian feels guilty— he hasn’t really got to spend much time with you lately, work having eaten up most of his nights, and he’s even guiltier that you understand.

When he’d come home way past dinner, you’d be there, waiting, steaming mug of tea just the way he likes it in your hands. On weekends, when he’d allow himself a few extra hours to sleep in, you’d let him, and by the time he wakes up, a full meal would be waiting for him on the dining table, as though you know he hasn’t been eating properly at work.

You don’t call him out for it. You just take care of him in your own, quiet, way— the only way you know how to show you love him. And the few moments he has before he’d have to retire to his study, you’d pull him to the couch, letting him hug you extra tight while the television hums quietly in the background.

Brian sighs as he shuts his laptop, setting it gently on the bedside table before shifting under the covers. He rests his weight on his elbow to peer over you, to properly look at you— because he feels like he hasn’t gotten the chance to do so lately— before leaning over to press a kiss to your cheek. Once, then twice.

You stir, brows scrunching like you’re annoyed at the sudden disturbance, before turning to face him.

“Done with work?” You mumble, eyes still closed.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispers, and because he couldn’t help himself now that he can see your full face, bends down to place another kiss on your forehead. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

You inhale deeply, shaking your head as you nuzzle into his neck, hand blindly reaching for his waist to pull him closer towards you. “M’not asleep.”

“Yeah?” Brian hums, amused, because clearly you aren’t awake enough, if not at all. “Were you waiting for me?”

You nod, before finally— your eyes open.

His smile softens. “Hi.”

You shift under his weight, craning to your left to look at the clock on your bedside table.

Midnight.

You turn back to him, and Brian’s still looking at you the way he always does— like you hung the moon.

It used to scare you, but it’s gotten easier to accept it now. Maybe because now, you know you look at him the same way.

You lean forward to kiss him, just shy of his lips. “Happy birthday, Brian,” you whisper.

His brows shoot up in surprise, and you’re not sure if it’s because you’d kissed him first, or the fact that he’d forgotten about his own birthday entirely.

His eyes glance to the clock before they meet yours again, a warm smile lighting up his features as he leans closer, if it’s even possible.

“Guess it is my birthday, huh?” He murmurs, lips brushing against yours. “Thank you, baby.”

“And-” You pat his chest before he could get carried away, prompting him to give you space.

Brian lets you sit up, and you reach for the drawer next to you to take out an envelope.

“What’s this?” He asks when you hand it to him.

You shrug as nonchalantly as you could. “Open it.”

When he does, two pieces of paper slip out: air tickets. To Jeju.

“You’ve been working hard lately,” you say quietly. “And you said you wanted to see the sea. So I thought- you know.”

Brian laughs, eyes still trained on the gift you gave him. Soft, and kind of hopeless. “You did this for me?”

“Don’t make it a big deal,” you mutter. “We still have a few months to go, anyway. No use going to the beach in the winter.”

“I know. But still.” Brian reaches out to brush your cheek with his knuckles. “You thought of me. That’s all I could ever ask for. Thank you.”

You bite your lip, averting your gaze— even after all this time, you could never get used to how… soft, he is.

“There’s something else,” you mumble, nodding towards the envelope.

Brian grins, excited, and he peeks into the open envelope before taking out the last piece of paper.

It’s small, smaller than the air tickets you gave him, though thicker in material. And on it, unmistakably in your writing:

Wish Voucher.

Redeemable for any wish.

One time use only.

He chuckles again, though this time when he looks at you, it’s teasing. “Anything?”

You burn. “N-Nothing weird!” You smack his arm.

He’s still laughing as he reaches over for his wallet. “This is the sweetest gift anyone’s given me.” Brian smiles fondly at the voucher before slipping it in the slot with your photograph in it, careful not to cover your face like it’s something equally precious.

You weren’t even aware that he kept your picture in his wallet.

“I got you a trip to Jeju, and this is the best one?” you murmur, letting him pull you towards him and tucking you against his side.

“Well, yeah. Because you’re sweet,” Brian says simply, pressing a kiss to the crown of your forehead. “Promise I’ll use it wisely, baby. I’ll use it for something that brings me back to you.”

“Don’t say it like that,” you whisper, tucking your face in his neck. “I’m already here.”

Brian doesn’t say anything to that, but you feel him smile against your hairline. He gently guides you to lie down, your head on his chest with his arms still around you. Naturally, your palm finds its way to the spot above his heart, right where the steady rhythm of his heartbeat thrums the loudest; right where he could lay his hand over yours like he too needs to feel you there to be able to breathe.

“You always do that,” you mumble when you feel him brush his thumb over the ring on your finger. You’re not sure when it started, but the way he does it— just a touch that’s feather-light and barely-there, you think that maybe, you were never meant to notice it at all.

You do, anyway.

“I’ve just been thinking,” Brian admits, voice quiet, like he’s afraid to break the fragile silence that’s settled between the two of you. “About… us. About how different things would’ve been if we had met on our terms. Fell in love on our terms.”

You shift slightly, but you don’t look up at him, prompting him to continue.

He grazes your knuckles again, but this time, he catches your hand, lifting it slightly to take a proper look at the rock on your finger. Diamond, three carats, pear cut. Chosen not by you, but by your mother.

“What kind would you have gone with?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter, Bri. It’s just a ring. Doesn’t make me love you any less.”

“I know.” He smiles then, because the admission’s made him kind of giddy. It’s rare to hear you say it like that. “Tell me anyway?”

You hum as you think of an answer. “Simple,” you say eventually. “A thinner band, maybe. Nothing flashy. Something that matches yours.”

Brian huffs out a soft chuckle. “You’re into that? I thought I was supposed to be the cheesy one?”

You tsk, swatting his chest lightly.

He laughs, bringing your fingers to his lips for an apology kiss. And then, he’s tilting your chin to make you look at him, lips still set in a soft smile even though his eyes tell you he’s already halfway to dozing off.

“And a wedding? What kind?” He prompts, voice drowsy, but for some reason still adamant on keeping the conversation going. You think it’s because it’s been a while since you’ve gotten the chance to talk like this; he misses you, and for that, you decide to humour him. Because you miss him too.

“I’ve always… liked outdoor weddings,” you admit. You’ve never told this to anyone before, and it wasn’t like it was a fantasy anyway— more like a fleeting thought you once had in your mid-twenties, quick to be buried and forgotten when the idea of getting married to someone you could genuinely love seemed too farfetched; until now, that is.

“A beach. Or a garden. Something intimate— but, oh, that would mean the public would be able to see us. That’s embarrassing.” You scrunch your nose, instantly filing that idea away. “Just a small one then, with close friends and family. It shouldn’t be too short, but not long enough for my parents to be able to start something.”

Brian hums, his arms tightening slightly around you. “And then what?”

“And then…” you trail off, only realising belatedly that you’d rambled, leaving you with nothing more to say. At least, nothing that could embarrass you even further, but Brian doesn’t seem to mind.

If anything, it seems like he’s already slipped away into unconsciousness, breathing steady, eyelashes resting against the apples of his cheeks.

You take the time to admire your husband, though right now, all you could think about is how lucky you are to have him.

“Then, we’ll go home,” you whisper. “And every night, especially ones like this, I’ll tell you just how much I love you, Brian Kang.”

His answer comes in the form of a soft snore, and you smile to yourself.

“Happy birthday, my love." You lean forward, pressing a careful kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

the book of us collection

But you were stubborn. Cruel. Not once did you touch the food he made you, wanting to prove that you didn’t need him. That you were fine on your own. Until eventually, Brian seemed to pick up on the hint and stopped cooking for you entirely.

It worked for a while, until days turned into months and you’ve tried just about everything on your food delivery app, leaving you no choice but to learn how to cook for yourself— though that also meant having to risk bumping into Brian in the kitchen, the living room, and anywhere else that wasn’t your bedroom.

No matter. You’d just cook when he’s asleep or isn’t home.

And that, too, worked for a while; until tonight, just when you thought he was fast asleep, you find him in the kitchen reheating some leftovers— the same ones he’d made earlier that week.

Brian looks exhausted, but he still greets you with the same soft smile you never return.

“You already ate? I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You don’t reply immediately, moving to the refrigerator to take out your ingredients.

“I wasn’t asleep,” you mutter.

Brian nods, and he doesn’t say anything after that as he leans against the counter, waiting for the microwave to beep.

You spare him another glance. His eyebags are heavy and dull, the reading glasses he dons not doing much to hide them. His shirt hangs loosely over his shoulders, crumpled, like he’d just been tossing and turning in bed before dragging himself to the kitchen to force himself to eat.

And before you know it, the words escape your lips.

“You look pathetic.”

Brian looks up from the floor, his lips quirking into a faint, pressed smile as he hums at your words.

You hold back an annoyed sigh. “Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

“You don’t have to,” he says gently. “I should finish my food before it goes bad, anyway.”

“All the more reason why you shouldn’t be consuming it. I’m not going to be the one responsible if you keel over, Brian,” you utter sharply, back already facing him as you busy yourself with chopping your vegetables.

A pause. Then,

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

And for the first time since you got married, you don’t leave the kitchen when Brian takes a seat beside you. For the first time since you got married, the both of you share a meal— quiet, but together.

✦ ✦ ✦

You hadn’t planned on staying.

You’d merely wanted to drop off his lunch— maybe see him for a few minutes— before heading home. But by the time you stepped into his office, you could sense that something was off.

Brian doesn’t look as composed as he usually does. His tie is half-loosened, jacket slung carelessly over the back of his chair. You don’t think he even notices you there, his glassy eyes trained blankly on his computer screen.

“Brian?”

Only then does he turn to you, brows raising slightly as though surprised to see you. He quickly recovers by smiling, only a faint upwards tug on the corner of his mouth, as though trying to mask how drained he looked only a few seconds prior.

“Hi, baby. What are you doing here?”

Your heart tugs at the name. You don’t know how it happened— when you started letting him call you that— but for some reason, you don’t hate it as much as you thought you would.

You set the lunchbag on his desk quietly. “You didn’t wake me up just now.”

Brian’s smile softens then, and he reaches out a hand.

Automatically, you go to him.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he murmurs, pulling you to stand in between his knees. “It’s your day off. You should be resting, sweetheart.”

You frown at that— because it’s not like you mind. You’ve been making Brian his lunch every day for the past couple of months now— been waking up earlier in the mornings just so you could have everything packed for him by the time he’d step out of the shower. Without fail, he’d find you in the kitchen, hair still damp and tie undone as he’d hug you from behind, murmuring a “smells good, baby.”

After that, you’d help him with his tie, fingers deftly looping the fabric while he’d watch you with that faint, sleepy smile he wore in the mornings. Once done, he’d kiss you on the forehead, quick and gentle, before taking your hand and leading you out the door, his other hand holding the lunch you’d packed.

It’s become a routine now; a part of your morning rhythm before you’d part ways for work, but today, however, you’d only remembered the faint brush of his lips against your forehead while you were dreaming before he was gone. And because you’d woken up almost two hours later, that led to you scrambling to put together something quick in hopes of getting it to him by lunchtime.

“You would’ve skipped lunch then,” you mutter, suddenly embarrassed at the thought of you going out of your way for him.

He hums, his fingers brushing your knuckles. “Stay?”

You hesitate. “Brian-”

“Just for a bit,” he murmurs. “Please?”

So you nod, giving in before you know it. Brian pulls you closer, until eventually he tugs you gently to sit on his lap, arms circling around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He presses his face into your shoulder, inhaling deeply.

“You okay?” You ask quietly, fingers gently brushing his nape.

He nods. “Just… need to recharge.” 

You don’t say anything, just let him continue holding you, because you know he needs it. And when the tension finally starts to melt from his body and he’s reaching for his food on the table, Brian doesn’t let you move, only shifting slightly so you’re still sitting on his lap while he eats.

“This is so good, baby,” he says in between bites. “You haven’t made this before, have you?”

“Grandma taught me how to make it,” you answer, almost shyly. The first time you’d called Brian’s grandmother, it was to ask her to teach you how to cook some of his favourite dishes. She’d been more than elated to help, and now, most weekends are spent either in your kitchen or hers as you try out new recipes.

“Yeah?” Brian’s lips quirk into a smile, his hold on you tightening slightly. “You really are the best thing to ever happen to me, you know that?” He murmurs, quieter, like he hadn’t meant for you to hear it.

Your cheeks heat up as you turn away. “You need to stop saying stuff like that.”

“Why? It’s true.” He leans in closer, chin now resting on your shoulder. “You’ve been trying so hard. For me. Doesn’t that make me the luckiest guy in the world?”

When you don’t say anything, he gently cups your cheek. “Don't hide from me.”

You hesitate, but you slowly turn your head to face him. His smile softens, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“You never believe me when I tell you how much I love you,” he says quietly, eyes roaming your face as though he’s trying to memorise your every feature.

You exhale shakily. “I do.” Your voice comes off in a hushed whisper, and your grip on his shoulder tightens with your words. “I just… don’t know what to do with it yet.”

Brian smiles, always patient, and always sincere. “You don’t have to do anything,” he says gently, taking your hand into his as he brings your knuckles to his lips. “Just stay with me. I’ve got you, baby.”

And when he pulls you closer, you don't push him away, not when he kisses your forehead, and not when he murmurs "my sweet girl" against your jaw. Because for the first time, you allow yourself to feel this much without wanting to run away.

Your brows knit as you take in your attire: an oversized t-shirt— his oversized t-shirt, actually— and some worn-out pants. You’re pretty sure your hair is a mess from lounging around all day, and your lips are dry from forgetting to put on some lip balm earlier.

As though sensing your inner thoughts, Brian laughs, shifting slightly closer to you. “You always look pretty, baby.”

Your cheeks burn. “Stop.”

Brian chuckles again, a deep rumble within his chest, and this time, he reaches up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, almost as if for the mere sake of touching you.

“You’re really good at that,” he says lazily, eyes now following the way your fingers move with your crochet hook. 

It isn’t the first time you’ve done this in front of him— if anything, most of your weekends are now spent like this: you working on your crochet, Brian sitting beside you. Sometimes, he’d read, other times, he’d just lean close to you, head tilted just enough to watch you work. He’d never ask you what you were making, but he’d always catch himself smiling when he'd find your completed projects scattered around the house— a big flower potholder in the kitchen. A sleeve for your Kindle. And now with the weather growing colder with fall approaching, a small stuffed pumpkin placed next to the remote console on the coffee table.

Brian thinks you’re amazing. Stunning, really— the way your hands seem to move on their own, making something out of nothing like it’s easy. But it’s not the crocheting that gets to him— it’s you. The fact that you’ve gotten comfortable enough to work on your hobby with him around, no longer pushing him away like you used to.

You no longer glared at him if he sat too close. You no longer looked at him like someone you merely had to tolerate. You just let him be there— and for Brian, that’s everything.

He loves that. He loves you. And even though you’re still quiet, still shy and hesitant with your words, it’s still more than he could ever ask for.

“Teach me?”

You turn to Brian, thinking he was joking, but the look on his face tells you otherwise.

“You want to learn?”

He nods.

So you shift closer towards him, your shoulders now brushing. “The chain stitch is the easiest one. Like this.” You slowly loop the yarn with your hook once, glancing at him to see if he understood.

You don’t think he does, but you continue anyway, making a total of five chains before stopping. Then you hand Brian your hook, adjusting his grip gently. “Try it.”

Brian tilts his head before he starts, only barely managing to create a single chain before his yarn splits. 

He lets out a chuckle. “I don’t think I’m made for this, baby.”

You smile, leaning over to help him undo the stitch. Brian doesn’t let go of the hook as you do so, and your hands end up enveloping his as you try to work out the knot.

“Slowly,” you say softly, guiding his fingers to start over, and Brian does follow your lead for a while, until eventually, his hands go slack under yours, leaving you to continue on your own.

You know he’s smiling, but you don’t look up, nor do you say anything. You just let him be, let his fingers tangle with yours as you work, until a few moments pass and Brian slowly slips his hands from your hold, finding your waist instead.

Gently, he tugs you towards him, lifting you slightly so you’re now settled on his lap.

You freeze, your voice catching in your throat.

“This okay?” He whispers, his chin dipping to rest on your shoulder.

You nod wordlessly, and Brian hums, his arms circling tighter around your waist.

Even though your cheeks are burning, heart thumping, you find yourself melting against the warmth of his chest. And even though you won’t ever say it out loud, you think this might just be your new favourite spot to sit on now.

“Do you like this?” You ask softly as you show him the swatch you’d been working on, just when the sun has begun to set and the living room is cast in a warm, orange glow. You’ve probably been at it for hours now, though you know Brian's been awake the whole time, his fingers still resting on your thigh, drawing idle patterns on your skin. “It’s perfect,” he murmurs before placing a chaste kiss under your ear. “I love it.”

“Okay,” you answer quietly, hoping he doesn’t notice the shake in your voice. “What colour do you think I should use next?”

Brian hums then, eyes lazily scanning your basket of yarn on the carpet. “Maybe the gold one. It’ll match your eyes.”

You scoff lightly at that. “My eyes aren’t gold.”

Brian smiles against your skin. “They’re honey. I’m pretty sure I know what your eyes look like, sweetheart.”

Your hands stop working then, and you turn slightly over your shoulder to look at him.

Brian looks up then, a lazy grin on his face as he tilts his head at you. “What?”

Before you could stop yourself, you lean in, placing a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Mm.” Brian closes his eyes briefly at the contact, eyes soft when he looks back at you. His hand comes up to cradle your neck, thumb grazing the side of your jaw like he couldn’t help himself. “What was that for, baby?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, embarrassed, quickly looking away. “Just… felt like it.”

“Yeah?” He smiles, more teasing now as he lifts your chin, prompting you to look at him again. “Let me feel it again?”

“Brian…” you protest weakly, but the moment his lips brush yours, you can’t find it in you to pull away.

When he finally kisses you properly, tender and unhurried, it feels like something he’s been waiting to do all day.

And maybe, you’ve been waiting to let him, too.

Later, when Brian’s dozed off on the couch with his head on your lap, you realise that your project— the scarf you’d been secretly making for him— has already gotten longer without you realising.

Softly, so as to not wake him, you let the fabric rest on his chest, just to see if it suits him.

It does.

Turns out, the colour he’d chosen for matching your eyes looks better on him than expected. You smile to yourself.

Maybe he knew that all along.

ONE.

It starts off small, like always— only this time, you hadn't meant to take it this far.

"Say that again," Brian murmurs lowly. You're standing close enough that you could hear the tremble in his voice, and as though that isn't already indication enough that you should just drop it—

"You're just like your father."

A beat passes before Brian chuckles humourlessly, taking a step back. "Wow." He runs a hand through his hair. "That's low. Even coming from you."

Your breath hitches in your throat, and instantly, you know you fucked up. Still, you stand unwavering, not wanting to give in to your pride and admit that you'd crossed a line.

Because this is what you wanted. You wanted to hurt him, to push him away, just so he could know how much you hated him; how much you hated this marriage.

So why does your heart ache when you see the pain etched on his features?

"You don't get to do that," he continues, keeping his tone steady. "You don't get to act like you know me better than anyone, only to throw it back in my face the second you're pissed off."

You stay quiet.

Brian scoffs. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't wake up every day and fight like hell to be nothing like him?" His voice cracks at the end, and that's when you realise—

You really, really hurt him.

Your throat grows dry, and his name tumbles out of your mouth before you could stop it. "Brian-"

"Forget it." He cuts you off. "Just forget it."

And then, he leaves.

He doesn't yell, doesn't slam the door.

He just walks out, and somehow, that only makes it worse.

✦ ✦ ✦

You try to fix it. You really do.

The next day, you wait for him at breakfast— even make him his coffee just the way he likes it, alongside a plate of eggs and toast you had spent embarrassingly long trying not to burn.

But Brian doesn't come.

That night, you hover by his study door, mustering up the courage to knock.

You don't.

When you pass each other in the living room, he barely even glances at you before heading straight to his study, and before you know it, three days of radio silence has passed.

But Brian isn't cruel. He still takes care of you, even in the midst of giving you the cold shoulder. He'd leave a mug of tea by your nightstand, drape a blanket over you when you'd fall asleep on the couch waiting for him, even leave you the last piece of your favourite pastry on the kitchen counter before leaving for work.

It's like he's reminding you, over and over again: I still care. I just don't want to talk to you.

And it's driving you insane.

Because you've never had to deal with something like this before— you can handle fighting, yelling, even walking out on each other in anger.

But this... silence. This patience, is far worse than what you thought you could handle.

Which is why now, you find yourself standing outside his bedroom door at this ungodly hour, fiddling with your fingers as you think of what to say.

"Brian," you start off tentatively. "Please... just talk to me already."

No answer.

You swallow harshly. "You're still making me my tea. Still making sure I eat. Still-" Your lip trembles. "Still taking care of me, even when you won't look at me."

At this point, you're crying, and even your hands aren't enough to muffle the sound of your choked sobs. You drop to the floor, hugging your knees to your chest.  You'd stay here until morning if you have to.

But the door soon creaks open, and Brian stands there, watching you. His hair is tousled, like he's run his hand through it one too many times. He looks tired, like he hasn't been getting enough sleep. You know that is no one's fault but yours.

You quickly scramble to your feet, hastily wiping the tears from your face. "Brian-"

"No." He exhales, cutting you off. "Not tonight."

Your breath catches, but before you could say anything else, he steps aside wordlessly, opening the door wider.

A silent invitation.

You don't hesitate before you go inside, crawling into his bed.

He lies down next to you, but he doesn't face you, and you're left staring at his back with tears you can't seem to stop streaming down your cheeks.

Your sniffling must've been too loud, because Brian does turn to you after a few moments. You assume he's about to tell you off or ask you to leave, but he doesn't look angry.

Just tired.

He sighs. "Go to sleep."

You shake your head harshly, rubbing your moist eyes with your fists. "Not until you talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"That's not true. You're mad at me."

Brian shuts his eyes momentarily before he looks at you again. "Come here," he murmurs, opening up his arms.

The gesture only makes you cry harder, even when he pulls you in and brings your head to rest on his chest.

"Sleep," he says again, fingers brushing through your hair soothingly. "We'll figure this out tomorrow."

"But I-"

"We'll be okay, baby. I promise."

TWO.

It's taken you a while to settle into this rhythm with Brian. You'd spent so much time keeping him at arm's length that you'd failed to realise pushing him away won't work— because in actual fact, you want him, and you want him to want you too.

Still, it's difficult. You're not used to showing you care, to being openly vulnerable with the person you once claimed to hate, but Brian makes it look easy.

He doesn’t push you, lets you set your own pace, because he knows better than to overwhelm you with something you’re only beginning to learn.

Even now, as you lay side by side on his bed— because you could no longer sleep soundly without him next to you— he doesn’t need you to say anything for him to know that you’re thinking.

You eventually turn to face him, but Brian keeps his eyes on his book.

“What are you doing?” Your voice comes off as small as you peer at him through your lashes, and Brian gives you a soft smile as he glances at you.

“Word search.”

You make a face. “Looks boring.”

He chuckles. “Didn’t peg you for a critic.”

You don’t say anything else after that, your eyes drifting to his hands instead.

He knows what you want. He just won’t say it.

“Can you… can you hold me?”

There it is.

Brian smiles at you again, reaching out his arm. “Come here.”

You instantly scoot closer to him, letting your head rest on his chest as you wrap your arm around his torso. He’s warm, and the way he draws mindless shapes on your skin soothes you more that you’d like to admit.

“Better?” He murmurs.

You nod.

He taps his pencil against his book, attention back to his puzzle. You’re already beginning to space out, the steady beat of his heart quick to lull you to a mindless state, but your gaze remains on the page, more out of habit than intent. Somehow, you still manage to find a word before he does, and your finger lifts to tap on it.

“There.”

Brian follows your finger before he hums in surprise. “Good job, baby.” He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

You sigh as you shut your eyes, wrapping your arm tighter around his midriff. Brian doesn’t comment on it— he never does— as though he knows doing so would embarrass you. Instead, he shifts slightly, just so you’d be more comfortable, and he leaves it as that.

Even when your hand slips under his shirt, palm splaying over the warm skin of his stomach, he doesn’t flinch, but with the way his lips brush the crown of your head once more, you know he feels it.

And for the first time, you think maybe falling in love with Brian Kang isn’t as tough as you’d made it out to be.

THREE.

Waiting up for Brian has become ritual at this point.

Well, it always has been— only back then, it was so you could argue with him and get on his last nerve on purpose.

Now, you’d wait for him, even if it’d take hours before he’d walk through the door after midnight. 

Tonight is the same, except he’s been cooped up in his study since he got back from his meeting in the afternoon.

It's not like you're worried. You just don't want to deal with the trouble if he ends up passing out from overworking.

So you find yourself outside the door to his study, a steaming mug of tea in your hands. You knock once.

“Come in.” His voice sounds from the other side.

You push the door open to find Brian at his desk, far too engrossed in his work to notice his glasses almost slipping down his nose. He’s still in his work clothes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie loosened. His hair is unkempt, like he’d run a hand through it one too many times, and even from the distance you could make out the dull bags beneath his eyes.

“Are you planning to work yourself to the grave, or something?” You mumble, stepping further inside to set the mug on his desk.

Brian glances at you, his lips quirking into a faint smile at your comment. “Ten more minutes.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

At this, Brian inhales sharply, his eyes fleeting to the digital clock on his desk.

“Shit. I didn’t notice,” he sighs, leaning back against his chair, shutting his eyes.

“Drink this before it gets cold.” You push the mug towards him. “Then come back to bed.”

He nods, taking a sip of his tea before humming. “You’re so good at this.”

“What? Making you tea?" You snort.

Brian only smiles at you fondly before taking your hand in his, pulling you to stand between his legs. Your palms automatically find his shoulders, allowing him to caress your sides with his thumbs gently, like he needs you there to keep him anchored.

“Let’s go to bed, okay?” You ask quietly.

Brian nods, and you pull him up before guiding him back to your bedroom. His steps are sluggish, like he barely has the strength to walk on his own, and he doesn’t argue when you lead him into the bathroom.

You dampen a face towel with warm water while he sits down on the closed toilet bowl. He’s staring at you, you could feel it, but you’re glad he doesn’t comment on how you’re taking care of him.

Because you’re not. You’re merely helping him so he doesn’t fall flat on his face before he could even make it back to bed.

Wordlessly, you start wiping his face, and Brian lets out a shaky exhale as he shuts his eyes, all tension leaving his body.

Your nimble fingers soon reach for his tie, loosening the fabric completely before you slowly start to unbutton his shirt. Brian opens his eyes then, but you keep your focus on working on his buttons, purposely avoiding his gaze— though you’re sure the red blush on your cheeks have already given you away.

His lips quirk at the sight, his fingers finding your wrist. “Let me.”

“I got it,” you reply stubbornly, still not looking at him.

You pull the shirt off his shoulders before grabbing the cloth again, wiping down his neck, his collarbones— anywhere else you could reach with the cloth without having to stare at his bare chest for too long. Brian doesn’t look away, not even once, and the weight of his stare is starting to make the room feel a little too stuffy.

“Change into this.” You pass him a pair of sweatpants before quickly turning to the sink, busying yourself with his toothbrush for the mere sake of needing something to do. You make sure to keep your head down, not wanting to catch a glimpse of him in the mirror, and when he mutters out the word done, you turn back around—

Only for your feet to be lifted off the ground.

You gasp, hands automatically finding his shoulders as he sets you on the edge of the sink. “Brian!”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps between your legs and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in while his other hand plucks his toothbrush from your grip.

You’re still blinking in disbelief when he rests his chin on your shoulder, brushing his teeth like it’s nothing. Meanwhile, you’re getting all too hyper-aware of the distance— rather, lack thereof— between you two, the warmth radiating from his skin seeping into your senses.

But slowly, you let yourself relax, let yourself lean against him while he does what he needs to do.

“You falling asleep there?” He murmurs after a few beats of silence, foamy toothpaste still in his mouth.

Your eyes are already closed, and you don’t move your cheek from his shoulder. “No.”

But you are. And he knows it.

Brian doesn’t let go after he’s done, loosening his grip on you just enough to pull back slightly.

“Help me with this?”

You only open your eyes then, the tub of moisturiser he uses every night already opened next to you on the counter. You nod lazily against his neck before sitting up straighter now, albeit reluctantly.

You don’t think you’ve ever done this for Brian before, but somehow, it feels natural. Like this is how things have always been for the two of you— quiet. Peaceful. Domestic.

You still, hands frozen at the sides of his face as you let the thought sink in. A few months ago, you could barely even stand being in the same room as him, but now? He’s standing between your legs, shirtless, arm around your waist as you help him with his skincare.

Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You blink, quickly swiping the remaining product on his cheek before he could open his eyes and ask you what’s wrong. Because you know that’s just how Brian is— so overly attentive, even when he’s halfway to dozing off.

And suddenly, you’re overwhelmed with a certain emotion you don’t really have a name for yet. You think you have a hunch, but it’s not something you’re ready to admit out loud— at least, not with words.

So you lean in, placing a quick kiss on the corner of his lips. It’s clumsy, but it’s intentional, one you hope could tell him everything you couldn’t bring yourself to say yet.

Brian’s eyes flutter open then, and he looks at you with a certain softness that makes your heart ache. He doesn’t say anything— only smiles at you as his fingers brush softly against your knuckles, before gently helping you down and guiding you back to bed.

You don’t hesitate to curl into him first once you’re settled under the sheets, fingers intertwining with his as he pulls you closer.

His lips brush your forehead the same way it always does, before four little words tumble out: “I love you, baby.”

You don’t say anything— Brian doesn’t need you to. Because the way you tilt up to press a lingering kiss to his jaw tells him everything he needs to know.

FOUR.

You've never been away from Brian for this long.

He'd left a few days ago for a business trip— four days, to be exact. Not like you were counting.

But maybe you're willing to admit that the house feels a little too quiet without him. No mindless humming as he does the laundry, no gentle chiding when you forget to eat.

The bed feels colder without him, too. You'd contemplated calling him before bed many times, because if you couldn't have his arms around you to lull you to sleep, perhaps hearing his voice could help.

But you don't. Because if you did, then it'd sound an awful lot like missing him.

Which you don't.

You stare at your message thread with him, fingers tapping on the side of your screen as you contemplate on sending him a text. 

Brian [1:32pm] Wrapped up late. Heading back to the hotel now. [1:32pm] I miss you.

You [1:34pm] did u eat?

Brian [1:37pm] In a bit. [1:37pm] Did you get home safe?

You [1:38pm] yes brian [1:38pm] wouldn't be texting you if i didn't

Brian [1:39pm] Lol call me then. [1:39pm] Need to see your pretty face [1:40pm] Video call (23 min)

Maybe you shouldn't. It's not like you haven't already called him today— plus, it's already nighttime where you are, and the last thing you want is to disturb him when he's busy at work.

You groan as you pull the covers over your head. The sheets still smell faintly like him, and you know nothing you do could kick Brian Kang out of your head.

So, you decide to settle for the next best option.

You book the next flight out to see him.

✦ ✦ ✦

You spot Brian almost immediately after he enters the hotel lobby, briefcase in one hand and phone in the other. He doesn't notice you— not yet— far too engrossed in whatever conversation he's having with the person at the other end of the line. Something related to work, probably. You could tell by the knit in his eyebrows.

The sight makes your heart clench; you hate when he overworks himself. And Brian, that idiot, has never been one to lean on you, even during the times you knew he needed it most.

You think it’s your fault. Because you’re the one who’s been pushing him away for the greater part of your marriage, making him feel like you didn’t need him at all. And now you actually do, but Brian is far too careful to risk pushing your limits again, and you know the only reason he’s holding back is because he doesn’t want to scare you.

You hate it. You hate that that’s how you make him feel.

You stand up, gripping the handle of your luggage, but before you could walk towards him, Brian sees you first.

His breath hitches, throat working as his hand slowly drops to the side, not even bothering to end the call. He’s rushing to you before you know it, bag dropping to the floor with a thud as his arms circle around you, pulling you in for a tight hug.

“What are you-“ Brian is breathless when he pulls away, just enough to study your face. “What are you doing here?”

You avoid his gaze, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. Was it too much? Did it make you look desperate? 

“You were taking too long,” you eventually mumble.

He chuckles, almost like he’s in disbelief as he brings his palms to your cheeks, prompting you to look at him again. “So you flew here? To see me?”

You shrug as nonchalantly as you could. “I had the miles.”

Brian laughs again before pulling you back towards him, guiding your head gently to his chest. “You’re really something,” he mutters through another laugh, and the comment makes you burn.

“I just…” you sigh against his chest, fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt. “I guess I just missed you, Brian.”

He smiles at that, his lips quirking against the crown of your head. He pulls back again to look at you, dazed, like he’s still having a hard time believing that you’re here.

“I missed you too, baby.” He strokes your cheek gently before his hands drop to yours. “Let’s go up, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for you to reply as he collects the bags— both his and yours— his other hand not leaving yours once. He doesn’t let go, even after you’ve stepped into the elevator, and even when he’s pulling out his keycard from his wallet to unlock the door.

Brian lets you go in first, and you take the time to study his room while he brings in your belongings. He moves swiftly, his hand brushing your waist as he walks past you to lean against the television console with a tired sigh.

“Come here,” he murmurs, arm already beckoning for you to go to him.

You do, slotting yourself between his legs while he pulls you in, burying his face in your neck before inhaling deeply.

Your hand immediately finds his hair, carding your fingers through his locks like it’s second nature. Brian sighs, his breath warm against your skin.

“You okay?” You ask quietly.

A beat passes before Brian replies. “I will be.”

You frown— that wasn’t enough.

“Did you eat?”

He merely hums, and this time, it’s your turn to sigh.

“Brian…” you pull away to look at him, and he stares back at you through heavy eyelids. This close, the dark bags under his eyes look more obvious, and you run your thumbs across his skin.

“Go take a shower while I order us some food, okay?”

Brian doesn’t reply, his glazed eyes fleeting to your lips for a split second before they return to you, but you catch it anyway.

Your heart starts to thunder in your chest, and suddenly you’re all too aware of his hands on your waist, the way his mouth is slightly parted as he exhales shakily, and the way his throat works as he swallows—

“Can I kiss you?” He eventually whispers hoarsely. “I really…” his eyes flicker to your lips again. “I really want to kiss you.”

Your fingers curl around his shoulders.

“Okay.”

So he crashes his lips against yours, and he kisses you like it’s the first time he’s allowed himself to want something out loud.

You’re both breathless by the time you part for air, and you don’t dare to meet his gaze, keeping your eyes on his collar while you fidget with his tie. You loosen the fabric eventually, the tie falling to the floor before you undo the first few buttons of his shirt.

Brian doesn’t say anything as he studies you quietly, intently, though he couldn’t hide the jump in his throat when your fingers graze his neck. You let your hand linger on his chest before it drops completely, and you finally pull away from him with a shaky exhale.

“Go,” you murmur, finally glancing at him. “I’ll be here.”

He inhales sharply before nodding. “Okay.”

It’s only when he leaves does the air rush back into your lungs once again, though you’re sure it’d take a while for the dizziness to leave you completely.

Even as you busy yourself— ordering room service, followed by unpacking your luggage, then changing into something more comfortable— you’re unable to forget the feeling of his lips against yours.

Brian emerges eventually, hair damp from his shower and a loose tee hanging from his shoulders. You try not to look at him as you gather your toiletries, quietly excusing yourself to go wash up, but Brian is quick to catch you by the wrist.

“We’re okay, right?” He asks tentatively, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to.

You don’t like the fact that he even has to ask. Because after everything, the last thing you want is for him to feel like you don’t want him.

You do.

So you smile, brushing your fingers against his knuckles. “We’re okay.”

Brian looks relieved at that, and he lets you go— but not before pressing his lips against your temple in a fleeting kiss.

Dinner is eaten in silence, but not the uncomfortable kind. You don’t say anything when he leans against you, shoulder pressed against your side. You let him cut your steak for you, let him eat your vegetables for you because they’re too bitter. Until eventually, your plates are cleared, teeth brushed, and you’re both ready to turn in for the night.

Except, you can’t. You know you can’t, not when you’re all too aware of the way Brian is looking at you through his lashes, like he knows exactly what’s on your mind and he’s just waiting for you to break.

You’re not sure who moves first, but it does end up with you under him, breathless, and impossibly close.

His hands roam gently, lips leaving a hot trail of kisses on your skin, like he’s trying to memorise every part of you in a way he’s never done before. 

You think that’s what makes the words slip out.

“I love you,” you whisper, barely audible.

Brian stills, his fingers curling around your waist slightly before he exhales against your throat, moving his forehead to rest against yours.

“Say that again,” he murmurs back, lowly, voice thick with emotion.

So you do. Again, and again, until he’s smiling into your skin— because finally, he's gotten the one thing he's been waiting for his whole life: you.

The comment is offhanded, but it still sends a wave of uneasiness down your spine. You know how your mother is— she’s the reason why you’re so wary of people like Brian to begin with. Because everything you assume about him? She’s already proven herself true.

Mr. Kang hums in agreement. “A man like him— steady, responsible. Any girl would be lucky to have him.”

The old man glances at you as he utters the last few words, and your grip tightens around your glass. Whatever it is that’s about to come next, you know you’re not going to like it.

“That’s why we’ve been thinking…” Now, it’s your father’s turn to speak. “It’s time you start considering a more suitable future for yourself. We’ve talked it over, and we believe Younghyun is the right match for you.”

A beat of silence passes by, as though everybody is waiting for you to react first. You even feel Brian’s steady gaze on you, and that’s when you realise— he knew. That asshole knew.

You don’t stop the chuckle that escapes your lips before it escalates into full-blown laughter, and if not for the tears in your eyes, you would’ve caught the awkward glances being exchanged across the table.

“Honey-“

“You-“ your voice comes off as hoarse. “You want me to marry him?”

“It’s a good match.” Your mother takes a bite of her steak, completely unfazed and completely dismissive of your slow descend into insanity.

“For who? For me? Or for your business connections?” You snap.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” your father cuts in, unimpressed.

You scoff, turning to him. “I’m dramatic? You’re literally selling me off in the middle of dinner and I’m dramatic?”

Your mother sighs, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. “Sweetheart, let’s be honest. You were never going to make a sensible choice on your own. We’re doing you a favour.”

Your stomach twists. You know what she’s hinting at. “Excuse me?”

“You’re wasting your time on a boy who barely has enough to pay for his own dinner, let alone yours. How do you expect us to trust your judgement?”

Of course. Of course, they’d bring up Wooshik. Your parents never took a liking to your boyfriend since you introduced him to them two years ago, and while that was an issue you’ve been putting off for a while now, always convincing yourself you’d cross that bridge when you got to it, you just never expected for it to catch up to you so soon.

Then again, you should have known. Your parents always play the long game.

You shake your head, your chair screeching against the marble tiles as you stand up. “You know what? I’m done.” You spare Brian a glare as you do so, the man infuriatingly calm as he watches the entire ordeal unfold ike he’s in a board meeting.

Oh, you hate him.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Your father calls out to you, his voice sharp.

You don’t bother to reply as your storm out of the dining hall, hailing down the first cab you see the moment you exit the country club. There’s only one person you want to see right now, one person who could make sense of this insanity. The one person who, despite what your parents think, chose you for you.

You arrive at Wooshik’s apartment in twelve minutes, your knuckles rapping loudly on his door. In hindsight, you should have given him a call first, knowing that he’s probably already asleep at this time, but in your frazzled state it seems that all sense has left you completely.

The door finally swings open after what feels like forever, but you’re met with someone who isn’t your boyfriend.

“Yes?” The girl greets you with an unimpressed stare. For a moment, you think you’re at the wrong apartment, until your gaze flickers to the number plate above the doorbell. Not that you even needed to; you’ve been here probably a thousand times. There’s no way you’d mistake your own boyfriend’s place, no matter how distressed.

And for the second time that night, your heart drops to the pit of your stomach, only for it to shred itself into little pieces when Wooshik appears, shirtless, eyes widening when they land on you.

“Baby-“

“Who is this?” You ask lowly, shakily, because even despite everything, you still have an inkling of hope that maybe, this is all just a huge misunderstanding. There’s no way that Kim Wooshik, your boyfriend of four whole years, would cheat on you, right?

But he only stays silent, and that was all you needed to hear.

Your heart pounds in your ribs, each beat louder than the last, but Wooshik still says nothing. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t push past the girl in his doorway to get to you. He just… stands there.

And that’s when you realise— he’s not speechless because he’s guilty. He’s speechless because he doesn’t care.

“Oh, wow,” the girl hums, arms crossing over her chest as her eyes twinkles in amusement. “Took you this long to figure it out, huh?”

You turn to her slowly, fists clenched at your sides. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, c’mon,” she pauses to laugh, gesturing lazily to your boyfriend— if you could even call him that. “Look at him! What other reason could there be for someone like him to go for someone like you?” 

When you don’t answer, she raises her hands, rubbing her middle finger against her thumb. As though you needed a reminder— tonight, of all nights— the only thing people truly cared about.

Money.

And it was a good thing you had loads of those too, because being broke sure as hell wouldn’t be able to get you out of what you did next.

You punched her.

You don’t register it until it happens, the loud crack that echoes in the hallway— your knuckles, her nose, you’re not entirely sure which. One thing for sure, you’re seeing red.

She stumbles back with a shriek, but you’re already turning to Wooshik.

“You bastard.”

Your fist collides with his jaw before he could even stammer out an excuse, and his back hits the door behind him upon impact.

“Are you insane?!” He yells, cupping his bruising cheek as he pants.

Maybe. But right now, you don’t care. Even when you feel the stinging of your scalp as the girl fists your hair and yanks you backwards, you recover fast, and you think it’s the pent-up rage from before that spurs you to continue, disregarding your broken nails as you claw blindly and ignoring the contents of your clutch spilling onto the floor as you use it as a makeshift weapon.

“Stop! Stop it- people are looking!“ Wooshik hisses as he grabs you from behind, pulling you away from his mistress. You yank yourself free, whipping your neck to look at him.

“Oh, now you want to care what people think?” You laugh sharply, ignoring the curious eyes of his neighbours as they watch through the cracks of their half-open doors.

Before he could reply, you’re interrupted by the sound of sirens.

Loud. Distinct. And definitely getting closer.

And as the red and blue lights spill through the corridors, it finally registers.

You’re screwed.

The police station is desolate at this time of night, and if it weren’t for the position you were in, you could even say that it’s peaceful.

You’re seated across an officer— Officer Jung, as the placard on his table suggests— who’s flipping through his notes.

“So, wanna tell us what happened?”

You don’t answer, exhaling sharply through your nose— this wasn’t how you imagined your night to end.

“Seeing as there are no serious injuries, we could let you off with a warning and fine. But, if Mr. Kim and Ms. Shin decide to press charges, well, you might have to deal with a court date at a later time. If you tell us what happened, we could help you— make things easier, at least.”

You scoff humourlessly as you keep your gaze on your lap— your bloodied fingers fiddling with your clutch you miraculously still have with you. It’s bent out of shape and not even able to lock properly anymore, leaving you to notice that some of your items are probably still left on the floor outside Wooshik’s apartment.

And then, you notice it— a familiar sleek, black card, hidden away in a tiny pocket on the wall of your purse.

You haven’t used this bag in a while— it’s been almost a year, you believe, but you instantly know to whom that card belongs.

You look at Officer Jung. “I want to make a phone call.”

He looks taken aback at your sudden request, but quickly recovers. “You’ll get your phone call, but talking now could make things easier for you, if you’d just cooperate, Miss.”

You don’t reply, and the officer sighs.

“Fine. One call.”

He pushes the telephone on his table towards you, and you pick up the receiver while you take out the namecard with your other hand. The phone rings thrice before he picks up.

“Brian Kang speaking.”

“I need you to come pick me up.”