daemour

From the top of the staircase, you see him dressed in oversized charcoal at the bottom, kicking his sneakers off his feet while throwing his phone, wallet and keys on the entryway table. Skipping down the stairs, you forgo greeting him, whispering, “Be quiet, he just went down.” 

“He’s eight,” Wooyoung whispers back, “you still tuck him in?” 

“He begs me to,” your brows knit together, “he doesn’t beg you?” 

“No,” his lips spread in a grin, “he’s a big boy at my house.” 

You scoff, “Shut up, he’ll always be my baby.” Leading him into the living room, you keep your voice low, louder than a whisper, “We have to be quiet.” 

“You have to be quiet,” he corrects you, tone teasing, smirking as you lay back on the couch. The TV is on but muted, the lamp in the corner coating the living area in dusky orange even if the sun had gone to sleep hours ago. 

“I am quiet,” you pout as he crawls over you, wasting no time, crouching between your parted legs, a hand falling to the back of the couch for purchase as he pecks a short kiss to your lips. 

“Don’t tease tonight,” you grab hold of his hoodie, pulling him close enough for your lips to touch, “I don’t have it in me to fight for it.” 

He smiles, kissing you again, parting your lips with his own, hands moving to the armrest to keep him steady as he lowers his hips into you. You gasp into his mouth at the friction, your tiny shorts doing nothing to shield you from his weight. 

“Then don’t fight,” he moves to kiss your jaw, your head tilts to let him in, his breath is hot against your skin, “lay there and behave for once.” 

Your hands find his neck, his cheeks, pulling him back up to kiss you deeper, head lifting off the pillow, calves hooking over the back of his thighs. He makes a grumbled noise, tongue licking into your mouth like he was searching for something, one hand falling from the armrest to tug at the hem of your hoodie, pushing it upward. 

“Off.” 

One word, a singular order, you sink further down the couch after pulling it off your body in a rush, throwing the pillow beneath your head to the floor, giving him space to plant his elbows above your shoulders. 

“Don’t wait,” you murmur into his mouth, “I can take it.” 

He hums, taking your bottom lip between his teeth before he answers, “You don’t know how to take it.”

“Then I’ll fucking learn,” your feet tug at his sweatpants, spine bending toward him, “get inside me.”

“Antsy,” he sits back on his knees, pushing his sweatpants and his briefs down in one quick motion. “Like I haven’t been fucking you right or something.”

“You haven’t been here in a week,” you argue, pushing your shorts down to your ankles, kicking them on the floor, “you haven’t been fucking me at all.”

“I had our kid for four of those days,” he pulls your thighs over his, sliding his cock through your folds, “I didn’t see you at my door after he went to bed. On his own, might I add.”

You loose a shaky breath as his tip collides with your clit, hips bucking up towards him, “Shit, I was busy, Wooyoung. What about those three days then?”

He pauses, glancing up at you, “You serious?”

“Yes?” You blink, “What were you doing? You had Friday, Saturday and Sunday.”

He laughs, lining himself up, holding his breath as he pushes inside. Your lips part in a silent scream, head tilting backwards to dig into the couch cushions, hands clawing at your own thighs for something. He stills once he’s fully seated, chest heaving, veiny forearms reaching for your ankles. 

“So fuckin’ tight,” he grinds out, voice tight with restrain, pushing your knees up to your chest. “Careful what you say, wifey. Might think you want me for real.”

“Regretting,” you squeak, eyes screwed shut tight, “s’big.”

He’d laugh again if your pussy didn’t look so pretty trying to keep him in. Walls fluttering around the base of him, your clit pulsed, begging for attention already, he started a slow, deep grind of his hips, making sure he filled you up all the way with each one. 

“So wet for me, mommy. Didn’t even have to touch you,” he keeps his palms splayed on your thighs, bearing his weight as he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the arch of your foot that dangles in the air. 

You whimper, face scrunching in pleasure, core clenching around him, he kisses up to your ankle, grazing his teeth against your skin, your hands shoot for his wrists, his forearms, just to hold them. Forcing words out, you say, “Been waiting for this, for you.”

“A whole week,” he picks up the pace, voice leaning into condescending, “must have been so hard.”

Your breath catches, eyes rolling back, a soft moan tumbling off your tongue, “Fuck, ‘t was. It was.”

“Quiet,” he reminds you, “or I’ll stop.”

“You won’t stop,” you mutter, fingers tightening over his wrists, a challenge. 

At that he stills, sitting back on his calves, leaving just the tip inside. “I won’t what?”

Jaw clenching, your hips follow him, he lays his palms over bone to keep you still. You stay like that for a moment, a game of chicken, eyes locked on his that stare at you expectantly. Obedience, silence, submission, he loves you bratty, he’s a brat himself, but when it comes to fucking you open on your couch just past nine at night, he expects you to listen. 

“Fine,” you shift against the cushions, “fine, you win.”

He pulls you onto his cock by your hips without a word and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to force yourself silent. The angle, the ease in which he mounted you onto him, your eyes slammed shut, gasping out a broken sound into your palm, he fills you up perfectly, carving into you like you were built to take him and him only, it’s war to not cry out in pleasure.

“Fuck,” under his breath, low, he tells you how good you feel in one blurted word. You roll your hips against him, meeting his thrusts, curved cock dragging along the front of your walls with each grind. 

“More,” you plead, grabbing for him, “kiss me.”

He crawls over you, elbows beside your ears again, pressing his lips to yours with a softness reserved for you. His hips slow, your ankles crossing over his back, pushing his hoodie up with your heels just to feel more of his skin against you. 

“Yes,” you whisper, breathing the same air, bodies moving together now, “just like that, daddy.”

His forehead meets yours, a quiet noise of pleasure rumbling from his chest, “‘m not gonna last.”

You kiss him again, tongue slotting between his lips, hands tugging at his roots, body moving in the shape of his, the only thing you can hear is your breath singing in harmony and the slick sound of your bodies conjoining. 

Six weeks of Wooyoung breaking you down on your couch, your kitchen counter, your living room floor, once against the wall just outside of your hallway bathroom. You don’t know what it is, you haven’t spoken any more of what it means, what comes next, the only thing you know is that you can’t stop. 

“Want me to fill you up? Fuck you full?”

You’re nodding, tongue catching on his lips, delirious with pleasure, your body ached for him. Burned for him. Only him. Always him– till death do you part.

“Yes, daddy,” you whisper, voice pitched and whiny. 

His hips stutter, he tucks his head into your neck to muffle his groan, fingers tightening in your hair that’s sprawled out around your head like a blanket. Losing his rhythm, his slow deep strokes turning shallow, quick– chasing a high he found so easily with you. 

Your toes curl over his back, chin tipping up when you feel the warmth spread, the heaviness, the feeling was indescribable. Claimed, owned, like he was marking his territory, it made your stomach swirl with affection, enough to pick his head up by his hair and kiss him again. 

Your hips rock, he whimpers. “T-too much, jagi, no.”

So warm, you glide against him, too slippery for there to be any resistance. The sound you make is small but it says everything you can’t, that you need more, you aren’t done. 

“D’you wanna sit on my face?" You hold his flushed cheeks instead, doe eyes staring up into his dilated pupils, begging. He shakes his head, “Can’t fuck you again, can’t.”

“Pussy,” you smack your teeth, “are you serious?”

“I’ll make you cum in under three,” he feeds you a peck of his lips, “promise.”

“Mommy?”

Both of your heads turn toward the staircase, the small voice that couldn’t see you from the platform at the top. It takes all of a millisecond for you to push Wooyoung away from you and jump off the couch.

“Coming!” You call, grabbing your shorts from the floor. Pulling them up your thighs, clenching hard to keep Wooyoung inside, you hiss at your ex, “Don’t fucking leave, you owe me.”

“Yes, mommy,” he nods, grin amused and lazy, “duty calls.”

You run up the stairs to find your brown-haired boy standing at the top, one of his fists rubbing at his eye, his favorite Frozen pajamas already pulled up and twisted at each and every hem. Before you have a chance to speak, he asks, “Who’s here?”

“No one,” you speak quietly, softly, turning him around by his shoulders, guiding him back into his bedroom. “Come on, baby, bed time.”

Five minutes of staring at the ceiling feels like a fucking lifetime until his tiny breaths turn slower, deeper. Creeping out of his bedroom once more, closing his door even softer than you did the first time, you nearly sprint down the steps to find Wooyoung still half-clothed.

“Now what if I brought him down here?” You stand before the couch, hands on your hips. 

“Why the hell would you do that?” He quips, leaning forward to grab you by the hips, pulling you back down to him. “He’s asleep?”

“Out like a light,” you throw your arms over his shoulders, taking your spot in his lap. “You promised me something.”

“Is that all I’m good for?” His brows raise and the question takes you by surprise.

Wiping the smirk off your lips, your arms lower a little, disarmed. “Sex?”

“Yeah,” he sits up a little, shifting where you sat on his lap. “We’ve been sneaking around for over a month, I haven’t pressed the date thing because you’ve never been one to break your promises and–”

“You were serious?” You push your brows up to your hairline, cutting him off. To make it clear, you repeat, “You seriously want to take me on a date.”

His head cocks to the side, “You didn’t think I was serious? Of course I want to take you out.”

“We’re divorced,” you argue, leaning back, adding space between you.

“I’m aware,” he says, as if he really means no shit. “You’re on my lap right now, I’m still dripping out of you, are you planning on fucking me after the sun goes down for the rest of our lives?”

“Not for the rest of our lives,” you shake your head a little, brows knitted together, confused.

“Oh, then until you’re over it?” He blows amusement through his nose. “We made a tiny human who’s upstairs right now and I’m suddenly disposable?”

“That’s not what I meant,” you rub your palms over your face, sucking in a deep breath. “I just thought this was, like, an agreement. I didn’t think either of us wanted anything more, I’m sorry if I misread the situation.”

“We’d have a chance to talk about it if you didn’t kick me out as soon as you came.”

“Wooyoung,” you gasp sharply, offended, “I do not do that.”

His brows raise, forgoing a verbal response. You think back on the past six weeks, remembering each and every night you’ve shoved him out of your front door as soon as he pulled his pants up, the memories flash through your mind like a medley. Your lips flatten, cheeks heating, guilt and shame forming in the pit of your belly. 

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, just above a whisper. 

“You really don’t want anything more?” 

He sounds wounded and your heart cracks beneath your ribs. His brows are upturned, mismatched eyes rounded out, pink lips still swollen from earlier almost pouting. You swallow, taking a second to be honest with yourself and your feelings… This works. The last six weeks have worked so effortlessly, so easily, you’ve been spending your days bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, so fulfilled you haven’t even considered what comes next. If anything comes next. 

“I haven’t been this happy in awhile,” you reply honestly, “I think I don’t want to fuck anything up, our sex life wasn’t this consistent when we were still married, it’s nice.”

His fingers squeeze your hips, pulling you closer to him, a small smile forming on his full lips. “All I want to do is take you out one time, jagi. We don’t have to put any pressure on it, let’s just go out for dinner, have a few drinks and talk. It’s been a long time since we’ve just talked.”

It puts a smile on your face, too. You run a hand through his hair, locks of coal soft between your fingers, “Okay, let’s go this weekend.”

His face lights up, “Really?”

You snort, “Yes, really. I’ll get a babysitter for Saturday and–”

“I’ll bring him to Yunho’s,” his hands slide up to your waist, under the hem of your tank, leaning forward until his chest brushes against you. “He hasn’t seen Aden in awhile, maybe they can have a sleepover.”

Your hands find the base of his neck, pulling him flush to you, “A sleepover?”

Wooyoung’s lips find yours, a small kiss, his hands traveling upward, cupping your breasts beneath your tank, “Maybe we can have a sleepover of our own.”

You gasp into his touch, brows furrowing in pleasure, “Please.”

“You can have me all night,” he reaches for the hem of your tank, pulling it swiftly over your head before his hands go right back to toying with your chest, pressing his thumbs over your nipples as he says, “We can fuck in our big, comfortable bed, all night if you want to. Just like old times.”

You moan softly, quietly, head going fuzzy like he’d cast a spell on you, “Let’s go up there now.”

He keeps his eyes on yours as he leans forward, tongue poking out to circle over your nipple before his lips wrap around it, sucking harshly. You suck in a sharp gasp, face twisting in pleasure, hips grinding into him beneath you, “Fuck, Wooyoung.”

“Saturday,” his voice is low, gravelly, it sends a shiver up your spine. “Tonight you get to ride my face.”

You can’t argue. Not when he brushes his nose over your spit-soaked nipple, giving you a perfect view of the curve of cartilage, already imagining bucking your hips against it. 

Immediately you’re climbing off of his lap, pointing to the rug beneath your feet, “On the floor.”

“Whatever you want, mommy.”

“Damn.”

It’s loud enough for the neighbors to hear. On your porch, fist over his lips, his brows are scrunched like he can’t believe his eyes, he looks you up and down three times before he whistles. 

You snort, rolling your eyes, pulling your front door closed behind you. “Shut up, Wooyoung.”

He steps backwards, down one of your cement stairs, watching as you bend over slightly to lock your front door. Voice amused, he continues, “All dressed up for lil’ ole me? The dreaded ex?”

You turn around with a smile, “I’m keeping my word.”

His hand goes over his heart, frowning, “That hurt.”

“Shut up,” you shake your head, fighting your amusement as you move to step down, following him, he keeps his feet planted where he stands, an unmovable force.

Then he cracks a grin. “What, you’re not even gonna kiss me hello?”

You cross your arms over the front of your dress, sleek and red and hugging every inch of your body you want to be hugged. You got it on sale, an outfit you’ve been saving for the right occasion, you can’t believe tonight, of all nights, is the night you took it off the hanger. 

You can’t believe you pulled it out for Wooyoung. 

“Good things come to those who wait,” you sing, “if you’re on your best behavior maybe you’ll get a kiss goodnight.”

He groans, head tipping backward, eyes squeezing shut, “You’re gonna make me hard.”

“I hate you,” you laugh, pushing on his chest, making him tumble backward a step. You follow him down the staircase, towards his still-running SUV in your driveway, “Where are we going?”

He said to dress nice, two days ago in a short text-exchange that started off with you asking if he forgot to drop off Kyungmin’s backpack, which you found in the corner of your living room approximately nine seconds later. Two texts back and forth before he reminded you of your date tonight, that he’d already made the plans with Yunho and Aurora, Kyungmin would stay over at their house tonight to have a sleepover with their son, Aden.

Yunho was Wooyoung’s friend from college, living only fifteen minutes from where you lived on the outskirts of the city, suburbia with a good school district, which is where Kyungmin had met their son, Aden, the second of four. You wondered how they did it, you had your hands tied with only one. 

“It’s a surprise,” he walks to the passenger side, opening the door for you. 

“Wow,” you raise your brows, “such a gentleman. Who even are you anymore?”

He holds an arm out for you to grab as you climb in, “I’m just a husband taking his sexy ass wife out to dinner, that’s all.”

“Ex-husband,” you correct, “ex-wife.” 

He leans against the door with a smile, “Whatever you say.” 

He looks good. Dress pants on his legs, tailored, all his dress pants are. A button-up, rolled up on his veiny forearms, showcasing his tattoo, the top two buttons undone. Dressed in all black so his golden skin gleams in each pocket where it shows, fuck he knows how to dress himself and God it pisses you off. His hair is styled, down, tucked behind his ears, it frames his face effortlessly, beautifully, part of you wants to ask if you can make a pit-stop in the backseat.

It’s a thirty minute drive, filled with the same soft rock playing from his speakers, he talks over it the whole time. From Kyungmin to work to his apartment, which he nags at you that you still haven’t seen the inside of, the conversation is as easy as it always is. Bickering, of course, but you’ve been bickering since you were twenty-two. Fifteen years of partnership, of friendship, of learning each other down to particles and atoms, awkward silence has never existed between you. 

A fancy restaurant, one that just opened in the city, dim lighting and red velvet and black leather, you couldn’t tell if you were supposed to eat dinner or each other. Side-eyeing Wooyoung as the hostess brought you to your table, the moment she left you quirked a brow, “Is this foreplay?”

He grabs the drink menu, “It can be if you want it to be.”

So shameless it makes your lips part. “Are we in a restaurant or a sex club?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a restaurant,” he doesn’t look up over the menu, “but we could make it a sex club if you want to make it a sex club.” You snort, reaching over to steal the drink menu from his hands. He scoffs, “No way you’re reading that as if you aren’t gonna nurse one margarita until it’s tequila-water.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, “maybe I’m in the mood for something different.”

You quickly scan the specials, the list of bottles they carry, different brands of wine they have. Pursing your lips, you quickly realize you’re not in the mood for something different. 

Shoving the menu back into his hands, you mumble, “Fine.”

He laughs, a high, amused giggle, “You’re so predictable.”

“You just know me,” you huff, “not predictable.”

When the waiter comes by, Wooyoung not only orders his beer, but he orders your margarita, too. Casamigos, salt on the rim, you don’t correct him because you’re as predictable as they come. Your cheeks heat up anyway, you might be predictable but he remembers and it sends a streak of heat up your spine. Whatever. 

You’re reading the menu, or trying to with your bottom lip caught between your teeth, seeing words but not ingesting any of them. Maybe you should just let him order your meal for you, too.

“What’s bothering you?” He asks, and you glance upward like he’s ripped you out of a trance.

You purse your lips, shaking your head a little, defensive. “Nothing.”

“I’ve known you for over a decade,” his lips curl at the corner, “I’ve lived with you, I’ve loved you, you’re the mother of my son. Is it so crazy that I know you? One year spent apart out of fifteen is nothing.”

You can feel the heat in the tips of your ears, you forgot he knows you down to your thoughts, too. A small sigh escapes you, “Do you wanna start now? Before there’s even any food on the table?”

He leans forward, smile mischievous, “Hey, there’s bread.”

You push air out of your nose, amused as you sit back in the upholstered chair. “It’s just stupid. We’ve only been divorced for a year, and look at us. We’re in a sex club that has a kitchen.”

His lips thin before he answers. “Did you really think we’d stay separated?"

“Yes?” Your head tilts with the question. “Did you not?”

“No,” he answers honestly, “I’ve been working on myself a lot this past year. All the time spent away from you, Kyungie, it’s given me space that I never wanted. Space I’ve filled with things to better myself, for him, for you.”

“What, did you get a promotion or something?” You quirk a brow, “Work stuff?”

He smacks his teeth, “I went to therapy.”

“You went to therapy?” Your brows meet your hairline, “Like, the couch and everything?”

“No, she made me sit on the floor,” he muses. “She actually has a brown, leather chair. She helped me figure a lot of my shit out, that way when it was time for me to propose the idea of us seeing each other again, it’d be different. I’d be different.”

“Woo, I had no idea,” your heart picks up speed in your chest. “I didn’t even know that you were this… bothered about us separating, to be honest.” 

His face scrunches up in disbelief, “That’s bullshit.”

“I’m serious!” You argue, “The divorce process was so smooth, I guess over time I got it in my head that it was smooth because it was mutual.”

“It was never, not even for a second, mutual.”

“You made it easy,” you shrug, picking up your margarita, taking a sip. “You never told me the details, I only knew what I found out from your mother. She never mentioned therapy.”

“You knew what I wanted you to know,” he sets his menu down in front of him. “It’s not like we were exactly on speaking terms, you didn’t give me the opportunity to fix anything while we were still together, either.”

Your stomach churns. “I gave you a lot of chances, Wooyoung.”

“Not enough,” he argues, not sternly, earnestly. He picks up his beer. “You gave up on me.”

“I gave up on being a single mother in my own marriage,” your voice is low, quiet. Your throat feels tight. 

The waiter comes, Wooyoung orders for the both of you, something you would’ve chosen for yourself. Your thoughts are too loud for you to pay it any mind. 

“I’ll have to live with the fact that I made you feel that way until the day I die,” his face is solemn, his words so honest your heart feels like stone in your chest. “But I thought I was doing the right thing, setting us up for our future, setting our son up for his future. For a long time I couldn’t understand why that wasn’t enough for you.”

“But you understand now?”

He nods, “Strangely enough, you making that deal with me at the conference, about having San speak, it might’ve been the final piece that put everything together. I feel like I can see it clearly now, and it feels so fucking stupid looking back.”

“Yeah?” Your lips curve at the corners, “Did your therapist enjoy my ultimatum?”

“I think she thinks we’re childish,” he laughs a little, “she doesn’t say that, but I can kinda feel it. Like we’re still kids playing at being adults.”

“We are,” your smile widens, “but now I keep wipes and snacks in my purse instead of lipgloss and condoms that we never used.”

“Don’t talk mommy to me right now,” his face scrunches together like you pressed your foot against his crotch. “We’re still in public.”

You stare at him over the salt on the rim of your glass, taking a sip of your margarita before you mumble, “I don’t think anyone here would be bothered.”

“I want to try again,” he wipes the smile off his face, voice a little louder, stronger. “Just to lay everything on the table, I’ve been wanting to try again and if a hookup at a work conference is the start of it unfolding, then so be it.”

You take a second before responding. “Do you really feel like I gave up on you?”

“Yes,” there’s no room for uncertainty, the agreement is crystal clear. “But I know I pushed you to that point, and I know in the end it was my fault. I should have been around more to help you. Just to have been there.”

Your bottom lip quivers, he catches it as soon as the first twitch tugs at your mouth.

“No, no crying,” he reaches his hand across the table, searching for yours. You tangle your fingers with his, his palm warm, fingers encasing your hand within his own perfectly like you were made for each other. “If you’re open to trying again, to giving me another chance, it’ll be different this time. I’m different, but I still love you, I still want to be beside you.”

You wipe at your eyes before tears fall past your waterline, “I love you too, but I did my makeup for this.”

“And it looks beautiful,” his lips curve, “but it’s just gonna get ruined later, anyway.”

“Why would it–” You meet his eye, the mischievous glint. “Oh, fuck you.”

“Hopefully I’m lucky and you will fuck me.”

“Is sex all you think about?” You laugh, then tease him, “Is that all I’m good for?”

He glares across the table, “Too soon.”

“You’re the one who said we were gonna roll around in my bed all night.”

“Once upon a time, it was our bed,” he releases your fingers to point at you, “and I know it’s lonely in that big ass bed without me.”

“Who’s to say I’m lonely?” You taunt, “Maybe there’s been plenty of men warming my bed since we separated.”

“You,” he says it like it’s obvious, “at the conference you said there was no one else, so unless you lied, you’ve spent over a year alone, in that bed, playing with yourself and wishing it was me.”

You think everyone in the restaurant could hear the gasp that erupted from your chest. Wooyoung’s head tips back in laughter and you curse under your breath, whisper-shouting, “We’re in public, Jung Wooyoung.”

“The mom-voice makes it funnier,” he’s still laughing, a hand over his mouth, “scolding me like I’m five. Fuck, do you remember when Kyungmin drew all over the wall in the living room? With fucking Sharpies?”

You groan, digging your head into your palms, elbows propped up on the table. “Still to this day I fucking hate the feeling of Magic Erasers.”

“You sounded just like that,” he takes a deep breath to control his laughter, then puts on his best you-voice to mock you. “Jung Kyungmin, we color in coloring books, not on the walls.” 

The memory makes you smile, even laugh a bit under your breath, “It’s only funny now because I got the Sharpie off the wall.”

“It was funny then, too, trust me.” 

The food comes hot and perfect, neither of you speak for the first few bites, until Wooyoung catches you staring at his plate, at his food. Mid-bite he pauses, popping a brow, “Want to try?”

You smile, and he smiles back, reaching over, fork in hand. The sound that leaves you is almost fitting for the restaurant you’re in. “I like yours,” you mumble, putting on your best doe-eyed look, making him snort. 

“I’d be mad, but I’m too nostalgic,” he hums, satisfied with a smile on his cheeks he reaches over to grab your plate, switching it with his own. “Can I pretend I ordered mine for the sole intent of giving it to you?”

“No,” you hum happily, “it’s better that you gave yours to me. More romantic that way.”

He shakes his head, “First day back and you’re already spoiled.”

“Technically I still haven’t agreed,” you shrug, eyes on your food, about to take another bite before you realized Wooyoung had paused entirely. Looking over the table, you giggle at his deadpanned face, brows flat, lips flat, his entire face flat. 

“Not funny.” He tightens his lips again. “Are you agreeing? Do you want to give me another chance?”

“Is this an immediate answer kind of thing?” You ask, food still halfway to your mouth, “Or can I get back to you on it?”

He purses his lips like he’s deciding the answer for himself before he gives you one. Eventually, when your bite is swallowed, he answers. “I guess you can think about it.”

“You guess?” Facing your plate, your eyes flicker across the table. 

“Do you understand how long I’ve been waiting?” He doesn’t sound aggressive or forceful, or like he’s urging you towards an answer. “I had you for fifteen years and I just spent over an entire year without you.”

“You say that like I didn’t spend a year without you, too,” you argue, “you aren’t alone in that feeling, Wooyoung.”

“I just want my life back,” his voice settles into something just above a whisper, too raw for the crowded restaurant. “I want you, I want Kyungminnie, I want to come home.”

You swear you can see an entire year of pain in his eyes. Chocolate that’s usually melted, milky sweet, a delicacy, is deepened into something dark; hardened with time spent apart, changed with a life lesson that needed to be felt in order to be learned. He’s the same but he’s different, you can feel it, you know it. 

All you can do is pray he doesn’t disappoint you again.

He keeps his hand on your thigh the entire drive home.

Quiet for once, the calm before the storm, you use the silence to think about your time spent apart, how it affected you. He was right, alone in your king-sized bed, but more than that you’ve learned so much about yourself in the year spent away from him. Kids fresh out of college, thrown into the workforce, pregnant before your first paycheck, court-signed documents without a big party to follow, your adult life has been spent entirely by his side. 

You’ve learned strength. You’ve learned to trust yourself. You’ve come to fall in love with yourself, by yourself, the you that wasn’t half-Jung. Despite the tears, the nights drowning in self-doubt, of not knowing what the next day would look like, you did it. 

And now he’s back, and he promised that he changed. 

You don’t know whether or not to trust the tiny voice in the back of your mind, you don’t know if it’s nerves or a gut-feeling. But when you turn your head to the side, to the man you’ve spent fifteen years loving, adoring, his chiseled jaw and his curved nose and the veiny, tattooed forearm that’s attached to the steering wheel, it’s easy to admit that you want him to come home, too. 

You missed him. You miss him, and he’s beside you. 

You miss him making the bed in the morning, having coffee on the pot downstairs, already prepped for you. You miss him shoveling the driveway in the winter, mowing the lawn in the summer. You miss him taking out the trash. You miss him fixing a toy when Kyungmin breaks it. You miss him doing your fucking taxes. You miss him doing the dishes after you cooked dinner, you miss him stealing the dishes out of your hands when he cooked dinner.

You miss the mundane things. 

You miss the way he kisses you goodmorning, when he gets home from work, before bed, randomly, mid-day on a Saturday. You miss him making Kyungmin laugh. You miss the way his skin feels on yours, the way he finishes your thought before you’ve finished it, the way he makes it so easy to believe that it’s possible to love another human so much. 

You miss him present most of all.

“If I agree,” you speak into the silence, his fingers add the slightest pressure onto your thigh. “You swear you’ll be around?”

“Yes.” The word is final. “I’ve made the changes already. You’re my priority.”

You don’t answer, you let the words sink in. It’ll take time, learning to believe him, learning to trust his words again, but something settles in your chest, in your gut, something calm. It reminds you that you can still be yourself, you can still be strong, you can still trust yourself, you can still be in love with yourself– but he’s here to love you, to trust you, to lean on you for strength, too. There’s something about it that’s comforting, that’s right.

The house is dark when you walk through your front door. You forgot to leave the lights on, the lamp in the corner of the living room, the one above the kitchen sink. So scatterbrained about being out with Wooyoung, about your kid sleeping at someone else’s house, you huff a curse as soon as the darkness welcomes you home. 

While you turn the lamp on, without a word he’s in the kitchen, turning on the other above the sink. 

And for some reason that’s enough. 

Maybe it’s how he looks, doused in twilight, standing in the kitchen he designed. Shadows finding home in the structure of his face, the tattoo on his forearm, the veins that swirled around it, blending into the vines, rippling each thorn of the rose. Maybe it was just the fact that after all this time, seeing him here, in your kitchen that you left exactly how it was the day you kicked him out, reminded you just how deeply you love him. That even though you’ve spent a year apart and you’ve learned to love so much about yourself, the part of you that you love most, is the half of you that’s him. 

You hope he feels it as you kiss him, standing in the space between the two counters, the long, skinny walkway between the sink and the island. Your arms around his shoulders, his find your waist, sliding down to your hips, then behind you, taking two fistfuls of your ass. 

You squeak into the kiss and he turns you, scooping under your thighs to lift you, placing your ass on the kitchen counter. You don’t break the kiss, feet hooking around his back, fingers curling into his roots, tongue sliding between his lips like you were the one coming home. 

He hikes your dress up, warm palms searing the skin beneath fabric, slipping under the hem just to rest there like he couldn’t deny himself feeling you any longer. You’re panting into his mouth, sizzling under his touch, you whisper, “I need you.”

He pulls away, putting an inch between your faces, “Here?”

“I don’t care where,” your hands find his cheeks, holding him close, “I need you, Jung Wooyoung.”

His eyes flicker over your features like he’s reading your thoughts and it takes him all of a second for his fingers to dart to the hem of your dress. You lift yourself so it pools around your hips, reaching forward for his button-up, getting only three unbuttoned while his fingers work the button and zipper of his pants. Both of you panting, heartbeats uneven, your feet stretch to reach the opposite counter, palms planted on the one you sat on, shifting yourself to the edge as Wooyoung frees himself from his briefs.

Your tongue pokes out to wet your lips, tasting remnants of your lipstick and his saliva on your tongue. The lack of a rebuttal from him, of snarky, taunting comments– this was different than him filling you silently on your living room couch. One hand moves your thin, lace thong to the side as the other grips his length, prodding at your entrance, making you gasp. 

He fills you quickly, slipping inside with barely any resistance, the two of you moaning out in relief and pleasure. He grumbles out a curse, reaching the hilt, hands finding your hips, fingers bruising into your skin.

“Jagi,” he whispers. “Wanna give you a baby.”

Your eyes meet his and he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world. Like nothing else matters except you and him, like the outside world melted away, like you haven’t built and ruined a life between you. Like it was fifteen years ago and you’d just opened the first page of your love story. 

“Do it, then,” you whisper back, eyes glossy, throat tight. “Give me one.”

“Can I?” He asks, face stone, as if you couldn’t feel his cock twitch inside you. He wasn’t asking permission, he was questioning the possibility.

Counting in your head, you wait a moment to reply, “Yes. Slim, but yes.”

He grins ear to ear, that same shit-eating grin he wears when he gets what he wants whether he fights for it or not. Then he moves, a shallow, promising thrust, grinding into the deepest spot inside you, making you hiss out a curse. 

“Have to fill you,” his eyes find your meeting, watching himself as he barely thrusts, keeping himself buried. “Nice n’ deep. Make sure it takes.”

Your head dips backward, arching into him, skin catching on the glossiness of the counter you’d wiped down before you left the house. “Please.”

He grunts, fingers searing your skin, picking up his pace. “Fuck, need to see you pregnant. Belly full of my fuckin’ kid.”

“Wooyoung,” your voice is breathy, shaky, full of arousal as you moan his name, it makes him grunt out a curse, hips slapping against yours, reverberating through the room, bouncing off the stainless steel appliances. 

His hands on your hips use the strength of his arms to lift you, pulling you off the counter with too much fucking ease. He slips out of you before your feet hit the floor, but he’s back inside you as soon as your back presses against the cool wood of the kitchen floor, freshly mopped this morning, knowing he’d be here tonight. 

His lips are on yours, your legs hooked over his back, panties thrown somewhere you didn’t care to see. His shirt is open, still over his shoulders, trapping you between the open panels like it was shading you from something, anything that wasn’t him. 

His hair feels silken between your fingers as you tug at his roots, keeping him as close as possible, never close enough. Murmuring words into each other’s lips, the sound of his skin hitting yours muted it, like the two of you were stuck in a time-warp, a lovesick bubble you entered fifteen years ago. 

Pressure builds with each thrust, your moans growing in pitch, and Wooyoung keeps his eyes on yours, his bottom lip touching yours, assessing, watching, feeling, waiting for you to crest your peak without any stimulation to your clit. His eyes flare when your breathing catches, keeping his rhythm unfaltering, his angle locked, muttering yes, yes as you approach the high only he can give you. 

He groans when he feels the pressure blow, as you clench around him, the heels of your feet digging into his back, he catches your lips between his own to feel everything, all of it, all of you. 

The silence says everything. You’re stuck in euphoria as his cock drags over that same spot inside you, his head dropped down to your shoulder, your nails clawing at his back as he takes you for everything you’re worth. Every drop of pleasure, every emotion, you handed everything over to him, put it in his palms, let him cradle it– had you ever even taken it back for yourself?

“Gonna give you a baby,” he mutters into your skin, voice jagged like the edge of a blade, a man slicing a promise into your skin. “Gonna give you a girl this time. Pretty like her mama.”

“Yes,” it’s a whimper, a plea. “I love you, please– I love you.”

He grunts, heavy and rough, hips smacking yours with fervor, picking up his pace, weighting his thrusts. He picks up his head, palms finding your cheeks, holding your scrunched up face between them before he presses his mouth to yours, and you can taste the I love you too on his tongue.

Into his mouth, weak, soft, you utter, “I missed you.”

And why the admittance brought tears to your eyes, you aren’t sure. But they fell to his thumbs and he seemed to understand even if you didn’t, kissing you deeper, tongue slotting into your mouth as if he was soothing your scars. 

He finished inside you with a low grunt that vibrated through you and into the hardwood beneath, cock hilted, buried so deep you weren’t sure where you ended and he began. You wanted to stay there, full of him, in the bubble you’d fucking missed being in, but his phone ringing on top of the counter had you both moving before you could breathe. 

“Yunho,” is all he said before he pressed the phone up to his ear, still panting, brows furrowed. You stood up, dress falling over your hips, thighs wet and legs jelly, you leaned an arm over the counter for stability, silent enough to hear Yunho on the line.

Yeah, he threw up… Asking for you… Rory took his temp, he has a fever… He’s on the couch now… Okay, see you soon…

Wooyoung hung up with a sigh, “Rain check for rolling around in our bed?”

You cracked a smile, “What’s your schedule looking like on Monday?”

Wooyoung snorts as he tucks himself into his slacks, fingers working his buttons, “I’ll drive.”

Aurora had the door open before you’d made it up the steps of their front porch. “Sorry for cutting the date night short.” 

Her sad smile was full of apology, she had one arm on the door as she held it open for the two of you. Pajama pants on her legs, slippers on her feet, her oversized tee that said Nasara University had one shoulder cut off. Hair tied in a bun on top of her head, bare-faced, so effortlessly gorgeous you felt self-conscious even if you were still in your red dress.

“Thanks for taking care of him, Ro,” Wooyoung replies. “Yunho said he’s on the couch?”

Ro. A nickname you haven’t heard before. Storing the info for later, you followed Wooyoung inside, taking note that their house was full of everything warm and cozy. Toys littered the floor, picture frames on the walls, nothing was tidy or put together. Not dirty, but… Lived in. Like six people lived here and not one of them was hiding the fact. The TV on and playing an old cartoon from when you were all kids, three out of Yunho and Aurora’s four sat on the living room floor just before Kyungmin who was curled up on the couch, blanket covering his body. 

You stayed back while Wooyoung crossed the room, saying hi to the kiddos before scooping Kyungmin up in his arms. Aurora spoke while you watched him, “Yunho’s upstairs with the baby, she woke up when the kids started screaming about throw up.”

“Sorry,” you scratched the back of your head, cheeks flaring heat. You hoped you didn’t smell like sex. You also hoped she wasn’t thinking about the fact that you and Wooyoung are divorced and together right now. 

But she just waved her hand, “Please, don’t be. She’s a terrible sleeper anyways, and all four of them were playing dress up in June’s room. She was bound to wake up sooner or later.”

“Dress up?” You cracked a smile. 

“June has the time of her life dressing up her siblings,” she smiled with you, “and I think Aden enjoys it more than she does. They call it Fashion Runway, and Kyungmin was the star tonight, just so you know. June and Aden said he’s their new muse.”

You snort, not a lick of surprise on your face, “I need to see this.”

“You guys should come over more,” she offers, looking at Wooyoung as he returns with your gray-faced son’s head on his shoulder. “We should do the things the cool families do, hangout while the kids hangout, conjoined vacations and shit. We live so close and we never do anything.”

You look at Wooyoung who nods like he was brushing her off. “Yeah, sure. Don’t you wanna wait til’ Sunnie gets a little older?”

Her brows furrow, “No?”

“Sunnie’s a cute name,” you turn to her. “I didn’t know that was her name. How old is she?”

“Her first birthday is next month, I invited you guys, he didn’t tell you?” Her brows furrow further as you shake your head. Her eyes thin as she glances at Wooyoung, “Sunnie’s short for Woosun. Named after her godfather who apparently doesn’t want to come to her first birthday party.”

You will your face into staying neutral, like you knew Wooyoung was Aurora’s daughter’s godfather. “Woosun’s a gorgeous name.”

“Yunho came up with it,” her smile is proud, and if she could see yours, the one you’re hiding behind your stone features, you think she might be terrified of you. Your eyes find Wooyoung’s and he looks as gray as Kyungmin, face dropped, fear rippling in his chocolate brown eyes. 

“Thanks again for taking care of him, Aurora.” You barely hear her response as she gives you a side-hug. She smells clean, like grapefruit and vanilla, a hint of baby formula like she’d just finished feeding Woosun. Woosun. 

You don’t speak until after Wooyoung buckles in Kyungmin, your son still somehow knocked out in the backseat, head lolled to the side. Wooyoung tugged on the seatbelt twice, making sure it was locked, keeping him in place. You see the glitter on him then, on his eyelids, his cheeks, his hair, he’s in clothes that aren’t is. God, did he throw up on his own clothes? You didn’t even notice, nor did you ask for his clothes back. You’d have Wooyoung text her tomorrow.

Seated in the driver’s, he flips the engine, eerily quiet. Waiting for you. So you start. 

“I thought Yunho was your friend from college.”

He takes a steadying breath before he speaks, “He was, is. But I’ve always been friendlier with Ro.”

“Ro,” you repeat, lips scrunching together. Your head shakes slowly, “Define friendlier.”

“Baby, we went to college together–”

“Don’t baby me,” you snap, keeping your voice quiet to not wake up your son, “you just tried to give me a daughter and then I find out you’re the godfather of someone else’s?”

“I was going to–”

“You were going to tell me nothing,” you snap again, hearing your heartbeat in your ears. “You used to fuck her, then? In college? Is that why we’ve never hung out with them?”

“It was more than that,” his voice is defensive, curt. Your lips snap shut, eyes widening a fraction. “We were together for a while, but it was… complicated. Everything about that time was complicated.”

“She named her fucking kid after you,” your voice is quiet but not any less venomous. “You know everything about me. Everything. And after fifteen years, I’d expect to know everything about you. Why keep it a secret?”

He keeps his eyes on the road, even if they blaze with emotion; fear, guilt, shame, remorse. “I don’t know if I can even explain it, she’s– she’s special. Different from a girlfriend or a hookup, we went through a lot of tough shit together.”

Eyes widening further, throat tightening, you can taste the salt lining your eyes. Your voice comes out hoarse, “She’s so special that you couldn’t tell your wife about her?”

“There’s nothing I could say that wouldn’t make you feel like this. She’s married, happily, with four kids. If you knew our history you wouldn’t want me around her.”

“And that’s more important? Being around her? Than me knowing the truth?”

“No,” he shakes his head tight. “No, it’s not. I spent a lot of time at their house while we were separated, and the three of us got really close again–”

“So that’s why she said we should all hangout,” you laugh a little, it’s dry, lacking amusement. “She wants to know what the wicked ex-wife that divorced you is like.”

“No,” he counters, voice raising, exasperated. “I never said anything bad about you, fuck. After the conference I talked to them, and she needs a girlfriend. I basically pimped you out to her, to be her friend.”

“Pimped me out to a girl you used to date. Fuck. Go through tough shit with.”

“We weren’t close during our marriage,” he argues, eyes flickering up to check on the still-sleeping Kyungmin through the rear-view mirror. “I sought them out after you divorced me, I needed a friend, and I knew Kyungmin and Aden were in the same class, I– they helped me.”

“Your ex-girlfriend and her husband helped you. Did they invite you into their bed? Help take your mind off your sad, divorced heart?”

“I’m not going to talk until you stop seeing red. Calm down and then speak to me like an adult.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you stare out the window, and let the tears fall. 

Kyungmin lay on the couch, asleep again after another round of emptying the contents of his stomach into the same stained bowl you use for popcorn on movie nights. You and Wooyoung sat on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, staring at him. So small, his face looks so peaceful, in a deep, hopefully dreamless sleep. He changed your lives eight years ago. Forced you into an adulthood you weren’t prepared for, the greatest blessing you didn’t ask for. A gift. 

“Think he has the flu?” Wooyoung asks after too long of staring at the boy you created in silence. His hands stretched behind him, legs in front of him, body sagged with exhaustion. It’s been a long day.

“Maybe a stomach bug,” you reply through a sigh, sitting with your arms curled around your knees. “Time will tell. If his fever’s still up tomorrow, I’ll take him to the doctor.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I’m his father, I want to.”

You swear, it’s grumbled, irritated. You can still feel the stickiness between your thighs, almost like it’s taunting you now. Telling you good job, you get to have another baby with a liar!

 “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Wooyoung’s voice is grave. “Aurora is harmless. I don’t love her, I’m not into her, there’s nothing left between us but friendship.”

“You’re missing the point, Wooyoung. It’s not about her, it’s about the fact that you kept it from me for fifteen years.”

“It wasn’t relevant for fifteen years. But it’s relevant now, and I’m telling you.”

“Because you were put in a situation where you had to tell me,” your head snaps to the side, glaring at him. “You should have told me when we had the whole exes conversation over a decade ago, or maybe when you found out Aden was in the same class as Kyung, or when she named her daughter after you, or when she made you the fucking godfather. You had a million-and-one chances to tell me.”

Wooyoung sighs, “It was a wound I didn’t want to reopen back then, but I should have. I’m sorry.”

“It feels wrong,” you look back at Kyungmin, a frown on your lips. “Knowing you had a relationship with these people deep enough for them to name their child after you, and I don’t know any of it. It makes me feel like I don’t know you, like there’s a side of you that you’ve kept from me all these years.”

“Do you want to know the full story?” He glances sideways, and the look you give him is an obvious yes. He sighs, “Fuck. Alright.” 

And you sit there, for an entire hour as he reveals a side of himself that you’ve never gotten a glimpse of. Partying, threesomes, Aurora, men– so many men, and even though that part didn’t take you by surprise, it did make you wonder. The tough shit was about her, Yunho surprisingly, her father, her own personal issues that Wooyoung had adopted like his own and helped her through. Living with his cousin, switching his major, supporting his mother, all the fucked up people who went to his university that married each other. You wondered how well they turned out. 

“Her and Yunho, made for each other. Their kids were a blessing, and they started younger than we did. Then kept fucking going.”

It made you laugh a little, and as the sound hit his ears, he finally cracked a small smile. Glancing at you, he muttered, “I did love her, I loved everything about her. But our relationship, me in her life, it was for a purpose, y’know? And when it was fulfilled, after I’d done what I was… destined to do or whatever, her life got a lot better. She got better. Everything got better, actually.”

“You were all too young for all of that shit.” It’s all you could say. All you could muster up seeing Wooyoung’s life twenty years ago pass through his eyes, listening to him describe it like it happened yesterday. 

“I know,” he heaved a sigh, laying back on his elbows. “But then I met you and I thought it was my turn to be happy. To feel like I had it all figured out.”

“Then I got pregnant.”

He laughed, a rich, light sound. “Then you got pregnant.” He sat in silence for a moment, glancing at your son on the couch, before he bit his lip in contemplation. “I have something else to tell you. Since we’re being honest.”

Your heart dropped, skin feeling icy-hot. Nervously glancing at him, your voice comes out shaky as you ask, “What?”

“We’re still married.” 

You blinked. “No we’re not.”

“Yes we are.”

Fingers meeting the floor on either side of you, you shook your head, warning, “Wooyoung.”

“That’s why the divorce process was so easy,” he isn’t looking at you, his eyes stay on Kyungmin, unblinking. “Because I never filed for it.”

“I filed for it,” you counter.

“With my lawyer,” his eyes meet yours. “Who I paid generously not to file.”

“What? I–”

The walls felt like they were closing in. He continued, “I thought it was hasty. That you would regret it, or that you didn’t mean it, or that I’d fix it, I don’t know. I couldn’t stomach the idea of us not being together, so I faked it.”

“You pay me child-support, Wooyoung.”

“I know,” he shrugs, lips thin. “I just… I don’t know. I didn’t think we’d stay apart forever.”

You stare at him for a moment, a thunderstorm brewing beneath your skin. “Get out.”

His head snaps to the side, eyes wide, “What?”

“Get out,” you repeat, firmer. “Get the fuck out.”

“Wait– Let me explain, I–”

“Jung Wooyoung get the fuck out of my house.”

“I love you,” he argues, voice strained, turning his entire body to face you as you start standing up. “With my entire heart and soul. I can’t live without you any longer, without him, please talk to me– please talk this out, please–”

“I’m filing first thing tomorrow morning,” you bite, voice so fucking harsh and venemous you can’t believe it came from your lips. “With a different lawyer, my own fucking lawyer. You better hope and pray that I’m not fucking pregnant.”

“You hesitate again,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing on his most trusted advisor, you. The one voice in the empire who dared speak against him, the one he could never bear to silence. The one who stood by him since he was a mere farm boy ready to die for his land that was ravaged by a king who cared for none of it. “Tell me, do you mistake caution for wisdom? Or are you simply too afraid to admit that I am right?”

Your lips part, but Wooyoung is already rising, every movement deliberate. He steps down from the dais, closing the distance until there is barely a breath of space between you. Silently, the council filters out of the room, knowing they would be killed if they dared wait a moment longer.

“War is not madness,” Wooyoung continues, his voice low and coaxing, almost tender. “It is inevitable. It is the fire that will burn away the rot choking this world. And I—” his gaze softens “—I want you to be at my side when the flames begin.”

You frown. “But Your Highness, this war is not necessary. We have a strong, faithful alliance. A war would break trust.”

The emperor’s eyes flash dangerously at your words, a muscle twitching in his jaw. In an instant, the tender look vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. “Trust breeds complacency, YN. Our strength has made us soft, forgetful of what it takes to maintain power.” He turns to pace, each step measured and purposeful. “Those alliances are chains, binding us to the whims of lesser men. War will remind everyone why they fear our name. Why they need us.”

Wooyoung stops abruptly, whirling to face you again. His gaze rakes over you, possessive and assessing. “You question me because you lack vision. But I see the future clearly—an empire forged in blood and fire, with me as its unchallenged master. And you…” his voice drops to a purr. “You will stand beside me as we reshape the world. Your mind, your counsel, they are tools I cannot afford to lose.” His long, slender fingers brush along your jawline with deceptive gentleness. “Don’t fight it, YN. Embrace your place at my side.”

Your hands curl into your heavy robes. “A war waged in hunger will not unite the empire—it will break it. How many lives must burn to satisfy inevitability?” you ask quietly. “The empire is prosperous.”

Wooyoung’s laughter echoes through the chamber, a sound both familiar and terrifyingly foreign now. One hand reaches up to cup your cheek, forcing your attention back to him. “Prosperity,” he scoffs, pulling away just as quickly, turning to the window where blood red light spills over distant mountains from the setting sun. “Prosperity is an illusion, painted by those who profit. If the countries are ours, we will not have to rely on other men.”

His words grow smoother, laced with venom as he whispers, “But tell me, advisor—you’ve always had such faith in the kindness of men. What makes you believe the other kingdoms’ alliances aren't merely a shield behind which they plot betrayal? They wait, watching.”

“Your Highness,” you swallow hard, trying to find the right words. “I know there are those who would seek to undermine you. But war breeds nothing but more enemies. If we take over their kingdom, they will hold more resentment. Keeping away from war will protect you in the long run.”

Your voice trails off as you see the hardening glint in his eyes, and you step closer, reaching out hesitantly. “Wooyoung, please. Remember why you fought in the first place. To make things better, not to destroy what’s left.” Your touch barely grazes his arm before he jerks away, as though burned. His jaw clenches tight, as if he is a caged beast sensing weakness. For a moment, raw fury flashes beneath the mast. But then, just as swiftly, it vanishes, replaced by something colder than ice.

“Why did I fight?” he repeats softly, stepping back into the shadows cast by towering tapestries. “For power? No. For justice? Not anymore.” His fingers tighten around empty air. “And certainly not for some hollow ideal of ‘better’.”

He turns sharply, face half-hidden in darkness. “You talk too much about the past, YN. Too much about remembering who I once was. But people change.”

And somehow, that hurts more than anything else. “I…” your voice trails off. “Then I believe my time working with you is over, Wooyoung. I cannot, in good conscience, sit idly by.”

Silence falls thick and heavy. Then, his entire body tenses. Not in anger, but in something darker, more calculated. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face, teeth glinting in the dim light like knives ready to strike. “Oh, no,” he hums, circling slowly, arms spread wide as if welcoming you to a trap. “That can’t be true, can it? After everything we’ve built together? All the secrets shared under moonlight? All the whispers exchanged late into the night?” His steps stop inches from you, breath warm against your skin. “You wouldn’t leave me alone now, would you,

sweetheart?”

You shudder at his closeness, at the promise in his words. “Those were different times, before the weight of the crown changed you. This path you’re choosing, it leads to ruin. For yourself, for the empire,” you manage to say, voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts. “Please Wooyoung. I don’t want to abandon our dream, but…but if I must, then I will.”

His expression shifts subtly, pupils dilating. For a heartbeat, there’s a flash of something vulnerable again, something human buried deep beneath layers of manipulation and cruelty. Then it’s gone before you can blink, swallowed whole by whatever monster has taken root inside of him.

“I’m not asking for permission,” he growls, grabbing your wrist with bruising force. “You’re mine, whether you realise it or not. And I don’t let go of what belongs to me. Not ever.” His grip tightens painfully, knuckles whitening against your skin.

You gasp in shock at his sudden roughness. “Wooyoung! You’re hurting me!” you try to pull away, but his grip is like iron. “Please, you have to listen to reason! This isn’t you—the man I fell in love with would never—” You break off your words, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth. In that moment, seeing the cold, possessive look in his eyes, you’re truly terrified of how far he’s fallen from the man he used to be.

Wooyoung doesn’t say anything at first. His thumb presses cruelly into the pulse point of your wrist, feeling the frantic beat of your lifeblood. The action sends painful pressure up your arm, but he doesn’t release you, instead savouring the way your flesh will bruise beneath his grasp. “That man,” he says flatly, dragging you closer until your bodies press flush against each other. “That man died years ago. Just like everyone else who thought they knew me. Don’t pretend you loved anything real.” His other hand lifts to trace your cheekbone, fingertips trailing across your skin.

You shake your head frantically, fresh tears springing to your eyes at his cruel words. “No, that’s not true. I loved you, the real you. The kind, compassionate man who wanted to help people!” You summon your courage and meet his gaze defiantly. “You may have changed, but I haven’t. I still care about you, even now. Even like this.”

A harsh laugh escapes Wooyoung, devoid of warmth or amusement. His fingers dig deeper into your skin, scraping painfully against your skin. “There’s nothing good left,” he sneers, leaning in to hiss into your ear. “Only the strong survive, and I’ve become stronger than anyone could imagine. Stronger than you ever believed possible.”

His hand releases your wrist abruptly, sending you stumbling back a step. As you catch your balance, he crowds you once more. “You should be grateful,” he continues, voice low and menacing. “Grateful that I allow you to serve me still, that I permit you to share my bed. You’re nothing without me, YN. Nothing at all.”

You stagger back until you hit the wall, trapped between cold stone and his seething presence as you stare up at him in despair. “I won’t be your prisoner,” you whisper hoarsely, shaking your head. “I won’t let you twist me into someone I’m not. If serving you means losing myself, then I chose to leave.”

With a burst of desperate strength, you shove past him, ignoring the way he reaches for you. You stumble for the door to your chambers in desperation, for a reprieve of the nightmare version of the man you once loved. But you don’t get far. Wooyoung’s hand slams against the doorframe mere inches from your fleeing form, blocking your escape. The wood splinters beneath his grip, shards raining down onto the marble floor. “Leave?” he echoes, incredulity dripping from his tone. “You think you can just walk away after everything we’ve shared? After all I’ve given you?”

His gaze rakes over your trembling figure, drinking in the sight of your unshed tears, your fear, your defiance. A twisted smile curls his lips. “No, my dear advisor. You belong to me. Body and soul.” With a vicious tug, he drags you down to your room. “You won’t see the light of day for as long as you continue these treacherous thoughts, YN. You’re mine.”

The heavy wooden doors slam shut behind you as Wooyoung throws you into your chambers, the rooms almost as opulent as his, but like a gilded cage now. The faint glow of candles scattered throughout casts eerie shadows on the walls, making the furnishings seem sinister and foreboding.

Wooyoung hauls you across the room, your feet scrambling uselessly against the plush carpet as you struggle to stay upright. “Wooyoung, please,” you sob as he shoves you down into the armchair, “Youngah. Please…don’t do this to me. Don’t keep me here. If you love me—if you ever loved me, let me go.”

Wooyoung’s breath hitches, just for a fraction of a second—an imperceptible crack in the armour he’s built around himself. “You…you still call me that. After all these years. After everything I’ve done.” He leans down, capturing you between his arms. “Do you know what that meant to me? Before the crown, before the rebellion, before…”

His gaze snaps back to you, sharp and hungry once more. “You think you can toy with me like this? Play on the past to soften my resolve?” He leans in close until his breath ghosts over your lips. Any other day in the past, this would have made you exhilarated. But now, you just recoil, pressing back against the chair, trying to put as much distance between you as possible.

“Wooyoung, please. I’m scared, okay. Scared of what you will do. You’re not thinking clearly, not acting like the man I once knew. This obsession with power, conquest…it’s destroying you, destroying us.” Your voice cracks on the last word, the weight of your desperation and sorrow threatening to consume you. “I love you, Wooyoung. Please don’t take that away from me.”

Tentatively, you place a hand on his shoulder in a futile attempt to calm him. Although his

muscles tense, he remains still, frozen by the sheer audacity of your words, the raw emotion

pouring from your voice. For a long, aching moment, he simply stares at you, his expression an impenetrable mask. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders begin to tremble. At first, you think it’s with rage, but as the seconds tick by, you realise he’s laughing. A silent, mirthless laugh that shakes his entire frame.

“Love me?” he finally manages, voice rough with disuse. “You dare speak of love when I am drowning in blood and betrayal?”

You let out a soft breath. “I…I don’t know all of what you’ve seen, what you’ve lost,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “You’ve saved me from those realities. But I’ve seen the man you used to be. The one who cared, fought for others.” Your hands tremble as you grip his arm tightly. “I want to keep fighting for you, Wooyoung.”

His laughter dies as suddenly as it began, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence. For a long moment, he remains utterly still, hardly seeming to breathe. Then, with a movement so swift it’s nearly a blur, he grabs your wrists and throws them off himself. “You foolish girl,” he hisses, face inches from yours. “Still clinging to hope, to faith in a man who ceased to exist long ago. I am not the farm boy you once knew. I am the emperor, and I will do whatever it takes to maintain my power.”

And yet, even as he speaks, you feel a tremor run through him, a second of hesitation. His eyes search yours, dark and fathomless, as if seeking something long lost. And his gaze remains, even as he backs away from you.

“You…you will stay here until you see reason. That war is inevitable,” he mutters soullessly, as if convincing himself. “Do not defy me again.”

With that, he slams the door shut behind him, leaving you in your room alone. You don’t know what will happen, and you don’t know when you will see him again. But a spark of hope ignites in you.

You had seen it. Even for just a moment, he faltered, and you were returned to that moment ten years ago, when he looked at you with love and life in his eyes, and promised he would make the then-kingdom a better land to live in. And as you remember, you know that he was right.