a ⋆ 19 ⋆ she/her ⋆ istj ⋆ engene/moa/allyz ⋆ sunghoon + yeonjun + leo biased ⋆ currently playing: moonstruck
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⸝⸝ only writing for enha, txt and ald1 ⸝⸝ requests: open! do give me time to write as this is just my side hustle ⸝⸝ i will only write if the scenario fits their personality ⸝⸝ no male reader ⸝⸝ only SFW ⸝⸝ some fics might be suggestive, but i will not write smut.
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well, you lied. you said you were fine. but now you're terrified, 'cause you don't want to die. then you start to cry, you wish that you could take it all back.
all in one night, she just went to heaven and back.
partyhost!heeseung x partygirl!reader
length: 8.1k
warnings: angst, college au, drug use, drug overdose, heavy drinking, emotionally unstable reader, depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, themes of addiction, family trauma, money problems, academic failure, one (1) inebriated kiss
synopsis: Your self-control wasn't lost in a single night. It took weeks to chip away. What started as a bad week turned into things slipping so far beyond you that gaining them back began to feel hopeless. You needed something else. Something to help you forget the way things were crumbling down around you.
And as much as Heeseung wanted to say something, he didn't. If you wanted to fuck yourself up, that was your choice. No amount of reasoning on his end was going to change that.
At least he’d tried. He could say that much. So why did he still feel like this was his responsibility?
( 音楽 ) :: heaven and back, chase atlantic ☆ colors, halsey ☆ swim, BTS ☆ fleeting touch, sarah kinsley ☆ call me back, chase atlantic ☆ headlights, in color :: ₊ ⊹
⤷ chuu's💌── .✦ hiuihiuuuu long time no see. let's not talk about heeseung's departure bc i'll get upset LMAOAO. i'm still writing about him idc enha is 7 forever! anyways, FINALLY unlocked gradient text (coding is scary how do y'all do this). idk what this story is. i had a bad week so i had to cope by imagining myself getting addicted to drugs idk guys i think we're all in psychosis post-heeseung news so let's just take care of each other and ourselves (writing abt poor coping mechanisms instead of engaging in them ;P) enjoy!
· · ─ ·✶·
Self-control wasn’t something that could be lost in a single night. At least, yours wasn’t.
Yours took weeks to chip away at. A string of bad luck had left you reeling—a layoff at work, your roommate up and leaving without so much as a note, or next month’s rent. Late bills, a threat of eviction if you couldn’t pull things together.
At first, it felt distant. Fixable, if you worked hard enough.
A bad week. A rough patch. You told yourself you’d catch up over the weekend, that you just needed one good night’s sleep, one clear head. But the weekends began to blur into endless incomplete to-do lists, and the version of you that used to plan ahead began to feel like a stranger you couldn’t quite conjure anymore.
“This is the last time we help you out, y/n,” Your mom had said after you called for help with the 2-people’s-worth of rent that you were in no place to pay. “You’re 22 years old; it’s embarrassing to still be living off your parents’ money.”
She’d left no room for discussion. You’re on your own now. Your face burned just remembering it. Humiliated, helpless, unable to focus on the daily obligations you’d never struggled with before. Every late assignment, every email from your professors, every rejection letter from jobs you should’ve had no problem getting made the feeling worse.
You started to ignore your grades. Notifications piled up until you stopped checking them. Even showing up to class felt pointless, like a mountain you were already too far fallen to climb back up.
You had friends, still. A few partners from class projects that you kept up with. There was the guy you’d been hooking up with on and off since the start of the semester, Sunghoon. But his texts had been coming in fewer and shorter with every week you spent drowning in endless overdue responsibilities. He offered no more of an escape than what you could offer yourself.
You needed something else. Something to help you forget the way things were crumbling down around you. There was a hole in the party scene that your roommate had left behind, which her friends were all too eager to have you fill. At first, you’d forced yourself to go, feeling awkward trying to fill the shoes of someone you weren’t.
You coached yourself through it. Smile here. Laugh now. If someone offered you something, you took it. Another drink. Another house. A forty-minute walk home at 2am. Anything was better than lying awake at night running down the list of ways in which you were failing.
It got easier. You started craving weekends. The release. The freedom. A room full of strangers who expected nothing of you but to let go and have fun.
Perhaps that was the real mistake.
Trying to lose yourself in a crowd you didn’t belong to.
· · ─ ·✶·
Stars danced colorfully at the edges of your vision, going from pink, to blue, to gold, in tandem with the lights. Your body felt airy, your head thick and slow. Another bad day. Another bad week. That was all your life seemed to be now. Bad days and blurry nights, worth nothing but the bliss of a crowd you could lose yourself in to forget the failings of every other aspect of your life.
The party roared loud around you, but you hardly noticed anything outside the immediate circle you were standing in. Your head was swimming already. The edges of your vision softened, like staring through murky water, and with it the anxiety that had kept you awake all last night.
The scene wasn’t new. But the pills were.
It had started two weeks before, when the girl next to you had noticed you nodding off in the middle of class.
“Have you ever tried one?” She asked as you were packing your things, a tiny orange pill held out in the palm of her hand. “Saves my ass during midterms. The only way I can get everything done, you know?”
Finding someone in your social circle to lend you some of their prescription was no problem. One to help you catch up on assignments, you’d told yourself. One so you could get a few extra job applications in. Your friend had seen the repurposed contacts case open on your desk one night, the three orange tablets inside.
“You like those? You’re gonna love this.”
It kicked in faster than you thought it would. It wasn’t Adderall, and maybe you should’ve cared to ask before taking it, but you needed to stop thinking. Mission accomplished. All thoughts of the failed exam you’d received earlier were replaced by the throat-tightening churn of your vision swaying. The lights seemed to throw off shower sparks with each shifting color, burning more than they usually did.
You blinked, trying to adjust, but you couldn’t. Your stomach dipped. You swallowed it down. You were fine. You were fine.
“Always takes a second to get good,” Your friend said, grinning. “Feeling alright?”
“Mmm,” You nodded, taking a breath.
Stop thinking. Stop thinking. You inhaled again, and it was like something melted out of you. Everything slowed. The pounding your head subsided, the lights drifted easier across your eyes. You breathed out.
For the first time all day, things quieted. Your grades didn’t matter. Making rent on time wasn’t such a big deal. You’d figure it out, you always did.
Someone squeezed through the crowd, balancing a collection of spilling drinks in their arms. You smelled tequila. One appeared in front of you and you took it. Why shouldn’t you? Everything else was out of your control, but this? This was your choice. You deserved to feel good for once, didn’t you?
That night was the first time you blacked out. It wasn’t the last.
· · ─ ·✶·
Heeseung had never noticed you on campus. He hardly went on campus.
He was smart, despite his reputation. He knew exactly how little effort he could get away with; how few chapters he needed to pass an exam, how many classes to keep his attendance just high enough.
Graduation rates, fellowships, world-class research labs, none of that stuff had mattered to him when he’d applied to school. What Heeseung really cared about were parties.
He loved them. Not in the sloppy, desperate way some people needed them—as if trying to drown everything else out with loud music and cheap beers.
He liked the control. Bending a night around his mood and watching as everyone else bent with it. He had a knack for atmosphere, for music, for figuring out which drinks people liked for which events, and which faces needed to show for the right crowd to follow after. It was a kind of rhythm, and he was good at keeping it going.
People thought he hosted because he was a big partier himself. And he was, sometimes. But mostly he watched. Managed. Made sure no one was mixing the wrong things or pushing past their limit. He was good with faces, less with names, but people knew they were in good hands when they were with him. You didn’t need an invite; you just had to know someone he knew. And once you were in, you were in.
It was a strange reputation to have—king of every party and the one everyone went to when things went wrong—but the truth was that he knew the scene well. Well enough to know how dangerous it could get.
Which was why you’d caught his attention in the first place.
· · ─ ·✶·
It wasn’t right away.
At first, you were just another face in the crowd. Another body moving through his space, one he could count on to show up regardless of if your group changed. The first few weeks you were always with the same group of girls who’d frequented his place before. Then, you started showing up even when they didn’t.
Same easy smile, same willingness to partake in whatever was happening around you. You blended in well—better than most. Didn’t cause problems, didn’t cling, didn’t complain about the music or the drinks. The kind of person Heeseung never had to think twice about letting in.
Reliable, in a way.
If he noticed anything, it was that.
If he’d looked closer, he might’ve noticed the shift. Slow and subtle, like the tide receding from the shore—gone before you knew it. Your eyes got glassier each night you showed up. Your laugh louder yet less convincing. But that wasn’t his problem. He never involved himself unless things got out of control, and with you, he was sure he had nothing to worry about.
That was until he saw the group you were with.
He spotted you across the living room sitting on the couch, flanked on either side by a pair of familiar faces. Jake on your left, Jay your right. His brow furrowed. They weren’t friends. They were hardly acquaintances. Some of Sunghoon’s friends that Heeseung never saw outside of his parties, but it was his job to know what kind of people were in his house, and he knew their type. Heavy-handed, always on kind of stuff that moved too aggressively through campus. Big sharers. Overly eager with first timers like you.
New crowd, he thought to himself, watching the way you finished drinks one after the other, thrusting your cup out each time like you were trying to prove something. He glanced back at the joint he was rolling long enough to lick the paper and seal it before his eyes drifted back to you—the sharp burst of laughter, the loose movement of your body.
Jay reached into his jacket and pulled a small Ziplock bag out, the plastic flashing orange as he opened it.
Not my problem, he reminded himself, fingers closing around the end of his joint.
Until he saw you hesitate.
It was small. So small, no one else would’ve caught it. Jay held the bag out to you, and for just a second, your hand hovered. Your expression flickered. Doubt. Uncertainty.
You looked tired. It was plain to see now that he was really looking. There was a weariness in your eyes, a lack of confidence that seemed to run deeper than the question held before you.
In an instant, the look vanished, replaced by an eagerness that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Heeseung’s jaw tightened as he watched you down the rest of your drink, hold out your hand, and toss back the little blue pill placed in the center of your palm.
Normally, he wouldn’t have cared. People did all sorts of things at his parties, and he did his best not to intervene unless absolutely necessary. It was why people trusted him enough to let loose. But this was different. The gloss in your eyes was different. The sag of your shoulders was different. He got to his feet.
“Here, take this,” Heeseung said, passing the joint to his friend. “You can spark it without me.”
“Someone in trouble?” The guy asked.
“Nah.” He stepped around the coffee table. “Just checking something.”
· · ─ ·✶·
Your weeks had begun to blend together.
Every Sunday, you would tell yourself that this would be the one you’d get back on track, and every Friday you’d be so beat down all you wanted was a dark room and plastic cup of something strong. That, and the orange bottle in your friend kept in her purse.
You never bought any of your own, but what did it matter? Every weekend was the same. Lights, music, empty bottles. A hand pressing something into yours and your head tipping back, euphoria washing down your throat with the acid burn of convenience store vodka.
The room would swim for a time, and you’d be sure you were dying, and then from utter darkness came a sense of absolute invincibility. The best nights were when you went dancing, where the lights were strobed and looking at your own hands was like watching someone else’s body moving in front of you.
Tonight, the girls you normally arrived with were late, having more fun at a different party than they’d anticipated. You didn’t care. You never showed up to Heeseung’s sober anyway.
Jake found you first.
He was sweet, funny, the kind of guy that made you feel at home after only a few minutes of conversation. He knew your group rolled most weekends and wanted to know if you had anything with you. “My friend’s got my stuff, and he won’t be here for a while longer.”
You apologized as you shook your head, but he didn’t seem to mind. Stuck with you anyways.
You ended up on the couch together, talking about plans for post-grad. You laughed when prompted, reacted when it seemed appropriate. But already, the conversation was wearing on you.
What were your graduation plans? You used to have a vague idea. Now it was a question if you’d even finish the term. Thankfully, Jay arrived shortly after.
“I brought extra,” He offered, holding up his bag.
You hesitated. Was this your normal now? With your friends, it was easy to tell yourself that the weekend benders, the pills, it was all their world. Something you slipped in and out of when you needed it bad enough. But you were alone now, with no one but yourself to blame if things went too far.
You thought about the pile of work waiting for you at home. The morning shift at a restaurant in the next town over. 6:00am open. 30-minute commute. 4 new notices from your professors. 5 big, fat zeroes staining the front page of your grade portal.
Then you thought about the bliss of a weekend like this one. The diamond-edge of a set of bright lights. The slow-motion weightlessness of your body beneath them. It didn’t take much. 6 drinks. 3 good songs. 1 blue pill.
“Let’s do it,” You said finally, holding your hand out.
They cheered, Jake pressing closer from behind as you swallowed.
“Atta girl.” Jay held his between his teeth as he closed his bag. “You know Sunghoon, right?”
You laughed into your cup. “Sure do.”
“I think he’s mentioned you before. Here.”
You took a third pill and turned, laughing as Jake opened his mouth for you. He was cute, you thought, as you placed it on his tongue—bright blue on pink. If you’d already been high, you might have tried. On a night like this, it would’ve been easy. The drugs were nice like that—everything felt possible. One more drink. One more dance. As easy as breathing.
A rush swept through you, and you straightened, letting out a breath. Your cup was empty, so you set out to searching for a different one. You had the buzz; you wanted the blur too. Jake offered his. You smiled over the rim, satisfied by the way he held your gaze, brow raising slightly. Time passed and you felt better. Good.
You didn’t notice him approach.
“Hey.”
You looked up, eyes taking a second to register the familiar dark eyes, darker hair.
You’d never talked, for all the nights you’d spent on his couch. He was striking up close—tall, handsome. He carried himself well, and spoke with a strong, firm voice. Easy-going, but still in charge.
“No,” Heeseung said. “Just checking in. You good?”
It took you a moment to realize he was talking to you. Your eyes widened, lashes fanning out around the glassy sheen of your pupils. “Me? I’m fine.” You said, although the words came out wrong. Airy and smushed together.
“Yeah? Come here,” He said.
“I’m in trouble,” You giggled, getting to your feet. The room swung, a wash of color that shimmered across your vision. It wasn’t until you felt Heeseung’s hand on your arm that you realized you’d stumbled.
“I’m drunk,” You laughed, grabbing him to steady yourself.
“I’m sure. Did you take something, too?”
The simplicity of the question made you giggle again. Everything was funny. Far away. “Maybe,” You laughed, lifting Jake’s cup to your lips again.
He put two fingers to your wrist, pushing your hand back down. “What was it?”
You made a face, shrugging him off. “Are you always so intense? It’s your party, you know. You should enjoy it.”
“I am. But not so much if someone ends up passed out on my couch.”
Jay frowned from behind you. “We got her, bro. It’s fine.”
You gazed up at Heeseung from behind your cup, eyes sparkling. “Worried about me?”
“Just making sure you don’t overdo it.”
You huffed out a laugh. Light. Hollow. Your words were slurring now, bumping into each other as you spoke. “You’re kinda cute when you’re bossy.” The ground swayed beneath your feet; you grabbed onto his shirt as you righted your balance once more. “My boyfriend’s gonna be real mad if he sees you talking to me.”
Heeseung’s chest tightened. He saw the look Jay gave Jake behind you. You didn’t have a boyfriend. They knew that as well as he did. You had Sunghoon, who was upstairs in the hallway with his hands up some other girl’s shirt. But you didn’t know that; you didn’t even realize that you’d misspoke.
“Maybe he should be down here looking after you, then,” He said.
Maybe he’d jumped the gun. You seemed fine enough. High, for sure. Drunk, too. But you were smiling, and it wasn’t really his business what you did as long as you didn’t take things too far.
He looked you over one last time. “Just… take it easy, okay? You really shouldn’t drink so much if you’re rolling. It’s dangerous.”
There was a commotion by the door and one of your friends came pushing through the crowd. “Y/n! Thank god, I found you—everyone else is waiting outside. That club downtown is doing free entry for girls past 11. Wanna go dancing?”
You turned back to Heeseung, grinning up at him. “I’m going dancing.”
“Great,” He said, taking a step back. Not my problem. “Be careful out there.”
You gave his shirt a light tug, eyes sparkling. “Thanks, Heeseung. See you later.”
He watched you go, throwing your jacket on haphazardly as you stumbled out after your equally-plastered friends. Not my problem. He watched the door swing closed behind you, caught a last echo of your laugh in the second between songs. And the whole time he thought, Not my problem. Not my problem.
· · ─ ·✶·
As much as Heeseung might’ve wanted to say something after that, he didn’t. Not yet. There was nothing to say. So you popped pills and drank too much. So did half the people under his roof. He had no way of proving that what you were doing was different from them. That he could tell it wasn’t about the drugs, but something else you refused to name.
He didn’t say anything, but he watched you. He watched and learned.
He learned to tell your real smiles from your fake ones. The musical quality of a laugh you meant, and the edge of one you didn’t; brittle, like glass cracking under too much pressure. You never came sober. You didn’t like talking about yourself. You took things harder than you wanted people to see.
And every time he saw you, the drugs had crept a little further into the picture. Drinks. Pills from your friends. The occasional line at someone else’s place.
It was obvious that you were trying to escape something. There was a look in your eye, like you were chasing a feeling you could never quite grasp, not to mention the number of red flags—you drank too fast, accepted things too eagerly, let people pull you into other rooms without asking questions.
Heeseung didn’t stop you. Even though he knew the signs. Even though he knew how painful the consequences could be.
He caught you one night in the hallway upstairs. The music was quieter, the lights darker. He hadn’t even realized it was you until you bumped into him. When you looked up, your eyes had that technicolor sheen to them. The same starry, wide-eyed expression you’d had the first time he’d talked to you.
“Heeseung,” You breathed, lips softening into something like a smile. “Hey.”
“Hey. You doing alright?”
You nodded. “I’m fine.” There was a ghost of white on the edge of your noose. Left over from the bump you’d just taken in the other room. “You always do that,” You chuckled.
“Do what?”
“Look after me. You don’t have to, you know. It’s very chivalrous. But you don’t have to.”
He smiled. “Nah, that’s why I’m here.” There was a frenzy to your gaze that he didn’t like. “I can get you something,” He tried. “You want some water?”
“How romantic,” You teased.
“I’m serious.”
“I’m having fun.”
“You’re high,” He said.
You shrugged as you leaned against the wall, a rebellious smile on your face. “Same thing.” Your hand flashed and he saw the capsule in your palm. Different color this time. His reaction was immediate.
“No.”
You looked amused. “What did I say? Bossy.”
“You just did a bump, y/n.”
“A line, actually. And, so what?”
“So give it a minute.”
“Heeseung.” You gave him that look. The are you serious? look that people sometimes gave when he tried to slow them down. The look that said he was a host and should act like it—getting in the way of people’s fun was counterintuitive. But he was being a good host. The feeling in his gut told him so.
He let out a tense breath as you took the pill anyways. Deliberate. Like you were trying to test him. Sober, you’d have realized how upset her was—but the look on his face just made you laugh. “You’re acting like I’m dying.”
He crossed his arms. “Well you’re acting like you kind of want to,” He shot back.
Something flickered across your face at that. The ghost of a frown. “Relax,” You said, pushing off the wall. Your head swayed, eyes focusing and unfocusing. “I’m fine, Heeseung.”
You made to give him a playful shove, but it was too quick of a movement. You stumbled forward, nearly landing against his chest before getting a handle on your feet. You blinked. Looked up at him. “You’re tall,” You mumbled.
“Yeah.” His tone was cold. “And you’re fine, right?”
Your face scrunched, hand going to the side of your head. It was pounding. With a sigh, you reached for the cup in his hand, pulling it out of his grasp.
“Y/n—” He started, voice hard.
“Relax,” You insisted. “For water. C’mon.”
The bathroom was bright but quiet, like stepping into another world entirely. Heeseung shut the door behind him as you dumped the contents of his cup into the sink and filled it with water. You felt him watching as you drained it, sensed him ease off a little as you finished a second.
The overhead bathed everything in a tangerine light, glossing the wooden floor beneath your feet. With the door shut everything felt infinitely closer, easier to focus on. Heeseung took up more space than you realized, standing opposite you against the wall. He was tall, it was true, but it was something else, too. A grounding presence that seemed to fill the room as he stood. Your vision spun in a wide arc, with him at the center.
“You know,” You said, turning to lean back against the edge of the sink, “I always thought you didn’t like me.”
That surprised him. “Why?”
“You’re always watching me. Like I’m gonna do something stupid. Or ruin your night.”
“That’s not—” How could he explain it? That he saw through the façade you had built, knew that you were losing yourself on purpose. Even standing there, watching as your lashes fluttered against the intense red of your cheeks, what right did he have to say it to you?
You barreled straight over him, unaware that he’d begun speaking. “I’m not trouble. I’m not—I don’t want you to think I’m some mess you’re going to have to clean up. It’s not… it’s not like that,” You mumbled, looking at him.
“I don’t think that.”
Your laugh came out in a sharp burst, erratic. “You have a funny way of showing it.”
Heeseung gave you a look. “I’d question anyone stupid enough to mix stuff like you did. You know it’s dangerous.”
“I know.” You smiled down at your feet. “I realized you watch everyone like that. Like… it’s your job.” Your voice was lighter now, eyes traveling up to trace the wood trim that spanned the wall.
“I just want to make sure nothing gets out of control.”
You hummed. “It’s more than that. More than just making sure people don’t get into fights or fuck your house up. It’s like you have to make sure everyone is okay. Having fun. Being safe.” Your eyes met his. “Why is that?”
Heeseung swallowed. His throat had gone dry, his cup still dangling in your hand. He leaned back against the wall, ran a hand through his hair.
“My brother,” He said finally, clearing his throat. “My older brother OD’d when I was in high school. I—” He noticed his hand had begun to shake. Just barely. He curled his fingers closed as he looked back at you. “—I knew something was up and I didn’t say anything when I should have.”
You stared back at him, still fidgeting with the edge of his cup. “You think it was your fault—?”
“It was.” There was an edge in his voice, the same one you got when you’d spent too long forcing out your laughter. Brittle. Cracked. “I was the one who noticed something had changed. He was… different, after he left for school. It was obvious every time he came home. I knew something was going on. And I didn’t do anything about it.” He palmed the back of his neck. “So,” He cleared his throat again. “It was my fault. No other way to put it.”
He felt laid bare. It wasn’t a confession—he wasn’t even sure why he was telling you—but it felt like one. His skin prickled beneath your gaze, throat tight around the weight of something that was never talked about but always felt.
You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t know that,” You said quietly.
“It’s fine. Not many people do.”
Your expression wavered, eyes filling suddenly. Heeseung tensed.
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” You laughed, shaking your head. You tossed the cup into the sink and wiped at your eyes hastily. “I feel like an idiot. Moping around your house like this. You have real pain—actual pain—in your life, and I just…come here every weekend because I can’t handle a few stressful months.” You looked at him. “I’m failing my classes. Flunking out of the term, actually. Can’t make rent, can’t go to my parents for help. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. One rough patch and I put on this whole act, and everyone sees through me. Knows it’s bullshit. The drinking. The drugs. It’s just me feeling sorry for myself.”
You were rambling now. Words bubbling up before you could think them through. Angry. Ashamed. How insignificant your problems must seem to him. You could hardly stomach it.
“I can be so selfish,” You said. “And self-absorbed. Don’t make that face—it’s true. I can be such a bitch, and I haven’t even gone through anything.” You looked at him. Two perfect tears hung in your lash line, like stars. “And you—you help people. You make things better, and I just… hide. With alcohol,” You laughed. “And pills. I do it to feel better, but it just makes me feel so…” You bit your lip.
“Crazy?”
“Weak,” You whispered.
“You’re not weak, y/n,” Heeseung said, taking a half step forward. “Trust me. You’re coping because you know this isn’t you. And you’re angry because you want to fix things.” He hesitated. “I know what it looks like when someone stops caring. That’s not you.”
Your eyes kept drifting from him then snapping back, like you had to remind yourself to focus. You swayed gently, even leaned against the counter. “You should know it wasn’t your fault, then.”
He flinched. Took a step back.
“You know it was out of your control. Don’t you? You were just a kid.” You reached a hand out, pulling the rumpled edge of his collar straight.
“Still.” His voice wavered. “I could’ve stopped it.”
“It wasn’t your job to look out for that kind of thing.”
“No. But it is here.”
You looked up at him. “That’s why you care.”
“That’s why I care.”
You stared at him for a long moment. Then your hand slid up to the back of his neck. Before he could react, you leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn’t graceful. Your balance wobbled slightly, and your lips were clumsy against his, but it landed just the same. He inhaled sharply, frozen as you stepped into him. He could smell the liquor on your mouth. Feel the heat of your skin against his; your body fighting the mix of drugs coursing through you.
He pulled back. “This is a bad idea.”
Your brows lifted slightly. Confused. Hurt. “Why?”
“You’re not even close to sober.”
You swayed. “So?”
“So… it’s wrong. I don’t want you waking up tomorrow regretting this.”
You huffed out a laugh, eyes dropping back to his mouth. “I won’t.”
“Y/n…”
You kissed him again. This time he didn’t stop immediately. His hands came up to cup your cheeks. The kiss was deeper now—you leaned up on your tiptoes, hands sliding from his neck down his chest.
When he finally pulled away, his breathing had changed slightly.
“You’re making this very difficult,” He muttered.
You laughed. Warm. Musical. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
He went cold as you pulled away, taking your feverish heat with you. “Right. I’ll try and remember that.”
The moment passed as suddenly as it had come. You thanked him again as you swept out the door, swallowed up by the dark of the hallway. He stood there for a second, still smelling the trace of tequila and perfume you’d left behind.
He was breathless.
It didn’t count, he knew. You were high. Swept up by the emotion of finally getting to confide in someone. So out of it he had almost stopped you from going. And still, he was breathless.
You don’t need to worry about me, you’d said. Eyes flashing. Wide smile.
A second later, he pushed off the counter. “Fuck,” He muttered.
He didn’t believe you.
· · ─ ·✶·
Two weeks. Two weeks spent with your head down in the library, up late at your desk in your room.You were determined to get back on track: making up assignments, inquiring about whatever extra credit was still available, taking on extra shifts the second they were posted.
Your eyes burned. You could hardly stand by the end of the day, but things started turning for the better. Your grades inched up a point here, a point there. Things didn’t feel nearly so impossible by the second weekend that came and went without a drink, a pill, a party.
The following week you went to as many office hours as you could fit in your schedule. Tossed the contacts case of handouts from friends into the trash, letting the lid slam shut behind you. Your boss offered you a promotion—nothing special, a few hostess shifts on top of your waitressing. Wednesday night you had your first full night of sleep in months.
For the first time in a long time, you began to feel like the old you. Stressed. Over-worked. But hopeful.
You noticed the notification on Friday night. 11:34pm. An automated email that had come in that earlier.
Dear Y/N,
We hope this message finds you well. We are writing to inform you that, following a review of your academic record for the winter term, you no longer meet the eligibility requirements to maintain your National Merit scholarship.
As per the scholarship guidelines, recipients are required to maintain a minimum GPA of 3.5. According to our records, your current academic standing falls below this threshold. As a result, the scholarship amount of $10,000 will not be renewed for spring term.
We understand that academic challenges arise for a number of reasons. We encourage you to connect with your academic advisor to discuss strategies for future success. For further questions or concerns, please feel free to call or visit our offices during operating hours.
Warmly,
The Office of Student Financial Aid
You stared at your screen. For one blissful second, you didn’t understand. Your eyes passed over the words again—eligibility… minimum GPA… $10,000… spring term.
Then it finally hit. Your stomach lurched like you’d missed a step on the stairs. The room tilted. You got to your feet, knocking your mug off your desk in your hastiness. It fell with a crash, ceramic shards flying across the floor.
You didn’t notice. You weren’t breathing right. The words stood out cruelly stark, black on bright white. Unmistakable. You read it back, searching for the mistake. There wasn’t one. You read the number once more, $10,000, and felt your stomach drop all over again.
Your mind tried to kickstart back to functionality—to calculate, to solve it like something that could be worked through if you only thought hard enough. But it was pointless. Your thoughts had been scattered. Unsalvageable. Rent. Tuition. Living.
There was no fixing this. No making it work.
You panicked.
You scrambled for your phone, dialing your parents’ number with clumsy fingers. Then paused. Tried to take a breath. Your hands were shaking so hard you could hardly press the right keys. Your mom’s voice replayed in your mind—stern, absolute, disappointed.
You let out a sob. You didn’t even realize you were crying, backspacing the numbers on your screen. Who else was there? There was no arguing your roommate back into her part of lease. Your friends didn’t even know that you were struggling. You just needed to talk to someone. To be told it was going to be okay.
Sunghoon. You had Sunghoon. He wasn’t your boyfriend, but he’d always cared. Looked after you when you needed it. You dialed his number, pacing back and forth across the floor, your laptop screen glaring at you from your desk.
The call went to voicemail. You left a hasty message. Crying. I need to talk to you. Begging. It’s an emergency. Praying. Call me back when you get this.
The silence after cut straight through you. Your apartment seemed to press in—the walls way too close, your thoughts way too loud. You couldn’t stay there. Sunghoon would be out tonight. You knew exactly where he’d be. You grabbed your keys, the door slamming shut behind you.
As panicked as you were, you knew you couldn’t go to Heeseung’s like this. You needed to calm down, and there was only one thing that would work as quickly as you needed. You parked down the block, ducked into the convenience store on the corner, grabbed a drink from the cooler and paid, not bothering to wait for change. It was drained before you even made it to the end of the block.
Heeseung’s house loomed tall in the darkness, casting yellow light across the lawn. You took the steps two at a time, throwing the door open to a cacophony of sound and heat. The commotion threw you off, stopping you dead for a second in the entryway.
Someone you barely recognized called out to you. “Y/n? Hey! I was wondering if you’d come out tonight.”
You took a breath, stepping into the whirl of color and sound. You went up to the guy, the empty can in your hand sweating ice cold against your skin. “Hey, have you seen Sunghoon?”
“Here, we just filled these.” He passed a shot glass into your hand. “Heeseung let me hide a bottle in his fridge,” He snickered.
“I really need to talk to him—”
“C’mon, in a second,” He complained. “Cheers with us.”
You were too upset to argue. In a second, your head was tilted, swallowing the shot back. You hardly registered the taste of cheap bourbon; your throat had stopped burning weeks ago.
Your head swam. The drink you’d finished was hitting you all at once, the bourbon chasing close behind. A fresh wave of panicked despair ran through you. You needed to find Sunghoon. Needed to talk to him, to hear him say that everything would be alright. You hadn’t seen each other in weeks but that wouldn’t matter. He would be there for you. You knew it.
People surged all around you, bumping up against you, grabbing at your arm. This was what you got; frequenting these parties meant people recognized you. There were drinks pushed into your hand. You tried to give them back, took a polite sip if they were pushy, but your mind remained on the task at hand: black hair, broad shoulders. The only person who could offer you any ounce of comfort.
You caught sight of him from the hallway. People choked the doorway, clutching their friends’ hands as they pushed their way through the crowd. You shoved your way through, trying to ignore the pressure in your head. Your heart hammered in your chest, the can slipping out of your grasp and crushing noiselessly underfoot. A hole opened up. A path you could fit through to get to him.
You froze.
He was leaned forward, one arm to brace against the wall. You noticed the hand first—small, curled into the fabric at his shoulder. Then the pair of legs between his.
He bent his head down to hear her talk, her lips brushing his ear. They laughed. His hand went to hers, their fingers threading together.
You took a step back.
Something ugly twisted in your stomach. You don’t remember backing away, only the hole that had torn itself open in your chest. A fresh pain ripped through you, followed by a sudden need.
You didn’t think. You just pushed your way back through the crowd until you found him, bag open on a table, contents spilling out.
“Jay,” You said over the music, sliding into his space.
It was too easy. He offered you one tablet, a second of a different color. “Complimentary,” He grinned, handing you his drink. “I never take one without the other these days.”
You didn’t need anything to wash the pills down, but you took the cup anyway. “Is Jake bumping tonight?”
He gave you a look, a hesitant laugh. “Slow down, party girl.” He nodded at the stairs. “He’s upstairs. Give it a few minutes, though, yeah?”
You nodded. You didn’t want a few minutes. You wanted everything to stop. And you didn’t care what it took to get there.
· · ─ ·✶·
Heeseung noticed you right away.
You’d been gone for the past few weeks, and he’d started to think you were onto different things. Better things, he’d hoped. But there you were, standing in his living room like he hadn’t bared his soul to you two weeks ago.
He saw you walk right past your usual group of friends, searching someone out. You stopped next to Jay, exchanged a few words. He noticed you take something and swallow it back with an urgency that was new, even for you.
Then Jay motioned upstairs and you turned, and Heeseung saw it right away.
Something was wrong.
Your mascara was smudged around the edges. Your eyes were red.
You’d been crying.
He pushed off the wall, craning to keep his eyes on you. He thought he’d lost you for a second, weaving his way through the crowd, but he caught sight of the back of your head and reached out, grabbing your arm.
You spun, frowning, before realizing it was him. Something flickered in your eyes. Reluctance. Guilt.
“Sorry, I’m looking for someone—” You said, trying to take your hand back.
“What’s wrong?” Heeseung asked, tightening his grip. His face was serious. Direct.
Your mouth thinned. “Nothing.”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing happened. Didn’t I tell you? You don’t need to worry about me.” You looked angry. Your voice came out sharp. Mean. Your fist was closed by your side.
He scoffed. “You don’t expect me to believe that do you? I think I can tell when something’s up—”
“I think you’ve got a savior complex that’s gone a little too long unchecked,” You snapped, wrenching your arm free. “Move on already. I’m not your redemption story.”
“Fuck you, what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m fine.”
He crossed his arms, face burning. “Oh yeah? What did you take?”
“I don’t wanna do this with you right now.”
“No? I thought you said you wanted things to get better. Some attempt you’re making.”
Your brows twitched. Tears began to well up behind your eyes. “Fuck you,” You breathed out.
“You can talk to me.”
“I’m leaving.”
He grabbed you again. “Y/n, wait—”
You spun around, throwing his arm off. You were yelling now. “I’m fine, Heeseung, just leave me the fuck alone!”
Someone had noticed you two. There was a hand on Heeseung’s shoulder, a few girls stepping toward you. You glared at him from behind their concern, chest heaving. Before he could explain, you were spinning on your heel and disappearing into the crowd.
He pulled his shoulder out from the guy’s grasp, jaw clenching.
I’m not your redemption project.
He balled his fists. Fine, he thought. If you wanted to fuck yourself up, that was your choice. No amount of reasoning on his end was going to change that. He had opened up to you, and you seemed incapable of doing anything but shutting further down.At least he’d tried. He could say that much.
Someone said his name and he turned, pushing the thought of you as far out of his mind as he could.
· · ─ ·✶·
It was an hour later.
Heeseung was on the couch with his friends, finally able to relax after your interaction earlier. They were passing a joint back and forth, trying to stack their beer cans in a pyramid on the coffee table. Someone knocked into someone else. Everyone laughed as the cans came tumbling down.
“Heeseung! Heeseung!”
He looked up. Jake was leaning forward, using his elbows to make space in the wall of people standing between them. His eyes were wide. Face pale.
Heeseung stood up.
He didn’t bother asking. Didn’t have to. The cans clattered to the ground as he rushed around the table, following Jake as he began shoving back through the throng. They took the stairs two at a time, skipping over people’s legs and forgotten cups.
Somehow, Heeseung knew what was waiting for him before he got there.
You were in the bathroom, surrounded by a group of concerned looking girls. One of them was standing outside, took a sharp breath when she saw him.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, shoving his way through.
You were seated on the floor, one hand on your chest, the other braced against your knee, holding your head up. His heart sank.
“Y/n.”
You looked up. The motion hurt, a stabbing pain shooting behind your skull. Heeseung’s chest tightened. There was something wrong with your eyes. He crouched, pulling your hand away from your face.
“What did you take?” He asked.
You let out an erratic laugh, your breath skipping.
Heeseung looked back at Jake. “What was it?”
He shook his head, afraid. “I— we were doing lines. She said she wanted double. A rough day, I don’t know. I didn’t—I didn’t know she’d taken something earlier. She said she was fine—”
He looked back at you. You’d lied. To both of them. “Everybody out. Now. Jake, water.”
The group began to disperse. Your breath caught suddenly. Heeseung looked at you.
“I’m—” You started, hand flying to his chest, fingers closing around the fabric of his shirt. “Heeseung, I don’t—” You swallowed again, harder this time. “I don’t feel—”
Your voice broke. Panic flooded your face, sudden and raw. “I don’t feel good.”
Heeseung’s throat tightened. “Okay,” He said quickly, dropping to his knees, taking your hand. “Okay, hey—look at me.”
Your eyes darted around, unfocused, struggling to land on his. Your breath picked up, shallow and uneven. “I feel—” You chokeed out, fingers trembling against his. “I feel bad, Heeseung—my heart— I don’t—” It came out in a sob. “I’m scared.”
Something in his chest twisted violently. “I know. It’s okay. Just breathe. I want you to breathe with me—can you do that?”
You tried. Your brows twisted, lashes shining with tears. You took a stuttering breath in and grabbed his shoulders. It wasn’t working. You couldn’t control the spasm of your lungs. Your heart was beating so fast it felt like it was in your throat, blocking your airway.
“Heeseung.” Your voice sounded terrified.
“Okay,” He soothed. “You’re okay.”
“I’m sorry,” You cried, tears spilling over your lash line. Your head bobbed. “I’m sorry—for what I said. I shouldn’t—"
“Hey,” He cut in, bringing a hand to your face. “Don’t do that right now. Just stay here.”
“I’m…” You squeezed your eyes closed. The room was fading in and out, making it hard to keep them open. “I’m…”
“Stay with me,” He repeated, louder now, shaking you. “Y/n—look at me.”
You lifted your head, eyes struggling to land. Your face broke, whole body shaking now. The fingers at his shoulder tightened.“No, I can’t—” You sobbed. “I can’t see.”
Heeseung’s stomach dropped. “Yes you can,” He lied. His heart was pounding in his ears. “You’re okay. You’re right here.”
Your grip on him weakened, your head falling again. “I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have… wanna go back.” Your head fell into his chest now, hand slipping from his shoulder.
He caught you before you could slump forward, cursing. Jake arrived in the doorway, water spilling onto the floor. He made a sound when he saw you.
“Jake, my phone. Call someone. Now.”
“Is she—”
“NOW!”
People had gathered behind him, murmuring and gasping from the hallway. Heeseung didn’t hear them. He slid you down, resting your head in his lap. He could hardly think.
Everything blurred into one endless nightmare. He was dreaming. The thought repeated over and over in his head. I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, this isn’t real.
Pulse. Breath. Airway. The words crashed into each other, unintelligible, useless. He blinked back tears. Hot. Angry. Terrified. He could barely register your pulse, his hands were shaking so badly.
It was fast. Hammering forcefully against his fingers. He squeezed his eyes shut. It all came back. The day they found out. The look on his parents’ face. The sound of his brother’s laughter.
“Don’t do this,” He said, cracking. “I can’t— hey, y/n, look at me. Please don’t do this.”
There were footsteps pounding up the stairs. “Hey, there’s an ambulance down the street!” Someone shouted.
Movement exploded in the hall. People dispersed, scrambling to get downstairs and out the door. The party fractured instantly, emptying out into the darkness of the street. The commotion floated up but Heeseung hardly heard it. He moved out from under you, hardly breathing, trying to keep you awake.
“Breathe,” He murmured. To himself or to you, he didn’t know. It was all he could think of. The only thing he could muster. “Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.”
The sirens were louder. A flash of red streaked the wall from the room across the hall.
You made a sound.
Heeseung froze. His hands shook, hovering over you, waiting. Praying. Then he saw it—the flutter of your lashes, the crease in your brow. You groaned, so quiet he almost couldn’t hear it.
He let out a breath so deep it made him lightheaded. Tears flooded him then, relief spilling out over his cheeks. There were footsteps downstairs, someone shouting to go up. There was a hand on his shoulder, ushering him to his feet, pushing him out into the hall.
Heeseung felt weak. He sank against the wall, head in his hands, as people filed into the bathroom with their red bags and heavy boots. You were going to be okay. Something split open in him at that. Regret. And anger. Grief.
Regret because he was here for you. Because he hadn’t been there for his brother. Anger at the fact that it was so simple. One phone call. One person to notice something was wrong. Why couldn’t his brother have had that? Why couldn’t someone have been there?
Your voice rang in his mind. You know it was out of your control, don’t you? It wasn’t your job to look out for that kind of thing.
He looked up at the ceiling. Took a breath. Someone’s voice came from the bathroom, “There we go. Easy, easy. Don’t sit up. Just breathe.”
He wasn’t there before, but he was tonight. That was enough. For the first time, finally, that was enough.
warnings: mentions of past grief (deceased parents/sibling), academic stress/burnout, crying, emotional breakdown
synopsis: y/n runs her life on strict schedules and impossible expectations, leaving no time for rest — or people. but a late-night lockout leads her to warm, soft-hearted jake, the neighbour who always leaves his light on. his small acts of care teaches her how to slow down, turning into something that feels dangerously like home.
notes: part 2 of light in the dark because i didn’t know about the 4096 character limit…
-`✦´-
later, jake turns on some random show, volume on low.
she sits on the floor, back against the couch while he sits above her, knees bumping her shoulder sometimes.
neither of them moves away.
y/n doesn’t check the time.
not once.
not when the episode ends. not when the second starts. not when her phone buzzes with a calendar reminder that she ignores for the first time in her life.
at some point her head tips sideways, resting against the couch cushion. his sleeve brushes her hair. warm.
she doesn’t move.
he doesn’t either.
they stay like that. quiet. breathing. the lamp humming softly behind them. the world small. safe. contained. like nothing bad can reach here. like time doesn’t matter here. like she’s not late. like she’s not behind. like she’s not failing.
for the first time in years, she doesn’t feel like she’s running.
-`✦´-
when she finally stands to leave — it’s late.
later than she’s ever allowed herself to stay anywhere.
“sorry,” she says automatically.
jake frowns.
“…for what?”
right. that question again. she doesn’t know anymore.
“…nothing.”
he nods like that’s the correct answer and walks her to the door without thinking. like it’s habit already. like he always will.
-`✦´-
back in her apartment, y/n drops her keys onto the counter. she kicks off her shoes, walks three steps in and stops.
something feels different.
she looks around.
same boxes.
same cold air.
same silence.
but it doesn’t feel as empty tonight. like some warmth followed her back. like she carried a piece of that yellow lamp light with her.
ridiculous.
he’s just a neighbour. it was just fried rice. just nothing. just nothing at all.
then why does her chest feel so full it almost hurts?
-`✦´-
it starts small. so small she almost misses it. almost.
her phone vibrates during lecture.
once.
then again.
and again.
she doesn’t check. she never checks during class. discipline. focus. priorities.
but it keeps going.
buzz.
buzz.
buzz.
short. sharp. insistent.
not notifications.
calls.
her chest tightens automatically.
only two people call her repeatedly like that.
mum and dad.
she stares at the screen face-down on her desk like it personally offended her. her professor is still talking. the slides are changing. everyone is typing. normal. everything’s normal.
except her pulse is suddenly in her throat.
she flips it over.
six missed calls. three from mum. three from dad.
a message preview:
why aren’t you answering?
then another:
call back immediately.
and another:
are you studying or wasting time again?
y/n’s stomach drops.
wasting time.
funny.
she didn’t even do anything wrong last night.
she just ate fried rice, watched a show and sat.
sat.
god.
sat.
she tells herself to ignore it. finish the lecture first. be rational. but her brain isn’t absorbing anything anymore. the words slide off, the numbers become meaningless and all she can hear is that phrase looping-
wasting time.
wasting time.
wasting time.
like it’s an accusation.
like she committed a crime.
-`✦´-
y/n calls them back the second class ends.
she steps outside. sun too bright. air too hot.
the phone rings once. then it’s picked up immediately. of course.
“why didn’t you answer?” her mum snaps.
no hello. no how are you. straight to it.
“i was in lecture-”
“your brother used to answer.”
oh.
straight to that. always that. like a knife they keep sharpened.
“i can’t pick up during class.”
“so your class is more important than your family?”
that doesn’t even make sense. it never makes sense. but she still scrambles to explain.
always explaining.
always defending.
always wrong.
“i’m not saying that, i just-”
“how are your grades?”
“fine.”
“define fine.”
“…above average.”
“above average is useless. you know how competitive medicine is.”
she presses her nails into her palm. hard. ground yourself. don’t cry in public. don’t cry. don’t be weak.
“i know.”
“your supervisor called last week. said you looked tired.”
her heart stutters.
“…what?”
“you think looking sickly makes you look hardworking? it looks unprofessional.”
she didn’t know they even talked to her supervisor. of course they did. of course they would.
“you need to focus,” her mum continues, “no distractions. no nonsense. this is the most important year of your life.”
distractions.
the word lands heavy.
last night flashes in her head. fried rice. soft laughter. lamp light. his sleeve brushing her shoulder. her ignoring a reminder. her staying too late. her not studying. her-
“…yeah,” she whispers.
“we didn’t sacrifice everything for you to slack off,” her dad cuts in now. “don’t forget what happened last time.”
last time.
they never say his name.
just last time.
like he’s a cautionary tale. like he’s a failure case study. like he’s not her brother. like he’s not-
y/n swallows hard.
“i won’t.”
“good. work harder. call us tonight with your study plan.”
click.
line dead.
she stands there for a long time, phone still pressed to her ear. like maybe if she waits long enough they’ll call back and say something normal. something soft. something like are you eating well?
but they never do.
they never have.
-`✦´-
the day feels wrong after that.
everything’s louder. sharper. her thoughts speeding up. she walks faster than usual. almost running. like she’s late. like she’s always late.
when she reaches her apartment floor that evening, she’s exhausted. brain buzzing. heart heavy. she just wants to shower. study. sleep. reset. be efficient again. be good again. be enough again.
she steps out of the lift and there it is.
that thin strip of yellow light under his door. steady, warm and waiting. like always.
y/n’s feet slow automatically.
traitor.
she stares at it longer than she should and thinks about knocking. thinks about just sitting for a bit. thinks about just breathing. just-
no.
distraction.
wasting time.
focus.
be better.
she forces her eyes away. walks past. doesn’t knock. doesn’t even slow down this time. like pretending it’s not there will make it easier.
-`✦´-
inside her apartment, everything feels colder than usual.
she doesn’t change. doesn’t eat. just opens her laptop immediately. types. reads. highlights. forces herself through pages until the words stop looking like language.
midnight. 1am.
she keeps going.
punishment.
atonement.
proof.
if she studies enough maybe last night didn’t happen. maybe she didn’t waste time. maybe she’s still good.
her phone lights up once.
a message. unknown number. no, not unknown. just unsaved.
she knows it instantly anyway.
jake:
you alive?
simple. two words. casual. no pressure.
but y/n’s chest aches.
he’s probably just checking. probably noticed her door never opened. probably noticed she didn’t pass by.
of course he noticed.
he always notices.
she stares at the screen for a long time. thumb hovering. just reply. just say yeah. just normal. normal neighbours. nothing weird. but then-
her mum’s voice again.
focus.
no distractions.
don’t slack off.
she flips the phone face down. doesn’t reply. doesn’t even open it. like if she doesn’t read it, it doesn’t count. like if she ignores him first, it’ll hurt less later.
-`✦´-
down the hall, the light under his door stays on. steady. unchanging.
jake waits a bit longer than usual before turning off his tv. he checks his phone once. twice. no reply.
“…she’s probably asleep,” he mutters to himself. but he doesn’t sound convinced.
the lamp stays on anyway.
like always.
just in case.
back in her room, surrounded by unopened boxes and cold air, she studies until her eyes burn, trying to convince herself she doesn’t miss that light at all.
-`✦´-
it happens on a sunday.
of course it does.
sundays are supposed to be rest days. which means, to her parents, extra study days.
y/n wakes before her alarm.
6:02.
she opens her eyes like someone shook her awake, her heart already racing. she stares at the ceiling for a few seconds, disoriented. then everything rushes back in. assignments. clinic hours. midterms. calls from home. be better. be faster. don’t fall behind.
her brain never wakes up slowly. it just switches on. full brightness.
y/n sits up and reaches for her phone.
three messages from her mum, sent at 5:40am.
send me your study schedule for today.
call when you’re awake.
don’t waste your sunday.
her stomach sinks immediately.
don’t waste your sunday. like rest is a crime.
she sends a colour-coded screenshot of her planner. every hour blocked. no gaps. she even squeezes meals into ten-minute slots just so it looks tighter. more efficient. more impressive. proof. always proof.
the call comes instantly. speaker on.
she brushes her teeth while listening. multitasking. productive. good.
“why is there a blank space at 3pm?” her mum asks immediately.
she squints at the planner.
“…that’s the walking time between the hospital and home.”
“how long does that take?”
“twelve minutes.”
“then why block thirty?”
“…in case of traffic?”
“that’s inefficient.”
of course it is.
everything is inefficient. breathing is probably inefficient. sleeping is inefficient. existing is inefficient.
“you need to tighten your schedule,” her dad cuts in. “top students don’t waste time like this.”
y/n nods even though they can’t see her.
“i’ll adjust it.”
“good. and stop going out unnecessarily.”
her hand pauses mid-air.
“…what?”
“your aunt said she saw you downstairs late a few nights ago. wandering around.”
wandering. like she’s some delinquent. it was literally the hallway.
“…i just went out to buy food.”
“at midnight?”
silence.
she doesn’t mention jake. doesn’t say his name. but somehow-
somehow they still find it. like they always do.
“is there someone distracting you?”
y/n’s heart stutters.
shit.
“no.”
too fast.
too defensive.
mistake.
“don’t lie,” her mum snaps. “your focus has been off lately.”
off.
like she’s malfunctioning. like she’s a machine. not a person.
“there’s no one,” she repeats. which isn’t technically a lie. because there’s no one. there’s just-
a neighbour.
a lamp.
fried rice.
a soft voice asking if she ate.
nothing important.
nothing at all.
“good,” her dad says. “relationships right now would be stupid.”
the word lands heavy.
stupid.
“people your age ruin their futures over nonsense feelings.”
nonsense.
“look what happened to your brother when he couldn’t handle pressure. you don’t get to be weak too.”
that does it.
that always does it.
bringing him up like that. like he’s a warning sign. like he’s an example of failure. not a person who was hurting. not her favourite person in the world. not-
y/n’s throat closes.
“i won’t,” she whispers.
automatic. always automatic.
i won’t be weak.
i won’t fail.
i won’t disappoint you.
i won’t be him.
she hates herself for thinking that last part. hates them for making her think it.
“good,” her mum says, satisfied. “cut out anything unnecessary. this is the most important year of your life.”
cut out anything unnecessary.
cut.
out.
anything.
unnecessary.
the call ends.
the apartment feels too small. too tight. as if the walls moved closer.
y/n sinks onto the floor, back against the bed, staring at nothing.
don’t think like that. don’t label him like that. don’t reduce him to a category. but the word still floats there anyway.
distraction.
like he’s something pulling her off course. like he’s the reason she’s slower. like he’s the reason she’s tired. like last week wasn’t the first time she slept properly in months because she felt safe enough to. like he didn’t feed her when she forgot to eat. like he didn’t sit on the floor all night just so she wouldn’t be alone. like-
stop.
stop romanticising.
stop being soft.
soft people break.
her phone buzzes again. she flinches, expecting another message from home. instead-
jake:
made too much soup. want some?
she stares at the screen.
of course.
of course it’s him.
of course it’s something warm. simple. domestic. like he always does. like he always just includes her. no pressure. no expectations. just want some? like she’s allowed to say yes. like she’s allowed to exist near him.
her chest hurts so badly she has to physically curl forward.
because for one terrifying second, she wants to go. wants to knock. wants to sit on his floor again and eat soup and pretend the world isn’t screaming at her to be better every second. wants to be slow. like him. 0.5 speed. not 2x. not gasping for air all the time.
just alive.
cut out anything unnecessary.
her thumb moves.
types.
deletes.
types.
deletes.
then finally-
y/n:
it’s okay. i’m busy. thanks though.
she stares at it, reading it three times.
it sounds so cold. so formal. so not her. she hits send anyway. because if she softens it even a little, she knows she’ll go.
and if she goes, she might stay.
and if she stays, she might not want to leave.
and if she doesn’t leave, she might fail.
and failing is not an option. not after everything. not after him. not after her brother. not after-
three dots appear almost immediately. then disappear. then appear again.
her heart pounds.
please don’t ask again.
please don’t make this harder.
jake:
okay :)
eat something though
that’s it.
no guilt. no why. no are you sure. just okay. and still caring. always still caring. even when she pushes him away. which somehow hurts more than if he got mad.
she puts her phone face down and stares at the ceiling.
because for the first time, she realises something terrifying.
her parents have never asked if she’s eaten. not once. not ever. but he does. every day. like it’s the most important thing in the world.
down the hall, the smell of soup lingers faintly. warm. comforting. homemade.
she imagines him eating alone. lamp on. tv low. glancing at his phone every now and then without realising. waiting. just a little. just in case.
she doesn’t go.
and somehow, that hurts more than anything they said.
-`✦´-
y/n doesn’t mean to snap. that’s the worst part.
if she had meant to, at least it would feel justified. at least it would feel controlled.
but it isn’t.
it’s just too much.
everything.
all at once.
the week piles up too fast. like someone’s stacking books on her chest. one. two. three. until she can’t breathe.
two quizzes. one practical. extended clinic hours. three hours of sleep average. coffee instead of meals.
again.
again.
again.
she tells herself it’s temporary. just push through. just survive. just be good.
her parents call every night now.
not talk.
call.
interrogate.
“how many hours did you study today?”
“why only that much?”
“did you revise ahead?”
“what rank are you?”
“don’t get complacent.”
never:
“did you eat?”
“did you sleep?”
“are you okay?”
never that.
-`✦´-
on wednesday night, y/n was halfway through notes when her dad says it.
casually. like it’s nothing.
“your aunt mentioned you’ve been spending time with some boy in your building.”
her pen stops moving, ink bleeding into the page.
“…what?”
“don’t play dumb,” he says. “you think people don’t notice?”
heat crawls up her neck.
“he’s just a neighbour.”
“then keep it that way.”
her mum sighs. that disappointed sigh. the one that always makes her feel six years old.
“after everything that happened with your brother, you still want to waste time on relationships?”
waste time.
always that.
always waste.
like love is garbage. like connection is a mistake. like loneliness is safer.
“i’m not,” she says quickly. “we’re not close or anything.”
the words taste awful. like betrayal. even though he’s not there to hear it. even though he’ll never know. it still feels wrong.
“good,” her dad says. “cut him off if you have to. these people drag you down.”
these people.
like jake is some bad habit. like he’s a disease. like he didn’t pack her toast. like he didn’t leave soup outside her door. like he isn’t the only person in months who’s looked at her like she’s human. not performance. not grades. not potential. just human.
her throat burns. but she still says it.
“…yeah.”
-`✦´-
after the call ends, the apartment feels suffocating. too quiet. too loud. too everything.
her brain won’t stop replaying it. cut him off. distraction. drag you down. waste of time. over and over and over. until it starts sounding reasonable. logical. efficient.
she studies until 2am. forces herself. punishment. proof. if she hurts enough maybe she’ll deserve to succeed.
her stomach growls. loud. painful. she ignores it. drinks water. keeps going.
at 2:37am, there’s a knock. soft. gentle. familiar.
her heart stops.
no one knocks like that except-
another knock.
“y/n?”
his voice. quiet through the door. sleepy and careful, like he doesn’t want to scare her.
“your light’s still on.”
she stares at the door. frozen.
“you okay?”
he sounds worried.
of course he does.
he probably noticed the light under her door hasn’t gone out for hours. he probably noticed she hasn’t eaten. he probably noticed everything.
always noticing.
always caring.
always there.
and suddenly, she’s so tired. so tired of being noticed. so tired of someone seeing through her. so tired of feeling weak around him. so tired of wanting something she can’t afford.
she yanks the door open.
too hard. it bangs against the wall.
he blinks. surprised.
he’s in sweats. hair messy. eyes half-open. like he woke up just to check on her.
“…hey,” he says softly. “sorry. i just-”
“i’m fine.”
sharp. too sharp. even she hears it.
he pauses.
“…okay. i just thought-”
“you don’t have to keep checking in on me.”
silence. thick. heavy.
she doesn’t mean it like that. she doesn’t. but the words keep coming anyway. like something broke inside her chest and now everything’s spilling out wrong.
“i’m not a kid. i can take care of myself.”
jake’s hand drops slowly from where it was resting on the doorframe.
“…i know.”
quiet. careful. like he’s stepping around glass.
“i just-”
“you don’t have to cook extra. or leave food. or wait up or whatever.”
wait up.
god.
why did she say it like that. like he’s pathetic. like he has nothing better to do.
she sees it hit him. small. barely visible. but there. that tiny flinch. like she physically pushed him.
“i wasn’t-” he starts.
then stops.
because maybe he was. maybe he does wait. just a little. just in case she knocks.
y/n hates herself, but she keeps going. because stopping now would mean admitting she’s wrong. and she can’t afford wrong. not tonight. not ever.
“i’m busy, okay? i don’t have time to hang out all the time.”
all the time.
they barely even hung out. why is she exaggerating. why is she being so cruel.
“so you don’t have to do all this.”
all this.
like his care is inconvenient. like it’s a burden. like it’s something to get rid of.
the silence is long. long enough that she finally looks at him properly and-
god.
he just looks confused. not angry, not offended. just hurt and trying not to show it.
“…i didn’t know it bothered you,” jake says quietly. no defensiveness. no attitude. just sad. like he’s blaming himself. like he did something wrong.
and that’s worse.
so much worse.
“it doesn’t,” she snaps, contradicting herself immediately.
“i just- i need to focus. i can’t keep getting distracted.”
there.
she said it.
distracted.
like he’s the problem. like he’s the reason. like he’s something to eliminate.
jake goes very still. just for a second. then nods. small. understanding. too understanding.
“…okay.”
that’s it.
just okay.
like her parents.
but completely different.
not angry. not controlling. just accepting. like if this is what she wants, he’ll step back. even if it hurts him. even if he doesn’t get it. even if he misses her. he’ll still step back. because that’s who he is.
“i’ll stop,” jake says softly.
y/n’s heart drops straight to her stomach.
stop what. caring? cooking? checking on her? existing near her? she didn’t mean-
“goodnight, y/n.”
the first time her name sounds distant. polite. like strangers.
he turns. walks back to his place. doesn’t look back. doesn’t wait. doesn’t linger. just goes. door closes. quiet. and a second later-
the strip of yellow light under his door goes dark.
for the first time since she moved in, it’s completely black. and the hallway has never felt colder.
y/n stands there staring at it. her heart pounding. something ugly crawling up her throat. because she got what she wanted.
no distractions.
no waiting.
no one checking on her.
perfect.
efficient.
clean.
so why does it feel like she just lost something she can’t ever get back?
inside her apartment, she sits on the floor with her back against the door. her hands start shaking and she whispers, “…shit.”
too late.
-`✦´-
the hallway feels longer than usual.
y/n walks past his door without looking.
she tries not to.
tries very hard.
but her eyes still catch it anyway.
it’s dark. there’s no light under the door.
her chest tightens.
stupid.
it’s just a light.
people sleep. normal people turn their lights off. normal people don’t leave lamps on like lighthouses for strangers. for neighbors. for her.
it shouldn’t matter.
she keeps walking. unlocks her own door. steps inside. cold. quiet. boxes still stacked where she left them. the air smells like cardboard and nothing else. no garlic. no butter. no soft humming from the kitchen. just the low buzz of the fridge and the hollow echo of her own footsteps.
it feels wrong. like the apartment forgot she exists.
she drops her bag and stands there, not moving. because if she moves, she has to admit something.
she misses him. already. after she told him-
god.
she squeezes her eyes shut.
why did she say all that?
because her mom called. because her dad asked for her grades again. because they said she was “getting distracted”. because they asked who she keeps going home late for. because they said:
we didn’t sacrifice everything for you to waste time on useless people.
useless.
like jake is some mistake. like he’s something to cut away. and she-
she just repeated it.
threw it at him like it was nothing. like he was nothing.
her throat burns. she presses her palms into her eyes until she sees stars.
stupid. stupid. stupid.
he only ever fed her. waited for her. walked slower so she wouldn’t rush. asked if she ate. asked if she slept.
small things.
gentle things.
no one’s done gentle for her in years.
and she told him to stop.
because it scared her.
because if she let herself want it, she might choose him over everything else. and she doesn’t know how to choose herself.
she sinks down against the door, sitting on the floor as silence presses in. too loud. too empty.
she thinks about the lamp. the couch. the way he wraps toast in tissue like it matters. the way he always looks half-asleep but still notices everything. the way he never asks for anything back.
her chest caves in.
she hasn’t eaten. she hasn’t slept. she hasn’t breathed properly since she left his place.
this is what they wanted, right?
no distractions.
just work.
just studying.
just productivity.
so why does it feel like she cut off her own oxygen?
her hands start shaking.
she stands up too fast.
before she can talk herself out of it.
before her brain calculates consequences.
before logic catches up.
she’s already opening the door. already walking down the hallway. barefoot. heart pounding too loud. each step feels wrong. like she doesn’t deserve to be here. like he won’t open the door. like he shouldn’t.
she stops outside his apartment, staring.
no light.
of course.
why would there be?
she told him to stop.
her chest hurts but still she knocks. once. too soft.
nothing.
she swallows and knocks again. harder this time.
footsteps. slow. the door opens. jake blinks at her. sleepy. confused. hair messy. like always.
“…y/n?”
and that’s it.
that’s all he says.
not angry. not cold. just her name. like it’s fragile. and something in her breaks.
“i’m sorry-”
it comes out ugly.
too fast.
too loud.
she didn’t mean to cry but suddenly she is. teeth clenched, shoulders shaking, words tripping over each other.
“i didn’t mean it, i didn’t mean what i said, i just- i just-”
she can’t breathe.
“hey- hey- slow down-”
“i didn’t mean it,” she repeats, voice cracking, “i’m just so tired and they keep saying i’m wasting time and i thought if i just- if i just pushed you away then maybe it’d hurt less but it hurts more and i-”
she laughs, but it sounds broken.
“i don’t know how to not be tired.”
jake doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t fix. doesn’t lecture. he just pulls her into his chest. slow. careful. like giving her time to back out.
she doesn’t.
she grabs his shirt like she’s falling.
“i’m sorry,” she keeps mumbling.
“sorry, sorry, sorry-”
“for what?” he murmurs into her hair.
“for being like this.”
his grip tightens. like that sentence physically hurt him.
“you’re allowed to be tired,” he says softly.
“you’re allowed to not be okay.”
she clutches him harder. like she didn’t know that. like no one’s ever told her that before.
and for the first time since moving here, she doesn’t feel like she has to run.
-`✦´-
jake doesn’t let go immediately.
not until her breathing slows. not until the shaking eases. not until she stops apologising every five seconds. only then does he loosen his arms a little, like he’s afraid she might disappear if he moves too fast.
“come in,” he murmurs. his voice istill sleepy, warm, low.
y/n nods, eyes red, embarrassed, wiping her face with her sleeve like a kid.
he pretends not to notice. pretends not to see the tears. gives her that dignity.
his place smells faintly like detergent and instant noodles.
lights still off except the one in the kitchen.
soft yellow.
too bright would hurt.
too dark would feel lonely.
he kicks the door shut with his heel and guides her inside with a gentle hand on her back. not leading. just there. in case she changes her mind.
she hovers awkwardly near the sofa. like she doesn’t know where she’s allowed to exist.
“sit,” he says.
then pauses.
“…or floor. i don’t know. floor feels less… intense.”
she lets out a tiny, broken laugh.
“…yeah. floor’s fine.”
so they sit.
backs against the couch. side by side. close enough their shoulders touch. not facing each other. which somehow makes it easier.
talking face-to-face feels like an interrogation.
this feels like hiding next to someone.
safer.
he slides a bottle of water into her hand without looking at her.
“thanks,” she whispers, her fingers still trembling.
for a while, neither of them says anything. just the hum of the fridge. the clock ticking. his breathing. her sniffing occasionally.
it should feel awkward. but it doesn’t. it just feels quiet. the kind of quiet that lets your brain unclench.
jake speaks first. soft.
“so… on a scale of one to disaster… how bad was tonight?”
y/n huffs a weak laugh.
“…like… seven?”
“okay,” he nods seriously. “seven’s survivable. eight is when we panic.”
she looks at him.
“…you rank your breakdowns?”
“obviously. gotta keep it organised.”
a pause.
“…last week i cried because i dropped my toast butter-side down. that was a five.”
she snorts before she can stop herself.
the sound surprises both of them.
he smiles a little when he hears it.
mission accomplished.
then the smile fades.
“…you wanna talk about it?”
not pushing. just offering.
she stares at the floor tiles, following the cracks with her eyes. for a second she almost says no. habit. default setting. but he already saw her cry. there’s nothing left to protect.
“…my parents called,” she says quietly.
jake nods once. listening.
“they keep asking when i’m visiting. when i’m studying. if i’m keeping up.”
her fingers twist in her sleeve.
“they don’t mean it badly. they just… don’t know how to talk without making everything sound like a performance review.”
he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t dismiss. just listens like it’s important. like she’s important.
“so every call feels like i’m failing something,” she whispers.
“and if i don’t pick up, i feel guilty. but if i do pick up, i feel worse.”
“…that sucks,” he mutters softly.
“yeah.”
she swallows.
“my brother used to get those calls instead.”
her voice softens.
“he was the smart one. top of everything. med school track. my parents were so proud.”
a pause. long.
“…then he couldn’t take it anymore.”
the words come out barely there. like saying them too loud would break something.
“he-”
her throat closes. she shakes her head once. doesn’t finish the sentence. she doesn’t need to.
jake understands.
he doesn’t react big. doesn’t say “oh my god” or “that’s horrible.” he just shifts a little closer. shoulder touching hers. grounding.
“after that,” she whispers, “everything got really quiet at home.”
“the house felt smaller.”
“and suddenly they kept looking at me like…”
she laughs weakly.
“…like i was glass.”
her fingers dig into her sleeves.
“like if i cracked too, they wouldn’t survive it.”
“if they don’t worry, then… maybe nothing bad happens again.”
her voice trembles.
“…so if i slow down i feel like it’s my fault. like i’m gambling with something.”
silence. heavy.
“…that’s exhausting,” jake says softly.
she laughs.
“…yeah.”
he looks at her. really looks.
“…you know none of that was your job, right?”
she doesn’t answer. because she’s never even considered that.
“you’re their kid,” he murmurs. “not their backup plan.”
that one hits.
hard.
her eyes sting immediately.
“i just don’t want them to lose another child,” she whispers.
jake’s heart actually aches at that. so young. carrying something so big.
“…hey,” he says gently.
she turns.
“…you know what i see?”
she shrugs.
“a girl who moved out alone. studies like crazy. takes care of everyone else. still worries about her parents even when they stress her out.”
he bumps her shoulder lightly with his.
“that’s not disappointing. that’s insane stamina.”
she blinks.
“…that’s not how they see it.”
“then they’re wrong.”
he says it so simply it almost makes her laugh. like it’s obvious. like the sky being blue. like there’s no debate.
“you don’t get graded on life,” he adds. “there’s no leaderboard.”
“…feels like there is.”
“yeah,” he sighs. “but it’s fake. like those mobile game ads.”
she laughs again. a real one this time.
then quietly, “…sorry you have to deal with me showing up crying at your door.”
jake turns to her finally. actually looks at her. soft and steady.
“hey.”
she meets his eyes.
“if you ever feel like you have to apologise for coming to me,” he says gently, “then i’m doing something wrong.”
her throat tightens.
“you’re not a burden, okay?”
the word hits too close. because that’s exactly what she’s been scared of being.
he continues, quieter, “…i’d rather you knock than sit alone and spiral.”
her eyes start stinging again.
stupid.
why does he say things like that.
she leans sideways without thinking. just a little bit. their shoulders press together. he doesn’t move away. doesn’t comment. just stays.
after a while, her head tips against his arm. heavy. trusting. like she forgot to be careful.
she scrubs at her face.
“sorry. i didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
“it’s okay,” he says quietly.
another pause. the fridge hums. the lamp buzzes softly. the room feels small. safe. then-
“…my parents died when i was a kid,” he says.
so casual it almost doesn’t register.
she turns to him. he’s staring at the floor. not at her.
“car accident.”
a beat.
“it happened at night.”
his voice dips there. barely. like the word still weighs something.
“got the call at like… two in the morning.”
he huffs out a small breath. not quite a laugh.
“after that i kinda hated night time.”
her chest tightens.
he shrugs, embarrassed almost.
“stupid, right? but when it’s dark it just feels like something bad’s about to happen.”
his fingers tap lightly against his knee.
“so i leave the lights on.”
simple. matter-of-fact.
“if it’s bright, it doesn’t feel like night. and if it doesn’t feel like night… my brain shuts up.”
she thinks about it all at once.
the lamp that’s always on. the warm yellow glow. the thin strip of light under his door every single time she walks past. never dark. never empty. not because he’s waiting for anyone. just because he doesn’t want to sit alone with the dark.
her chest aches.
“you must’ve been so scared,” she says.
he smiles a little. small. crooked.
“yeah. but you get used to stuff.”
then softer, “still kinda lonely though.”
the honesty of that wrecks her.
so she does the only thing she can think of.
she reaches out and hooks her pinky with his.
stupid.
childish.
“i’m here,” she says.
and for once, she means it without calculating the cost.
-`✦´-
they don’t sleep properly. just drift. still on the floor. shoulders touching. lamp warm above them.
the morning comes soft. golden light through the curtains.
y/n wakes first. for a second, she forgets where she is. then she sees jake’s sleeve under her cheek. his breathing slow and even. still there. he didn’t leave. didn’t disappear overnight.
her chest feels lighter. not fixed. not magically healed. just a lot lighter. like someone took half the weight off.
he stirs. squints at her.
“…morning.”
voice all gravelly.
she huffs a tiny laugh.
“morning.”
“you hungry?”
of course. always that.
she nods.
“…yeah.”
he smiles.
“okay. the usual toast?”
and for the first time in a really, really long while, she doesn’t think about how many minutes it’ll take.
she just says, “okay.”
-`✦´-
after that night, nothing dramatic happens. no confession. no big promise. no “let’s be there for each other.”
it just happens. like muscle memory forming.
the first time she comes back, it’s accidental. at least that’s what she tells herself.
her lecture ends late. her hospital shift runs over. her brain feels like static. her feet hurt. her head heavy. she’s standing outside her own unit and without thinking, she turns left instead of right.
she knocks once. soft. the door opens almost immediately. like he was already halfway there.
“oh,” jake says, surprised but not really. “hey.”
she blinks up at him.
“…do you have food?”
he doesn’t even laugh. just steps aside.
“yeah. come in.”
like it’s obvious. like of course.
-`✦´-
after that, it becomes routine. not planned. not discussed. just natural.
some days she shows up at 5pm.
some days 9.
once it’s almost midnight.
every time the light is on.
every time he opens the door like he expected her.
jake cooks. nothing fancy. just simple stuff. eggs. rice. soup. ramyeon with spam. the kind of food that feels like it was made for surviving, not impressing.
“you need actual meals,” he mutters one night, pushing a bowl into her hands.
“i ate.”
“a granola bar doesn’t count.”
“…it had protein.”
he just stares at her.
she stares back.
“…okay fine.”
he wins every time.
sometimes she studies at his table while he washes dishes. the sink running. plates clinking. soft lo-fi music from his phone. domestic noises. normal noises. her brain weirdly focuses better like this. better than the library. better than her empty apartment.
every now and then he walks past and drops something next to her. cut fruit. warm milk. toast. doesn’t say anything. just leaves it there. like feeding a stray cat. she eats it every time.
she starts leaving things at his place by accident. hair tie. charger. one pen. then two. then her hoodie. then her extra notes folder.
one day she opens his cabinet and there’s instant noodles he bought “just in case you stay late”.
her chest does that tight thing again.
they don’t talk about heavy stuff every night.
mostly dumb things like:
“patients today were annoying.”
“my supervisor sucks.”
“i burnt the rice.”
“your neighbour sings at 2am.”
sometimes they just sit there doing their own thing, shoulders bumping. in comfortable silence. the kind that doesn’t demand anything.
she didn’t know silence could feel like this. not tense. not lonely. just shared.
-`✦´-
one night she falls asleep mid-notes. highlighter still in her hand. head slowly drooping.
jake notices from the couch.
“…hey.”
no response.
“…y/n.”
nothing.
he walks over. sees the dark circles. sees the way she’s still wearing her hospital tag, still in yesterday’s clothes. he sighs. soft. fond. he takes the highlighter from her hand and tugs the notebook away.
“come on,” he murmurs.
she barely wakes when he guides her to the couch.
he drops down beside her, throwing a blanket over both of them. she automatically scoots closer in her sleep. like her body already knows where the warmth is. her face half buried in his shirt.
jake freezes for a second. his heart doing something weird. then, carefully, he just lets her. stares at the ceiling. lamp still on. always on.
her breathing evens out. small. soft. safe.
he doesn’t move the whole night. just in case she wakes up and needs something.
after that, it kind of becomes a thing.
not intentional.
just…
if it’s late, she stays.
if she’s too tired, she stays.
if it’s raining, she stays.
sometimes they both fall asleep watching random youtube videos. sometimes on the floor. sometimes on the couch. once sitting upright against the bed like idiots. blanket tangled everywhere. limbs accidentally touching. nothing more.
just warmth.
just not alone.
-`✦´-
one morning she wakes up before him. sunlight leaking through the curtains.
his arm heavy across her sleeve. still asleep. mouth slightly open. hair messy.
he looks younger like this. softer. not the steady, always-okay version he shows everyone. just a boy who got tired.
something in her chest aches.
because she realises that somewhere along the way, his place stopped feeling like “jake’s apartment.”
it started feeling like… home.
that thought should scare her. should make her pull back. calculate. reconsider.
but instead, she just tucks the blanket higher around his shoulder so he doesn’t get cold. and closes her eyes again.
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warnings: mentions of past grief (deceased parents/sibling), academic stress/burnout, crying, emotional breakdown
synopsis: y/n runs her life on strict schedules and impossible expectations, leaving no time for rest — or people. but a late-night lockout leads her to warm, soft-hearted jake, the neighbour who always leaves his light on. his small acts of care teaches her how to slow down, turning into something that feels dangerously like home.
notes: to all the singles out there this valentines, this is for you xo
-`✦´-
the apartment never really becomes hers. not properly. and definitely not in the way homes are supposed to.
it was more like a pit stop. a charging station. a place to sleep and leave again.
the movers had just set the boxes down and she thanks them too fast, already half-turned towards the door before they even finish asking where the last one should go.
“just anywhere is fine.”
anywhere is always fine.
she doesn’t have time to care.
the tape over her boxes are still uncut when she leaves for her lecture. not even the essentials unpacked. toothbrush still sealed in plastic. bedsheets still folded stiff. mugs still wrapped in newspaper.
she tells herself she’ll do it tonight.
she doesn’t.
she never does.
the boxes just… exist.
stacked against the walls like temporary thoughts.
like she’s not staying long enough to deserve drawers.
-`✦´-
y/n’s life runs on quiet calculations.
not written.
not planned on paper.
just automatic.
if the bus comes now, she saves a few minutes. if she skips the line, she saves a few minutes. if she walks faster, eats faster, showers faster-
she can squeeze something else in.
another chapter. another practice paper. another hour at the hospital.
productivity feels like oxygen.
if she slows down, she swears something bad will happen.
like everything will collapse.
like she will.
-`✦´-
y/n barely notices the hallway. barely notices the other doors. barely notices anything that isn’t directly useful.
so she doesn’t notice him either.
not at first.
not the boy down the hall who’s been living there for years.
not the way his shoes are always neatly lined up outside.
not the faint music he plays that sometimes hums through the walls.
not the light.
always on.
every night.
that thin strip of yellow slipping out from under his door like it’s breathing.
-`✦´-
jake notices her on day one.
it’s hard not to.
she moves like she’s late to something even when she isn’t.
her hair is tied too tight, phone in one hand, bag slipping off her shoulder, apologising to the movers while rushing them at the same time.
he watches from his doorway while pretending to take out the trash.
she doesn’t look up once.
not at the hallway. not at him. not at anything.
just straight ahead.
like the world is an obstacle course.
he thinks, quietly-
she looks tired.
-`✦´-
jake has always been good at noticing small things.
the way the lift stutters between floors.
the crack in the wall shaped like lightning.
the neighbour who cooks garlic at exactly 7pm.
the days the sky turns purple before it rains.
he notices how her lights turn off past midnight and turn on again before sunrise.
sometimes he hears her door open and close three, four times a day.
in. out. in. out.
like the apartment can’t hold her.
-`✦´-
his light stays on.
always.
even when he sleeps.
even when the room is empty.
a warm lamp in the corner that never switches off.
his aunt used to scold him for it when he was younger.
“electricity bill, jake.”
but nights feel wrong when they’re dark.
too quiet.
too heavy.
the accident happened at night.
headlights, rain, and a call that came too late.
sometimes darkness feels like something waiting to take things away.
so the light stays.
because if it’s bright, it isn’t night. and if it isn’t night, nothing bad can happen.
it’s childish logic but he keeps it anyway.
-`✦´-
the first week passes.
then another.
the boxes in y/n’s apartment don’t move.
not really.
she cuts one open once, pulls out a plate, then leaves the rest spilling out like guts. her clothes stay half-folded. her books stay stacked. nothing settles.
it looks less like home and more like storage.
like she’s ready to leave at any second.
-`✦´-
the day it happened was already bad before it even began.
everything was off.
the bus was late. her phone battery drained too fast. someone spilled coffee on her notes. she forgets to eat until her hands shake. her supervisor sends three emails in a row with “urgent” in the subject line.
and her parents call during lunch.
she doesn’t pick up.
they text.
call again.
she flips the phone face-down.
later. she’ll deal with it later.
always later.
by the time she gets home, it’s past midnight.
her head throbs. her feet ache. she just wants to shower and sleep for six hours before doing it all over again.
she digs into her bag for her keys.
doesn’t find them.
checks every pocket.
nothing.
empties her entire bag onto the floor outside her door.
pens. chargers. receipts. highlighters.
no keys.
she stands very still. thinking. replaying the day.
locker? lab bench? cafeteria table?
her chest tightens.
locksmith means waiting.
waiting means time wasted.
time wasted means tomorrow gets ruined.
and her phone-
3%.
“seriously…” she mutters.
of course.
of course this happens today.
-`✦´-
the hallway is silent.
everyone asleep. everything dark.
y/n presses her forehead against her door, her eyes closed.
thinking. thinking. thinking.
then-
light.
a thin line across the floor.
warm.
yellow.
steady.
it was coming from the unit down the hall.
like it’s still awake.
like someone’s still awake.
y/n stares at it longer than she means to.
she’s never noticed it before. has it always been there?
it feels strangely soft compared to the harsh white lights at the hospital, compared to her phone screen.
this one feels warm.
like late afternoons.
like safety.
she tells herself it’s practical. just practical. she’s not usually the type to bother strangers.
but it’s late.
and her phone is dying.
and she’s so, so tired.
so she walks down the hallway. each step slower than the last. like her body forgot how to rush.
she knocks.
quietly at first.
then louder. panic creeping in.
“hello?”
nothing.
she almost gives up.
then she hears shuffling inside.
slow footsteps. a lock clicking. the door opening just a crack.
messy hair. sleep-heavy eyes. oversized t-shirt. confused but soft.
“…yeah?”
his voice was rough with sleep.
like he was actually asleep. not awake like she assumed.
she blinks.
oh.
she feels bad immediately.
“sorry- i- um-”
why were words so hard suddenly?
“i locked myself out. my phone’s dying. i just- can i maybe borrow a charger or call someone? sorry. it’s really late. sorry.”
she keeps apologising.
he notices that too.
people who apologise a lot usually feel like they’re taking up space, like they’re not allowed to exist loudly.
he opens the door wider without thinking.
“it’s okay,” he says softly. “come in.”
-`✦´-
his place smells like laundry detergent and something warm. maybe tea.
it’s quiet. but not empty quiet. more like comfortable quiet. like the air isn’t rushing anywhere.
there’s a lamp glowing in the corner.
that same yellow light.
the only light on.
soft enough that nothing feels sharp.
his couch has a blanket thrown over it. there’s a mug on the table. and a book placed face-down like he’ll come back to it later.
everything looks lived in.
not staged.
not temporary.
not halfway.
home.
the word hits y/n weirdly hard.
she stands there with her bag still clutched to her chest, unsure of what to do with herself. like she stepped into the wrong place. like she’s too loud for this room.
“charger’s there,” he says, pointing. “you can sit.”
y/n nods, sitting on the very edge of the couch. back straight like she’s in an office, like she might need to leave any second.
he notices that too.
and for some reason it makes his chest ache a little.
like she’s never learned how to rest.
-`✦´-
outside, the hallway is dark.
inside, the lamp hums softly.
warm.
steady.
safe.
for the first time since moving in, y/n isn’t rushing.
not because she planned not to. not because she allowed herself to. but because somehow, in this small yellow-lit room, time just slows, like it’s waiting for her.
for a while, neither of them talks.
her phone is plugged in on the table. 3% becomes 4. 4 becomes 5. y/n stares at the numbers like it personally offended her. like if she watches hard enough it’ll charge faster.
she keeps checking the time too.
out of habit.
always calculating.
if she sleeps now, maybe she will get five hours. if the locksmith comes early, maybe she will still make it for her morning lecture. if she skips breakfast-
“you want tea?”
she looks up.
“…what?”
he’s already halfway to the kitchen.
“tea. or water. or something. you look like you’re gonna pass out.”
oh.
she didn’t realise it showed.
“water’s fine,” she says quickly. “don’t trouble yourself-”
“it’s just water,” he says, almost amused.
like the idea of water being trouble is ridiculous.
she shuts up. nods. and watches him disappear into the kitchen.
she can’t remember the last time she heard sounds like this without background noise.
no train announcements. no hospital monitors. no lecture halls. no parents talking about grades or expectations or plans. just water.
and someone moving around slowly. not rushing. not trying to beat a clock.
it feels unreal.
like stepping into someone else’s life.
his place is small.
same layout as hers, probably.
but it feels bigger.
warmer.
alive.
there’s a plant on the windowsill, slightly crooked. a hoodie draped over a chair. photos stuck on the fridge with magnets.
it’s messy in a comfortable way. not “i haven’t unpacked” messy. more like “i live here” messy.
she swallows.
her place still looks like a delivery warehouse.
he comes back with a glass.
and a mug. steam curling up.
y/n frowns.
“i said water.”
“yeah,” he says, handing it to her. “and tea.”
“…why?”
he shrugs.
“water’s boring.”
like that’s a valid explanation. like it makes perfect sense.
she almost laughs. almost. it feels foreign, the instinct. like her body forgot how. she takes the mug anyway. it’s warm against her palms. too warm at first. then nice. the heat seeps into her fingers slowly. like it’s melting something frozen. she didn’t realise how cold she was until now.
“thanks,” she mutters.
he nods, sitting on the floor instead of the couch, back leaning against it casually. like this is his usual spot and he’s done this a hundred times.
she sits stiff and straight. he slouches like gravity actually works on him. they look like two completely different species.
“so,” he says after a while. “bad day?”
she snorts before she can stop herself.
“when is it not?”
it comes out too honest. too fast. she regrets it immediately but he just hums. like that answer makes sense. like he’s not judging. not asking for justification. just accepting.
that weirdly makes it worse.
because now her throat feels tight.
-`✦´-
y/n’s phone buzzes.
once.
twice.
three times in a row.
she glances down.
missed calls.
mum.
mum.
dad.
mum.
a message preview:
call us back. why didn’t you answer earlier?
her stomach drops with guilt. always guilt.
she flips her phone face-down and pretends nothing happened.
he notices. of course he does. but he doesn’t ask. he just looks away politely. gives her the out. because he understands some things are heavy.
“you just moved in, right?” he asks instead.
she nods.
“yeah. closer to school. and the hospital.”
“med?”
“…yeah.”
“tough.”
“yeah.”
short answers. efficient. like she’s conserving energy. like conversations are tasks to complete.
he studies her quietly. she looks like she hasn’t slept properly in months. dark circles. shoulders tight. fingers still twitching like she wants to check the time again. like she’s always bracing.
“your place still full of boxes?” he asks.
she blinks.
“…how do you know?”
he smiles a little.
“saw the movers. then never saw you bring trash down. so i figured nothing’s unpacked.”
she stares. embarrassed.
“i’ve just been busy.”
it sounds defensive. like an excuse she’s repeated too many times. busy busy busy. always busy.
but he just nods.
“makes sense.”
not sarcastic. not judgmental. just gentle.
and somehow that gentleness hurts more.
because she doesn’t know what to do with it.
-`✦´-
another quiet stretch.
the lamp hums. its soft yellow light washing over everything. no harsh shadows. no fluorescent headache.
y/n keeps glancing at it.
it’s weirdly comforting.
“you always keep that on?” she asks before she can stop herself.
he follows her gaze.
“yeah.”
“even when you sleep?”
“yeah.”
“…why?”
he pauses.
shrugs.
“don’t like the dark much.”
simple.
but something in his voice tightens.
just a little bit.
like there’s more there.
y/n recognises that tone. its the tone people use when they want cut a story short. when they don’t want to dig deeper.
she nods. doesn’t push. she has her own stories she never finishes too.
she realises something then.
his place feels like evening.
not night. not day. just late afternoon.
the safe time.
the time when nothing bad usually happens.
she hasn’t felt a time like that in years.
her days are either too bright or too dark. never soft. never slow. without meaning to, her shoulders drop. just a little, like her body finally unclenched.
he notices that too.
he notices everything.
“you can stay till your phone charges more,” he says.
“no rush.”
no rush.
the words hit weird.
she can’t remember the last time someone said that to her.
everything in her life is a rush.
hurry.
faster.
don’t waste time.
don’t fall behind.
don’t disappoint.
no rush feels illegal.
like she broke a rule just by sitting here.
but she doesn’t stand up. doesn’t check the time. doesn’t calculate.
for once.
she just sits.
holding a warm mug.
in a room lit like sunset.
with a boy she met fifteen minutes ago.
and somehow-
it feels quieter in her head than it has in years.
down the hall, her apartment waits. boxes sealed. lights off. cold. temporary. like a place she’s borrowing.
while in here, there’s a lamp that never turns off. a couch with a dent in it. a tea that tastes too sweet. and a someone who says things like “no rush”. like he actually means it.
-`✦´-
y/n doesn’t realise she’s drifting off until her head jerks forward.
the mug tilts. she catches it just in time.
“…sorry,” she mutters automatically, even though nothing happened. like she’s apologising for existing. for taking up space. for being tired.
he looks up from where he was scrolling lazily on his phone.
“you can sleep, you know.”
she straightens immediately.
“no. i’m fine.”
too fast.
too sharp.
a reflex.
fine fine fine.
always fine.
he studies her for a second, then hums. doesn’t argue. just says, “okay,” like he doesn’t need to win. and that throws her off more than if he pushed.
the clock on his microwave says 2:43 am. y/n calculates without meaning to.
if she sleeps now and wakes at six, that’s three hours seventeen minutes. minus travel. minus-
stop.
she presses her fingers into her temple.
stop calculating.
just sit.
just breathe.
just-
she blinks, realising her eyes have been closed longer than she thought.
at some point, she slides down from the couch to sit on the floor too.
not on purpose.
she just ends up there.
back against the couch cushion.
closer to the lamp.
closer to the warmth.
her shoulder almost touching his sleeve.
not quite.
but almost.
close enough to feel heat.
he smells like clean laundry. something soft. nothing fancy. just home.
she doesn’t know why that word shows up in her head again.
home.
she hasn’t used that word seriously in years.
“you always up this late?” he asks quietly.
“mm.”
“studying?”
“lectures. hospital. studying. everything.”
she doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t need to. her life is just a list of tasks anyway.
he nods slowly.
“sounds tiring.”
she laughs under her breath.
“it’s supposed to be.”
“…supposed to be?”
“yeah. if it’s not tiring then you’re not doing enough.”
the words come out automatically.
memorised.
fed to her since she was small.
like multiplication tables.
like facts.
he goes quiet after that. long quiet. the kind that feels heavy. like he wants to say something but doesn’t.
-`✦´-
y/n wakes up to sunlight.
for a second she panics. heart racing. where is she.
then she sees the lamp. still on. soft yellow even in the morning. then the couch. then the plant.
then him. asleep. head tilted back against the couch, mouth slightly open, phone slipping from his hand. he’s still sitting on the floor beside her like he never moved. like he stayed.
her chest tightens for some reason.
did he not go to bed? because of her?
she checks the time.
7:12 am.
shit.
“i- i have to go,” she blurts.
he startles awake, blinking at her, disoriented.
“…morning already?”
“yeah. locksmith. and lecture. i- sorry-”
why is she apologising again? for leaving his house?
he rubs his eyes, hair messy, voice rough with sleep.
“wait.”
he stands and disappears into the kitchen.
she hovers awkwardly near the door. guilt gnawing at her. she stayed too long. took up too much space. imposed. she should’ve left earlier. should’ve-
he comes back with something wrapped in tissue and presses it into her hand.
“eat on the way.”
“…what?”
“bread. just toast. didn’t look like you had dinner.”
she freezes. stares at it like it’s something fragile. no one’s packed her food since she was a kid. and even then it was calculated. protein. carbs. efficiency. this is just-
toast.
because she looked hungry. because he noticed. just because.
her throat tightens.
“you don’t have to-”
“i already made it,” he shrugs. “if you don’t want it, i’ll eat it.”
she clutches it closer immediately.
“…thanks.”
-`✦´-
the hallway outside is bright. too bright.
the world feels louder again, like someone turned the volume back up.
y/n suddenly misses the lamp.
ridiculous.
it’s just a lamp.
they walk the short distance to her unit together. it’s the first time they’re standing next to each other in daylight.
he looks different.
softer.
younger.
there’re sleep lines pressed into his cheek and he yawns mid-step like he forgot she was even there. like he’s comfortable. like he doesn’t have to perform.
she doesn’t understand how someone can exist like that.
without constantly trying to be sharper. better. faster.
-`✦´-
the locksmith comes ten minutes later.
the door clicks open and y/n steps inside.
there’re boxes stacked along the wall. half taped. half opened. clothes still folded inside luggage. it doesn’t feel like a home yet. just a place her things are stored.
she turns back. he’s still standing there. his hands in his pockets wearing that half-asleep smile.
“it’s jake, by the way.”
for a second she just blinks at him. like the sentence doesn’t fully land.
names.
right.
people usually exchange those.
normal people do that.
she opens her mouth, then closes it again.
when did they not?
they talked. he handed her water. waited with her. stayed the whole time like it was nothing. and somehow-
she never asked. never offered. she’d treated him like a temporary variable. a situation. not a person.
the realisation sits heavy in her chest.
she’s so used to moving fast she forgets people have names. everything gets labelled by function instead. landlord. security. class rep. barista. delivery guy.
roles, not names.
because names mean staying.
names mean remembering.
she swallows.
“…right.”
her voice comes out softer than she expects.
“i-”
why was this suddenly so hard?
she’s introduced herself thousands of times. automatic and efficiently.
but now it feels personal. like he’ll actually keep it.
“…i’m y/n.”
jake nods once. small and gentle.
“yeah,” he says, almost amused.
“figured.”
she frowns. “how?”
“you just look like a y/n.”
“…that’s not a thing.”
he shrugs. “felt like one.”
it makes her chest tighten anyway.
he didn’t just file her away.
he actually noticed.
of course he did.
he’s the kind of person who notices things. her coming home late. her leaving home early. even the way she runs instead of walks. meanwhile she’d only just learned his name. heat creeps up her neck.
“…sorry,” she blurts.
he tilts his head. “for what?”
“i didn’t even- names. earlier. i didn’t think about it.”
like you weren’t important enough to register.
she doesn’t say that part out loud but she feels it anyway.
he just smiles.
“yeah,” he says lightly. “i noticed.”
she winces. but he continues before she can spiral.
“you looked like your brain was running at, like, 200%.”
“…it wasn’t that bad.”
he raises an eyebrow.
“…maybe 180.”
he laughs softly. not teasing. just-
fond.
“it’s okay,” he says. “you had a long night.”
no judgement. no scorekeeping. just facts.
something in her chest loosens.
they’re just standing there. talking. doing nothing. but for once-
she doesn’t feel like she’s losing time because of it.
that scares her.
she shifts her grip on her keys.
“i should-”
“see you around?” he says.
not demanding. not expectant. just casual. like it’d be nice. like it’s optional. like she’s free to choose. she’s not used to being given choices.
“…yeah,” she says too quickly.
he lifts his hand in a small wave. not big. not dramatic. just there. like he’ll always be there.
the light from his doorway spills softly across the floor.
steady.
warm.
she watches for a beat too long.
then closes the door.
-`✦´-
the latch clicks shut and silence settles. y/n looks down at the toast still in her hand. still warm.
her chest tightens in a way she can’t explain. she eats it standing between unopened boxes.
plain. slightly burnt. too much butter. perfect. it tastes like something she didn’t know she was missing. something slow. something gentle. something that doesn’t ask for anything back.
later, when she rushes out for class, she notices it.
for the first time.
really notices.
down the hall.
under his door.
even in the morning.
that thin strip of yellow light.
still there.
like it never went out.
like it’s waiting.
like it’s saying — someone’s home.
and she hates how comforting that feels.
-`✦´-
days pass and y/n’s schedule swallows her whole. hospital. campus. commute. repeat. she comes home late more often than not, shoulders tight, brain buzzing, feet aching. sometimes she notices the light. sometimes she doesn’t. sometimes she’s too far gone to register anything at all.
but jake notices.
he notices the way her footsteps slow near his door. the way she pauses. then the way she keeps going.
one night, he hears her keys drop. the sound is sharp. panicked.
he’s already standing by the door before he realises it.
“you okay?” he asks through the wood.
there’s a pause.
“…yeah.”
it doesn’t sound convincing.
he waits.
then opens his door slowly. she’s crouched on the floor, backpack slung off one shoulder, keys clutched in her hand like she’s afraid they’ll disappear.
“rough day?” he asks, softer this time.
she nods once. doesn’t elaborate. he doesn’t ask her to.
they stand there for a moment, hallway light buzzing above them, silence stretching — but not uncomfortable. not empty.
“i made soup,” jake says eventually. “too much. if you want.”
y/n hesitates.
of course she does.
of course she wants to say no.
of course she wants to say that she’s fine, that she’ll eat later, and that she has things to do.
but her stomach betrays her with a quiet, humiliating sound.
jake smiles, small and knowing, like he already expected that.
“no pressure,” he says. “just… offering.”
she exhales.
“…okay.”
-`✦´-
his place feels the same.
lamp on. curtains drawn. warm in a way that doesn’t ask questions.
she sits on the couch this time instead of the floor and he hands her a bowl and a spoon and then — importantly — goes to sit on the armchair instead of hovering.
space.
choice.
y/n eats slowly. doesn’t rush or check her phone.
it feels wrong. indulgent. like she’s stealing time she hasn’t earned.
“you don’t have to stay long,” he says, like he can hear her thoughts. “i’m not gonna hold you hostage.”
she huffs a quiet laugh before she can stop herself.
“…good.”
they sit there in companionable silence. no pressure to talk. no pressure to perform. just existing in the same room. she realises — dimly and unsettlingly — that this is the longest she’s sat still all day. maybe even all week.
when she finishes, she places the bowl down carefully.
“thank you,” she says.
again. he nods.
“anytime.”
and he means it. she can tell.
-`✦´-
later, back in her apartment, y/n stands amongst the boxes again. but it doesn’t feel as cold as before. still quiet. still empty. but less hollow.
she unpacks one box.
just one.
it takes her longer than it should because she keeps stopping, zoning out, staring at nothing.
when she finally lies down, she leaves her bedside lamp on. the light is too bright. she turns it down halfway. not dark, just dim. enough to see. enough to remind herself that she’s not alone, even when she is.
down the hall, under jake’s door, the light stays steady.
and for the first time since she moved in, she lets herself believe that maybe this place won’t always feel like somewhere she’s just passing through.
-`✦´-
y/n doesn’t mean to start timing him.
it just happens.
not consciously. not like the way she times everything else.
this isn’t written down. isn’t scheduled. isn’t efficient. it just slips into her brain without permission.
the light under his door usually turns brighter around 6:40 am which probably means he’s awake. she notices because that’s around the time she’s tying her shoelaces.
one morning, she opens her door at the exact same time he opens his.
she startles like she got caught doing something wrong.
jake just blinks at her, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, like he rolled out of bed thirty seconds ago.
“…morning,” he mumbles.
she nods awkwardly. “morning.”
they stand there for half a second too long.
“you heading out?” he asks.
“yeah.”
“same.”
he steps into the hallway beside her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like they do this every day.
they don’t.
they’ve maybe spoken five times total. so why does this feel… normal?
the lift ride down is quiet. she stares at the floor numbers. he leans against the wall, yawning into his sleeve. he smells faintly like detergent and something warm. soap maybe. it’s weirdly comforting.
“you always leave this early?” he asks.
“earlier sometimes.”
“…why?”
she blinks. no one’s ever asked that like it’s optional.
“classes. hospital. stuff,” she says.
he nods slowly. not judging. just absorbing. like information about her matters.
“sounds tiring,” he says.
she shrugs. “it’s fine.”
it’s automatic.
fine means manageable. fine means not collapsing. fine means acceptable.
he doesn’t say anything to that. just hums quietly like he doesn’t quite believe her.
the lift dings as the doors open and cold morning air rushes in. they step out together then-
split.
different directions.
“see you later,” he says, casually, like it’s obvious there’ll be a later.
“…yeah,” she replies, and for some reason, she doesn’t hate that word anymore.
-`✦´-
y/n starts noticing other things too.
like how he waters the little plant by his door every evening. at the same time. with the same chipped mug.
like how he sits on the floor sometimes with his back against the wall, scrolling through his phone, door cracked open just enough for light to spill out.
like how he always says hi. always. even if she looks half-dead. even if she’s clearly in a rush. never demanding a conversation. just “hey.” soft and steady. like a bookmark. like proof that she exists.
it’s unsettling.
how someone can acknowledge her without wanting something.
-`✦´-
one night, y/n gets home later than usual. past midnight.
she’s tired — the kind of tired that makes everything feel fuzzy. she almost walks into the wrong unit, keys slipping twice before she finally manages to unlock the door. she’s halfway inside when-
“y/n?”
she turns.
jake’s door is open, light warm and low behind him. he looks sleepy. worried. like he’s been up.
“you okay?” he asks.
again.
always that question.
she nods too fast, “yeah. just late.”
he studies her for a second, eyes dragging over her face like he’s checking for damage.
“…you ate?”
she pauses.
she had coffee. half a granola bar. that counts.
“…yeah,” she lies.
he squints slightly, not buying it, then disappears into his kitchen.
she stands there, confused.
two seconds later he comes back with a banana. just a banana. he holds it out like it’s obvious.
“emergency food,” he says. “take it.”
“…jake-”
“no speeches. just take it.”
she takes it. because arguing would take more energy than accepting.
“…thanks.”
“now go to sleep,” he says gently. “you look like you’re about to fall over.”
it should annoy her.
the way he says things like that. like he gets to care. like he’s allowed to care. but instead her chest feels tight again. that same stupid, unfamiliar ache. like something warm pressing against a place that’s been cold too long.
-`✦´-
inside her apartment, y/n sits on the floor with her back against a stack of boxes, eating the banana slowly, staring at nothing.
why does he keep doing that?
feeding her. waiting for her. staying awake.
people don’t just do things for no reason.
there’s always a trade-off.
always an expectation.
grades. results. productivity. repayment.
so what does he want?
she tries to calculate it.
can’t.
there’s no logic. no benefit. he just notices and responds. like it’s the simplest thing in the world. like taking care of someone isn’t a transaction.
her throat tightens.
she hates that she doesn’t know how to handle that.
the next morning, she opens her door.
the hallway is quiet, but the light under his door is still there. steady. unchanging.
and for the first time, instead of walking past immediately, she stops. just for a second. stares at that thin strip of yellow. then very lightly, she knocks. once. soft. like she might run away after.
there’s shuffling inside. a thud.
“…huh-?”
the door opens and jake blinks at her, hair everywhere, eyes barely open.
“y/n…?”
she holds something out awkwardly.
a small carton of milk from the convenience store downstairs.
she bought it without thinking. without planning. without calculating.
“for… the soup. and the banana. the other day,” she mutters.
his brain takes a second to load. then he smiles. slow, sleepy and soft. like a sunrise.
“you didn’t have to,” jake says.
she shrugs. “i know.”
they stand there. not moving. not rushing. just existing. and it scares her a little — how easy it’s starting to feel, to stay.
-`✦´-
the toast becomes a problem.
not because of the taste but because of what it means.
y/n doesn’t realise it at first. she just eats it on the way to the bus stop, walking too fast like always, crumbs falling onto her sleeve. but halfway through, she slows down. just a little. because if she finishes too quickly, it’ll be gone. which is stupid. it’s just toast. she could buy ten more.
but none of them would be wrapped in tissue like that. none of them would be slightly uneven like someone made it half-asleep. none of them would exist just because someone looked at her and thought, she probably didn’t eat.
she hates how much that thought lingers all day.
lectures blur. hospital smells like antiseptic and overbrewed coffee. someone hands her forms. someone asks her to run bloods. someone calls her name twice because she didn’t hear the first time.
she moves like she always does.
fast.
efficient.
sharp.
but there’s something off. her brain keeps buffering like a tab is open somewhere in the background. a tab of yellow light. hands in pockets. it’s jake, by the way.
she almost trips over nothing, annoyed at herself.
focus.
-`✦´-
she gets home late again. not as late as last night but still late.
the hallway is quiet, fluorescent lights humming overhead.
she walks automatically, keys already in hand. then she sees it. that thin strip of yellow under his door. still on. glowing steadily.
it shouldn’t mean anything. people leave lights on all the time. electricity exists. this is normal. so why does it feel like-
relief? like something unclenches in her chest before she even processes it?
it’s annoying. irrational.
she walks faster. unlocks her door. goes inside. doesn’t look again.
-`✦´-
y/n lasts twenty minutes. twenty.
she tells herself she’s just taking out the trash. very normal. very practical. definitely not looking.
she opens her door and steps into the hallway, trying to be casual about it, like she just happens to glance down the corridor.
light.
still there.
warm.
stupid.
so why is it comforting?
she throws the trash away too aggressively.
then comes back too slowly.
-`✦´-
the next few days become…
weird.
not big things.
small things. stupid things. things she pretends not to notice. like-
sometimes there’s a convenience store bag hanging on her door handle. banana milk, bread, a protein bar. no note, no message. just there.
the first time she assumes it’s the wrong unit. the second time she suspects coincidence. the third time-
she stares at it for a full thirty seconds, then looks down the hall.
his door is closed. light still on.
she hates that she knows that without thinking.
she knocks, before she can overthink it.
it takes a second. shuffling inside. door opening just a crack. messy hair. sleepy eyes. like he woke up mid-nap.
“…hey,” jake says.
like he expected her. like it’s normal. like she’s not standing there holding banana milk like it’s a piece of forensic evidence.
“did you-” y/n lifts the bag.
he blinks.
“…oh. yeah.”
no denial or pretending. just yeah. like it’s obvious.
“why?” she asks, too sharp, defensive. she doesn’t mean it to sound like that.
he doesn’t seem offended though, shrugging.
“you leave early.”
“…so?”
“convenience store’s on my way back from practice.”
“…and?”
another shrug.
“figured you forget to eat.”
she opens her mouth and closes it, because she does. she does forget. a lot. but how does he-
“it’s not a big deal,” jake adds quickly, like he thinks she’s going to refuse. “just extras.”
extras.
like she’s not trouble. not effort. just included.
something in her chest twists again.
annoying. dangerous. this is exactly how attachments form. this is inefficient. this is-
“…thanks,” y/n mutters, quieter than intended.
he smiles. small. sleepy.
god.
why is he always half-awake.
does this man ever fully exist.
-`✦´-
y/n was unlocking her door again when jake opens his at the same time. like a coincidence. like the universe is laughing.
they both pause. awkward. too close. too quiet.
he scratches the back of his neck.
“long day?”
she nods.
“you?”
“mm. yeah.”
silence.
normal people would leave, say bye, go inside. instead they just… stand there, like neither of them knows how to end it, like leaving feels weirdly abrupt.
she hates that.
time is passing. she should go. she should-
“did you eat?” jake asks suddenly.
she freezes.
“…yeah.”
lie.
he squints at her. not accusing, just reading.
she looks away first.
“…i’ll eat,” she corrects.
he nods once, satisfied. like that’s enough, like he trusts her. which is worse somehow because why does he trust her, he barely knows her.
she barely knows him.
she only learned his name a few weeks ago. and yet standing here feels easier than talking to people she’s known for years.
that scares her because later, when she’s brushing her teeth, she realises something: without meaning to, she timed her walk home slower today. not consciously or planned. but slower like she wasn’t rushing to leave, like she didn’t mind the hallway, like she didn’t mind the light waiting at the end of it. and that thought terrifies her more than anything.
because slowing down was never part of the plan.
-`✦´-
it happens by accident.
y/n doesn’t even realise she’s doing it until she’s already halfway down the hall.
her laptop’s at 6%. her charger’s dead. she forgot to buy a new one. and she has a quiz tomorrow morning.
of course she does.
of course.
she stands outside her own door calculating.
the library closes in forty minutes but the bus ride there and back is thirty. waste of time. inefficient. she could hotspot her phone-
no. battery’s dying too.
she stares at the floor. then her eyes drift. down the hallway. to thin strip of yellow. steady. on. always on.
she tells herself this is logical, purely practical. he probably has a charger. that’s it. nothing else. just borrowing. normal neighbour behaviour.
she knocks before she can talk herself out of it, immediately regretting it.
too late.
there’s shuffling inside and the door opens. jake looks like he just woke up again. but does he ever not look like that.
his hair is flattened on one side and his hoodie sleeves cover half his hands.
“…hey,” he says, voice rough.
like he wasn’t expecting anyone but isn’t surprised it’s her.
“sorry- do you have a laptop charger?”
straight to the point.
he blinks once. then opens the door wider without a word.
“yeah. come in.”
not i’ll pass it to you. not wait here.
come in. like it’s obvious. like she’s allowed.
something about that makes her hesitate for half a second. but still, she steps inside. her shoulders drop before she realises. why does his house always make her less tense.
jake digs through a drawer and hands her the charger.
logically, she should leave.
grab it. say thanks. go.
but instead she hears herself say, “can i just… sit here and finish my work? i’ll be quiet.”
why did she ask that.
she has a perfectly good table at home.
a chair.
walls.
she doesn’t need this.
but jake shrugs like it’s the most normal request ever.
“yeah. do whatever.”
whatever.
like she’s not intruding. like her being here doesn’t change anything. like she’s just part of the room.
-`✦´-
y/n sits at jake’s small dining table, opens her laptop and starts typing.
at first she’s hyper aware of everything.
the sound of him moving. the fridge humming. the water running. every tiny noise feels too loud. like she’s invading and shouldn’t be here.
but he doesn’t act weird, doesn’t hover, doesn’t talk. he just exists, leaning against the counter scrolling his phone.
minutes pass.
then more.
and more.
and something strange happens.
she forgets he’s there.
not in a bad way.
just like the way you forget furniture is there. steady. constant. safe.
she types. highlights. reads. calculates.
normally studying feels like drowning. today it feels lighter — the air isn’t pressing down on her chest and her brain isn’t screaming at her to go faster. she finishes a whole chapter without checking the time once. that’s never happened before.
“tea?”
y/n looks up.
jake’s holding two mugs. she didn’t even hear him boil the water.
“…i didn’t ask for-”
“i made extra,” he says.
same tone as always.
extras.
like she’s never the reason. just coincidence. just happens.
she takes it. warm. ginger. not sweet. exactly how she likes it.
she frowns.
“…how did you know i don’t like sugar?”
he shrugs.
“you drink black coffee.”
oh.
right.
she does.
but she never told him that.
he just noticed.
again.
she stares at the mug longer than necessary.
then quietly, “…thanks.”
-`✦´-
somewhere between page six and seven, y/n’s eyes start burning.
she rubs them and keeps reading. but words start to blur so she tells herself she’ll just rest for thirty seconds. just close her eyes. just-
she wakes up to warmth. soft. heavy. something tucked around her shoulders. for a second she panics. then realises. blanket. his blanket. she’s still at the table. laptop asleep. screen black. lamp still on. always on.
she turns her head.
he’s on the couch, controller in hand, game paused, watching her. not in a creepy way. just checking. like making sure she’s breathing.
“…sorry,” y/n mumbles automatically, sitting up.
god. she fell asleep. again. in his house. again.
what is wrong with her.
“for what?” he asks.
same question as always. genuine confusion.
“i- i didn’t mean to-”
“you looked tired.”
like that explains everything and that’s enough reason to let someone stay.
her chest does that tight thing again.
she packs her stuff quickly and stands at the door, hands hovering.
not sure why leaving feels weird. it shouldn’t. this is normal. they’re just neighbours. nothing else.
“thanks. for the charger. and… everything.”
jake nods. sleepy smile.
“anytime.”
anytime.
like he means it. like it’s not polite talk. like if she knocked at 3am he’d still open the door.
that thought settles somewhere deep in her ribs.
heavy, warm but terrifying.
-`✦´-
it’s stupid.
that’s the only word for it.
stupid.
y/n stands in front of her sink staring at the instant noodles she just made and already doesn’t want.
too salty.
too fast.
too lonely.
steam fogs her glasses while her brain starts doing that thing again. eat in four minutes. shower in seven. revise two chapters. sleep by 12:43. wake up at 6:10.
optimise. optimise. optimise.
she hates that word. but it’s always there. buzzing.
she takes one bite. grimaces. sets the bowl down. and doesn’t touch it again.
the apartment feels too quiet tonight.
not peaceful quiet.
the bad kind.
the kind that rings in your ears.
her boxes are still stacked near the wall. she hasn’t unpacked more than half of her life. she keeps telling herself she’ll do it when things “settle down.” but things never settle down.
she knows that.
she just doesn’t want to admit it.
she rubs her temples and stares at her laptop. the words blur together. nothing sticks. she reads the same paragraph three times. nothing. nothing but brain static.
burnout.
she hates that.
burnout is for people who aren’t trying hard enough.
that’s what her parents always said.
she exhales. stands up. paces once across the room. then twice. then before she can overthink-
she grabs her keys, opens the door and steps into the hallway.
she doesn’t even stop to pause.
because her body already decided.
like it knows something her brain doesn’t.
-`✦´-
jake’s light is on.
of course it is.
that thin strip of yellow under the door. always steady. always quiet. always waiting.
y/n’s feet slow. her heart starts doing something weird. why is she nervous. she’s just knocking. it’s normal. neighbours knock all the time. this is normal.
so she knocks. soft. once.
then thoughts start swarming her head.
what if he’s busy.
what if he’s sleeping.
what if this is weird.
what if he asks why she’s here and she has no answer because there is no reason other than the fact that she’s just lonely and tired and didn’t want to sit in that cold apartment anymore like a ghost-
the door opens. and jake blinks at her, surprised for half a second. then he softens. like seeing her makes sense. like she’s exactly who he expected.
“…hey.”
just that.
hey.
like she’s done this a hundred times.
like she belongs here already.
“hi,” she says.
too quiet. too awkward.
say something useful.
say something productive.
say something normal.
“…what’s up?” he asks. simple. open. no pressure. and suddenly-
she has nothing.
no charger. no question. no excuse.
her brain scrambles. buffering. error.
“…nothing,” she blurts.
great.
amazing.
what kind of answer is that.
she almost laughs from embarrassment.
“i just-”
god. this is humiliating.
“i didn’t feel like being home.”
silence. there. it’s out. too honest. way too honest.
she braces for the awkwardness. for him to look confused. for him to say oh okay maybe tomorrow. but instead, he just steps aside, opening his door wider.
“come in.”
like it’s obvious. like it doesn’t even require thought. like of course you can come in.
why wouldn’t you.
-`✦´-
his place smells like garlic. something sizzling. warm.
she steps inside and immediately feels that same weird drop in her shoulders. like her body unclenching without permission.
his lamp is on. the lights are dim. it feels soft. alive. homey.
she hates how much she likes it.
“i’m making fried rice,” jake says, scratching the back of his neck. “kinda messed up the first batch though.”
she peeks into the pan.
it looks fine. slightly uneven. a little burnt on one side. not aesthetic. not perfect. but it smells good. real.
“…it’s okay,” y/n says.
“yeah but it’s ugly,” he sighs.
she stares at him.
“…food doesn’t have to be pretty.”
he looks at her like that sentence means more than it should. like he heard something underneath it. then he smiles a little.
“help me taste?”
she freezes.
help. not watch. not sit. help.
no one has ever asked her to help with small things. they ask her to perform. achieve. fix. not-
taste fried rice.
“…okay.”
she stands beside him, shoulders almost brushing. too close. too warm.
he hands her a spoon. their fingers accidentally touch. just for half a second. electric.
she pretends not to notice.
he pretends too.
both terrible at pretending.
“needs salt?” he asks.
she tastes, then nods.
“a bit.”
he sprinkles and she tastes again, grimacing.
“too much?”
“…yeah.”
they both laugh. actually laugh. not polite. not forced.
the sound surprises her so much she almost stops. she can’t remember the last time she laughed in someone else’s kitchen. without checking the time. without thinking she should leave.
they end up eating straight from the pan. standing side by side. sharing one spoon. arguing quietly about whether the slightly burnt bits taste better.
warnings: mentions of past grief (deceased parents/sibling), academic stress/burnout, crying, emotional breakdown
synopsis: y/n runs her life on strict schedules and impossible expectations, leaving no time for rest — or people. but a late-night lockout leads her to warm, soft-hearted jake, the neighbour who always leaves his light on. his small acts of care teaches her how to slow down, turning into something that feels dangerously like home.
notes: my biggest project ever and im soso excited for you guys to read it! im still in the process of proofreading and editing so please enjoy a short preview first. also, do comment on this post to be in the (permanent?) taglist!
release date: 14th feb 2026
-`✦´-
y/n digs through her bag again.
nothing. no keys. just a dead phone and the faint weight of exhaustion pressing down her shoulders.
she freezes.
her apartment door looms ahead, half-open boxes stacked inside like a miniature city. her life packed into cardboard towers she hasn’t had time to unpack. and now she can’t get in.
her heart picks up speed. too late to call anyone. too late to run back to campus. the hall is quiet. too quiet.
then she notices it: a thin line of yellow light under the door across the hall. a faint sliver in the darkness.
it’s small. quiet. but enough. enough to make her move.
y/n hesitates, unsure. her bag slips from one shoulder, landing with a soft thud. no one is around. nothing is around. and still, the light waits.
a soft knock. tentative.
the door opens.
jake. half-asleep. hair falling over his eyes. hands tucked into his pockets. he blinks at her, unhurried. doesn’t ask why. doesn’t push her away. just stands there, letting her choose.
“…hi,” y/n says, voice small, nervous.
he tilts his head, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “come in,” he says.
she swallows and steps inside. the warmth hits first — the apartment, the soft hum of the fridge, the faint smell of coffee lingering from earlier and the lamp casting gentle shadows across the living room.
“sit,” he says quietly, nodding toward the couch.
y/n perches on the edge, still clutching her bag. her backpack and boxes at home seem impossibly far away, the world outside this door speeding past her. she should move. she should apologise. she should leave.
but instead, she just watches him.
jake disappears into the kitchen. the soft clink of dishes. the hiss of a kettle. then the smell of something getting toasted drifts towards her.
when he returns, a plate is in his hands. toast, golden brown, wrapped carefully in tissue.
“eat,” he says.
“…i-” y/n starts, but he just shrugs like the gesture needs no explanation. “i already made it. if you don’t want it, i’ll eat it.”
y/n clutches the plate to her chest. her heart tightens. no one has done things for her like this in years. no one has made her feel small and safe at the same time.
“thanks,” she whispers.
he nods. same half-smile. hands back in his pockets.
the hallway outside is quiet. the thin strip of yellow light under his door spills softly onto the floor, but inside, the apartment is warm. alive. y/n feels herself exhale for the first time all night.
she glances at the lamp. not too bright. not too dim. perfect.
and for the first time in months, maybe years, y/n feels like she could stay.
she doesn’t know him yet. not really. she doesn’t even know his name. but it doesn’t matter. not tonight.
synopsis: 이제 마지막이 될 이 밤에 작별을 고해 두 눈을 가려, i'm just feeling numb./on this night, destined to be our last, i bid farewell. i close my eyes, i'm just feeling numb.
notes: trying out something different — ANGST WITH NO COMFORT don’t hate me guys fluffy fic coming soon… anywayyy what’s your favourite track from ‘the sin:vanish’? mine’s no way back!
heeseung ₊˚⊹
with heeseung, it’s never one big mistake.
it’s the accumulation of small ones — moments that seem harmless on their own, but heavy when stacked together.
he forgets plans.
he shows up late.
he promises time, then loses it to something else.
every time, he looks genuinely sorry.
“i didn’t mean to,” heeseung says, scratching the back of his neck. “i just lost track of time.”
y/n believes him. that’s the problem.
she starts adjusting instead. she stops dressing up as much. stops getting her hopes too high. stops telling him how excited she is to see him, because disappointment hurts less when you expect it.
she tells herself this is what being understanding looks like.
their anniversary was supposed to be different.
y/n plans it quietly — nothing flashy, just meaningful. she picks a place heeseung once mentioned liking, books it weeks in advance, even leaves little notes for him throughout the day.
she doesn’t remind him more than once. she wants to believe he remembers.
the day drags by.
when evening comes, she’s already dressed, sitting on the edge of her bed, phone in hand. every buzz makes her heart jump.
then the message comes.
i’m really sorry. the guys asked me to stay a bit longer. can we reschedule?
that’s when something inside y/n goes still.
not angry.
not shocked.
just… quiet.
when they see each other next, she’s calm in a way that unsettles him.
“you know what today was,” y/n says softly.
heeseung freezes. “i- i know. i just-”
“you didn’t even hesitate,” she continues. “you didn’t think, ‘it’s our anniversary.’ you just chose them.”
“that’s not fair,” he says quickly. “i always choose you.”
y/n looks at heeseung then — really looks.
“no,” she replies. “you choose me when nothing else is pulling you away.”
his face falls. “i love you.”
“i know,” she says. and she means it. “but love isn’t the same as priority.”
he promises again. he always does.
he says he’ll set reminders, block out time, stop letting things run late. for a while, he follows through. he shows up on time. he checks in more. he holds her hand a little tighter, like he’s scared she’ll slip away.
but habits don’t disappear overnight.
weeks later, y/n finds herself sitting alone again, staring at her phone, watching the minutes crawl by. another almost. another soon. another i didn’t mean to waiting to happen.
and this time, something shifts.
when y/n finally tells heeseung she’s done, he looks genuinely lost.
“i didn’t know it was this bad,” he says, voice breaking.
“that’s the worst part,” she whispers. “you never knew.”
heeseung reaches for y/n’s hand, desperation finally breaking through. “please. i can fix this. i swear.”
y/n pulls back gently — not because she doesn’t care, but because she cares too much to keep hurting like this.
“i needed you to fix it before i stopped asking,” she says.
he watches her walk away, realising too late that he didn’t lose her because he didn’t love her-
he lost her because he kept choosing her after everything else.
jay ₊˚⊹
at first, y/n admires how confident jay is.
he speaks with certainty. he explains things clearly. he always sounds like he knows what he’s doing, and in the beginning, it feels grounding — like being with someone dependable, someone who has answers when she doesn’t.
but slowly, the pattern shows.
every time she offers an idea, he tweaks it.
every time she shares an opinion, he reframes it.
every time she disagrees, he turns it into a lesson.
“no, that’s not really how it works,” jay says casually.
“logically, the better approach would be-”
“you’re thinking about it emotionally. let me explain.”
y/n laughs it off at first. she tells herself he doesn’t mean it badly. that this is just how jay communicates.
but one day, she realises something that scares her.
she started rehearsing sentences in her head before speaking — softening her words, choosing them carefully — just to avoid being corrected.
the argument starts over something small. a plan. a decision. y/n suggests an alternative, and jay immediately shakes his head.
“that won’t work.”
“why not?” she asks.
he launches into a long explanation, barely pausing to breathe. when he finishes, she’s quiet.
“what?” he asks. “i’m right.”
“that’s the problem,” y/n says softly. “you’re always right.”
he scoffs. “i’m just being realistic.”
“no,” she replies, her voice trembling now. “you don’t listen to me. you talk at me.”
jay frowns, crossing his arms. “i’m literally listening right now.”
“you’re waiting to respond,” she says. “there’s a difference.”
the room feels tight. heavy.
“so what, i’m not allowed to speak now?” he snaps.
“that’s not what i said.”
“but that’s what you mean,” he says sharply. “you’re twisting this.”
and suddenly, y/n feels exhausted. not angry. just tired in a way that settles deep in her bones.
“i don’t feel like a partner,” she whispers. “i feel like a student who’s always wrong.”
that finally makes him pause.
but instead of apologising, he looks hurt. defensive.
“i’m just trying to help.”
“i didn’t ask to be fixed,” she says quietly. “i asked to be heard.”
the breakup doesn’t happen that night.
it stretches out — long silences, conversations that go nowhere, y/n speaking less and less because it feels easier than being corrected again.
when she finally says, “i think we should end this,” jay looks stunned.
“you’re giving up over this?”
no, she thinks. but she doesn’t say it out loud.
out loud, she says, “i’m leaving because i lost my voice with you.”
jay doesn’t chase her.
he stands there, convinced he was misunderstood — and that, more than anything, is why it had to end.
jake ₊˚⊹
jake has always been kind.
that’s the first thing y/n notices about him — how easily warmth comes to him, how people gravitate toward him without trying. he remembers names, listens carefully, laughs easily. with him, no one ever feels left out.
including her. at first.
dating jake feels like being chosen. he holds her hand openly, introduces her proudly, looks at her like she matters. she tells herself she’s lucky. she is lucky.
but kindness, y/n learns, can stretch too thin.
it starts small.
dates pushed back because someone needs him. conversations cut short because he’s replying to messages. moments where he’s physically there but mentally somewhere else, smiling at his phone.
“just a second,” jake says, again and again.
y/n doesn’t complain. she doesn’t want to be the girlfriend who makes him feel bad for being nice. she tells herself this is just who jake is.
but slowly, she realises something painful.
he gives everyone the best version of himself —
and she gets whatever’s left.
she notices how he lights up for others, how his voice is always gentle, how patient he is when people interrupt, demand, lean on him. then she notices how tired he looks when she asks for the same attention.
one night, after jake cancels on y/n last-minute to help someone else, she finally says it.
“do i ever come first?”
he looks genuinely shocked. “of course you do.”
but when she asks how, he struggles to answer.
after that, he tries. he really does.
he plans things. he shows up on time. he puts his phone face-down on the table. when y/n talks, he listens like he’s afraid to miss something important.
she wants to believe this version will last.
but habits are stubborn.
slowly, the phone comes back out. the “just five minutes” returns. the warmth he gives so freely to others starts draining him again.
and y/n starts feeling guilty for wanting more.
the argument that ends it isn’t loud.
it happens late, when they’re both tired. jake has just promised to come over, then texted that he’ll be late. again.
she doesn’t raise her voice. she just says, “i don’t think you notice when you hurt me.”
that makes his face fall.
“that’s not true,” he says quickly. “i would never hurt you on purpose.”
“i know,” she replies. “but you still do.”
he sits down, running a hand through his hair, already overwhelmed. “i’m trying my best.”
and that’s when she realises something terrifying.
his best still doesn’t include her the way she needs.
“i feel like i’m always waiting for you,” she whispers. “and you don’t even realise i’m standing still.”
jake’s eyes fill with tears. “i love you.”
she believes him. that’s what breaks her.
“i know,” she says softly. “but i don’t feel chosen.”
the breakup hurts because neither of them is wrong.
jake cries openly. he keeps apologising, keeps saying he didn’t mean for this to happen, keeps promising he can change.
but y/n is already exhausted.
loving him has started to feel like asking for permission to matter.
when she leaves, jake doesn’t follow right away.
he stays where he is, staring at the empty space she left behind, finally realising that being kind to everyone cost him the one person who needed him to be intentional.
sunghoon ₊˚⊹
sunghoon doesn’t fall out of love.
he just gets tired.
tired in a way that seeps into everything — the way he answers, the way he listens, the way his presence feels thinner each time y/n reaches for him. at first, she tells herself it’s temporary. schedules get rough. people get worn down. love means understanding.
so she understands.
she understands when he’s quiet. when his replies are short. when his eyes look past her instead of at her. she understands when he comes home exhausted and doesn’t have the energy to talk.
she learns to fill the silence herself.
but understanding doesn’t stop the loneliness.
some nights, she sits beside him on the couch, knees almost touching, and it still feels like miles apart. when she talks, he nods. when she asks questions, he answers, but never adds more. never asks back.
she starts wondering if she’s asking for too much.
the argument starts on a night she didn’t plan to say anything.
she just asks, gently, “are you okay?”
sunghoon exhales sharply, rubbing his face. “can we not do this right now?”
“i’m not trying to fight,” y/n says. “i just-”
“i said not right now,” he snaps, voice sharper than he means it to be.
she goes quiet. then softer. “you always say that.”
that’s when something in him breaks.
“because i’m exhausted,” he says, louder now. “i’m tired all the time. i don’t have the energy for this.”
“for me?” she asks.
he doesn’t answer fast enough.
and when he does, the words come out wrong — messy, defensive, unfiltered.
“sometimes it feels like you’re just another thing i have to manage.”
the second the sentence leaves his mouth, he freezes.
y/n feels it land in her chest, heavy and irreversible.
“i didn’t mean it like that,” he says immediately. “i’m just- i’m tired.”
but she’s tired too.
tired of waiting. tired of choosing her words carefully. tired of loving someone who feels like they’re slipping further away every day.
“i know you didn’t mean it,” she whispers. “but you thought it.”
the days after are fragile.
he tries to be gentler. she tries to be quieter. they orbit each other carefully, like one wrong step might shatter everything.
but the distance doesn’t close.
when she finally says, “i don’t think this is working anymore,” sunghoon looks at her like he already knew.
he doesn’t argue. doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t try to convince her she’s wrong.
he just asks, “is there anything i can do?”
and y/n shakes her head.
“i think if there was,” she says softly, “we wouldn’t be here.”
breaking up with sunghoon doesn’t feel like losing someone suddenly.
it feels like slowly letting go of someone who stopped holding on a long time ago.
when she leaves, he stays where he is, staring at the space she used to fill, knowing he didn’t stop loving her-
he just didn’t have enough left to love her the way she deserved.
sunoo ₊˚⊹
sunoo is soft in a way that makes people trust him easily.
he listens with his whole face. he remembers small details. he reassures without being asked. when y/n first falls for him, it’s because being loved by sunoo feels warm and careful, like she’s being handled gently.
she thinks, this is what safety feels like.
there’s always someone sunoo is close to. someone he’s protecting. someone he’s worrying about. especially her — his girl best friend. the one he’s known forever. the one who’s always going through something.
at first, y/n tells herself it’s nothing.
sunoo is honest. he never hides his phone. he tells her where he’s going. when she asks questions, he answers calmly, patiently.
“you don’t have to feel threatened,” he says softly. “i’d never do anything to hurt you.”
she believes him.
but belief doesn’t stop the discomfort.
plans change when his best friend needs him.
conversations pause when her name lights up his screen. sunoo always explains, always apologises — but it keeps happening.
when y/n finally brings it up, she does it carefully.
“i feel a little uncomfortable sometimes,” she says, choosing her words slowly. “not because i don’t trust you. just… because i feel like i’m competing.”
sunoo’s expression falls instantly.
“i didn’t know you felt that way,” he says quietly.
“i thought you trusted me.”
the way he says it makes her chest tighten.
“i do,” y/n replies quickly. “i just-”
“i guess i’m just bad at balancing things,” he murmurs, looking down. “i didn’t mean to make you feel like this.”
suddenly, she’s the one apologising.
“no, it’s okay,” she says. “i shouldn’t have said anything like that.”
and sunoo reassures her, tells her she’s important, that he loves her — but the pattern stays.
every time she brings up something that hurts, he looks wounded. every time she sets a boundary, he grows quiet and says things like, “i didn’t think i was that kind of person.”
she starts swallowing her feelings to avoid hurting him.
she starts telling herself that being understanding means being quiet.
until one night, it spills out anyway.
she tells him she feels guilty for wanting more of him. that she feels selfish every time she needs reassurance. that she’s tired of feeling like the bad guy for having feelings.
sunoo listens in silence.
when she finishes, he exhales slowly.
“so you think i’m a bad boyfriend,” he says.
“that’s not what i said,” y/n replies immediately, panic creeping into her voice.
“but that’s how it feels,” he says softly. “i try so hard, and it’s never enough.”
the room feels heavy.
“i’m not asking for perfect,” she whispers. “i’m asking not to feel second.”
sunoo’s voice tightens for the first time. “i can’t just abandon people who need me.”
“i’m not asking you to,” she says. “i’m asking you to notice that i need you too.”
he looks torn. genuinely. painfully.
but instead of meeting her where she is, he retreats.
“i don’t know what you want from me,” he says quietly. “i feel like no matter what i do, i’m hurting someone.”
and y/n realises something then — he’s already decided.
she’s the one he expects to understand.
to compromise.
to step back.
the breakup isn’t explosive.
it’s soft. sad. full of apologies.
“i love you,” sunoo says, eyes shining. “i just don’t know how to be what you need without disappointing someone else.”
y/n nods slowly.
“that’s okay,” she says gently. “but i can’t keep being the one who disappears so you don’t have to feel guilty.”
when she leaves, sunoo cries.
not because he didn’t care-
but because he never learned that kindness without boundaries can still hurt the people closest to you.
jungwon ₊˚⊹
jungwon tries.
that’s what makes this so hard.
from the beginning, he’s honest with y/n about his life — the schedules, the pressure, the responsibility that comes with being a leader. she listens. she understands. she tells him she’s not asking for everything, just something.
and for a while, it works.
he calls when he can. sends voice notes when he’s too tired to text. squeezes her hand a little tighter when they’re together, like he’s silently apologising for all the time he can’t give.
y/n tells herself this is what loving someone like him looks like.
but loving jungwon also means sharing him with a hundred invisible demands.
meetings that run late. rules he can’t explain. moments where he looks at his phone and his expression changes, shoulders tightening like a switch has been flipped.
sometimes, he cancels last minute.
sometimes, he shows up but leaves early.
sometimes, he’s there physically, but his mind is still somewhere else — managing, leading, holding everything together.
y/n never yells. she never demands.
she waits.
one night, after he apologises for missing another important moment, she asks softly, “do you ever get to choose me?”
jungwon freezes.
“of course i do,” he says quickly. too quickly.
“then why does it always feel like i’m the option you pick last?” she asks.
he looks devastated. “i’m doing my best.”
and she believes him. that’s the problem.
after that, he really tries harder.
he pushes back schedules when he can. sneaks in time with her even when he’s exhausted. takes calls he’s not supposed to, just to hear her voice.
but every moment together feels borrowed.
timed. fragile.
there’s always an unspoken awareness that someone else could take him away at any second.
the argument that ends it happens quietly.
y/n tells him she feels like she’s constantly waiting — not just for time, but for permission. permission to be important. permission to need him.
jungwon’s hands tremble as he takes hers.
“i love you,” he says. “i’m choosing you as much as i’m allowed to.”
and that’s when her heart breaks.
“i don’t want to be loved with conditions,” she whispers. “i don’t want to be someone you have to fight the world to see.”
he shakes his head, eyes shining. “please don’t do this. we can make it work.”
she smiles sadly. “we are making it work. that’s why it hurts so much.”
breaking up with jungwon doesn’t feel like anger.
it feels like letting go of something precious because holding it hurts too much.
he doesn’t argue. doesn’t try to guilt her. doesn’t raise his voice.
he just nods slowly, like he’s already known this day would come.
when she leaves, jungwon stays behind, hands clenched, realising that loving someone within limits still means losing them-
and that sometimes, trying your hardest still isn’t enough.
ni-ki ₊˚⊹
ni-ki doesn’t mean to hurt her.
that’s the thing that makes it worse.
it starts small — little jokes, harmless on the surface. comments about how she’s “too sensitive,” how she “can’t take a joke.” his friends laugh, and ni-ki laughs with them, louder than he should. y/n smiles too, because she doesn’t want to be that girlfriend. the one who ruins the mood.
but it keeps happening.
every time they’re around his friends, he changes.
his arm doesn’t stay around her waist anymore.
instead, he leans back, relaxed, careless, throwing out teasing remarks like he’s performing.
“she’s always like this,” he says once, rolling his eyes when she hesitates to try something.
“don’t mind her, she’s dramatic,” another time, when she asks him to stop.
the laughs come fast. sharp. effortless.
y/n tells him privately. once. twice. more than she can count.
“i don’t like it when you do that,” she says quietly, sitting on the edge of his bed while he scrolls through his phone.
“you make me feel stupid.”
ni-ki frowns, defensive immediately.
“i’m just joking,” he says. “you’re taking it too seriously.”
she tries again another day. different words. softer tone.
“it hurts when you tease me in front of other people.”
he sighs like she’s asking for too much.
“my friends joke like that. it’s normal.”
so she starts shrinking instead.
she laughs when she doesn’t want to. stays quiet when she has something to say. lets things slide because she loves him, because she knows he’s young, because she tells herself he’ll grow out of it.
until one night, it goes too far.
they’re all crowded into a practice room after schedules, his friends sprawled across the floor, loud and energetic. y/n sits beside ni-ki, tired, leaning slightly into him without thinking.
someone makes a comment about her being clingy.
ni-ki laughs.
“yeah, she’s like a puppy. always following me around.”
it’s said so easily. like it’s nothing.
the room erupts in laughter.
and something in her just… goes still.
she doesn’t laugh this time.
she stands up quietly, grabs her bag, and leaves without saying a word.
ni-ki doesn’t follow her. not immediately. he doesn’t want to look whipped. not in front of them.
that’s the second mistake.
they argue later, in the hallway outside the dorm.
it’s late. quiet. the kind of quiet that makes everything feel heavier.
“what was that?” y/n asks, voice shaking despite her effort to stay calm.
“why do you keep doing this to me?”
ni-ki crosses his arms. defensive again.
“you embarrassed me by leaving like that.”
she stares at him, stunned.
“you embarrassed me first.”
he scoffs.
“it was a joke, y/n. why can’t you just loosen up?”
something breaks then.
“because i’ve told you i don’t like it,” she says, voice rising. “i’ve told you so many times. you just don’t care.”
that hits something raw.
“that’s not true,” he snaps. “you’re making me sound like a bad guy.”
“then stop acting like one.”
the silence that follows is ugly.
ni-ki looks away first.
“you’re overreacting.”
and that’s when she knows.
y/n exhales, long and tired, like she’s been holding her breath for months.
“you care more about looking cool than about how i feel.”
he opens his mouth. closes it.
because part of him knows it’s true.
“i shouldn’t have to beg my boyfriend to respect me,” she continues, quieter now. “i shouldn’t feel small just to make you look bigger.”
ni-ki’s voice drops.
“so what, you’re just gonna leave?”
her eyes burn, but she doesn’t cry.
“i already have. every time you laughed at me instead of standing up for me.”
that’s when panic finally sets in.
“i can change,” he says quickly. “i didn’t think it was that serious.”
she nods slowly.
“that’s the problem. it was serious to me the whole time.”
the breakup isn’t loud. there’s no screaming, no dramatic exit. just exhaustion.
she walks away, and this time, he lets her.
weeks later, ni-ki still laughs with his friends. still jokes. still pretends everything’s fine.
but sometimes, in the middle of it, the laughter feels hollow.
because being cool didn’t feel worth it after all.
synopsis: just enha comforting you in their own ways when you cry.
notes: wow it’s been a FAT minute since i last posted, hope yall didn’t forget about me… this was inspired by the ‘big girls don’t cry’ track from their jan comeback because it gave me the feels HAHA as always, self indulgent hurt/comfort, please enjoyyy!
heeseung ₊˚⊹♡
heeseung notices before y/n does.
it’s not the tears — not yet. it’s the way she goes quiet. the way she answers his questions with nods instead of words. the way she keeps scrolling on her phone without actually looking at anything.
he doesn’t call it out immediately. heeseung has learnt that when y/n is overwhelmed, being confronted too fast makes her shut down more.
so he just stays close.
he cooks dinner like he always does, nudging a bowl toward y/n when she sits at the table. she eats a few bites. then fewer. then she stops entirely.
“not hungry?” he asks gently.
y/n shakes her head.
he hums, not pushing. later, when y/n curls up on the couch with her knees tucked to her chest, he sits beside her, close enough that their shoulders touch. his arm rests behind her — not pulling her in, just there.
minutes pass. the tv plays something neither of them is watching.
then y/n’s breathing changes.
it’s subtle. a hitch. a pause that lasts a little too long.
heeseung turns to look at her. her eyes are shiny. her mouth trembles like she’s trying very hard not to let it.
“hey,” he murmurs. “come here.”
that’s all it takes.
y/n folds into him like she’s been holding herself together with thread, and it finally snaps. her face presses into his chest and the sobs come fast, ugly, uncontrollable.
heeseung wraps both arms around her immediately, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles into her back.
“it’s okay,” he whispers over and over. “i’ve got you. you don’t have to hold it in.”
y/n cries harder at that.
“i didn’t-” she chokes. “i didn’t want to bother you.”
heeseung’s grip tightens just a little. “you could never bother me.”
y/n shakes her head against him. “i just feel like everything’s too much and i don’t even know why.”
he doesn’t rush to explain it away. he doesn’t tell her to calm down or rationalise it.
he just says, “then we don’t need a reason right now.”
his thumb moves gently through her hair, slow and repetitive, grounding. her sobs gradually soften into hiccups, her body sagging against his.
when she finally pulls back, eyes red and swollen, he cups her face carefully, like she’s something fragile.
“can i do anything?” heeseung asks. “or do you just need me here?”
“…stay,” y/n whispers.
he smiles softly. “i wasn’t planning on leaving.”
he pulls a blanket over both of them, pressing a kiss to her temple. she falls asleep still wrapped in him, breathing evening out to the steady rhythm of his chest.
jay ₊˚⊹♡
jay hears y/n crying from the bathroom.
not loud — she’s trying to be quiet — but he knows the sound. he freezes where he’s standing, keys still in his hand.
he knocks once. “hey.”
no answer. just a sharp inhale like she’s trying to swallow the sound.
he opens the door gently.
y/n is sitting on the floor, back against the cabinet, arms wrapped around herself. her face is blotchy. her eyes are wet. the second she sees him, her expression collapses.
“oh,” jay breathes.
he doesn’t ask what happened. he drops to the floor in front of y/n immediately, knees hitting the tile, hands reaching for her without hesitation.
“come here,” he says firmly, arms opening.
y/n falls forward into him, clutching his shirt like she’s afraid he’ll disappear. her sobs are harsh, shaking her entire body.
jay wraps y/n up completely — arms around her shoulders, chin resting on her head, holding her like he’s anchoring her to the ground.
“it’s okay,” he murmurs. “you’re safe. i’ve got you.”
y/n cries into him, words tumbling out between gasps. about how tired she is. how she feels like she’s failing. how she doesn’t feel enough.
jay listens to every word. he doesn’t interrupt. his jaw tightens with every shaky sentence she lets out.
when y/n finally runs out of breath, he pulls back just enough to look at her.
“hey,” he says softly but seriously. “look at me.”
she does.
“i need you to know something,” he says. “everything you’re saying about yourself? it’s not true.”
y/n shakes her head weakly. “it feels true.”
“i know,” he says. “and that’s why it hurts. but feelings aren’t facts.”
he presses his forehead to hers. “you’re allowed to fall apart. you’re allowed to be tired. but you don’t get to decide you’re worthless — not when i see you the way i do.”
her breath stutters.
jay wipes her tears with his thumb, careful and slow. “and next time you feel like this, you don’t sit on the floor alone. you come to me. no matter what.”
y/n nods, overwhelmed again, but this time in a softer way.
he helps her up, tucks her into bed, brings her water, stays sitting beside her until her breathing steadies.
he doesn’t leave until she’s asleep.
jake ₊˚⊹♡
jake realises something is wrong when y/n doesn’t smile back.
it’s such a small thing — she’s usually so quick to grin at him — but today, her expression barely changes. he watches her carefully for the rest of the afternoon, heart sinking with every quiet response.
that night, when y/n crawls into bed and turns away from him, he hesitates only a second before scooting closer.
“hey,” he whispers. “you okay?”
silence.
then her shoulders start shaking.
jake’s chest tightens painfully. “oh no,” he murmurs, immediately wrapping his arms around y/n from behind, pulling her against him.
she breaks.
her sobs are soft but desperate, like she’s trying not to fall apart even as she does. jake holds her tighter, face pressed into her hair.
jake pulls back just enough to turn her towards him. his eyes are shiny too.
“don’t apologise for crying,” he says quietly. “please don’t.”
y/n sniffles. “i just feel really alone.”
that does it.
jake’s expression crumples and he pulls her into his chest, one hand cradling her head, the other rubbing her back urgently, like he wants to fix everything at once.
“you’re not alone,” he says, voice thick. “i promise you’re not. i’m right here. i’m not going anywhere.”
y/n clings to him, sobbing harder now, and he lets her. he doesn’t try to calm her down too fast. he just rocks her gently, whispering reassurances between her breaths.
“i love you,” he murmurs. “even when you’re sad. especially when you’re sad.”
eventually, y/n’s cries fade into quiet sniffles. jake presses soft kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her knuckles.
“want me to stay up with you?” he asks. “or do you want to sleep?”
“…stay,” she whispers.
“always,” he says without hesitation, holding her until she drifts off.
sunghoon ₊˚⊹♡
sunghoon isn’t good with tears.
not because he doesn’t care — but because he cares too much, and he never knows what the right thing to do is. so when he hears the sniffle from the other room, his first instinct is to freeze.
then he hears it again. sharper. broken.
he’s at the door in seconds.
y/n is sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, hands twisted in the fabric of her sleeves. her eyes red. her lashes wet.
“oh,” he says quietly. “you’re crying.”
y/n lets out a weak, humourless laugh. “yeah. i noticed.”
sunghoon winces. “sorry. that was- bad wording.”
she sniffles, trying to wipe her face. he steps closer, hesitating like he’s afraid of doing the wrong thing.
“can i…?” he asks, gesturing vaguely towards her.
y/n nods.
sunghoon sits beside her, stiff at first, then slowly wraps an arm around her shoulders. his touch is careful, almost reverent, like he’s afraid she’ll break.
y/n leans into him instinctively, and something in his chest breaks at how easily she fits there.
“i don’t know what to say,” sunghoon admits quietly. “but i do know i don’t want you crying alone.”
that’s when the tears really spill.
y/n curls into him, face pressed into his shoulder, her sobs muffled. his arm tightens immediately, other hand coming up to rest awkwardly at her back.
“it’s okay,” he says, voice low and earnest. “you don’t have to be strong right now. you don’t have to explain.”
she shakes against him.
“i’m really bad at emotions,” he continues, almost apologetic. “but i care about you. a lot. so… even if i don’t always know what to do, i’ll stay.”
his words aren’t polished. they aren’t poetic.
but they’re real.
sunghoon presses a soft kiss to the top of y/n’s head, something he rarely does, and she clings to him like it’s grounding her.
later, when her breathing finally evens out, he hands her a glass of water, watches her drink, tucks a blanket around her with clumsy tenderness.
he stays up next to her in silence, just in case she starts crying again.
sunoo ₊˚⊹♡
sunoo notices immediately.
he always does.
the way y/n’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. the way her voice sounds thinner than usual. the way she sits a little farther away than she normally does.
he waits until they’re alone together, then gently takes her hand.
“hey,” he says softly. “you’ve been holding something in all day.”
y/n blinks at him, startled. “what?”
“yoy don’t have to pretend with me,” he continues, thumb brushing her knuckles. “something’s wrong.”
y/n’s throat tightens. the tears come before she can stop them.
sunoo’s expression softens instantly. he pulls her into his arms without hesitation, one hand cradling her head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles into her back.
“it’s okay,” he murmurs. “let it out.”
y/n cries quietly at first, embarrassed, but he just holds her closer.
“there’s nothing embarrassing about feeling things,” he says gently. “you’re human. you’re allowed to be overwhelmed.”
y/n sniffles. “i feel stupid for crying.”
sunoo pulls back just enough to look at her, brows knitting together. “hey. no. don’t talk about yourself like that.”
he cups her face, wiping away tears with his thumbs. “if something hurts you, it matters. even if you don’t know how to explain it yet.”
y/n nods weakly.
he presses his forehead to hers. “you don’t need to be okay right now. i’m here to carry some of it for you.”
she sobs again, but this time it’s softer. safer.
sunoo hums quietly, rocking her back and forth, whispering reassurances until her breathing steadies.
when y/n finally calms down, he smiles at her gently. “do you want tea, a blanket, or a distraction?”
“…all three?” she whispers.
he laughs softly. “coming right up.”
he tucks her into the couch, blankets piled high, tea warm in her hands. he stays close, shoulder pressed to hers, chatting quietly about nothing until the ache in her chest fades.
she falls asleep leaning against him, feeling lighter.
jungwon ₊˚⊹♡
jungwon doesn’t rush.
when he sees y/n’s eyes shining a little too much, when her answers get shorter, he doesn’t demand explanations. he just stays closer than usual. a hand on her back. a quiet glance that says i see you.
it’s only later, when they’re alone together, that y/n finally cracks.
they’re sitting side by side, not touching, staring at nothing. then her shoulders start to shake.
jungwon turns immediately.
“hey,” he says softly.
that’s all it takes.
y/n covers her face, a broken sound slipping out of her, and jungwon moves closer without hesitation. he pulls her into his chest, arms wrapping around her firmly, grounding, like an anchor.
“it’s okay,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you.”
she cries into his hoodie, fists clutching the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. he doesn’t try to stop her tears. he doesn’t rush her to calm down.
he just holds her.
his hand rests at the back of her head, fingers gently combing through her hair in slow, repetitive motions. his breathing is steady, deliberate — like he’s lending her his calm.
“you don’t have to explain right now,” jungwon says quietly. “you don’t owe me clarity. just… stay here.”
y/n nods weakly against him.
after a while, when the sobs turn into shaky breaths, he tilts his head down, forehead resting lightly against hers.
“you’ve been carrying a lot,” he says. “anyone would break under that.”
y/n’s eyes sting again. “i hate that i’m like this.”
jungwon pulls back just enough to look at her, eyes gentle but serious. “don’t say that. you’re not ‘like this’. you’re just human.”
he wipes her tears carefully, like each one matters.
“you don’t have to be strong all the time,” he continues. “you don’t lose value when you’re tired. or sad. or overwhelmed.”
sometimes in y/n’s chest loosens.
jungwon presses a soft kiss to her temple — brief, comforting, sincere — and pulls her back into his arms.
“i’m not going anywhere,” he says. “even when it’s messy.”
she falls asleep against him later, feeling safe in a way that doesn’t demand anything from her.
ni-ki ₊˚⊹♡
ni-ki notices when y/n goes quiet.
he pretends he doesn’t at first. pretends he’s not watching the way she avoids eye contact, the way her jaw tightens like she’s holding something back.
but when he hears her crying — really crying — all pretense drops.
“what happened?” he asks, already at her side.
y/n shakes her head, trying to wipe her face. “it’s dumb.”
ni-ki frowns immediately. “don’t say that.”
his tone isn’t gentle — it’s firm, protective. he crouches in front of her, forcing her to look at him.
“if you’re crying, it’s not dumb,” he says. “something hurt you.”
y/n’s lip trembles. the tears spill harder.
ni-ki swears under his breath, then pulls her into him suddenly, arms tight around her. she’s surprised by how warm he is, how secure his hold feels.
“hey,” he says, voice softer now. “i’ve got you.”
y/n clings to him, sobbing openly now, and he just lets her. one hand presses at her lower back, the other holding her head against his shoulder.
“you don’t have to be quiet,” he mutters. “you don’t have to be ‘easy’ to deal with.”
she sniffles. “i don’t want to be annoying.”
that makes ni-ki pull back slightly, eyes sharp. “you could never be annoying to me.”
he wipes her tears with his sleeve, a little clumsy, a little impatient — not at her, but at the fact that she’s hurting.
“if something’s wrong, you tell me,” ni-ki says. “even if you don’t know how to say it yet. i’ll figure it out.”
y/n laughs weakly through tears. “you sound very confident.”
he shrugs. “i am.”
then, quieter. “i hate seeing you like this.”
he presses his forehead to hers, thumbs brushing under her eyes. “you don’t have to deal with things alone anymore. that’s what being with someone means.”
y/n breathes him in slowly, grounding herself in his presence.
later, he makes her lie down, drapes a blanket over her, stays sitting on the floor beside the bed so she knows he’s still there.
when y/n reaches out sleepily, ni-ki immediately takes her hand.
“go to sleep,” he says softly. “i’ll be right here when you wake up.”
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cw. my attempt at humor and comedy, aged up riki (24), mentions of knives and weaponry, eating and food, violence, kidnapping, psychological and emotional distress, organized crime stuff duh, mature language (sexual innuendos, cursing), our pairing are essentially best friends that got married love this for them, blood and injury, trauma, plot twist (dun dun dunnnn), hurt/comfort, riki's a lil unstable but he means well
synopsis. he told you no, luckily for you—that was never anything you were used to hearing. riki, your headache and your whole damn world didn’t even want you stepping foot into the chaotic sphere that he calls his home. however, you were done playing housewife. but in a world where info is power and an achilles heel simultaneously, love (and riki's sanity) may not be enough to survive what’s next.
author's note!
ciao!! i've been working on this for some time (since may omg). it's been on my mind for some time and it feels good to get it off. i'm very proud of this. i'm down to make this into a part two because i still feel like this could be more. lmkkkk anyways enjoy <333!!
partially proofread which is progress for me!!
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Please?”
“No.”
You followed Riki downstairs, skirt swishing and Mary Janes clacking indignantly against the marble. The long, oversized button-up you wore—his, tailored for you—was the same deep navy as the one he was currently wearing. You always matched. It wasn’t optional. It was a language. A silent message. He didn’t look back.
He never did when he was irritated. Just kept walking, tall and terrifyingly composed, descending the staircase like a man on a mission, still calm under pressure. Black slacks sharp enough to slice, the soft sheen of luxury dress shoes hitting the floor like a metronome. Even without saying a word, Riki made the entire house hold its breath.
Kaminari wasn’t just a name. It was thunder, etched into Tokyo’s underworld like a scar. His great-grandfather had built it from blood and ash in the wreckage after World War II—when the country was fractured and men like him learned to make an empire from silence. Each generation added its layer: first muscle, then money, then myth.
And now, Riki.
Youngest leader in the syndicate’s history. Raised in marble halls and taught to slit throats with one hand while sipping tea with the other. A businessman on paper. A storm in a suit. And your husband.
Riki and you had been married for one year now, dated for three. Granted, your marriage had shocked a lot of people seeing as you married so young, both of you were twenty-three. But you were—are—in love and there’s nothing that could come between the two of you. He was your soulmate and you were his. That, you both were sure of.
So as you two walked to your kitchen, passing by staff and giving your maid—Clara—a kiss on the head and a ‘thank you’ as you both sat at the island to eat, you sighed in frustration. “Baby, please.”
Riki, eyes glued to his omelette as he settled into the seat. “I said no.” His dark hair fell over his forehead until he brushed it back—another small movement that looked like art. Now slicing into his food with the shiny utensils that had the family crest carved into them.
“Riki, I’m not asking to get in the field and hold a gun. I just want to…be an informant almost. Like your Oracle.” You turned to him, crossing your legs—not even wanting to touch your food now.
He furrowed his brow incredulously, “Oracle?” He muttered with a mouthful of eggs.
You nodded with a smile, “Mhm! Like the girl from Batman.”
“You’ve been watching too much TV, baby.”
You throw your hands up in frustration. “Because you won’t let me do shit besides that!” You whined, desperate to prove a point.
Since marrying Riki, you have taken up the cushy, spoiled housewife role. And while there was nothing wrong with that, after a while you started to feel antsy. You had bought every bag, every shoe, every diamond, every car, watched every show, even rented out Disneyland for you and Riki to enjoy one day just because you only wanted to go on the Radiator Springs ride. Even the Chanel Private Client Services wasn’t enough.
While you acknowledged the pleasures of being able to spend so indifferently, you started to get restless. There was something about the fact that he was able to go out every single day, going to be productive in more ways than one that made you feel almost…useless.
The staff around you stopped bustling, a bit shocked to hear your raise of voice. Even Clara paused, hands folded over a linen napkin, her gaze flicking to Riki like she wasn’t sure whether to intervene or bow out of the scene entirely.
Riki didn’t even blink. He just calmly chewed his omelette like your words bounced off that thick wall of stoicism he kept tightly bolted around anyone who wasn’t you. “I’m not telling you again.”
You didn’t care, you pressed further just because you knew you could. “I know I can do it.” You frowned, “I just wanna help. Most I’ll be doing is sitting at a desk and—”
His eyes looked ahead, nodding once at Clara after she slid him his poured glass of water. But you saw his fingers clamp around the glass. Paling, but his face wasn’t. Riki was calm, tempered as always. At least on the surface but he was patient with you. Something you took for granted. “You know what’s interesting about Oracle?” He said as he sipped his water. You didn’t answer verbally but nodded for him to continue.
“She’s sharp, stubborn, always ready and willing to help. A lot like you.” He gently stabbed the strawberry from the shared fruit bowl in the middle. “She helped Batman and Robin. An amazing partner, she was.” He chewed on the fruit.
You perked up, “See! Then I c—”
He calmly interjected, still not looking at you. But the vibrato of his voice verberated throughout the room. Bouncing off the walls, glass, and stainless steel. “But then one day, Joker shot her. Right in the back. And now she’s paralyzed.”
You blinked.
The sentence lingered in the air like smoke—harmless at first, until it filled your lungs. Riki still hadn’t looked at you. Still ate like nothing had shifted. But everything had.
The room was silent. Not the type of silence that asks to be broken—the kind that warns you not to try.
You swallowed. “That’s fiction,” you muttered, softer this time. “That’s not real.”
“Neither is invincibility,” he replied simply. “Not even for people who think they’re behind the screen.”
Finally, he glanced up at you—dark eyes laced with something you couldn’t name. Something heavier than anger, deeper than fear. “You think I’m keeping you out because I don’t think you’re capable?” He chuckled once, dry and humorless. “I’ve seen you lie through your teeth and charm your way out of federal security checkpoints. You’re brilliant. I’d trust you to run the whole damn empire if I died tomorrow.”
Your heart skipped.
He set his fork down. “But I’m not dead yet.”
Then he rose. Just like that.
You expected him to storm off, to make a scene. He didn’t. That wasn’t Riki. He just straightened his cuffs, softly kissed your cheek, gave Clara another kiss on the forehead, and walked out of the kitchen and to the front door with the kind of quiet command that made everyone else shrink. “I love you, angel. Love you too, Claraboo.”
The guards fell in around him, black suits rippling like shadows. “I love you too…” You whispered, but loud enough for him to hear it because you knew he wouldn’t leave until he heard you say it. And within seconds, the heavy front doors whispered shut, and the house exhaled a hush that felt a lot like defeat.
You stared at the imprint his coffee cup had left on the wooden coaster. Inherited empire, inherited fears. Same old script.
A gentle hand touched your shoulder. Clara. Cinnamon‑and‑steel Clara, who’d watched him grow from toddler to tycoon.
“Tea?” she offered.
You shook your head softly, leaning on the marble with your shoulders slumped and frown etched onto your face. “No thank you, Clara.”
The older woman had sort of become your best friend and aunt all rolled up in one over the last few years, sitting right where Riki did. She smiled bitterly as she rested her hand on your cheek. “Young master doesn’t mean to hurt you. Just doesn’t know how to let you help without feeling like he’s failing you.”
You blinked up at her, lips parting, but she beat you to the thought. “He thinks protecting you means keeping you in the dark. It’s not fair. But it’s what he was taught. The men before him—his grandfather, his brother, his father at first—they didn’t marry for love. They married for legacy. You? You’re the first thing he ever chose.”
Her thumb brushed along your cheekbone before dropping back to her lap.
“He’s scared.” She said it like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t something Riki would ever say himself. “Not of the enemies. Of what happens to him if something happens to you.”
You exhaled through your nose, scoffing softly at the bitter twist in your chest. “He could just say that.”
Clara smiled gently. “He could. But you married a yakuza, babygirl. Not a poet.”
You cracked a smile—small, but real.
“He’ll come around. Just don’t mistake his silence for stubbornness. That boy listens. Always has.”
Your eyes met hers, lashes trembling just a little, because you were tired. Not tired of him—never of him—but of what came with him. The silence. The walls. The feeling that even though you slept next to each other every night, there were parts of Riki that refused to come out from behind that iron curtain in his chest.
“He talks like someone who’s already buried a wife,” you muttered.
Clara sighs, “Because he’s seen it all of his life. Colleagues dying, their wives dying. His mother…” She trailed off.
Riki’s mother had been shot and killed when he was two. He hadn’t had any memories of her, just the things that his family wanted him to remember. All of his life he had heard stories of his mother’s laugh, how fun she was, and that one time she accidentally overheated the soup in the kitchen and made the pot boil over and explode all over the counter.
Riki had seen no point in being upset over it, he didn’t remember her. In his mind, there was no use mourning someone he never knew. She didn’t mean much to him until he brought you to meet his dad.
While you were in the parlor, leg bouncing and nearly hyperventilating, Riki and Mr. Nishimura were speaking in the hallway. Riki would never forget.
“Her laugh reminds me of your mother’s.”
That was all his father said. Stern and weathered, voice like gravel under boots, but his eyes softened for half a second—just one—as he looked past Riki into the parlor, where you sat nervously smoothing out your dress.
Riki stood there frozen. Because in all the years of funerals and retellings, of whispered stories around the dinner table and framed photographs that never moved from the shrine, not once had anyone ever made her real.
He’d never known her laugh. But apparently, you sounded like her when you did that thing—laugh with your whole chest, eyes squeezing shut, hands slapping his shoulder even when he barely cracked a joke.
That was the moment his mother became real—not a figment, not folklore.
And that was when fear sunk its teeth into him.
But Clara didn’t need to say anything. You knew. He knew. Everyone did and you couldn’t forget because he wasn’t going to let you.
So you sat there, knowingly and sighed in resignation. “I just…I love him and I want him to see me as an equal.” You brushed your hair back, jewelry cold on your warm face.
“He does, sweetie.” The elder nodded with an endearing smile. “He’s just a prideful and protective man raised by a lot of prideful and protective men. And sometimes that gets in the way. They’ll do anything to ensure the safety of each other. That’s how they were raised. You’re his world, don’t act like you don’t know.”
“I know,” you whispered as you stared down at your doll-like shoes. Rubbing them together lightly and creating a creaking sound with the coated leather.
Clara stood, brushing off her apron. “But if that’s not enough, then…just talk to him. Seriously,” she lightly pinched your cheek. “You know just like I do that he’ll listen.”
She left you with that, bowing before she went to go dust the living room.
And you stayed there, heart heavy and at this point, you felt like that same frown was going to become permanent. But you just turned to eat your breakfast.
Chewing on your omelette and it was cold and bitter, akin to what you thought battery acid could taste like. You frustratedly put the fork back on the plate, and just grabbed your apple juice. Leaving everything else in your wake.
—
Later that day
—
You lay in bed, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it owed you answers. The moonlight spilled through the blackout curtains, painting silver streaks across the sheets—cold and unforgiving.
Riki moved around the room with his usual quiet precision, the soft click of his dress shoes replaced by the muted sound of him slipping out of his clothes. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch when he pulled back the covers and settled beside you in just his briefs. He liked sleeping this way.
He glanced over, catching the set of your jaw, the silent storm brewing behind your eyes. His voice was low, cautious—the kind reserved for moments when words had failed too many times already.
“You still upset?”
You stayed quiet.
Your husband sighed as he stared at you, a mixture of pity and frustration. “I just want you to be safe…” He leaned up on his side as he tilted his head. An idea came to his head as he smiled softly. “I have good news.”
You tightened your arms, still looking to the ceiling and staying silent.
But he kept talking, “While I was out, I got those chocolates you liked. I know you haven’t been able to find them for months. They’re downstairs…I can have Clara bring them up for you.” He said hopefully but you still didn’t dignify it.
“And…tomorrow when I get back from work we can finally watch that show you’ve been wanting to. The Vampire Diaries you said?” He reached to lightly brush your cheek with the back of his hand, to which you almost fell for it then but you had more resolve. “I promise not to get jealous when you call that Klaus character sexy.” He smiled gently, hoping to make you laugh but to no avail.
“C’mon, my love.” Riki kissed your temple, “don’t be so mean to me.” He said with near desperation.
Your eyes flicked toward him for a split second. Just one. That was all he got.
He saw it, too.
“I’m not being mean,” you muttered finally, voice flat. “I’m just tired.”
Riki stilled. His hand dropped back to the sheets.
“That’s not what this is about and you know it,” he said, his voice quieter now, more careful. “You’re punishing me.”
You looked at him, “You’re underestimating me.”
He furrowed his brows, “I…no I’m not. I told you earlier. I have no doubts. I love you more than you could ever understand but…you’re naïve.” His gaze wavered for the first time you saw in him, fear. “A-And you get in over your head sometimes. I know you won’t be in direct danger but…it’s enough and that’s all I need to make me say no to you.”
You sat up, “I am not naïve!”
Riki smiled gently, nodding as he moved his hand to your waist. “Yes, you are.”
“Name one time.”
Riki held your gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was debating whether or not to say it. “One time?” he said softly. “Alright.”
He ran a hand through his hair, then let it fall to his lap. “That day you tried to drive yourself to Ryujin’s house across town because ‘it was just lunch.’ No guards. No heads-up.” He paused. “You didn’t notice the car that trailed you for ten blocks. You didn’t notice it double back when you stopped at the café. I did. Because I had someone watching.”
You blinked, jaw dropping in disbelief.
“You brushed it off when I brought it up. Said I was being paranoid. But that same car was on our street the next night.” He leaned in a little, voice lower now. “I didn’t tell you that part. Because I knew it would scare you. And I didn’t want you to feel guilty.”
He exhaled. “You’re amazing. Brave. Smarter than anyone I know. But baby…that’s what makes it worse. You think you can’t be touched.”
“Have you…been touched?” You whispered in defeat.
“Me?” He snorted, “Fuck no,” letting out a small laugh.
“Riki…” you whined as you leaned back onto the headboard with a pout.
“What?” He laughed, but quietly gathered himself for you. “I’m sorry, but no. I haven’t but that’s because this is something that I was born into?” He said it as if it was obvious—because it was. “You married into this life and this is just something you’d have to learn. But it’s been four years of me keeping you away from it and it will stay that way until we both croak over.” Riki nods affirmatively as he lays back down on his back. Eyes leering at the ceiling the same way you were.
A beat of silence fell over you two. You hated to push him, but this was the last time you would. “Okay but…at least think about this. I married you because I love you.” You huffed, looking at the ceiling as well. “You, our union, this ring, our family name…it means the world—the universe and galaxy—to me. But I swore to love, honor, and respect you in sickness and health, for rich or poor. But…” You turned to him with gentleness in your eyes.
“I promised to protect the integrity of the Nishimura name. That I wouldn’t shame this family, myself, or you. That by becoming Mrs. Nishimura, there’s tremendous responsibility and I’m ready for all of it.” You tenderly pecked his lips, to which he quickly reciprocated. “I love you, and if I ever do anything to make you think I cannot handle this…then pull me out. But don’t just say no if we haven’t even seen how I would do.”
Riki didn’t respond right away. You watched his chest rise and fall, steady, like he was working through every word you’d just said.
Then, slowly, he turned his head toward you.
“…Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll think about it.”
You blinked, surprised he hadn’t shut it down completely. But before you could say anything, he leaned over and kissed your forehead—then your lips. It lingered this time. Less reflex, more emotion.
“Goodnight, baby,” he murmured against your mouth.
You nodded, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “Goodnight.”
He waited until your breathing evened out beside him. Waited until your hand slipped from his chest and onto the pillow.
Then, carefully, Riki slipped out of bed and into a silk robe.
He moved quietly, barely letting the bedroom door creak open before he was down the hall, bare feet silent against the marble.
—
The door clicked shut behind him. Clara glanced up from her desk, already halfway into her second espresso. She didn’t even look surprised.
“I figured you’d come,” she said, setting her cup down. “You only knock when it’s about her.”
Riki didn’t smile. Just stood there for a second.
Then: “What do I do?”
Clara smiled fondly, “What you think is best, son.” As she sipped her coffee.
Riki sat down on the chair in front of her desk with a sigh. “But that’s why I came to ask you.” He gestured to the elder with an annoyed expression but quickly hid it as he actually had respect for her. “She made a good point. Too good. I just don’t want her to get taken advantage of. I don’t want her to lose her light the way so many of us did.”
Clara laughed, “You still have your light, Riki.” She leaned back in her chair as she adjusted her glasses. “You didn’t always have it…but she gave it back to you.”
He nodded with a firm look. “She did. She’s my light. She’s my—oh gosh—” Riki exhaled firmly as he buried his head in his hands, slightly shaking as he bounces his leg. Anxiety peeking through. “I can’t lose her. I won’t. I will not end up like my dad. I refuse to.” He shakes his head vehemently, his black hair falling in his face to which he swiftly pushes it back.
“She’s strong. You’re even stronger. Use your strength to help her get there. She just wants you to meet her halfway. That’s all she needs from you.” Clara said softly. “She’s capable and you know it. I believe so.”
Riki looks up at her through hooded lids. “You think so?”
Clara nodded, “I know so.” She stood up and beckoned him to follow her. “Come on,”
He complied and followed her to the east wing of the home—where his office resided. She used her key to open it and walked to his file cabinet and pulled out a black folder and handed it to him. “Here.”
The tall man scanned the folder and looked up at her. “What’s this for?”
“A test.” she said simply. “Start small. Give her something to handle. If she can carry it—then you talk.”
Riki stared at the folder, thumb brushing over the edge.
“You sure?”
Clara’s eyes didn’t waver. “I’ve never been more.”
—
You sat in the living room, watching another installment of some YouTube gameplay of a horror game. After last night, you had hope. Hope that something in the universe would change the mind of your vexingly stubborn husband. That for once he’d let you have a little more agency than he’d let you have any other day.
Though, please don’t misunderstand. Riki wasn’t controlling by any means. He let you do and practically say whatever you wanted. You spent his money, were able to go out at your leisure (not without security), utilize…him as much as you wanted. But especially, he let you argue.
Riki never let anyone argue. Being the man he was, prideful and a leader, his word was always going to be the last one. It was his way or no way, and this was the first time he had fought you so hard on something as this only made you want it more. You wanted to help, of course. But you just wanted to be more important to him than you already were.
You knew that he loved you, you had never in the four years that you were together doubted the affection he held for you. You had just wished that he let you have a little more freedom.
So you adjusted yourself on the couch, your shorts twisting and crop top riding up just a little but it didn’t matter because you had a throw blanket on. Riki entered the living room with something hidden behind his back. “Hello, my love.”
You furrowed your brows, “What are you doing?”
He shrugged as he padded over to the couch and plopped beside you with a knowing smirk. You turned off the TV and turned to face him, giving him your undivided attention. “I have to talk to you about something serious.”
You frowned, “If this is about yesterday then I—” He shook his head with a smile now, “Ancient history, passé.”
Growing suspicious, you hugged the blanket close to you. “Okay?”
He revealed a black folder from behind him and flashed it with a smile. “Ta-da!”
You shrug, “A black folder. Wow…”
He smacked his teeth with a grunt. “Take it,” he said gently, smiling with tenderness.
You grabbed the folder reluctantly, opening it to sift through it: three different color USBs, CCTV stills, ledger excerpts, and then a sealable, ivory envelope with a Kaminari recommendation card on it.
Your heart dropped, tears welling up in your eyes as you looked at him. “No…”
He nodded, smiling, “Yes, but only if—”
You cut him off by throwing yourself on top of him in excitement. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” The black folder behind you now and your legs tangled with his as you held his face between your hands, kissing him once, twice, a third time just to make sure this was real.
Riki laughed into your lips, arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like the choice didn’t shake him a little too. Like giving you this meant everything would be fine. “Wait, woah slow down.” He smiled, “there’s something else too. Come with me.” He stroked your cheek as he helped you up and off of the couch, grabbing the folder.
Without a word, you followed him to the east wing as if you were going to his office. But then you made a strong left. This house was so big that there were rooms you hadn’t even seen yet; and you’d been living here for two years. But he handed you a key to a door, the door being right down the hall from his.
You took it without a word and unlocked the door to see an office of your own. A pink, girly office.
You stepped inside slowly, mouth parting in a silent gasp. It was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in soft morning light. White marble floors. Blush-toned walls. Shelves already stocked with delicate file boxes, soft leather notebooks, gold-trimmed pens, and what looked like a crystal lamp shaped like a cherry blossom. Then you looked around in the corner of the room, a plush carpet and loveseat with a mini-fridge.
There was a glass desk in the center, wide and sleek, with your name engraved on a pink acrylic placard: Mrs. Nishimura—but underneath, in smaller script, it read:
Behavioral Intelligence Officer
Your knees buckled a little.
“Riki…” you breathed, turning around with trembling hands. “What is this?”
He stood at the doorframe like he wasn’t watching your entire soul ascend out of your body. His smile was slow, private. “This is where you’ll work from now on. The folder stays here. You get full clearance, unmonitored access, your own contact line with everyone, and burner accounts we’ll rotate weekly.”
You stared at him, absolutely speechless.
“You said you wanted to help,” he added softly. “But more than that…you wanted me to treat you like a partner. So here you go. This is me treating you like a partner.”
Tears filled your eyes again, but this time they didn’t sting. They shimmered.
“And I don’t have to…ask permission to come in here?” you asked, still stunned.
Riki shook his head, stepping in and running his hands up your arms. “This is yours. It’s your space, your case, your decisions.” He paused. “I’ll still worry, and I’ll still protect you. That’s not up for debate. But this—” He looked around. “This is where I start learning how to let go a little.”
You threw your arms around his neck again, burying your face into his shoulder. “I’m gonna cry all over this expensive-ass marble.” He let out a breathy laugh as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Don’t. I don’t want a slip and fall one day in.” Kissing your temple lovingly, his voice softening. “I love you, you’re Mrs. Nishimura. Not just in love, but in title and it’s time we all started acting like it.”
You peeled off and pulled him down a bit to lay your lips onto his. Resting your hands on his nape as you kissed him like it was the last thing you’d ever do.
Riki, letting out a groan as he picked you up off of your feet, grabbing your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist. He smiled into the kiss as he massaged your ass in his large hands. “Should’ve done this sooner.”
“Mhm,” you hummed into the exchange as you tilted his head back to start showing his neck some attention.
Riki’s pulse thrummed beneath your lips, his head tipping back just enough for you to taste the faint salt of his skin and the trace of expensive cologne he only ever wore for you. His breath caught—low, rough, entirely at odds with the marble‑cold composure everyone else knew.
He shifted, pressing you against the edge of your new desk. The glass was cool, a soft contrast to the heat rolling off the two of you.
“Careful,” you whispered, teasing your teeth along his jaw. “That’s my desk now.”
He hummed, voice vibrating against your mouth. “Then I guess I’ll just have to get used to doing things your way.”
His hands skimmed up the backs of your thighs, thumbs drawing lazy circles that made you shiver. The black folder still sat secure on the far corner—close enough to remind you why you were here, but far enough to keep from shattering the moment. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—dark, dilated, a storm held only by sheer will. “Thank you,” you murmured. “For trusting me.”
He brushed a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering at your cheek. “Thank you for demanding it.”
The weight of those words settled between you—equal parts promise and permission. He leaned in again, slower this time, lips hovering at the shell of your ear.
“Lock the door, Officer,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “We must discuss business.” You squealed in glee as you hopped off the desk and closed the door, clicking the lock and scampering to your desk chair to sit dramatically. Crossing your legs like this was your throne and you were about to speak to one of your subjects. “Behavioral Intelligence Officer speaking,”
Riki smiled at your corniness. “Woah there, Powerpuff Girl. We gotta lay down the ground rules first.” He leaned against your desk, half sitting—his long legs in his signature black slacks looked you in the eye.
Raising your brows in curiosity, you knew this was coming. “Rules?”
He nodded once, “Rules. There are quite a few.”
“What are these rules?” You grabbed the folder to open it but he quickly took it from you, barely leaning forward as his long arms made quick work. “Hey!” You tried to grab it back.
He held the folder out of reach and held his hand up. “Nope, I need your attention.”
You huffed in frustration and leaned back in your chair. “Okay, you got it.”
He nodded, something behind his eyes switching. That domestic, loving, caring husband disappeared and now thunder, cold, and firm boss made an appearance. This is how you know he was being totally serious. “Rule one: you never—and I mean ever—do anything without consulting me. You report to me, you run things by me, you address me. This goes for everyone in the organization. I am the boss, I am your leader, I will be respected as such.”
Your eyes widen at his unyielding tone; unsure whether to find this scary or sexy. But you concede, “Okay. Number two?”
Riki nodded, “Number two: one-way door policy. Do you know what that means?” He tilted his head.
You shook your head with wide eyes. “No,”
He smiled politely, “It means that whatever comes in here, stays here. That folder? Stays here. External drives, put it in the safe.” He points to the hidden safe behind the big picture frame of you two, the photo of him proposing to you in Cabo. “Don’t screenshot anything. Don’t even mention anything outside of here. The only other place that’s acceptable is my office. Understood?”
You nod, “That makes sense, I get it. Understood.”
“Good. Number three: when this button lights, pick up your phone. It means there’s an emergency and someone needs to get a hold of you.” He nods to the clear knob on your PC keyboard. “We haven’t had a situation where we’ve needed to do it for years. But it’s necessary. Simple.” He claps his hands as she slowly paces the room now.
“Next rule: Every accusation needs proof. Time, place, motive. You can’t just say you have a gut feeling. I would believe you if you spat on me and told me it was rain. But here, we need proof. No baseless accusations. This goes for everyone, even me.” He put his hands in his pockets, as he looked at the marble floor. Letting himself think, doing that thing with his tongue-in-cheek. “Any questions thus far?”
Even with receiving all of this information, you shook your head. “No, keep going.”
“Beautiful,” he half-smiles. “Number four, this is a special rule: mental health days for you. Brains work better when they’re not being fried. Take a day to decompress, all of our problems will be there when you get back. And you will stop working at midnight, every night. No exceptions—I’m not going to explain it.” He said firmly. “A few more rules.”
He stopped walking to look you in the eye. “You only break rules to save a life, not for curiosity. It’s cute in a mystery film but people’s lives are at stake everyday here, don’t just do shit for the fun of it.” He comes back to his slow pacing.
“Third to last rule: this,” He gestured around the room, “is all yours. But this position isn’t a sure thing—”
Your jaw dropped, “Riki—” you whined in protest, finding it to be unfair.
“I’m speaking.” He held his finger up to silence you, to which you complied. Cowering in your seat as you looked at him with a pout.
“You’re going to be headed into this with little training. You’re not used to being under constant pressure, sometimes when you aren’t used to that…well…” He shrugged, “you can choke.” Riki sighed.
“You think I’m gonna choke?” You applied pressure to your tone, tilting your head in confusion. “I thought you said I was capable.”
Riki’s jaw flexed, eyes flicking up to meet yours—and for a moment, the weight of all this vanished. He looked at you like he always did: like you were the sun wearing heels, a hurricane with heart. But even so, his voice stayed firm.
“I know you’re capable,” he corrected. “But being capable and being ready aren’t the same thing. This isn’t a trust fall, baby. If you fall, someone could die.”
You stared at him. The silence between you stretched just long enough to feel like a power shift. Like you weren’t his wife at that moment—you were his kobun, his chosen partner, sure. But still…new.
You swallowed your pride and gave a tight nod. “Alright. Next rule?”
He sighed again, knowing this one would damper you a little. “No pet names. No ‘baby,’ no ‘my love,’ no ‘babe,’ ‘babe-arsaurus.’”
“Not babe-asaurus!”
He gave you a flat look. “Especially not babe-asaurus. We’re not at home. You wanna call me something cute, you do it in the kitchen.”
You snorted, arms crossed as you leaned back in your chair. “So dramatic.”
“I’m serious.” He circled back behind your desk, hands coming to rest on the armrests as he leaned in close. “Pet names blur the lines. And here, we don’t blur lines.”
You blinked. “Okay, edgelord.”
He grinned against your cheek, voice dropping again into that teasing warning. “Keep it up and the next rule’s gonna be ‘no lip gloss if you’re gonna talk back.’”
You raised your brows, daring him. “You gonna confiscate it?”
He took your gloss right out of your shorts pocket like he knew exactly where it was. “First offense: warning. Second offense? I keep it. Third…” He leaned in and whispered against your jaw, “You come to my office to earn it back.”
“Ooh…” you smile as you nuzzle his neck then pull back. “Am I speaking to my husband or Kaminari?”
He smiled back, “Both…but I’m serious.” He raised his brows, “No names.”
You smacked your teeth, “Okay ba—I mean—sir.”
Riki smiled kneeling in front of your chair now. “That turns me on too, but final rule. And it’s the one I’ll break before I ever let you break it.”
He leaned forward, holding your face in his hands. His cool rings melted against your cheeks as he looked you in the eye. “No lying,” he said. “To me. Ever. If you’re scared, tell me. If you messed up, tell me. If you don’t know what to do, you come to me. We do not lie to each other.”
This was an unspoken rule, not only in your career but in your marriage too. The only lie that Riki had ever told you was that he was going to work but was going ring shopping instead.
With the candor of his own family—meaning that Riki’s family physically never lied to each other—he saw that lying was the ultimate form of betrayal. The only time that lies were acceptable were under moments of extreme duress (e.g. his job).
When you two had discussed deal breakers on your first date he had said ‘lying’ before the question even left your mouth. And funnily enough, he never lied to you. He just withheld things or simply never brought things up until you asked.
He never spoke about work, and if you asked about his day then it was: “Today was shitty.” Or “It was good. Just work.” Or “Productive, fortunately.” He never wanted you to know anything because knowing means danger and danger means you die. And it’s not paranoia! No. Never.
If you asked how a pair of jeans looked on you and he didn’t think they suited you then he’d give a simple “You’ve got better ones, my love.”
Riki’s brand of honesty wasn’t mean—just wrapped in a velvet glove with iron beneath. Never cold, never cruel, never abrasive. He just valued the truth and gave it to you whether you liked it or not. Simply, he’d want the same thing from you. He’d rather you hurt his feelings with the truth now than hurt it even more with a lie if—and when—he found out. You never lied to him, even when the truth would hurt more.
So now, as he knelt in front of you, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like you were made of glass and fire at the same time, it wasn’t just a rule. It was another vow. Not just for the sake of your marriage but your new dynamic.
“Not even if it’ll hurt you?” You whispered, leaning your forehead on his.
He closed the gap a little, leaning to place a gentle kiss on your lips; letting it linger. “Especially then,”
“…Is this the part where I get my badge and cool-girl gun holster?” you mumbled against his mouth.
He snorted, pulling back. “You are so annoying.”
“Hot and annoying,” you corrected, poking his chest.
“Yeah, unfortunately,” he sighed, mock-disappointed, before grabbing the case file from the desk. “Alright, dude. Let’s ruin someone’s day.”
—
Riki sat on the edge of your desk again, this time with the folder open in his lap, flipping through it casually—composed as usual. “We have a leak,” he said simply.
Your brows pulled together. “Internal?”
He nodded once. “High-level. The kind of leak that gets people killed.”
You leaned forward in your chair, pulse ticking up. “What kind of intel got out?”
“Shipment logs. Safehouse rotations. Even a few agent profiles,” he said, tapping the page with the back of his ringed hand. “All routed through dead drops in Nishiyama territory. No digital trail. Clean. Old-school.”
You scoffed under your breath, “So we’re dealing with a professional.”
“We’re dealing with a mole.” His voice hardened like concrete setting. “Someone inside Kaminari is feeding information to the Nishiyama syndicate. Which means one of ours is playing both sides.”
You blinked. “A double agent?”
He met your gaze with a heavy look. “Exactly.”
You swallowed. This wasn’t just a briefing. This was serious. “You already have a suspect?”
“I’ve got three.” He flipped to the next tab. “Some important people. Social Liaison, Yuna. Logistics, Jo. Then Sohee, the Accountant. All had access to the stolen intel.”
You reached out, but Riki didn’t hand over the folder yet. “Your objective,” he said, his tone dropping into something deadly smooth, “is to make contact with all three. Casually. I want your read on them. Behavioral patterns. Speech tells. Any inconsistencies.”
You raised a brow. “You want me to profile them.”
“I want you to read them like a book, baby,” he said, before catching himself—then exhaling. “Sorry. Not on the job.”
You smiled a little. “Slipped out. I’ll allow it.”
He looked at you, seriously now. “You’re not just my wife here. You’re the only person I trust to do this clean. No bias, no noise. I don’t need proof yet. I need instinct. Which might contradict a rule but you aren’t making a move yet. That’s up to me…or maybe you depending on how this goes.”
“And if my gut tells me who the leak is?”
He nodded. “Then we build the case. Surveillance, comms trace, movement logs. But you’re the first step.”
You inhaled. “Understood. Where do I start?”
Riki handed you the folder at last.
“Page one. Then you come to the compound with me tomorrow morning.” He smiled, tilting his head.
You stood with slight nervousness, shaking your hands as if the feeling was water and you needed to let it dry. “Tomorrow?” You muttered as you paced in front of him slowly. “I’m going tomorrow?”
Riki smiled at your demeanor, “Yes, you will be coming with me tomorrow.”
“What? So like, do I go in a disguise or something?” You stopped and put your hands on your head dramatically, cropped shirt lifting just a tad to reveal the hem of your bra. Not that you cared, Riki had seen you as naked as the day you were born.
Letting out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners and that was enough to soothe you. Hearing him laugh. “Sure.” He crossed his arms. “Your disguise will be ‘my wife.’” Riki leaned off of the desk as he approached you. “You’re just going to talk to them. Like I said…read them. Point out red flags, assess a possible motive. But even then, you are not to engage further. No strong-arming. That’s my job.”
“Because you’re mean to people.”
Riki snorted. “I’m not mean. I’m...assertive.”
You raised a brow. “You once threatened to staple someone’s tongue to a desk.”
He held up a finger. “Because he lied. With confidence. That’s worse.”
You blinked. “You smiled while doing it.”
“And I was right,” he replied, smug as hell.
You muttered something about psycho husbands under your breath and flipped open the folder anyway. Inside were three crisp profiles: one woman, two men. All clean-cut. All smiling in their ID photos. Like one of them could’ve handed someone a kill order and then gone out for ice cream after.
Your stomach twisted just a bit.
“You good?” Riki asked softly.
You nodded. “Yeah. Just a lot to take in.”
He paused, reading you again like he always did—too carefully, too much like someone who knew every version of you. The tough one. The soft one. The one who panicked over brunch menus and the one who could lie on cue if called for it.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said quietly. “To me. Or anyone else.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. “That’s funny. I thought this whole thing was a test.”
“Oh it is,” Riki pursed his lips. “And you do have something to prove, I just wanted to make you feel better.”
“Whatever happened to not lying?” You furrowed your brows, now getting irritated that he was making a joke of you.
Riki didn’t flinch. “I’m not lying. I’m softening the blow. Totally different.”
You scoffed, folding your arms. “Feels the same from where I’m standing.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your spine straighten. “If I didn’t think you could handle it, you wouldn’t be here. I don’t hand out assignments because of marriage certificates.”
You held his gaze, jaw tight.
“So yeah,” he continued, “it’s a test. But not of your worth. Of your readiness.”
Your heart beat just a little harder at that. Not because you were scared—but because you hated how much you cared about passing. How much you wanted him to see you pass.
“…Still feels like lying,” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes.
“Then lie back,” he said, almost a whisper now, brushing a knuckle down your arm. “But I owe you a receipt, though.” Riki pouted his lips mockingly.
“A receipt?” Your eyes flitted to the side for a moment in confusion.
“Mhm,” he hummed as he sharply pulled you in by your biceps, your chest meeting his upper abdomen as he towered over you. “Don’t think I forgot the tone you took with me yesterday morning.”
Your heart raced and the breath caught in your throat like it had something to lose. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was firm enough to remind you: Riki didn’t bluff.
“I had to assert myself,” you said, chin tipping up even as your voice dipped lower.
Riki smirked, eyes flickering between yours. “Oh, you asserted something, alright. Had me rethinking our marriage vows halfway through my eggs.”
“Should’ve read the fine print,” you quipped, trying to deflect the way your pulse was going off like sirens under your skin.
His smile widened just a bit—dangerous and sweet, like a dare in the dark. “Fine print said mutual respect,” he murmured. “And you disrespected your superior officer, baby.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Superior officer? That’s what we’re doing now? You get off on that?”
“I get off on putting you in your place.” He stroked your cheek with his knuckle as he leaned in, grazing his nose with yours. “I think you forgot who you married.” Something behind his eyes flickered, something dark, menacing, and slightly sinister.
He leaned back as he scanned your body. “Go to our room,” he said, voice low and unshakable. “Lose the attitude—and the clothes. I want both off by the time I walk in.”
—
Getting ready the next morning at six ante meridiem was the hardest thing you’ve had to do in a very long time. You don’t know how Riki did it. If it was a solid nine then that was right up your alley. And considering the events of last night, your husband wasn’t exactly forgiving. You were sore as a bitch, with every part and limb aching.
Nevermind your glorious dream about riding unicorns in the rain. It didn’t matter because it wasn’t rain, it was your despicable husband shaking his wet hair in your face as your wake up call.
“Grand rising, beloved!” He beamed with a boyish smile.
You jumped up, clenching the linen sheets to your bare chest and gasping for air. “Oh my God.” You grunted as you swung on him, hitting his bare arm. “You’re such an asshole! Fuck you, you scared the shit out of me!” You’re still spent for air as you fell back on the bed and he was towering over you from beside the bed, laughing from the pit of his gut.
He grinned, completely unbothered by your assault. “Don’t be mad. You looked peaceful. Like Snow White, but, like...if Snow White had a felony record.”
You tossed a pillow at him, which he caught easily with one hand, the other holding his towel around his waist. “I’m not the one with the felony fucking record.”
“Well technically I don’t. But if I did then I’ll add something else to my list if you don’t get up.” He tossed the pillow back at your face. You launched yourself at him like vengeance itself, arms wrapping around his neck as you tackled him backward. The towel slipped just enough to make it personal.
“I hate you,” you growled, even as laughter bubbled in your throat.
He caught you mid-flight with that irritatingly perfect upper-body strength, stumbling a little before regaining balance. “Lies,” he muttered against your shoulder. “You were just singing my praises last night.”
“That wasn’t singing, that was—” you cut yourself off, groaning as you buried your face in his collarbone. “I’m too tired for this. Let’s call in rich.”
“We are rich,” he said, smug. “But we’re also very much still showing up, because I’m not digging the ‘sore and cranky’ excuse from you today.”
You sighed and looked up at him, “I would kiss you but you pissed me off and I have morning breath.”
Riki smirked, unfazed, and leaned in anyway. “Lucky for you, I have a piss kink and no sense of smell.”
You smacked his chest, scandalized. “Riki!”
He just laughed, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Relax, I brushed my teeth for both of us.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not how hygiene works.”
“It is in marriage,” he said, already walking away like he didn’t just say the most obscene things before the Lord Himself was awake. “Now move it. We’ve got a mole to sniff out.”
You stared after him. “I swear, I’m calling HR.”
“I am HR.” he yelled from the bathroom. “You have two hours.”
God help you.
—
“Okay, so what’s the plan?” You exhaled shakily, trying to rub the sweat off of your palms and onto the leather seats of black car.
“My love, you asked like twi—”
“I don’t care, I’m asking again.” You looked out of the car window, watching the trees turn to mush and blur as the car sped through the highway.
“Three people, one woman: Jung Yuna. Two men: Asakura Jo, and Lee Sohee.” He said, carefully, as he soothed your nerves, gently massaging your thigh. “Leak. You’re going to talk to them, get a feel for their personalities. Just…get to know them. That’s all.” He pressed a tender kiss to your shoulder.
“Okay,” you huffed. “Simple enough.”
Riki gave a soft hum. “Simple, yes. Easy?” He flicked his eyes toward you, a warning there. “Not even a little.”
You glanced at him. “What’s the catch?”
He didn’t answer immediately, just adjusted his grip on your thigh and dropped his voice. “One of them’s working with a third-party buyer. We don’t know who. We don’t know why. But we know it’s internal.”
Your brows furrowed. “And they don’t know we know?”
“Exactly. As far as they’re concerned, I’m bringing my sweet, unassuming wife for a fun day at work. Yuna knows me. Jo doesn’t trust me. And Sohee…” he trailed off, pausing. “Sohee thinks he’s smarter than everyone in the room.”
You clicked your tongue. “So you want me to play dumb.”
Riki’s lip curled into that crooked smirk—the one that always meant trouble. “Not dumb. Charming. A little naïve, maybe. But observant. You’re not interrogating them. You’re studying them. I want your instincts, not your analysis.”
“So this is ‘vibes-based’ intel?” You made quotation marks with your fingers.
“This is you-based intel.” His hand slid up your thigh, fingers curling gently. “You see people. You’ve always seen me—even when I didn’t want you to. That’s your edge.”
You fell silent for a beat. “If I’m the edge, what are you?”
“The blade,” he said simply. “So keep it cute. I’ll do the cutting if we have to.”
You let out a breath, heart pounding as the trees blurred past faster now. “Okay. Let’s find our mole.”
—
You entered the expansive compound, smiling and waving at the different people. At times—and the very few times you’ve been here—you forget that this is an organized crime group and not an organization, a conglomerate even.
And seeing Riki walk in here was like seeing a switch flip and the light turn on. Gone was your generous, funny, doting lover and now straight-faced, strict, articulate Komichō. It was slightly overwhelming to be able to see someone just turn themselves on and off like that.
So when he walked in, every person lined up to greet him. His kobun, bloodbound kobun. Trained, loyal, and unshakably his.
They bowed—not out of introduction, but acknowledgment. You weren’t a stranger here, not technically. They knew your face. They’d watched you stand beside Riki in silk and gold, watched you kiss him with a thousand eyes on your back. But none of them knew you.
Not really.
So when you walked in today—no veil, no curated elegance, no fanfare—there was a shift. A flicker in the way some of them looked at you. You were here, which meant something had changed. You weren’t just the wife anymore. You were part of the inner workings now. At least you and Riki knew that.
Still, he said nothing else. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough to quiet any question before it could rise. But the way his hand hovered at your back—subtle, protective, claiming—told the whole room that you weren’t just tagging along. You were trusted.
A few of them looked surprised.
One or two looked uneasy.
And at least one looked curious.
You kept your posture steady, offering a nod of acknowledgment. Cool. Collected. Just another day casually stepping into your husband’s criminal empire. Totally fine. Absolutely fine. Zero panic.
Riki leaned in just enough to brush his lips against your temple. “They remember the wedding,” he murmured, “but they don’t know you.”
“Good,” you replied under your breath.
He smirked. “That’s my girl.”
—
You strolled into one of the lounges, making decent use of your time here. You were careful to not immediately get to work as you didn’t want to make yourself super obvious. So here you were, walking around, scaring Heeseung—head of operations—every now and then just because you could. But after about thirty minutes, you decided to pull the trigger on this.
Your eyes found Sohee sitting at one of the many tables, tip-tapping away at something on his laptop. Presumably not work-related because this was considered a breakroom. But Riki wasn’t that strict, he didn’t care where the work got done—as long as it was in the building and nowhere else.
Putting on a friendly smile, you approached the table with politeness. “Hi, Sohee. How are you?”
The guy looked up from his laptop, the blank stare turning to a smile that mirrored your own. “Okaasan, I’m doing fine. You?”
You waved him off with a smile, telling him to drop the formalities and that calling you by your name was more than fine. But he didn’t comply, stating that Riki insisted that they call you Mrs. Nishimura or Okaasan.
“No, I’m telling you to call me by my first name. Please, it’s okay.” Smiling, nodding your head to ensure he felt a little more comfortable in this exchange. Being on a first-name basis establishes comfort. If there’s that then the conversation won’t be so rigid.
Sohee smiled gently, being slightly flustered at your friendliness. He hadn’t spoken to you ever and only knew you in passing. He was at the wedding like most of the group but besides that there were very little interactions between you and the other affiliates. No one knew about you aside from Riki’s close friends—some of whom were a part of the group and his groomsmen, and his family by the time of the ceremony. “Of course…” He rubbed his eyes, “But yeah, I haven’t seen you since the wedding. Tell me about married life, how’s it treating you?”
You slid into the seat across from him, adjusting your blouse just slightly as you crossed one leg over the other. A friendly smile stayed on your lips, but your eyes had already started their sweep—watching his fingers, his posture, how fast he minimized whatever was on his screen.
“Oh, you know,” you started, tone breezy like the back patio of a brunch spot. “We argue about whether the AC should be at sixty-eight or seventy-two, and then he kisses me. Classic honeymoon phase stuff.”
Sohee laughed politely, but you noticed the slight tug at his lip—like he was trying to decide if it was okay to really laugh. That was good. You liked that.
“It’s different though,” you continued, tilting your head thoughtfully. “Being someone’s girlfriend, and then suddenly you’re…really a part of their life. Your world is one, I guess. Still getting used to the perks.”
He snorted at that, relaxing a little. “I mean, if by perks you mean the estate and a guy named Chan who opens your car door every morning—yeah, not bad.”
You let out a soft laugh. “Exactly. And the complimentary paranoia’s cute too.”
Sohee’s eyes flicked up at you, and for a second, you saw the calculation behind the smile. He was smart. They wouldn’t have put him over logistics if he wasn’t. “You say that like you weren’t built for this. I mean, most people around here kind of expected you to be the accessory. No offense.”
You smiled wider at that. “None taken. Accessories don’t walk themselves in here and sit across from the guy who tracks where all the money goes.”
He stilled—just barely—but you caught it. Bingo.
Before he could volley back, you softened your voice, brushing invisible lint off your sleeve. “Anyway. I’m not here to scare anyone. I’m here to get to know people. Riki’s always talking about how tight-knit the team is. Family, right?”
Sohee nodded slowly, and you could practically hear the mental gears clicking. “Yeah. Family.”
“And family talks,” you said lightly. “Even if it’s just about what’s stressing them out…or keeping them up at night.”
He leaned back slightly, tilting his head. “That’s a very specific way to phrase that.”
You looked at him with a half-smile. “Well. I’m a very specific kind of person. Plus, I spend his money, I gotta make sure it gets where it has to be right?” You try to break the subtle change in vibe with a joke. He bites, somewhat relieved that the woman who has the power to either put him on the unemployment line or in a body bag wasn’t taking him too seriously.
Despite that, you took it for what it was and whatever he was giving you. Before either of you can stretch the silence too far, the door swings open.
“Heard there were pastries in here,” a voice calls out playfully, and in walks Yuna—light on her feet, dressed like her outfit alone had a LinkedIn profile, and confident like someone who always gets the last word.
Her gaze slides over the room, landing on you and Sohee.
“Oh,” she says, lips curving upward as she closes the distance. “Didn’t know this was a members only table.”
You gesture to the seat beside you. “Not at all. I was just catching up with Sohee. Join us.”
Sohee stands halfway out of his seat in reflex—a gentleman or a little afraid, who’s to say—before awkwardly sitting back down once Yuna waves him off.
“So,” she says as she takes a seat, folding her arms on the table and angling herself toward you. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding. You were a vision by the way. I mean, the ceremony? You two could’ve had a Vogue cover, just stunning.”
You chuckle, nodding politely. “Thank you. It was a blur, but I do remember crying over my lashes right before walking down the aisle.”
Yuna laughs, then tilts her head a little. “So, married life? How’s it been? I imagine being Mrs. Nishimura is…an adjustment.”
The way she says it—like she’s biting into something sweet just to test the aftertaste—tells you she’s digging. Not cruelly. Just…curious. Or pretending to be.
You tilt your head, mirroring her. “We were just talking about it.” You gesture to Sohee with a smile. “It’s been good.” You always loved to overshare, but it was no one’s business what consisted of your relationship. Namely how well your husband treated you. You had to learn that lesson better now than later.
Yuna hums. “Right. He’s always had that...edge. But seeing him soft for someone? Kind of wild, honestly.”
You smile, gentle but unmistakably proud. “It’s a side of him you have to earn.”
That lands. You see it in the way her jaw shifts just slightly, like the compliment doubled as a subtle door slam.
She nods slowly, playing it off. “Must be nice—being the one person who gets let into the inner sanctum. He doesn’t really do vulnerability.”
You rest your elbow on the table, your chin on your hand. “No, he doesn’t. Which is why I don’t take him for granted.”
And that right there—that soft, unapologetic weight behind your words—is when the intimidation really hits.
Yuna smiles, but this one doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You make it look easy.”
Sohee clears his throat, trying to reroute the conversation back to safer shores. “You always had that energy, though,” he says. “Even at the wedding. People were talking more about you than the cake.”
You grin. “Then I hope they weren’t talking about the dress fitting too tight. I ate like four slices of that cake myself.”
“Bold,” Yuna murmurs, sipping her drink. “That cake was like five hundred a slice.”
You glance at her. “When you marry a man who owns the bank the baker owes a loan to, cake isn’t a concern.”
Sohee chokes on a laugh, half trying to hide it. “She’s not wrong.”
Yuna raises an eyebrow, lips twitching. “That sounds like something Komichō would say.”
“He’s rubbing off on me,” you say.
“Definitely rubbing,” she mumbles beneath her breath as she sipped her tea again, you barely heard it but it was definitely loud enough for you to catch.
Your ears perked up at the comment, “I’m sorry?” Tilting your head with a small smile, acting as if you didn’t really hear her.
Yuna blinked, playing it off, though her smirk didn’t quite fade. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”
You let out a soft chuckle, resting your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand. “You should be careful doing that around here. People might think you’re losing it.”
Sohee glanced between the two of you, sensing the invisible knife sliding onto the table. “Right, well, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear anything either.”
“No need,” you said smoothly, eyes still on Yuna. “I just thought I heard something interesting. Wouldn’t want to miss out.”
Yuna gave a small shrug, eyes cool. “Guess my mind wandered.”
“To Riki?” you asked lightly, no edge to your voice but every word precise.
Her lips parted like she might defend herself, but instead she laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re good.”
You smiled wider. “I know I am.”
Sohee cleared his throat again—less out of nerves, more out of self-preservation. It seemed so with him, Riki said he always thinks like he’s the smartest in the room but it might not even be that. Maybe, but he shrinks beneath the gaze of someone bigger. Though, intelligence and bravery aren’t mutually exclusive in this case. Or any of them for that matter.
But you didn’t break your gaze from Yuna, not just yet. “Don’t worry,” you finally said, sitting back in your seat with a gracious tilt of your head. “I don’t bite unless I’m hungry.” Your eyes glinted, like the once inquisitive look was suddenly demoted to annoyance. But you knew better than to let her get the best of you.
Yuna lifted her tea, trying to cover the shift in her posture—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightened for just a second. “Good thing I’m not on the menu.”
“Of course not,” you said sweetly. You stand, brushing off your skirt as you slide out of your seat. “I’ll be going now, guys. Thanks for hanging out with me.”
“No problem,” Sohee said with a gentle smile as he stood up to shake your head. To which you nodded respectfully, returning the gesture. “Hopefully we’ll be seeing more of you around here.”
You laughed with a nod, “For sure, I’ll definitely be around.” Glancing at Yuna, you smiled gently. “See you around, little one?” You reached out and rubbed her arm, to other eyes it was friendly. Between you two—and maybe Sohee if he squinted—it almost seemed like you were rubbing the metaphorical snot she sneezed onto you, back on her. Sonning her, ‘little girl-ing’ her.
Nonetheless, she smiled. She nodded. And just took it. “Yes, see you around.”
And off you were.
—
Speaking to Riki after that little exchange was definitely on your mind. Seriously it was, every aching part of you was determined to run down on him and question him until he physically choked on his every word. Because for real, what the fuck was that? Why was Yuna so comfortable speaking about your relationship and Riki in such a way? How has Riki made her so comfortable? When has he done that? How did it happen? Who even brought this up to her in the first place?
As the five W’s were this close to the edge of your tongue, you decided to save it for later. Not now, no. And it’s not even like you were shy about your marriage. If one couldn’t tell by now, you took any and every opportunity to mention Riki. You swore to your friends that once you got married you would ‘my husband…’ the fuck out of them and everyone else around you.
But you didn’t know Yuna, hardly even. You’d known her as one of the heavy hitters—essentially the PR for the group. The Social Liaison. She was delicate, yet biting. Subtle, yet direct. She was gorgeous and that’s exactly why she was appointed, because she was easy on the eyes and no one could dare turn away a beautiful woman.
You didn’t feel inferior, there was no reason to. Yuna was Yuna and You were You. Both of you were beautiful young women in a field dominated by men no matter how you sliced it. So to see her be so combative when you didn’t do that to her made you feel like you lost a friend before you could even make one.
So as you were on the hunt for Jo, passing through each hallway and scouring every nook and cranny for this guy. You peeped Riki a few feet away in the broad, wide-ranging room. Speaking so firmly to one of the kobun, not making eye contact but nodding along as he walked and they briefed him on something. They were too far for you to hear but he had noticed you, almost like he felt you from ten feet away.
He didn’t stop what he was doing, didn’t pause, he was slick as always. Riki kept walking and as he was listening but he made eye contact with you. His gorgeous, alluring eyes followed you as you kept moving but he didn’t smile. He just poked his tongue out—quick, barely there, a flicker of his usual mischief. The kind of look that says I see you, and I know you see me, without saying a single word.
It wasn’t apologetic. It felt more like a challenge. Like he was telling you to come find him. To press him. To demand what you wanted to know. At least to you because that’s what you felt like doing. But knowing him, he was just teasing. Letting you know that beneath the hard shell of the Komichō was your childish, teasing, yet loving husband.
You held his gaze for a moment longer, then kept walking. Because no matter how much your fists itched to grab his collar and ask him what the hell Yuna meant by that, you had other business to handle. Logistics came first. And Jo—well, Jo was never easy to find. Which was kind of the point.
So you tucked Riki into your back pocket for now, like a loaded question you’d pull out later.
Jo was somewhere in this damn compound, likely holed up with blueprints, phone calls, and at least five burner devices. And if there was anyone (sans Riki) who could give you the real lay of the land—or shift it completely—it was him.
Riki could wait.
You pulled out your phone to shoot him a message, though:
thorn in my side: do yk where jo would be right abt now?
He replied back in a split second.
idiotbox: should be in his office. upstairs, 5th floor. 509.
thorn in my side: thanks
idiotbox: i love you
…
???
i said i love you
i love you baby ????
now girl…
You didn’t even care to respond, you were mad at him for something you only assumed he did and that was childish, of course. You were petty, but so was he and that was how you two worked so well. He’d pick up eventually, but you hated the fact that such a menial exchange had irritated you this badly. But you knew better than to put him in a bad mood at work.
thorn in my side: i love you more babe-asaurus
idiotbox: hm
we’ll talk later
You rolled your eyes at how easily he was able to read you even without seeing you. But whatever, you have a guy to find and Riki was close to your heart as always; but the least of your worries.
Taking the elevator was intense because you hoped that it would be slower, honestly. Like how much of a rush were these guys in? You reached the first to fifth floor in less than two seconds. Now, here you are, scanning the doors and you finally reached Jo’s appointed office and you politely knocked. Waiting for a ‘come in’ or ‘enter’ or ‘who is it’ literally anything. But nothing.
You scanned the hallway, peering both ways up and down. No one was around, no one seemed to be passing through and you stepped forward a little bit to put your ear to the door. Also silence.
Racking your brain, Riki’s words kept ringing in your mind: you are not to engage further.
You are not to engage further.
You are not to engage further.
You are not—fuck it.
Without another thought you twisted the knob to Jo’s office and as fate would have it, the door was unlocked. You pushed through the door and peeked your head in.
Empty.
So as you slipped in, gently closing the door behind you before locking it, you reminded yourself of what you came here for. It was to get a hold on behavioral patterns, but there’s no harm in scanning. With a shaky exhale, your eyes followed through the space. Very minimal. Only necessary items here: desk, chair, file cabinet, desk lamp, simply essential office gadgets.
But as you neared his desk, you spied a ton of papers scattering across it. You hovered, unsure whether you should touch them, but then again, Riki did say not to engage further. He didn’t say anything about observing. Which, in your opinion, made this a grey area. And what were grey areas for, if not you skating through them with barely plausible deniability?
The first sheet that caught your eye was a layout of the compound—more detailed than the blueprints you’d seen before. Color-coded zones, timestamped patrol shifts, even ventilation system routes. Jo is definitely playing chess while the rest of these guys are just showing up to the board.
The next paper underneath made your stomach pull a little tighter. It was a list. Names. Some you recognized, some you didn’t. Some were marked with symbols: asterisks, slashes, question marks. What you did know was that this was the definitive roster—essentially—for everyone in Thunder.
Sans one other: Yuna.
Weird.
Then you saw it.
A manila folder tucked half underneath a blueprint sheet. You knew you shouldn’t, but girl—curiosity is a disease. You slid it out just an inch, enough to see the label written in Jo’s tight, deliberate handwriting:
“INCIDENT REPORT — LEAK”
Then another:
“NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”
You didn’t let your initial shock cloud your common sense. Without another thought you grabbed the two files and shoved them inside of your shirt. Dumb decision, yes. Strange, absolutely.
Just as you were heading to the door to make your graceful exit (you’ve been doing a lot of those lately it seemed), you heard footsteps and jingling keys right outside of the door.
“Fuck!” You mouthed in panic and scanned the room. A sliding closet was your best bet so you took shelter there, squatting at the floor and hugging the cloth covered folders to your chest. Knowing better, you ensured your phone was on silent and not on the hard floor to make noise.
And not a second too soon.
The lock clicked, the door swung open, and Jo entered—as leisurely as one can be. You watched through the thin slits in the closet door as he moved with practiced ease, the way only someone who expected to be alone did.
He muttered something under his breath, inaudible, as he tossed a USB onto the desk and rolled his chair out with a squeak. You swore your heart was doing parkour in your chest, beating a rhythm so loud you were sure he could hear it.
He started typing.
Clicking, clacking, clomping. Jo hands had left the keyboard to feel for his folders—the absent ones.
His hands patted the desk once. Then again. Slower.
You could hear the moment he realized something was off.
Click, click.
Rustle.
Click.
Pause.
“…Huh.”
He stood up. You could see his silhouette shift through the closet slats. Jo leaned over the desk again, rifling through papers, lifting one corner of the blueprint like the folders might be playing hide and seek with him.
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then he muttered, low and sharp: “Motherfucker.”
Busted. Not completely, but the clock was officially ticking.
Jo paced once, then sat back down hard, fingers drumming against the desk in a rhythm that screamed calculating. You knew Jo very vaguely—this wasn’t confusion. This wasn’t panic.
This was inventory. This was war.
And you were right there in the middle of it, like a roach under a glass.
He pulled his phone out. Tapped. You didn’t hear the call ring—probably encrypted, burner-to-burner. Probably to someone way too important to be talking about two stolen folders and a potential mole crouched three feet away.
Still, his voice was ice when he finally spoke:
“They’re gone. Both of them. Yes. Both. Folders. No. Nobody else’s been in here.”
He huffed as he slammed the device down on the desk and left without another word. Closing the door behind him.
You didn’t move for a full thirty seconds.
Just breathed.
Slow and shallow, trying not to make even your lungs betray you. Your heart was doing a drum solo in your chest, and the folders clutched to you suddenly felt like live explosives. Your knees were screaming. Your brain was screaming.
But Jo was gone.
And you were still here.
When you finally uncurled yourself and opened the closet door like it might squeak out a betrayal, the coast was still clear. The office was eerily quiet, save for the dull hum of whatever sinister programs Jo had left running on his screen.
You grabbed his phone too, along with the USBs. Leaving that behind, what a dummy.
You crept out like a cat burglar in a heist movie, glancing around one more time before heading to the door.
No one.
No shadows.
You slid out and shut the door behind you, just as quietly as you came.
And then booked it.
—
Muscle memory had you headed there before you could even second-guess the idea. Ninth floor, west wing, room 920. You’d memorized it months ago without even meaning to—like the curve of his signature, or the way his voice dipped when he was serious.
The folders were still tucked under your shirt like contraband, stabbing awkwardly against your ribs as you power-walked. You probably looked suspicious. Not that anyone was around to clock it—yet. But paranoia was creeping in like a slow leak. Any second now, you were sure alarms would start blaring.
You rounded the corner, heart racing. Riki’s door stood at the end of the hallway, clean and unassuming. You didn’t knock. Just turned the handle and slipped inside like a shadow.
He wasn’t at his desk.
He was standing at the window, back to you, hands in his pockets like some tortured antihero. Of course. Of course he was being dramatic today.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, without turning around.
You rolled your eyes and let the door click shut behind you. “This is where my man is, this is where I’m due. Thank you very much.”
He turned slowly, his expression unreadable until his eyes landed on your shirt—and what was very obviously not a very lumpy new bra.
“You didn’t,” he said flatly.
You didn’t say anything. Just reached under your shirt, pulled the folders and phone out like a magician producing a rabbit, and dropped them onto his desk with a soft thump.
Riki stared at them.
Then at you. “...You’re insane.”
“I love you.”
He pressed his fingers to his eyes, already visibly aging five years. “I love you too. But I told you not to engage.”
“Yeah, well.” You walked to his side of the desk as he sat. “I’m starting to think you only say that when you don’t wanna deal with the fallout.” You lifted yourself to sit atop his desk, folding your legs.
He didn’t argue because a part of him knew better. But he was going to ask questions.
“Before I open these, Oracle.” He smirked as he leaned back in his chair, rubbing your bare calves. “You are going to tell me how you got these.”
You tilted your head, half-smirking, half-daring him to press. “Before I tell you,” you said, voice sweet as poison, “you’re going to tell me who Nishi is.”
He paused, the playful squeeze he gave your leg faltering for just a second. Just enough for you to catch. Just enough to confirm that the name meant something. Something serious.
“That’s not how this works,” he said slowly, like he was weighing each word. “You first.”
You leaned back on your palms, eyes dragging lazily across the office like you were bored—like you weren’t high off adrenaline and one bad decision away from spiraling. “Door was unlocked. Papers were out. Your little friend Jo doesn’t have the cleanest filing system.”
“You broke into his office,” he said, amused but exasperated, like a teacher trying not to laugh while writing you up. “You hid in his closet.”
“And you told me not to engage, which is very different from telling me not to investigate,” you quipped. “And how do you even know I did that?”
His hands were warm against your skin again, this time steady. Grounding. He sighed, and there was something tired in it. Like this day had finally worn him down. “First off, you came in here winded. Which means you were running. Something you never do.” He nodded affirmatively, like he had seen this scenario a million times before. “Then you have extra padding in your bra like you don’t have enough going on there alrea—”
You squinted at him, offended but mostly appalled. “Excuse me?”
Riki had the audacity to grin, all smug and unbothered, like he wasn’t skating on the thinnest ice imaginable. “What?” he said, lifting his hands in fake innocence. “I notice things. You weren’t exactly subtle and I’ve seen them enough to know what they do and don’t look like. The folders are poking out like a second set of ribs.”
You smacked his arm. “You are insufferable.”
“Observant,” he corrected, laughing under his breath. “And I know you. You only get this chaotic when you’re pissed or nosy. Or both.”
You rolled your eyes and slipped off his desk, pacing a few steps to blow off steam. “Well, congrats. You know me. You want a medal or a map to Jo’s shitty closet?”
“I want you to tell me why you went looking for him,” he said, the smile in his voice gone now. “What made you dig?”
You paused, fiddling with the edge of a stray paper on his desk, not looking at him. “I was just making my way down the list.” You shrug with a slight pout. “I had already spoken with Yuna and Sohee. Conveniently they were both in the same room. Then I saw you enroute to Jo, knocked on his office. Nobody home. So I took it upon myself to find what he wasn’t there to tell me.” You sighed with a firm nod. “Who’s Nishi? Is it short for Nishimura? Or short for Nis—” You paused as something in your brain had clicked, the lights weren’t dim anymore.
“The Nishiyama syndicate that you were speaking of.” Humming in understanding finally as you leaned against the desk. “Is that it?”
Riki’s then blank expression shifted to a smile, not devilish. But kind, almost…proud despite the weird situation. “Yeah, that’s it.”
Somehow you felt small beneath his gaze, so your eyes shifted to the files and phone. “Are you gonna open the files?”
The raven-haired man sighed, leaning back into his chair. He was entirely too cavalier for your liking but you kept your lips glued. This was his world, not yours. At least not yet. “No.” He shook his head gently. “You’re gonna read them and tell me what you find.”
You blinked. “Okay,”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good.” Riki leaned up and handed you a new notepad and pen. “Don’t write on his stuff. I’m sure he knows they’re missing.”
“He does,” you took the items with both hands. “Is he going to hurt me if—”
“Over my dead fucking body.”
Your breath caught—not because you didn’t believe him, but because of how fast he said it. Like it wasn’t a question. Like the very thought of Jo trying anything had flipped a switch in Riki’s brain that only lived between rage and devotion.
You stared at him. “That’s dramatic.”
“I mean it,” he said, and this time there was no smugness, no teasing. Just that low, steady tone that made your spine straighten and your chest feel way too small. “He touches you, he dies.”
Laughing him off, you waved your hand. “Again, dramatic.”
“There’s nothing dramatic about it. I have no problem putting anybody six feet under if it’s about you. I’m telling you now, I will kill him. Myself, with my bare hands.” He nods calmly.
You nodded, lips pursed as this weird feeling of not believing him but absolutely believing him came over you. Now you aren’t stupid, there’s very few people in this life that have clean hands but since you never saw that side of Riki—it was hard to fully compute that. You were used to the version of him that bit you when he just found you cute. The one that whenever he ate french fries, he would put them in his mouth and act like he was a walrus. The part of him that whined whenever his food touched.
The Riki that kissed you like it was his first and last, everytime. When he made love to you it was passionate, like he cared. Savoring every part of your body and ravishing it like a starved man. And even though you’ve been together for as long as you have, he still makes you feel like you’re in high school. Both his and your inner child’s connect and that’s what makes every part of being with him so worth it.
Hearing him talk about putting someone in the dirt for hurting you didn’t scare you. At all, if anything a depraved part of you loved that he was so ready and willing to take care of you. But because he had kept you so far from this life—to the point where you never saw him right when he came home from work.
You only ever saw him after a shower when he got back. The house was big enough for him to avoid you and he didn’t want you to even see him in any other way aside from put-together or casual. He simply wants to keep your perception of him one way.
Now he’s at the point where he doesn’t need to get his hands dirty, but he’s not above it. He knows he’s not but he doesn’t want you to know that. Maybe because you’re pure, the only clean thing in this world and he wants to honor that sanctity.
Thus you nod with a tight-lipped smile. “Aye-aye captain,”
Riki nodded curtly, “Thank you, now sit.”
“Can I take this home with me—oh wait, no, the rule.” I sighed as I sat down on his couch.
He laughed, “Right, good, good. But…” He breezed past his desk to now sit beside you. “Why didn’t you tell me you loved me?” He leaned back against the back of the couch, crossing his arms as he peered at you with patient eyes.
You furrowed your brows, snorting at his ridiculousness. “I tell you that multiple times an hour, Riki. I just said it when I came in. What are you talking about?”
“Babe—sorry—” He covers his mouth, trying to muffle a smile at the minor slip-up.
You point at him, “Ah-ha! You broke your own rule, genius.” Laughing as you twirl the pen between your fingers.
Riki groaned dramatically, tipping his head back against the couch cushion like the weight of his love-induced hypocrisy had just crushed him. “God, I’m so weak,” he mumbled into the ceiling.
You giggled, nudging his leg with your knee. “You made a rule you couldn’t keep. Who does that?”
“A man in love,” he sighed, hand flopping over his heart. “A fool. A slave to your eyes and...whatever scented oil you’re wearing today. Beautiful gourmand.”
You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your past mistakes. “You suck so bad.”
He turned to look at you again, his playful expression softening slightly. “You didn’t say it earlier. In the texts. Well you did, but I just had to pull it out of you. Which is unusual because usually it happens easily. Like a nice, well-lubricated machine.”
You paused, the smile still on your lips but tinged now with something quieter. “I was annoyed.”
“I figured,” he said.
“And don’t use ‘well-lubricated’ like that ever again.” You laughed as you adjusted your position, kicking off your shoes just because you could. Placing your legs on his lap as he instinctively went to massaging your aching feet.
Riki laughed beneath his breath, “Mmm, how else should I use it then…?” He trails his hand up your calf.
“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,” you said, pointing the pen at him like it doubled as a taser. “I’m in work mode now. No nasty metaphors.”
Riki smirked, thumb dragging slow circles into your ankle like he was trying to hypnotize you. “You sure? I’ve got a whole glossary. Synonyms. Imagery. PowerPoint, even.”
“PowerPoint?” You quirked a brow. “Wow. And here I thought this organization was low-tech.”
“We save the advanced tech for seduction,” he deadpanned.
You threw your head back in a laugh, letting your legs go slack against him. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”
“I know.” He smiled proudly, then leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knee. “But seriously...I knew something was bothering you. I felt it.”
You nodded, brushing a bit of lint from your lap like it was your own way of smoothing down your thoughts. “I didn’t like the way Yuna talked about you. Like she knew you. Knows you. I know it’s stupid—”
“It’s not,” he cut in gently. “Whatever it is, it’s not.”
You looked at him. “I didn’t want to make it a thing while you’re working, but...she got under my skin.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing really,” You shook your head as confusion plagued your expression. “Like she was just throwing jabs at our marriage. Like—”
“Do you want her gone?”
“Wait–damn! Can I at least tell you what happened?” You put your hands out in panic.
Riki blinked, caught between his gut reaction and your clearly not-yet-finished train of thought. “Right. Sorry.” He held up his hands, leaning back slightly. “Continue. Full dramatic reenactment, if you will.”
You gave him a flat look. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here I am. Devoted. Foot-rubbing. Ready to commit crimes in your honor.”
You fought back a smile, exhaling sharply before continuing. “She just said some things. Made it sound like she knew you in a way I didn’t. Nothing direct, but it was all…in the way she said it. Like she was watching me, waiting to see if I’d flinch.”
Riki’s jaw ticked just slightly, and his hand stilled again on your leg. “What did she say exactly?”
“She joked about you being soft for me. About how it must be wild seeing you like that. And then she muttered something under her breath—‘definitely rubbing’—after I said you were rubbing off on me.” You rolled your eyes. “While it was funny,” you smiled as you reflected on the moment. “It was just the tone she took, it was petty.”
His voice had that eerie calm again—the kind that made you picture storms on the horizon. “And do you want her gone?”
You hesitated. “I don’t want to make you cut people loose just because they annoy me.”
“Not just anyone,” he said slowly. “Her. You disrespect my wife, you disrespect me. End of discussion.”
You sighed. “I just didn’t like feeling like I was being tested. Like I had to prove I was worthy to be here. That I deserved you.”
“No. You don’t need to prove shit to anyone. She works for you, baby. Not the other way around.” He scoffs in irritation, not at you. Just at the situation.
“You think she wants you or something?”
Riki rolls his eyes, “Please,” he waves off.
“No, I’m being serious.”
He furrowed his brows, “That has nothing to do with me, I chose you. I love you. Yuna is just…Yuna.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, folding your arms across your chest as your legs stayed propped on his lap. “That is the vaguest, most non-answer answer I’ve ever heard.”
Riki groaned, tilting his head back like the ceiling was somehow responsible for your suspicion. “Baby, come on. You want me to what—spell out that she probably has some weird little crush from back in the day? Okay. Maybe. Possibly. Who wouldn’t? But that doesn’t matter. I don’t want her.”
You blinked, lips parting just slightly. “Weird little crush from back in the day?”
He froze. Froze frozen. Like someone had just hit pause on his entire soul.
Then slowly—painfully slowly—he sat up straighter and scratched the back of his neck like a man about to give a deposition. “...I mean, like…a crush she invented in her head. You know how people do. Delulu culture. She’s a millennial. Or—whatever she is.”
You gave him the most unimpressed stare humanly possible. One that could suck the air out of a room if you held it long enough.
“You’ve been avoiding answering straight for two full minutes,” you said, your voice sharp but cool. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He let out a deep sigh, eyes flicking briefly to your legs across his lap—like grounding himself with you physically would make the words come easier.
“Nothing happened,” he finally said, slow and careful, like laying down a live wire. “She flirted. Years ago. Once. I didn’t flirt back. I shut it down. It didn’t become a thing because I didn’t let it become a thing. Plus by that point, I had just started seeing you.”
You stared, not blinking, not speaking. Just letting the silence stretch until it felt like your heartbeat was echoing off the floors.
“And now?” you asked at last, voice like velvet over a blade.
His gaze lifted to meet yours, firm and unwavering. “Now she’s someone on payroll who will never get that close again. You have my name, my ring, everything. And if I could give you more of me, I would. She’s noise. Vapor.”
The words settled in your chest like something warm and weighted. The kind of thing that wasn’t just sweet, but true. You didn’t nod. You didn’t smile. You just breathed—and it came easier after that.
“Good,” you murmured.
“Good,” he echoed, reaching up to squeeze your ankle gently.
Riki had never given you any sort of reason to doubt his loyalty to you. But something about Yuna just made you feel some sort of insecure. And that’s never a good feeling. “Okay, so back to work on these thingies.” You sighed as you grabbed all of your things, the files and notepad.
—
You settled deeper into the couch, the file balanced on your knees, pen in hand. Riki stayed quiet beside you, hands behind his head like he wasn’t five seconds away from snatching the folder and reading it himself. But this was your job now. He gave it to you. He trusted you. And trust in this world was rarer than sleep.
The first folder you opened was the one labeled:
“INCIDENT REPORT — LEAK”
Your eyes scanned the top page. Neat, efficient language. Jo’s writing was all business. But beneath that business tone… was tension. A lot of it.
Summary: On 05/23, it was confirmed that classified movement data regarding the Nishiyama holdings in the Shibuya district was compromised and intercepted by an unknown third party. The breach occurred between the hours of 03:00 and 05:00 JST.
Method of Leak: Evidence points to an internal device tap. Most likely wireless, planted within the logistics room (3rd floor).
Potential Suspect(s):
T. Nakamoto (denied access two weeks prior but showed up in building security logs 24 hours before the breach)
Sohee Lee (recent behavioral inconsistencies; requires further monitoring)
UNCONFIRMED: External syndicate involvement possible (see cross-file: “NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”)
You sucked in a breath. “Sohee?” you said aloud, almost in disbelief.
Riki’s voice was low. “Keep going.”
You flipped to the second page—grainy black-and-white images from security footage. A figure moving at 4:12 AM through a hallway near the logistics room. Hood up. Face obscured. But the time stamp matched Jo’s report exactly.
You shook your head. “This is bad. Whoever this is knew where to go. No camera catch, no chatter, just straight infiltration. Like a ghost.”
Riki didn’t speak—his jaw was tight. He already knew this. He’d probably seen the footage himself.
You flipped to the next folder:
“NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”
Your stomach clenched.
This one wasn’t a report. It was…a dossier.
A breakdown of an entire group.
The Nishiyama Syndicate. Or, as Riki had called them before—“Nishi.” A former rival organization that went dark years ago.
Overview: The Nishiyama Syndicate—presumed inactive by 2017—has begun resurfacing under new leadership. Not confirmed, but rumored to be operating under a splinter faction using legitimate business fronts. Possible laundering through offshore holdings (Monaco, Belize, Singapore).
Recent Activity:
Acquisition of real estate adjacent to Nishimura holdings.
Shadow-bidding on construction contracts connected to your family’s public-facing properties.
Unusual surveillance patterns noted around Nishimura residences.
Notable Names:
A. Nishiyama (deceased, patriarch)
M. Nishiyama (???) — identity redacted
“Subject N” — possible mole or double agent; suspected to have contact with active Nishimura staff. (PRIORITY)
You looked up at Riki. “This reads like they’re trying to move in. Slowly. Quietly.”
He nodded, lips pressed tight. “I think the breach might’ve come from a mole inside the building. Someone feeding info.”
Your pulse spiked. “Who do you think it is?”
He looked at you carefully. “I haven’t ruled anyone out. Neither has Jo. But everyone’s guilty until proven innocent.”
“It’s inno—”
He held his hand up, “I know what it is.”
You snorted as you looked back down at the file but then suddenly looked back to him. “Hey, did Jo call you at all today on one of the burners?”
He frowned in thought. “No, why?”
Your eyes widened in slight fear, feeling adrenaline pump through your veins. “His phone is on your desk.” Pointing to it with urgency. “He called someone earlier, letting them know the files were missing.”
You felt like the floor shifted under you.
Riki stood up and grabbed the phone, unlocking it as he sifted through it. “Go. Continue, let me do this.”
Then you flipped one last page in the NISHI folder—and your heart stopped.
REDACTED TARGET LIST [photo attached]
R. Nishimura (active)
“Okaasan” (active, unnamed spouse)
Status: Tracking active; no confirmed contact attempts. Maintain passive surveillance.
There was a picture.
Of you.
A candid photo. Leaving your favorite coffee shop. Hair in a bun. Not even looking at the camera.
They knew who you were.
They were watching.
“Oh my fucking…” You whispered as your hands started to shake.
Riki didn’t look up—yet. He was still going through the burner phone, locked in, muttering something under his breath. But the second your voice cracked, just the edge of that whisper, he froze.
Your hands were trembling around the paper, your breath shallow as if the photo alone had stolen the oxygen from your lungs. “They’re watching me, Riki,” you said quietly. “They know. They know who I am.”
That’s when he looked up.
His gaze flicked to your face first—then to the folder in your lap. You didn’t even have to show him. He crossed the room in three strides, dropped the phone without care, and snatched the folder from your lap with steady hands but a murderous edge in his jaw.
He saw it. The image. The note. The label: “Okaasan – Active, unnamed spouse.”
Your face. Your fucking face. On a watch list.
Riki’s breathing changed.
Not heavy. Not loud.
But measured. Controlled. The kind of breathing someone does right before they explode.
“No contact attempts,” he read aloud, barely above a whisper. “Passive surveillance. Maintain.” His jaw flexed once. Twice. “That means they’ve been watching. But not enough to tip me off. Or you.”
You still couldn’t speak. Your mind was spiraling, thinking back—every time you thought someone was staring at you too long in the coffee shop. Every car that took a little too long to pull away. The time your key fob didn’t register on the first try and you swore you saw someone standing at the edge of the parking lot.
You knew. Felt it more than anything.
Riki stepped back, slowly. “You’re done,” he said, coldly.
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re done with this.” He gestured to the papers—everything. “I don’t want you involved anymore.”
“No—Riki—”
“I said you’re done.”
His voice wasn’t raised, but it was final.
You stood, breath catching again—not out of fear this time, but out of frustration. “You can’t just—”
“I can, and I will.” He looked at you, eyes flashing with something deeper than anger. “They put you on a list. A list with my name. They put a target on your back for being married to me.”
“You said you’d pull me out if I couldn’t handle it. I can and—”
“No. You said that,” he bit out. “Thank you so much for your interpretation of how you think this works. But I’m telling you now, sweetheart. You’re finished.”
You stared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. “So what, you’re just gonna hide me away like a secret? Lock me in the house?”
“If I have to,” he said without hesitation. “I’d rather you hate me than end up in a morgue. You think I give a fuck about being the bad guy in your story if it keeps you alive?”
And for the first time, you realized—he wasn’t just angry.
He was scared.
Riki Nishimura, the man who ran empires with a flick of his fingers, the one who made people disappear without batting an eye—was looking at you like he had already lost you. Like he was trying to stop the bleeding before the wound even opened.
And you didn’t know whether to fight him or fall apart.
—
Within the next hour, Riki sent you home.
No yelling. No begging. No stomping down the hallway with your shoes in hand like you wanted to. Just a tight-lipped goodbye, a long look that said please don’t fight me on this, and the subtle pressure of his hand on the small of your back as he walked you to the elevator. Kissing your cheeks and temple as he guided you.
“I’ll be home later, I love you.” he said, eyes fixed on the elevator door as it closed, locking you in. Locking you out.
You didn’t say anything. You just nodded, chewing the inside of your cheek like it’d keep your heart from leaping up and making a scene.
And now here you are.
In the house. Your house. His too. That same massive, almost-too-silent house where the floors were spotless, the air always smelled faintly of clean linen and sandalwood, and the fridge was somehow always stocked but never truly full.
You hadn’t even changed clothes. You hadn’t moved much. Just sat on the edge of the bed for a while, fingers interlaced, something so mundane like Riki’s silver watch still on the nightstand like it might grow teeth.
Because it could’ve been anyone.
Anyone watching you. Anyone taking that photo.
You didn’t even realize you’d started crying until you saw the wet spot on your blouse. And then more tears followed—not because you were scared. But because he had known. About the business. The threats. The danger.
And he kept you out of it. You were so proud. Marching into lounges. Reading body language. Toying with people like you were ten steps ahead. But the whole time, you were in a different game.
A different arena.
You weren’t playing chess. You were the queen piece. And someone had started planning your checkmate.
You wiped your face and reached for your phone.
Nothing from Riki yet. Of course. He needed time. To clean up. To cover tracks. To burn things down.
You opened your texts anyway. Clicked on the chat.
thorn in my side: i’m home
i love you, baby
Message delivered. No reply yet.
You stared at the phone until the screen went dark.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence in your house didn’t feel safe. It felt like someone else might be listening too.
—
Riki came home and the house was equally as silent.
He’d come home to a quiet home almost everyday, nothing new. Most times you were in the bath, in the living room buried in a book, or on a good day—you’d already be in bed.
And by this time, he’d shower before he came to greet you but the weird thing about being with someone for so long—you feel them everywhere. Your warmth, your mood, he feels it all.
But this time he felt nothing.
Immediately his mood dampened, the intuition that he had relied on so heavily over the last twenty-four years of his life already letting him know something was amiss. “Baby?” He called out as he slipped his shoes off.
No response.
He smacked his teeth, “My goodness, I shouldn’t have gotten her those fucking headphones.”
He placed his jacket on the coat rack and skimmed the area. Your keys were by the door, as usual. The sweater you wore today, okay fine. Your Mary Janes—your favorite shoes that he always tripped over and threatened to throw away. Huh.
Again, that strange nagging feeling in Riki just never went away.
He padded over to the kitchen, seeing dinner spread out on the table. Wrapped up and ready for yours and Riki’s consumption, there was a serving taken out of it which meant you ate something. Good.
But you weren’t in the kitchen. And you weren’t in the living room.
The staff not being around makes sense, he sent them home for the day. Clara wanted to spend time with her son so who was he to tell her no?
And now, the fucking office that he had built with his own hands—empty.
This house was huge, humongous—but there would’ve been some way you heard him already.
He called your name firmly. Riki never says your name, that’s like the rule. Still, no response. He calls your phone because knowing you—it’s never too far. Straight to voicemail.
“What the fuck.” Riki Nishimura doesn’t panic—but something cold and venomous slithered up his spine as he stood in the middle of that pristine kitchen as he now made his way back there, fists clenched, jaw ticking.
And then.
Then he saw the note.
Sitting prettily on the marble counter—in a little nook. Surprised he had missed it before.
Simple. Clean. In all capital letters.
YOU WANTED HER OUT. SO WE TOOK HER OUT.
And on the back of the note was a photo of you. Gagged, tearful eyes, messy hair, scratched face. You had put up a fight that was for sure, it wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.
The marble counter shattered first.
He slammed his fists down, hard enough to crack the stone. The note crumpled beneath him as he shouted, loud and hoarse, like it had been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.
“FUCK!”
Everything after that was instinct. A storm. A full-blown implosion. He threw the nearest chair across the room. It smashed into the wall with a satisfying crack, splintering on impact. Plates followed next, flying off the table with a feral sweep of his arm. Food hit the cabinets, the fridge, the floor. A glass shattered under his heel. He didn’t even flinch.
“I told her to go home!” he roared. “I sent her home!”
His eyes were wild. Drenched in something between fear and fury. The kind of look no one ever saw and lived to describe.
He yanked open drawers. Punched the fridge. Tore the cabinet door clean off the hinge and hurled it across the room. A vase hit the floor and shattered—porcelain flowers slicing across the floor like confetti made of rage.
And then—his voice broke.
“Fuck—fuck, fuck—”
He grabbed the sink with both hands, chest heaving, eyes squeezing shut like maybe, if he tried hard enough, this would all vanish. That the note would disappear. That you’d walk out from your office and ask what the hell happened to the dining room.
But all he heard was silence. All he felt was the absence of you. The kind of stillness that only existed in grief.
He sank to the floor—only for a second—hands gripping his hair. And then the door creaked open.
Clara opened the door with glee, bags from the nearest arts and crafts store. “Riki—?”
She froze in place.
The kitchen looked like a warzone. Dinner ruined. Furniture destroyed. Her boss—on the floor, shaking, breathing like a wild animal trying to hold in a scream.
She didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t have to.
Because then she saw the note.
The note.
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my goodness.”
Riki slowly stood. There was a line of blood down his knuckles—he hadn’t even noticed. His breathing was low now. Tighter. Like someone was holding his lungs closed.
He didn’t look at her as he spoke.
“Tell everyone to get on the line. Now. I want every runner, every affiliate, every fucking rat with ears in this city looking.”
Clara nodded, frozen.
“If she’s not found by midnight—” He turned to her. Eyes glassy. Voice cold. As he stepped beside her, venom in his eyes as he looked down at her with nothing but truth in his eyes.
“—Everybody’s fucking dying, Clara. You included.”
Clara didn’t say a word. Just nodded, pale as a ghost, and scrambled to grab her phone. Riki didn’t even watch her leave. He turned on his heel and stormed toward his office, blood trailing faintly from his knuckles and dotting the floor like red ink.
He slammed the office door behind him so hard the glass panel trembled.
Without hesitation, he slammed the heel of his palm down on the black switch embedded into the side of his desk—an unmarked button that immediately turned the room red. Not metaphorically. The lights literally shifted into emergency mode, casting the entire office in a crimson hue. The kind of red that let every handler in his operation know: This is DEFCON 1. Life or death. Burn everything if you have to.His jaw clenched so tight you could hear the creak in his teeth. Then he yanked open the bottom drawer, reaching for the sleek matte tablet hidden beneath a stack of decoy files. With a swipe and a facial scan, he opened a security interface. His fingers flew across the screen.
“Tracker,” he muttered under his breath. “C’mon, c’mon…” He clicked into a discreet sub-menu, one labeled ‘PRIVATE ACCESS – VELOMY.’ The screen lit up, pulling a location from a hidden signal.
Riki’s chest stopped moving for a full beat. The blinking dot that represented you was there—active.
“You’re still wearing the ring,” he whispered to himself. A dark smirk twisted his lips, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “You stubborn little thing…”
That ring. The one he gave you at the altar when he promised to you, his family, and yours that he would love you during your highs and lows. The ring that tethered you to him forever.
He put a chip in it. Just to be straightforward.
Riki’s paranoia ran so deep that it became difficult for him not to. And funnily enough, he remembers he didn’t tell you that it was in there until your honeymoon.
You both were lounging on your private beach in front of the newly bought property in the Maldives. Sun setting, breeze flowing through your hair as you both laid on your stomachs. Simply gut-laughing at any and everything, everything was funny at this moment. You’re newlyweds.Riki smiles as he plays with the ends of your hair, twirling the end of a braid. “You know,” he glances down at your left hand. “I’ll be able to find you anywhere now.” His smile settles into something soft, something more than just teasing. “What do you mean?” You tilt your head in confusion. The sun hitting your face at the perfect angle.
He brought your hand to his lips, kissing the ring. “I put a little locator in your ring.” Riki’s heart raced, using your conjoined hands to cover his mouth as he nervously awaited your reaction. “See? You can’t even tell.” You brought your hand back to inspect the enormous rock and he’s right. You really can’t tell. And you weren’t going to ask why he put it there because you knew why. Again, you knew who you married. Plus you didn’t even have the energy to be mad at him right now. You couldn’t be mad after you just swore to forever with your best friend.
“Okay, but I still need privacy, Riki. I don’t just want to be a—”
He shook his head, “No, no, no. It’s not even activated. I just…in the event that something would happen to you—hopefully that’s never—but it gives me peace of mind that I can always find you, baby.” Riki smiled gently as he carefully caressed your cheek. “Only I can activate it. It just tells me where you’re positioned but it only works if you…” His chest caves slightly as his words tremble at the thought.
“If what?” You placed your hand on his shoulder, holding yourself up on your other arm.
“It only works if you have a pulse.”
“What if I take it off?”
Riki laughs.“You wouldn’t though, and I know you wouldn’t. There’s nothing you do that warrants taking it off.” He shrugs as he lays on his back and pulls you on top of him swiftly.
You yelp at his almost reflexive motion, putting your hands on his chest to stabilize yourself. “You’re right. But it’s not like someone’s gonna want to snatch me up at the grocery store or something.”
Riki had laughed with you then.
Really laughed—head tilted back, his arms wrapping tight around your waist as if just the idea of losing you was so ridiculous, so farfetched it barely warranted a real thought.
But now?
Now that blinking dot on his screen was the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the marble floor of his office.
His hand hovered over the location map, the tracker still active. Still moving.
You were alive.
That was the only thing keeping the wrath at bay—barely. Because while the dot pulsed, it wasn’t close. It was on the far edge of the city, in one of the zones they rarely used. Industrial. Warehouses. A part of town they had all but erased from operations.
Which meant someone wanted you hidden. Not hurt. Not yet.
Still…the bloodlust was roaring now. In all of his life, he had never felt such an insatiable, primal urge to kill like he did now. It was truly like the spirit of the devil ran through his veins and possessed him. That thirst wasn’t going to be quenched until you were back in his arms.
Riki stood from his desk, shoving his chair so hard it crashed against the wall. He pressed the emergency button again—just in case. Red lights flashed once in the corner of the ceiling.
His hands moved on autopilot, grabbing his bulletproof vest to put on over his compression shirt, his sidearm, his second piece, and the long black blade he hadn’t used in years. The blade that had started it all. The blade they said made him infamous. The one he swore he’d never need again.
He strapped it to his back. Along with one of the embossed Kaminari guns.
Grabbed the note again from the kitchen and stuffed it in his pocket—not because he needed it, but because he wanted to burn it on whoever sent it. By now, Clara had rallied his top men. Jake was on standby, speaking through the comms with a strained voice—he had been yelling at people relentlessly within the last twenty minutes.
Riki didn’t even look at the others in the room as he walked toward the front entrance, eyes locked on the car waiting just outside.
He paused only once.
To grab a bottle of your favorite perfume.
He sprayed it twice across his collarbone, once across his wrist. Something grounding. Something to carry you with him while he burned everything else down.
As soon as he stepped outside, he made contact with the two security guards meant to get you back here. They stood at the base of the steps—nervous, unsure if they should speak first. Their eyes flicked from the tension in Riki’s jaw to the fine mist of blood still drying across his knuckles.
He didn’t blink as he approached them. “You were supposed to bring her home and ensure she was safe. I gave explicit instructions.” His voice was eerily calm, but it buzzed like a live wire underneath.
“We—we did, sir,” one of them stammered. “She went inside. We locked the door right behind her—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you did!” Riki stepped forward, face to face with the buff man that cowered in the face of his lean figure. “My wife is not in my fucking bedroom because you failed to do your job.” He leaned in now, nose hardly touching his—his cologne and your perfume clashing between their senses.
The other guard interjected, “Sir—”
Before he could utter another word, Riki placed the barrel to his forehead. Squeezing the trigger and letting a metal bullet ripple right through his brain. Watching his body fall to the ground with a thud.
The echo of the gunshot rang out like a death bell across the courtyard. Riki didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. His jaw tightened as he watched the second guard freeze, paralyzed by fear and disbelief. A splatter of red stained the granite steps, and he finally looked down—then calmly wiped the barrel of the gun with the hem of his shirt. No one moved. Not even the wind dared.
“Let this be the part where you realize,” he said slowly, eyes locked on the remaining guard, “that I don’t make idle threats. I don’t give second chances. And I don’t tolerate incompetence.” The man nodded furiously, hands trembling at his sides.
“Good. Now get your shit together and get in the fucking car. If she loses a single hair on her head, I’m putting a bullet in your mouth. Understand me?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Riki exhaled sharply through his nose, holstering his weapon. His knuckles were cracked and bleeding again from how tightly he’d gripped it. It didn’t matter. He turned back toward the house and grabbed your scent once more—letting it wrap around him like armor. The tension in his shoulders didn’t loosen; it hardened. Sharpened. Weaponized.
He climbed into the car.
Clara’s voice came through the comms again: “Riki. We’ve found the tunnel entrance. Sealed off, looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. But the tracker’s pinging beneath it.”
His fingers tapped against his thigh—once, twice—before he answered. “Good. Blow it open.”
“Already on it.”
Riki leaned his head back, eyes half-lidded. “And tell someone—I don’t care who it is—to get rid of what’s-his-name from in front of our door. I don’t want her seeing that when she gets back.”
—
The floor was frigid as ever. To which you didn’t understand, it was springtime. But Earth’s crust wasn’t something you took time to worry about.
The left side of your head was throbbing and you were barefoot. Only your white nail polish is visible in this dark room. Your arms were bound to some wooden chair with…you jostled in the chair as best you could. Zip ties. Of course they were zip ties. Your feet too but your mouth wasn’t covered, big mistake on their end.
You smelt of debris, cinders, and a bit of blood. But none of that mattered, you had to get the fuck out of here despite you not being able to see shit. Before you could concoct some sort of plan, the lights were turned on. Stinging your eyes as your pupils had to adjust to the new sensation.
“Oh, babygirl. Are you okay? I know it’s been a long day.”
That voice. Sweet. Familiar. The kind that once called you baby while handing you fresh towels. The one that scolded Riki for forgetting to eat. The one you trusted.
Your blood ran like ice.
“Clara?!”
It didn’t compute at first. Your brain tried to reroute it, convince you that maybe she’d been kidnapped too. Maybe she was checking on you. But then you saw her. Heels clicking across the concrete. Calm. Clean. Untouched.
Her hair was neatly pinned up, her blouse spotless, not a wrinkle in sight. She looked like she just came from brunch—not your kidnapping.
You blinked. “Clara?” you croaked. “What the hell—”
“Shhh.” She crouched down in front of you, cupping your chin like a parent checking a child for fever. “You poor thing. That gash on the head looks awful.”
You were too stunned to move but you quickly snapped out of it and jerked your head out of her grasp. “The fuck is this?”
The older lady stood up straight, towering over your torn figure. “This is retribution,” she gestured around the shithole bunker you were in.
You stared up at her, heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out her words. “Retribution?” you echoed, like your brain was lagging ten seconds behind. “Clara, are you out of your fucking mind?”
She chuckled softly. Not like a villain. Like a teacher. Like a mother. Like someone who believed she had the moral high ground. “Don’t worry, your knight in shining armor is on his way here. Right to where you’re sitting. I can’t wait to inform him of his wonderful test results.”
Clara’s voice lilted like she was presenting a prize at a company banquet—like this wasn’t some underground dungeon and you weren’t zip-tied like a prop in a cautionary tale.
You scoffed, full of disbelief and blood in your mouth. “You’re sick.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said with mock sympathy, “you’re not the first girl who thought she was special.”
She circled you slowly now, her heels echoing through the cold, damp space.
“You think I didn’t know about the tracker in your ring? You think I didn’t let him find you? This is about control, baby. Not chaos. I want him to come. I need him to.”
You snickered, “Yeah well, I like it when he does.” If nothing else, you were great at pissing people off.
Clara paused mid-step.
And then she laughed. But not in amusement—in disbelief. A short, sharp sound, like a knife testing the surface before a deeper plunge.
“You’re really going to joke?” she said, turning toward you slowly. “Tied up like a pig in a butcher’s shop, and you’re making sex jokes. You really think you matter that much?”
You leaned forward as far as the zip ties would allow, blood crusting against your temple and your vision still swimming slightly. But your smirk was solid as a rock.
“He’s killed for less, Clara.”
Her nostrils flared, but she kept her composure. Barely. There was a twitch in her jaw now. You’d landed a hit.
“He loved me first,” she hissed. “He respected me. I built him. I made him.”
“No,” you said calmly, with that lethal kind of clarity only someone truly protected by love can wield. “You trained him. I made him human.”
For a beat, the only sound was the hum of the overhead lights and the crackle of Clara’s rage simmering just below her ribcage.
Then she smiled, too wide.
“Let’s see how human he stays when he finds your body,” she said sweetly, almost like she was offering a bedtime story. But you didn’t flinch. You nodded for her to come closer. Closer. Now your nose was nearing hers. “I fucking dare you to touch me.”
Two of her personal goons come in behind her, standing on either side of the door Riki was due to come in through. Clara’s eyes flickered to the guards like a general surveying her troops—calm, collected, but every muscle ready to snap. She stepped back, smirking like she’d already won some invisible game.
“You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” she said, voice silky but dripping with menace. “But this is my battlefield.”
The two goons cracked their knuckles, eyes cold and hungry, shadows stretching long across the concrete floor. The tension in the room thickened like fog, suffocating and heavy. You kept your breath steady, every nerve screaming fight or flight—but you knew better. The fight wasn’t here. It was coming. And it was coming fast. Outside the heavy steel door, you could almost feel the air shift—the calm before a storm that would shake foundations and burn everything to ash.
Clara glanced toward the door, lips curling.“Tick tock, babe.”
The door exploded inward, steel shrieking on its hinges as Riki stormed through like a bullet—rage crackling in his bones like wildfire.
His eyes locked on you instantly, wide with fury and fear, scanning your face for injury. “Baby—”
“Riki, watch out!” you screamed, voice cracking.
But it was too late.
One goon came at him from the left, the other from behind. Riki ducked, twisted, managed to land a vicious punch to the first one’s jaw—crack—but the second was already swinging with a steel baton, catching him in the ribs with a sickening thud. Riki stumbled, grunting through clenched teeth, his fury barely contained.
He went for the blade tucked in his boot—only for a third man, hidden just outside the door, to grab his arm and twist it savagely behind his back. Another punch came flying, this one straight to his jaw. The force knocked him to the floor.
You cried out, struggling against your bindings, your wrists screaming in protest.
Clara watched it all unfold with the elegance of a queen watching gladiators bleed for sport. “Tsk. You boys and your dramatics.”
“Don’t fucking touch him!” you yelled.
They did anyway. Stripping him of every weapon on him—blades, a small pistol, even the tracker cuff on his wrist. Riki didn’t stop fighting, even as they dragged him up and slammed him into the chair beside you. Blood was already trickling down the corner of his mouth, but his glare was wildfire—aimed directly at Clara.
One of the goons zip-tied his hands to the arms of the chair with force, tightening them until his skin burned red.
“I should kill you right now,” Riki growled through grit teeth, eyes trained on Clara like a blade.
She approached slowly, as if savoring his fury. “You’re not in a position to make threats, Riki.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he snapped. “Touch her again and I swear to God—”
Clara only smiled sweetly. “Swear all you want, son. You’re both right where I want you.”
You turned to look at Riki, both of you battered, bound, but alive.
And somewhere beneath the weight of adrenaline and bruises, your fingers brushed the edge of his chair.
Even now—your pinky searching for his.
He found yours. Linked it. Tight.
You were still here. And so was he.
Clara sent the men out with a wave of her hand as she pulled up a chair to sit down and face the both of you. After a few moments of silence between both of you, she finally spoke. “Wow, fine couple.”
“Bitch, shut the fuck up.” You spat out, rolling your eyes. “What are we doing here? What do you want? More money? We got that. Status, you have it. What more do you want?!”
The older woman smiled at your state. “I want Riki.”
You turned to Riki, who was so far removed from any place you’ve seen him. Your husband was right next to you but the troubled, anxious boy that he’s done such a good job at hiding was making an appearance. But you didn’t know which version of it was.
He bounced his knee up and down with extreme fervor, so fast that you had hardly even seen it moving. Hunched over, the top of his head facing Clara as he shook his head with his eyes glued shut. Lap dampening as what you could only perceive as angry tears misted his eyes and relentless, incessant thoughts bombarded his brain. Riki’s breath was shallow as ever and you could only hear him mutter threats that stemmed from that same fury. More to himself than anyone in the room.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
“You’re dead.”
“You fucking—”
“I swear on everything I love, I’m putting you in the fucking dirt.”
His voice cracked beneath the gravel, barely audible through the grind of his teeth. Every muscle in his arms strained against the zip ties, his body trembling like he was trying to hold back an earthquake. The air in the room grew thick, like the moment before a downpour—or an execution.
You watched him, heart breaking and raging all at once. You’d never seen Riki like this. Not even close. The man beside you wasn’t your husband—not the one who made silly faces behind menus or kissed your shoulder every time he passed you in the kitchen.
This was the version buried deep inside. The one he kept scrubbed clean and locked behind five layers of steel. The version built from years of betrayal and bloodshed. The boy no one ever loved right.
And Clara had dragged him out.
“I want Riki,” she repeated calmly, as if she were choosing an entrée off a menu. “Not the man you married. Not this polished little husband of yours. I want the real him. The one I raised. The one who knows how to destroy.”
“You didn’t raise him,” you snapped. “You groomed him.”
Her lips curled into a faint smile. “Tomato, tomahto.”
“Let her go,” Riki muttered, voice low and vibrating with rage. “Let her go, and I’ll give you what you want.”
You turned your head so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. “Riki—”
He still wouldn’t look at either of you. His shoulders trembled, breaths sharp and quick.
“Just let her go,” he said again, louder this time. “This isn’t her world. She doesn’t belong in it.”
Clara leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “Oh, honey. She entered this world the moment you put that ring on her finger. And now she’s in it until the end.”
Then she leaned forward slightly, that same maternal voice dripping venom: “Tell me, Riki…do you think your daddy would be proud of the little house pet you’ve become?”
That did it.
The room cracked open.
Riki lifted his head—slowly, deliberately—and his eyes found Clara’s with a fire that could level nations.
And for the first time since you met him, you were afraid of your husband.
You interjected quickly, “Seriously. Why are you doing this?”
Riki glanced at you with calmness behind his eyes momentarily, but something about hearing Clara’s voice sent the wrath of the scorned through him.
“I want my son back.” She hummed as she folded her hands on her lap.
Your brows furrowed, “He’s not your fucking son.”
Clara’s lips curled into a slow, venomous smile, like she was savoring every drop of poison she was about to pour.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she began, voice dripping with sickly sweetness, “you’ve been living a lie your entire life.”
She stood and paced slowly, every step echoing like a death knell in the cold room. “The woman you thought was your mother? The one who died when you were two? She was nothing but a convenient story.”
Your eyes locked on Riki’s, watching his jaw tighten, his entire body tense like a coiled spring.
Clara stopped just inches from him, voice low and deadly. “I am your mother. Your father’s mistress—the other woman. The one he never wanted you to know about.”
Riki’s fists clenched so tight the veins in his forearms pulsed visibly. “That’s a goddamn lie.”
“Is it?” Clara’s laugh was cold and bitter. “You want the truth? You’re my son, Riki.” She fished in her skirt pocket for a photo of her holding baby Riki as she had just delivered him.
You swallowed hard, staring at the photo like it was some kind of sick puzzle piece finally clicking into place. The baby in Clara’s arms had the same sharp eyes and yes—the unmistakable mole just below his lips. “I was able to hold you for fifteen minutes before you were taken from me, son.”
His eyes screwed shut, “I’m not your son! I’m your child. I am not your fucking son! Oh my go—baby you better say something before I—”
“What happened after? Why was Riki taken from you?” You chimed in, in an effort to calm your seething man.
“Because, I was the mistress. In love with your father, wanted a future with him. But he was married. And…”
Clara’s voice cracked just a little, the only crack in her otherwise steel mask.
“He made me promise to keep quiet, to stay in the shadows. But when my pregnancy came to light, everything exploded. The wife…she found out.” Her eyes darkened, haunted. “She made sure I lost you—took you away before I could even hold you properly again.”
The more you looked at her, the more Riki favored her. The same mole, the same unwavering determination in their eyes. The eyes that can be kind when they want to be. “It was either I disappear from your life completely or I stick around as the help and swear to secrecy. And I couldn’t lose you again, Riki. Do you know how much it hurt me to see you call someone else ‘mama’ for the first two years of your life?”
“I don’t give a fuck what hurts! It hurts that you had three big ass men jump me. It especially hurt that you had my wife taken from the safety of my fucking house—that I pay for you to live at—and lay a finger on her when you know how much she’s relied on you.”
Clara’s eyes glazed over, “But you did too. I was like a mom. You came to me all the time, I was your Claraboo. Remember?” She shrugged as she resigned, tears in her eyes.
“When Fumiko died, I thought it was a blessing in disguise.” She stood up. “But then you found her!” She gestured to you with unadulterated disgust. “Saying how great she was, wanting advice on how to dress for dates. So I thought, ‘Okay, this is his first time really taking someone seriously, it’s fleeting. No big deal.’ But then she started coming around. Family dinners, game nights. Then it became her spending the day, then sleepovers, then hearing you two go at it like rabbits when you thought no one could hear you. Fucking disgusting.” She snarled.
You looked at Riki from the corner of your eye, as did he. Both of you purse your lips to refrain from laughter during this serious moment. Lives are at stake here.
“Then, you got on one knee, Riki. At twenty-three, just throwing your best years away for one girl. And I kept thinking, ‘why does my son keep being taken from me? Why, why, fucking why?!” She grabbed one Riki’s pistol from a nearby table and whipped you with it.
The crack of metal against your cheekbone rang out louder than your gasp. Your head whipped to the side, pain blooming instantly along your jaw, your vision fracturing for a second. But you didn’t scream. You didn’t give her that.
Riki did.
“NO!” His chair thrashed violently beneath him, muscles flexing so hard the wood creaked. “Don’t you fucking touch her! Clara, I will fucking gut you—DO YOU HEAR ME?!” His voice cracked with fury, something animalistic and unhinged bubbling up from his core.
You spat blood, your lip split open now, and still you turned to Clara and hissed, “You’re not a mother. You’re just some bitter bitch who couldn’t let go.”
Clara’s hand trembled around the gun as she stepped back, her mask cracking further. “I raised him. I wiped his tears. I was the only one who gave a damn when he cried himself to sleep when his dad would be too hard on him. And you? You think your soft little hands and pretty smile can compare to that?”
Riki had stopped shaking. Now he was still—dangerously still. “You’re right,” he muttered. “You did raise me. Which is exactly why I know how to destroy you.”
Clara froze.
“You forget who you trained, Clara,” he said lowly. “You made me this way. You taught me how to survive. How to outsmart. How to kill.” And then he smiled. Sharp. Unforgiving. Blood drying on his lip.
“So congratulations,” Riki growled. “You just signed your own fucking death certificate. Maybe I really am your son.”
Clara blinked, eyes glassy. The gun trembled again in her hand. And then she raised it. But it wasn’t pointed at you.
It was aimed at herself.
You froze. So did Riki.
Clara’s finger hovered over the trigger, her eyes blank. “If I can’t have you,” she said softly, voice almost childlike, “then nobody will. Not her. Not the world. Not even you.”
“No.” Your voice dropped, pleading “Put the gun down.”
Riki sighed, looking down and mumbling to himself. “Damn bitch let me do the shit myself at least.” Rolling his eyes, knowing only you heard him and you refused to laugh at this moment.
You clenched your jaw to keep the smile from betraying you, even as the absurdity of Riki’s comment floated in the air like a cracked window letting in too much cold.
Clara’s hands trembled now. The gun shook between her fingers, and though it was aimed at her own temple, the tension in the room wrapped around all three of you like barbed wire.
“You think this is funny?” Clara snapped, eyes darting between you and Riki. “I’m baring my soul, and you’re making jokes?”
“Clara,” you said gently, the steel in your voice only thinly veiled by the concern beneath. “This isn’t the answer.”
“I gave up everything,” she whispered. “Everything. For him. For a son who looks at me like I’m a stranger—like I’m some monster.”
“You are some monster,” Riki muttered under his breath again, then louder, “but we don’t need a whole song and dance about it. Just...step away from the trigger, Broadway.”
You shot him a look this time. “Riki, please.”
Clara’s expression fractured—like a mirror that had been held together too long by spite alone. “I could’ve been someone,” she whispered, lip trembling. “I could’ve had a life with your father. With you. But I was the side note. The servant. Claraboo. Never mom.” Her voice broke. “You don’t understand what it’s like to watch someone else raise your baby. To be called help by the child you gave birth to.”
Silence. Then—
“I’m sorry,” Riki said quietly.
Clara froze.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” he continued, gaze steady. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the life you wanted. I’m sorry no one protected you when you needed it most. But this—” he nodded toward the gun, “—isn’t gonna bring any of that back.”
You took a breath. “Please,” you added. “Don’t make us leave here with another scar.”
You heard a low snap from your left where Riki was sitting, your eyes flitted that way. He had made free of the ties. Then, with every ounce of strength in his legs, jutted his calves out to free his legs. He slowly rose to his full height.
Clara’s sobs only intensified, shaking as her eyes squeezed shut and pumped out tears. Her breathing shallow as she trembled, hardly able to even line the barrel up with her chin anymore. She pointed the gun at him mindlessly.
Riki slowly edged to her, “Clara…please.” He nodded, “give it to me. I have a vest on, and I’m not going to let you do something you’ll regret.” His voice was low, steady—like a lifeline in the dark. Clara’s trembling hands faltered, the gun wobbled, and then, with a choked sob, she dropped it. The metallic clatter echoed in the cold room as it hit the floor.
You exhaled, relief crashing over you like a wave.
Riki quickly swooped up the gun as Clara plopped down on the chair in complete dejection. She looked up at her son, “are you going to kill me?”
He sighed, “I am,” he nodded with another smile he tried to smother.
She huffed out a laugh despite her tears and mucus, because if she taught Riki anything—it was that sometimes, survival meant knowing when to play the long game.
“Not today, son,” she whispered, voice raw but steady. “You’re smarter than me. You’ll make sure I pay in ways that cut deeper than a bullet ever could.”
Riki’s eyes flickered—half respect, half warning. “I’ll make sure you regret every breath you take until then.”
She nodded, somehow at peace with her fate. “Plus, if it makes you feel better—there was no real leak. I just used Yuna, Jo, and Sohee as pawns. Just distractions when I knew that Ms. Prada—” She nodded to you.
“Chanel.” You and Riki corrected simultaneously.
“...Whatever. But I knew that she was itching to get involved, I made you hyper aware of a leak. When there wasn’t anything to find. A perfect smokescreen to send you chasing ghosts while I set the real trap.”
“So how does that explain their weird behavior?” You leaned forward despite your restraints.
The older woman shrugs, “Sometimes people tell on themselves. But I did tell Jo to keep it from you. Said that you had other obligations and that if anyone got in the way you’d deal with them.”
Riki frowned, “Oh that pisses me off,” he pointed the gun lower and shot her kneecap. Eliciting a blood-curdling scream from the elder.
“Riki!” You yell, eyes wide as he just looks at you with humor in his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?!”
He waves you off, “Sorry,” he holsters his gun as he comes up behind you to free you. In oh-so-convenient timing, here comes Riki’s men down the bunker and into the room
The heavy metal door groaned open, and a squad of Riki’s men flooded in, their faces grim but ready. Flashlights cut through the dimness, illuminating the mess Clara had made trying to stall for time.
Riki didn’t waste a second—he tugged sharply at the zip ties binding your wrists, his hands steady but fierce. “You okay?” His voice was low, but laced with raw urgency.
You nodded, heart still hammering, eyes locked on Clara who was now clutching her injured knee, glaring daggers despite the pain. “Where were they?”
“The perimeter, you really thought I came solo?” He snickered, “I’m impulsive, not stupid.”
Riki’s men quickly secured the perimeter, eyes scanning every shadow. One of them whispered into a radio, “Target secured. Extraction ready.”
Riki glanced back at you, his expression softening just a fraction. “You’re safe now. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
You exhaled, relief flooding through you even as adrenaline kept you wired. Riki called out to all of them in the room as well as on the walkie-talkie he grabbed from one of the men. “Kobun! Clean up the mess. No loose ends. Take the old lady to the infirmary—alive. She’s got answers we’ll need later.”
He turned to you, voice low and steady, “You did good. Too good.” He brushed a stray hair from your face, the heat of his touch grounding you after the chaos. As the team moved efficiently, Riki’s eyes locked with yours—fierce, protective, and full of unspoken promises.
You smiled, “How did you break free?”
Riki smirked, the tension easing just a fraction. He opened his mouth and lifted his tongue to reveal a tiny razor, glinting silver against the dark warmth of his mouth.
Your eyes widened. “You kept that in your mouth? What if you cut yourself?”
He shrugged, “Tongue is the fastest healing muscle. Plus, I’ve done it enough times to not get hurt.”
You blinked, “That’s not comforting.”
He took it out of his mouth and tossed it to the ground. “There. Let’s go home.”
—
Later that night
—
The dust had settled a bit, the kitchen was still destroyed but that was tomorrow’s problem. You and Riki had been patched up on the way here. The moonlight spilled through the blackout curtains, painting silver streaks across the sheets—cold and unforgiving.
Riki moved around the room with his usual quiet precision, the soft click of his boots replaced by the muted sound of him slipping out of his clothes. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch when he pulled back the covers and settled beside you in just his briefs. He liked sleeping this way.
But you didn’t let it simmer, you sat up. “Are you okay, my love?” You whispered in the still room—the still house.“Mhm, just another day at work.” He yawned as he turned to face you with a gentle smile. But you didn’t buy it. He always did this so he could be a big-bad-strong boyfriend, now he’s a big-bad-strong husband.
“Riki, seriously?” You tilt your head in concern as you run your hand through his freshly washed hair.
He nodded, “Babe-asaurus, I’m cool as a cucumber.”
You snorted softly, the nickname breaking through the tension like a warm breeze. “Cool as a cucumber? More like a slightly burnt pickle after today.”
He chuckled, reaching out to tuck a stray strand behind your ear. “Yeah, maybe a little crispy around the edges. But I’m here. And you’re safe. That’s what matters.”
You purse your lips, you knew what he was doing. But you didn’t pry, you never liked to. “I love you.”
He sat up, pulling you in for a hug as he kissed your lips gently. “I love you more. You know I do.”
“I know,” You kissed his bare collarbone, nuzzling his smooth skin courtesy of the body scrub you made him use.
“Let’s sleep, yeah?” He laid down on the smooth, clean linen.
You nodded against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat sync with your own. “Yeah. Sleep sounds good.”
—
But for some reason, cuddling wasn’t on the agenda. Subconsciously, you two had parted—but it wouldn’t be you or him if you didn’t touch at least. But somehow, you felt the bed tremble a bit—shaking and quivering in the midst of the silence of the room.
You sat up, turning around with furrowed brows. Feeling a little groggy from the meds you were given but still cognizant enough to know what was happening around you.
And with that, your husband is lying down with his back turned to you, on his right side. Chest caving in, breath shallow.
You blinked, confusion curling into worry. That tremble wasn’t just from the meds—it was something else. Something deeper.
Riki’s shoulders shook slightly, the kind of subtle, silent tremor that only showed when no one was watching. Your heart tightened. The big-bad-strong husband was cracked open and raw underneath the armor you both pretended was unbreakable.
You reached out tentatively, fingertips brushing the edge of his arm. Before you could open your mouth, he turned around and fell right into your arms. Wrapping his arms tightly around you as he buried his face into your neck. Letting a sea of twenty-four years worth of pollution fall down your neck and onto your chest.
Finally the dam broke, the iron curtain. The wall of stoicism was no more.
And this one time, you said nothing. You let him have it.
His bare skin pressed hot against yours, every tremble shaking through the thin sheets. The cold night air met the heat of his body, exposed and raw in nothing but his briefs—the armor stripped away, leaving only a man unraveling.
You felt the wetness against your neck before you saw it—the slick, hot tears silently tracing down his cheeks, the first you’d ever seen. His breaths hitched violently, chest rising and falling in ragged waves, his shoulders heaving with a grief he’d never let surface before.
He buried his face deeper, clinging to you like you were the last piece of solid ground. Your fingers trembled as they traced the curve of his spine, as if trying to stitch together the pieces of a broken man.
You held your love through the quiet like you promised—the good, the bad, the ugly. And this was the worst of it and even then you’d rather die than give it up. Give him up.
You rubbed his back as you scooted back to lie down. Letting him put half of his weight on you as his grip didn’t relent. Not that you wanted it to. Your cold hands pressed against his warm body in effort to cool him down. But you couldn’t as seeing the strongest man in your life was at his weakest.
Tears pooled in your eyes.
You kissed the crown of his head, silent and steady—a quiet promise without words. The night held you both close, broken but unbroken, fragile yet fierce. And in that stillness, you understood something true: love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just holding on when everything else falls apart.
And you married a yakuza, but most importantly you married a man who lets you see the cracks—and still chooses to stay.
synopsis: being halfway across the world on tour doesn’t stop jungwon from catching the first flight home after noticing signs that you’re falling apart. what follows is a quiet, emotional breakdown—and the kind of love that doesn’t wait to be asked.
notes: yay my first jungwon fic! this was sososo self-indulgent LOL hope yall will enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing this!
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
the facetime ring echoed through y/n’s dark room, bouncing off unfinished textbooks and cold coffee cups.
she answered like always, voice thin but trying to sound cheerful. “hi, wonnie.”
jungwon’s face lit up on the screen, even though he looked tired — hoodie pulled up, eye bags from back-to-back concerts barely hidden by the glow of hotel lighting.
but he smiled. just for her.
“hi, baby,” he said, soft. “you okay?”
she nodded too quickly. “just tired. long day.”
that was always her excuse. long day. just tired. just stressed.
y/n looked tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.
her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. her voice lagged a little behind her words. she kept humming instead of answering, zoning out while he spoke. but she kept insisting she was fine.
jungwon didn’t push. not yet. he let her talk about school in fragments and reassured her that he’d be back soon. that he missed her.
y/n hummed again, rubbing her temple like she had a headache.
the call ended when y/n said she needed to rest. but jungwon kept staring at the blank screen long after she hung up.
something wasn’t right.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
it got worse over the next few days.
her texts became more distant. shorter. “just studying” or “can’t talk right now.” her voice on the phone was quiet, sometimes barely above a whisper and her camera was always off now.
y/n was slipping. and jungwon knew it.
he noticed the way she’d pause too long before answering. how she’d stop mid-sentence like she forgot what she was saying. how her voice trembled when she thought he wouldn’t notice.
he wanted to believe her when she said it was just stress.
but her eyes told him otherwise.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
the day after enhypen’s last show in singapore, their managers reminded them they had a four-day break before the next stop.
“go sleep, rest up,” they said. “recharge.”
but all jungwon could think about was y/n — alone in her apartment, telling him not to worry, while looking like she was barely holding on.
he didn’t tell anyone. he packed a small bag, put on a mask and cap, and caught the earliest flight back to seoul.
he didn’t text her he was coming.
he didn’t even think twice.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
when jungwon got to y/n’s apartment, he let himself in using the spare key she’d given him.
inside, it was quiet. too quiet.
there was no music playing. no lights on. just a laptop blinking in sleep mode and a mess of papers on the floor.
her mug sat untouched on the coffee table. the air was cold.
“y/n?” he called out. “it’s me. it’s jungwon.”
no answer.
his heart dropped.
he checked the bedroom. empty.
then the bathroom.
y/n was on the floor. slumped against the wall, her skin was too pale, her hoodie drenched in sweat. her lips were chapped, her hands trembling slightly where they clutched her phone like she’d tried to reach out but didn’t make it in time.
“y/n-” jungwon dropped to his knees beside her. “hey-hey, open your eyes.”
she stirred faintly, eyes fluttering. “...wonnie?”
her breathing was shallow. she tried to push herself up, but her body wasn’t listening.
“i’m sorry,” y/n whispered, dazed. “i didn’t mean to… i just-my head hurt, and i…”
“shh.” jungwon lifted her gently into his arms, like she was made of glass. “don’t talk. just rest. i’ve got you.”
he carried her to the bed, wrapped her in a blanket and ran around the apartment gathering water, a cold towel and paracetamol.
his hands were steady the whole time. his face calm.
but inside, he was breaking.
he placed the cool cloth against her forehead and stroked her hair back. he didn’t say anything else. he just sat there beside her. watching. making sure her chest kept rising and falling. making sure she stayed.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
y/n woke up hours later. her throat was dry and her whole body ached. but her first thought wasn’t the pain. it was the boy asleep at the edge of her bed.
jungwon’s head was resting on her pillow, still in his hoodie, one hand loosely tangled in hers.
“wonnie?”
he startled awake immediately. his eyes met hers. and for a second, she saw something break.
relief. anger. sadness.
“you’re awake,” he said, voice low.
y/n nodded weakly. “what are you doing here…?”
“i flew back last night,” he said. “i couldn’t… i couldn’t not.”
her brows pulled together. “you had a break. you were supposed to rest.”
jungwon’s jaw tightened. “i wasn’t going to rest knowing you were like this.”
she looked down, guilt swelling in her chest. “i didn’t want to bother you.”
he let out a shaky breath and sat beside her.
“you didn’t even tell me how bad it was,” he said softly. “you could’ve passed out alone. you did pass out alone.”
“i didn’t mean to,” she whispered. “i thought i could handle it.”
“by skipping meals? by studying until you collapsed?” his voice cracked, just slightly. “i knew something was wrong, but i didn’t think it was this bad.”
y/n blinked fast, but the tears came anyway.
“i missed you,” she choked. “so much. but i didn’t want to ruin your tour. i didn’t want to be selfish.”
jungwon stared at her. and then he said the softest, most heartbreaking words:
“you don’t have to be okay for me.”
y/n broke then.
the tears came in full. hot and silent at first. then messy and shaking and real.
“i felt like i was falling apart and i didn’t know how to say it,” she sobbed. “i didn’t want to be the reason you worried. i didn’t want to ruin anything for you.”
jungwon pulled her into his arms.
he didn’t say “you’re not a burden.” he didn’t say “it’s okay.” he just held her. pressed his forehead to hers and let her cry into the collar of his hoodie.
he didn’t cry.
not then.
he waited until she finally slept, warm and safe in his arms, her breath evening out and the fever fading from her skin.
only then, when she was safe, when he knew she’d be okay, did jungwon let himself break.
he sat on the floor beside her bed, hands covering his face and cried quietly into the silence.
because love wasn’t loud.
it wasn’t always beautiful.
sometimes, it was holding someone who didn’t know how to ask for help.
and sometimes, it was flying across countries just to make sure the person you loved didn’t have to fall alone.
warnings: mentions of pregnancy, slight miscommunication
synopsis: after months of quiet love and shared routines, a misunderstanding pulls heeseung away—until a single flower brings him back to the garden where everything began. because some love doesn’t need grand declarations. just soft soil, steady hands and time to bloom.
notes: thank you soso much for all the support on my first fic! i really didn’t expect it to be so well received—800 notes in less than a week is crazy… as requested, here’s part 2 of something soft grew here, hope y’all will like it just as much!
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
it started in spring, but it didn’t feel sudden.
things with heeseung never did. not anymore.
it had been months since the first flower his daughter had plucked. since the apologies, the shared dinners, the nights where he stayed a little longer than necessary, just to sit with her under the porch light and breathe.
and then one day, he didn’t go home at all.
he stayed.
not in a rushed or decided way. he just… didn’t leave. one evening melted into morning, and neither of them brought it up like it needed a label.
his toothbrush ended up beside hers. yuri started calling it ‘our garden’. he began packing yuri’s lunch in her kitchen, sipping coffee from her mismatched mug set, humming under his breath in a way that sounded like settling in.
and still, he kept showing up with flowers.
not always grand.
sometimes just one tucked behind her ear as she watered the roses. sometimes it was a pressed daisy in her book, or a sprig of lavender by her windowsill.
once, y/n found a tiny note taped to a hydrangea stem.
there’s peace in this home i never thought i’d feel again.
it wasn’t signed. he didn’t need to.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
a neighbour passed by one afternoon, catching y/n kneeling with her gloves on and her hair pinned up. they paused at the gate with a teasing smile.
“are you three a little family now?”
y/n looked up, startled, then laughed softly. “no… it’s nothing like that.”
the neighbour tilted their head. “oh?”
she dusted her hands off on her jeans, still smiling. “they’re just part of my routine.”
it was meant kindly. lighthearted. y/n didn’t think anything of it.
but what she didn’t see was heeseung, halfway up the path, pausing with yuri’s schoolbag slung over his shoulder, just in time to hear it.
“just part of my routine.”
he didn’t approach. just stood there for a moment.
then turned and walked away.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
the change was immediate.
no more text updates from him about dinner. no more flowers left on the porch. no more yuri running into her arms after school.
it was quiet.
and it hurt.
y/n didn’t understand it at first. she replayed every conversation, every interaction, wondering what had changed, what line she’d crossed.
but nothing came to mind. nothing except that one afternoon. that one sentence.
and when it hit her, her heart sank.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
the next morning, y/n left a single flower on his porch — a pink bleeding heart.
wrapped around its stem was a note.
i should’ve chosen my words better. you were never just part of my routine. you were the part i looked forward to.
y/n didn’t wait for a reply. she didn’t know if there would even be one.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
that evening, there was a knock on her door.
when she opened it, heeseung stood there, windblown and uncertain, holding the same flower in his hand.
“i’m sorry,” he said quietly. “i overheard. i jumped to conclusions.”
y/n didn’t speak. she just stepped aside as he entered slowly.
“i’ve spent a lot of time assuming people leave,” he continued, voice tight. “and i guess it was easier to believe i didn’t matter than to hope i did.”
y/n’s heart ached.
she walked over to him, took the bleeding heart from his hand and gently laid it on the table.
then, without a word, she gave him a gentle kiss on his cheek.
“you matter.”
heeseung’s breath hitched.
“you both do.”
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
from that moment, things didn’t just return — they deepened.
heeseung brought yuri over for dinner more often. he kissed y/n’s cheek when he arrived, her lips when he left. yuri started calling the garden ‘ours’ again.
and one quiet evening, as golden hour spilled over the porch, heeseung asked if he could plant something in the garden.
y/n nodded, watching him kneel beside the soil.
“i want something to grow here that i planted myself,” he said.
“and what would that be?” y/n asked, crouching beside him.
he pulled a small pot from behind him. inside: another bleeding heart.
pink. delicate. just starting to bloom.
“seems fitting,” heeseung murmured.
she leaned her shoulder against his. “it does.”
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
the closer spring got to summer, the more heeseung started fussing.
he tried new dishes he knew y/n liked. he and yuri tidied up her old shed together, though neither of them liked bugs. he even fixed the back gate, though it had squeaked for years and never bothered her.
it was different this time.
heeseung seemed nervous. the kind of quiet, restless energy y/n noticed most in the moments between the moments.
like when he watched her laugh with yuri. or when he stood in her garden at dusk, running his fingers over the bleeding heart stems, his lips moving like he was rehearsing something.
but he never said anything. not yet.
until that sunday.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
the proposal wasn’t dramatic.
one morning, after yuri had left for school and the garden shimmered with dew, heeseung took y/n’s hand as they stepped outside.
he pointed to where the bleeding heart now bloomed. beside it, tucked just underneath the petals, was a small velvet box.
y/n gasped.
when she turned to him, he was already watching her — nervous but hopeful
“i don’t have a speech,” heeseung said softly. “i just know that something soft started growing in me the day we met, and it stayed.”
tears filled her eyes.
“will you stay? with me? with us?”
y/n kissed him in answer.
the three of them were building a life together. one petal at a time.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
and then one day, something changed.
it was small at first. y/n forgot her tea on the stove. her appetite shifted. the smell of coffee, which she usually loved, made her stomach turn.
yuri said her face looked sleepy, even when she wasn’t tired. heeseung said she’d been staring off into space more than usual.
y/n just smiled quietly, fingers brushing over her middle when no one was looking.
she knew.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
it took two days before y/n said anything.
that night, the three of them were curled up on the couch, some cartoon playing in the background. yuri was half-asleep across her lap and heeseung had one arm draped around her shoulders.
“you’re thinking hard again,” he whispered.
she glanced at him, then back down at yuri’s sleeping face.
“i think…” she began softly, “we might be planting something new in the garden soon.”
he blinked. “like tulips or-?”
she slid her hand over her stomach.
“something a little more permanent.”
for a moment, everything stilled.
then his eyes widened, the words settling into his chest like seeds taking root.
“you’re-?” he breathed.
y/n nodded.
heeseung let out a quiet, trembling laugh, the kind filled with awe, and pulled her into him, pressing a kiss to her hair, her temple, her hand.
“a new flower,” he murmured. “we’re planting a new flower.”
she leaned into him, heart full.
“already loved,” she whispered. “even before it blooms.”
warnings: mentions of past grief (deceased wife/sibling), child illness (fever)
synopsis: when heeseung moves into a quiet neighbourhood with his daughter after losing his wife, not expecting love to bloom again—until it did.
notes: my first fic! i was trying to find something with a similar storyline but i couldn’t so i just wrote my own LOL english is my first language but i lowkey still suck at it haha… hope y’all enjoy it!
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
heeseung didn’t mean to move in during spring, but the season didn’t ask for permission.
it was the kind of weather that made the world look deceptively alive. branches tipping open into bloom, skies bright but gentle, the smell of soil clinging to the air like it wanted to be remembered.
he hadn’t noticed at first.
not when he was hauling boxes alone from the car to the small house with the creaky porch. not when yuri stood in the driveway beside him, hugging a plush bunny she no longer spoke to. not even when he stepped into the quiet space they were supposed to make feel like home and thought: it’ll never be hers.
grief has its way of hardening you. pulling everything soft in you inwards and convincing it not to come back out.
heeseung used to be warmer. he thinks.
maybe.
but that was a different version of himself — a version that still laughed easily, that held her hand in grocery stores, that braided his daughter’s hair without trembling fingers.
that man was buried with her.
and now he was just this.
a man trying to build a life out of rubble, one unpacked box at a time.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
yuri didn’t talk much in those first few days. she nodded when he asked if she was hungry, followed him without protest, sat cross-legged in her little pink room while he arranged furniture half-heartedly. sometimes she stared out the window, toward the neighbour’s house — the one with the white picket fence and the flowers blooming wild across the front yard. they were mostly pink. some tall and reaching, others low and curled. the kind that makes you pause for no reason other than beauty.
he hadn’t noticed them at first.
but yuri had.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
it happened on a morning like any other. sunlight slicing through half-closed blinds, cereal bowls barely touched. he’d been sweeping leaves from the front step when he looked up and realised yuri wasn’t in the yard anymore.
his chest tightened.
but then he saw her. small. crouched near the fence. her hands full of freshly picked flowers.
panic pushed his steps forward. “yuri!”
she jumped, startled and turned around.
the woman whose garden it was stepped outside at the same moment, barefoot on the stone path, a watering can in her hand and a soft expression on her face.
“i’m sorry,” yuri said quickly, clutching the blooms. “i just wanted to take some for appa. he always brings flowers to mommy.”
heeseung’s mouth went dry. the woman’s expression shifted. something gentler settling behind her eyes.
“it’s okay,” she said quietly, crouching down to meet yuri’s height. “you can take them. that’s a very kind reason.”
heeseung reached them, placing a hand lightly on yuri’s shoulder. “i’m so sorry,” he said, this time more firmly. “she shouldn’t be here.”
“it’s alright. really.”
he shook his head. “she didn’t ask. that’s not okay.”
“i didn’t mean to steal,” yuri whispered.
“i know,” heeseung said, softer now, but still tugging her gently back toward their side of the fence.
“let’s go.”
she didn’t argue, only looked over her shoulder once.
the woman gave her a small smile and a wave.
heeseung didn’t return either.
but later that night, while yuri slept curled on her side and the house exhaled into its new silence, heeseung sat at the table, staring at the crumpled flowers his daughter had picked.
a part of him ached at how much they reminded him of the bouquets he used to leave at the cemetery. how little hands still tried to comfort when they themselves needed so much.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
the next morning, he left a single flower on the woman’s porch.
he didn’t leave a note. didn’t knock. just placed it on the step, looked once at the blossoms still swaying in her front yard and walked home.
it became a quiet ritual after that.
a flower each morning. fresh. carefully chosen. sometimes wrapped in brown paper. sometimes left bare.
she never mentioned it. never came to the door. but the flowers kept appearing.
so she began placing them in a narrow glass vase on her windowsill.
sometimes two. sometimes three. always displayed where he could see them when he passed.
he didn’t mean for it to mean anything. but there was something oddly grounding about it.
the stillness of it. the silent exchange.
and somehow, he kept going back.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
yuri didn’t ask questions at first. maybe she knew not to. maybe grief had taught her which silences to honour. she stayed close, never strayed again.
until one afternoon, when he found her sitting by the garden gate, hands resting on the edge of the wood, eyes focused on the woman’s house.
“she said i could help her water the plants,” yuri murmured. “only if you say yes.”
heeseung froze.
“she’s nice,” yuri added. “she said the plants like when you talk to them.”
his chest pulled tight. he looked across the path to where the woman stood among the peonies, hair tied back, sunlight touching her cheeks.
“i don’t know her,” he said quietly.
“i like her,” yuri whispered.
he didn’t answer right away. just stared at the fence between them.
eventually, he nodded. once.
yuri lit up. ran across barefoot.
he watched them — his daughter, laughing again. the woman kneeling beside her, guiding her hands to the soil.
something about the sight felt dangerous.
like hope.
like the beginning of something he wasn’t ready for.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
heeseung kept his distance.
at first, he told himself it was for safety. for caution. he didn’t know her. not really. just a name scribbled on a mailbox and a presence that always seemed soft around the edges. but kindness, he’d learned, wasn’t always permanent. and warm people could disappear too.
so he watched from afar.
he stood near the sidewalk while yuri helped water the beds. watched her brush soil from her knees and point at the lavender stems like she was discovering a new world. sometimes he stayed just long enough to hear their voices drift back — low and contented, the kind of conversation where no one was in a rush to leave.
heeseung didn’t say anything. just nodded when y/n offered him a polite smile. folded his arms. waited until yuri looked up and waved her goodbye.
she always waved goodbye.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
the house didn’t feel as quiet after that. not in the usual way. yuri began humming again — soft, off-tune, usually something she picked up from the garden. she started talking about soil and bugs and “companion planting,” which she explained like it was magic. heeseung listened, half-amused, half-wary.
“she said flowers like friends,” yuri told him one night at dinner. “some grow better next to each other.”
he didn’t know what to say to that. but she smiled anyway.
y/n had a gentle kind of presence. soothing, without needing to fill silence. heeseung noticed how she never asked questions that reached too far, how she didn’t pry. she just listened, offered yuri a second set of gloves, explained things in a way that didn’t talk down. it was the first time since the funeral he’d seen his daughter light up like that.
he knew he should be grateful.
but instead, he felt the dull edge of fear pressing into his ribs again.
because this, whatever this was, was something yuri could get used to. and he couldn’t promise it would last.
he never wanted her to know the weight of losing someone twice.
that fear stayed quiet for a while, buried beneath summer air and the sound of yuri laughing as she chased a butterfly between rows of cosmos. heeseung kept his guard up, even as the mornings blurred into routine. even as he found himself lingering longer at the gate. even as his fingers stopped trembling when he packed yuri’s snacks and told her, “you can go over after school, if she says it’s okay.”
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
one afternoon, as yuri dug beside a row of marigolds, she asked without looking up, “y/n, what’s your favourite flower?”
y/n leaned back on her palms, squinting at the sky. “that’s hard,” she said. “but maybe… pink bleeding hearts.”
yuri giggled. “why?”
“they’re delicate,” y/n said after a pause. “they only bloom when the conditions are just right. and they don’t last long. but when they show up-” she reached forward, brushing a petal with her thumb. “-they’re unforgettable. they remind me of people i’ve loved.”
yuri was quiet for a beat. then she glanced toward the sidewalk.
heeseung had come earlier than usual. he stood just beyond the gate, one hand in his pocket, watching them with that unreadable expression.
he said nothing. but he heard.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
that night, heeseung sat alone in the living room long after yuri had gone to bed, a cup of untouched tea resting on his knee.
pink bleeding hearts.
he’d never heard of them before.
he looked it up. learned they were rare in their climate, especially outside of peak season. found a nursery an hour and a half away that might still have one in bloom.
he bookmarked the page.
didn’t place the order.
not yet.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
it rained before anyone expected it.
the sky had been overcast all afternoon, but the clouds didn’t seem angry, just heavy, thick with a quiet tension. y/n had just stepped out to take in her laundry when she noticed the wind shifting, cooler and quick, carrying the scent of something wet and inevitable.
the downpour came suddenly. thunder low. then louder. rain fell in sheets, drumming against the roof.
she had barely gotten back inside when a knock sounded on the door.
urgent.
she opened it to find yuri standing on the porch, soaked from head to toe, curls stuck to her cheeks, her little fists balled at her sides.
“my umbrella broke,” she sniffled. “appa told me to wait, but i got scared so i ran here.”
y/n pulled her in without hesitation. “you did the right thing, sweetheart. you’re safe.”
she wrapped her in a blanket, toweled her hair gently. made hot chocolate, even though yuri didn’t drink much of it. the girl clung to her like a second skin, eyes wide every time thunder cracked outside.
fifteen minutes later, the door opened again — this time without knocking.
heeseung stood in the entryway, soaked clean through, eyes scanning the room until they landed on yuri, tucked against y/n’s side on the couch.
“you ran off,” he said quietly.
“i’m sorry,” yuri mumbled, eyes flicking to her lap.
heeseung looked at y/n next. “i didn’t mean to barge in. i just- she wasn’t there- i panicked.”
“it’s alright,” y/n said. “she’s fine. cold, but safe.”
heeseung exhaled slowly. he stepped farther into the room, rain dripping from his sleeves. he looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself, whether to scold, to thank, or to disappear.
but y/n stood and handed him a towel.
he blinked at it before taking it wordlessly.
“do you want to sit?” she asked gently.
“i shouldn’t stay.”
“it’s raining.”
heeseung hesitated, then lowered himself slowly onto the edge of the armchair. he sat like someone who wasn’t used to resting anymore.
for a while, there was only the soft roar of rain, the quiet clink of a spoon against a mug, yuri’s head resting heavier against y/n’s side as she began to nod off.
“she talks about you,” heeseung said suddenly, voice low.
y/n looked up.
“yuri. she… she talks about you when she’s not here.”
“i hope that’s a good thing.”
he let out something that might’ve been a laugh. barely there, but real.
“she calls you the flower lady,” he said. “says your hands are like her mom’s.”
that made y/n freeze for a moment.
“i didn’t mean to let it go that far,” heeseung said. “i didn’t expect her to get this close. i just thought… it’d be temporary.”
y/n didn’t look away. “and now?”
he looked at the window. rain streaked down like melted glass.
“i don’t know,” he admitted. “but i’m scared of her needing people i can’t promise she’ll get to keep.”
y/n swallowed.
“i get that,” she said. “but you don’t have to disappear just because it might end.”
his gaze met hers. dark. raw.
“i already did once,” he murmured. “and it ruined her.”
the silence that followed wasn’t empty. it was full of things unsaid. shared grief. loneliness neither had named out loud yet.
“maybe it didn’t ruin her,” y/n said finally. “maybe she’s just... growing through it.”
he looked back at yuri, asleep now, her tiny fists unclenched for once.
maybe, he thought, she is.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
yuri started coughing on thursday.
just a little at first. dry and tucked behind her sleeve, like she didn’t want anyone to notice. she still asked to visit y/n after school, still tugged on her boots and insisted on helping dig up weeds between the marigolds.
but by the weekend, the cough had a wheeze. her forehead was warmer. her laughter came slower.
heeseung noticed immediately. took her to the clinic, filled the prescriptions, canceled her garden time. told her firmly, “rest first. you can go when you’re better.”
yuri had nodded, but her eyes went glassy in disappointment.
the nights grew restless. she tossed and turned, whimpered in her sleep, called out once for her mother in a voice that broke something in heeseung’s chest.
but what cut deeper was the name she said next.
“y/n…”
it was almost a whisper. almost not there.
heeseung sat in the hallway, back against the doorframe, palms pressed to his eyes.
by midnight, she was burning up. and when he couldn’t get the fever down, when her cheeks flushed too red and her breath came in short bursts, he did something he hadn’t done in years: he knocked on someone’s door for help.
y/n opened her door in a hoodie and mismatched socks, hair slightly messy from sleep.
he didn’t wait for pleasantries.
“she’s really sick. she kept asking for you.”
y/n blinked once. then stepped aside without a word.
inside, the lights stayed low. y/n moved with practiced ease — cool cloths, lukewarm tea, whispered reassurances. yuri clung to her, weak and sleepy, but calm for the first time in hours.
heeseung sat silently in the corner, watching it all.
“how did you know what to do?” he asked after a while, voice hoarse.
y/n looked over her shoulder. “i’ve had long nights too.”
he didn’t ask what she meant. didn’t need to.
he could see it now. that quiet echo in her, the same one in him. loss didn’t always scream. sometimes it just lingered.
when yuri finally drifted off, curled between a blanket and y/n’s arm, heeseung didn’t move.
“she never asks for anyone,” he said quietly. “not even family.”
“she doesn’t see me as a stranger anymore,” y/n said, just as softly.
he looked at her, really looked.
“i don’t think i do either.”
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
the next few days passed gently. yuri recovered slowly, her laughter growing stronger again. her visits to the garden resumed in small doses. first half an hour, then longer, her hands back in the dirt like they never left.
and heeseung began to stay.
not every time. but more often than not. sometimes with a book in hand. sometimes helping. awkwardly at first, like he didn’t quite know how to hold a trowel. but his hands were steady. and he listened.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
one evening, y/n handed him a mug of chamomile tea and sat beside him on the porch. yuri had gone home early to rest. the sun dipped low, painting the sky in faint pink and gold.
“you asked me once how i knew what to do,” she said.
he glanced at her.
“i lost someone too. a brother. years ago.”
he said nothing. just waited.
“he was older. the kind of person everyone leaned on. when he died, i didn’t know how to hold anything anymore. so I started planting things. watching things grow gave me back some kind of balance.”
heeseung’s fingers tightened slightly around the mug.
“i kept telling myself if i could help something grow, maybe i wasn’t breaking,” she said.
he looked down at his lap. then said, barely audible, “i started bringing flowers to the grave because i didn’t know how else to talk to her.”
y/n didn’t reply. just reached out, let her fingers graze his lightly.
“maybe you’re still talking to her,” she said. “in your own way.”
the silence after that didn’t feel heavy. just quiet.
settled.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
heeseung showed up one morning with dirt on his sleeves.
y/n had just stepped out to water the daisies when she saw him standing by the gate, holding a small terra-cotta pot in both hands. he looked awkward. like he didn’t know how to hold it properly. like it might break if he shifted too much.
inside the pot: a young pink bleeding heart plant, its delicate arch already blooming into soft, heart-shaped blossoms.
y/n froze. “you found one.”
“i remembered what you said. about how they only bloom when the conditions are right.” he glanced down. “it wasn’t easy. the guy at the nursery said they’re out of season. but there was one left.”
her voice was barely a whisper. “you didn’t have to.”
“i know.”
he stepped forward, handing it to her. his fingers brushed hers. and this time, neither of them pulled away.
“i used to think letting anyone close again was a mistake,” he said. “that if I stayed quiet long enough, the pain would keep its distance.”
her eyes softened.
“but then my daughter started bringing home soil under her nails and stories i didn’t know how to finish.”
y/n smiled, lips trembling.
“she brought me to you,” he added. “and i guess... something soft grew here too. even in me.”
there was no grand confession. no sudden kiss. just the bloom between them. real, living, held in her hands.
they planted the bleeding heart just inside the gate.
together.
it stood there quietly, its fragile blossoms nodding in the breeze like it understood the way grief and love could grow in the same space.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
time didn’t rush after that. it unfolded gently.
yuri returned each day after school, dirt smudged on her cheeks, asking if they could plant “one more thing” before sunset. heeseung started helping without being asked, started staying without needing a reason.
sometimes they all sat on the porch with tea and silence. sometimes he brought groceries without being told what to get. sometimes he let his hand rest lightly on y/n’s knee, just enough to say: i’m here.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
one morning, as she trimmed back the overgrown mint, y/n looked up to find a bloom resting on her doorstep again.
just like before.
but this time, heeseung stood behind it.
she arched a brow.
he gave a small, sheepish shrug. “didn’t know how else to say i missed you yesterday.”
y/n laughed. “you were literally here last night.”
“still,” he said, stepping forward, voice quieter now. “i used to leave flowers because i felt like i owed you something.”
“and now?”
he reached up, tucking the bloom behind her ear.
“now i just want to.”
she didn’t answer right away. just leaned into his hand slightly, heart fluttering in rhythm with the wind.
as they stood together near the bleeding heart —now in full bloom, more vibrant than either of them thought possible— heeseung looked at her for a long, soft moment.
