˗ˏˋ 𝐦𝐢𝐚 ˎˊ˗

name: lilac zhong

order: the eldest of six siblings and one puppy

favorite parent: bàba! aka a certified daddy’s girl aka chenle would give her the world and would also give up everything for her (except his wife)

fun fact: baby lilac is very very smart. at just the age of 11 months - she learned that she could get everything she wanted with just a few tears. as she continued to age, it’s safe to say she’s used that superpower to her advantage, with bàba lele being her #1 victim. our little crybaby, of course, got all the crybaby figurines.

name: stella zhong

other: 2 years apart from previous baby

favorite parent: bàba! — stella loves her older sister, therefore she likes everything lilac likes, including the favoritism for bàba lele. chenle is a girl dad through and through. compared to baby lilac though, this baby is full of giggles!

fun fact: chenle wanted to name her stephanie, after — you know it!…his favorite basketball player. his wife did not allow it. so they compromised. stella is pretty close, right? baby stella is the first baby to enroll in basketball lessons. and she loves it!

name: jin-chen zhong

other: 2 years apart from previous baby

favorite parent: despite being chenle’s exact mini me, baby jin-chen is a mommy’s boy from the moment he was in the womb! the easiest pregnancy ever and the easiest baby ever. he even got rid of his mommy’s allergies to kiwi when he was in her tummy.

fun fact: just like every traditional asian family, the first male heir is absolutely spoiled by his grandmother, mama li. she suggested his name, which means abundance of gold in the cosmos. however, despite being the boss baby, jin-chen is a very caring, sensitive boy who is always there to protect his mommy and sisters.

name: xin zhong

other: 2 years apart from previous baby

favorite parent: the first of the sisters to be a mommy’s girl! she loves watching her mommy get ready. the clingiest baby in the world.

fun fact: baby xin is a very quiet baby. she likes to keep to herself most of the time or play with daegal! her comfort person is her older brother, jin-chen, who is very protective over her. she loves reading picture books which eventually switched to her love for photos. her first camera ever is her mommy’s camera!

name: daegal zhong

you already know this cutie.

name: stefan zhong

other: 5 years apart from previous baby

favorite parent: the opposite of jin-chen. looks exactly like his mommy but is a complete bàba’s boy. he loves his bàba lele so much!!! bàba lele is the only one that could get him to stop crying.

fun fact: baby stefan was the best accident…oops? mommy was already on birth control and chenle was not allowed to get her pregnant again but…he still swam his way to the top. chenle’s trial #2 to have a kid named stephen…stefan’s a little closer??? teehee. baby stefan is the ultimate basketball fan! and the most competitive out of the zhong siblings.

name: mei zhong

other: 1 year apart from previous baby

favorite parent: a mommy’s girl through and through! she admires her mommy the same way mommy admires mama li.

fun fact: to follow the zhong couple’s logic, each baby had to have a partner…so they got to work real quick for baby mei. all of the zhong children are beautiful but mei’s beauty is on a different level. she was named #1 most beautiful baby in china. and grew up even more beautiful. she’s also the kindest of the zhong siblings, very close with the workers!

You'd barely stirred when Logan carefully untangled himself from around you a few hours earlier. The second Logan's warmth disappeared from around you, sleep had abandoned you completely. You remembered the sleepy press of lips against your temple, remembered him whispering something about emergency practice before disappearing back through the bathroom with more effort than a six foot hockey player should have needed to move quietly. 

You had laid there for nearly twenty minutes staring at the ceiling while cold air slowly replaced the heat his body had left behind. That had been the end of sleep.

Eventually, you gave up and grabbed your laptop instead. 

Which was how you ended up cross legged in the middle of your unmade bed at six in the morning, drowning in English literature notes while wearing one of Logan's old briar jerseys like a sleep shirt. 

The sleeves hung past your wrist, and the stitched hem brushed against your thighs whenever you shifted beneath the blankets. Your laptop sat balanced on your knees in front of you while color coded note card littered the comforter around your legs in chaotic little piles. 

The room smelled faintly like vanilla coffee creamer and Logan's cologne. The thought probably should have bothered you more than it did. Garrett would lose his fucking mind if he saw this. 

The thought flickered through your head so automatically it barely registered anymore. By now sneaking around with Logan had become muscle memory. You were half way through rereading your notes on gothic symbolism when the bathroom door connecting your room to his clicked softly. 

You barely looked up. That alone probably should have been alarming. But the only people who used that bathroom were you and Logan.

He paused halfway through the doorway, one hand still resting against the door knob as surprise crossed his face. His dark hair was damp from a rushed shower after practice, curling slightly at the ends, and he’d traded his gear for gray sweatpants and a black Briar Hockey hoodie that looked like he’d pulled it on without fully drying off first.

“You’re awake?" His hockey bag hit the bathroom floor softly behind him as he nudged the door shut with his foot.

You hummed absently, eyes still scanning the highlighted paragraph glowing on your laptop screen.

A beat of silence passed.

“Tell me I didn’t wake you when I left.”

That finally dragged your attention toward him.

You scrunched your nose automatically, guilt flashing across his face the second he saw it.

“Oh, baby,” he groaned quietly. 

You shrugged one shoulder, trying to dismiss it, but Logan already looked annoyed with himself as he crossed the room.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight when he dropped onto the bed beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours immediately. Warmth radiated off him in sleepy waves, carrying traces of cold winter air, clean soap, and lingering hockey equipment beneath it all.

“I’m sorry.”

"You're loud," you mumbled, teasingly. 

"I was not loud."

"You're, like, genetically incapable of being quiet."

"That is offensive."

“What’d they drag you guys in so early for anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting back toward your screen.

Logan rested his chin against your shoulder, close enough that his voice vibrated lightly through your skin when he answered.

“Cody got drunk at a frat and fell off a table. Dislocated his shoulder.”

You snorted softly.

“And you have a game tomorrow,” you murmured, piecing it together out loud. “Hence the emergency practice.”

He hummed against your shoulder in confirmation, the vibration making you shiver slightly before his mouth followed after it, pressing a lazy kiss against the fabric stretched over it.

Then another.

Then another higher up near your neck where the oversized collar slipped low against your skin.

Your fingers paused over the keyboard.

“Come on,” Logan mumbled against your throat. “Take a break?”

You ignored him on purpose.

It was almost impossible to study with Logan around. Not because he was obnoxious about it but mostly because he wanted your attention with the same attention he wanted ice time, and when John Logan wanted something, he tened to throw his whole body at it. 

Which, unfortunately for your GPA, usually worked. 

He sighed dramatically.

“Baby.”

“Logan.”

His mouth curved against your skin at the warning in your voice.

Logan lifted his head just enough to pout at you, and unfortunately for your concentration, he looked unfairly good like this—fresh from practice, slightly sleepy, soft around the edges in a way nobody else ever got to see.

He knew it too.

“I missed you,” he added, pouting still. You laughed quietly before you could stop yourself, turning your head enough to look at him properly. Logan immediately brightened like he’d won something. “You were at practice for like two hours.”

“Hey,” he said, nudging your knee with his. “Don’t be mean just because I like you.” The teasing grin lingered for only a second before something softer settled over his face.

His hand slid over your thigh absentmindedly, thumb brushing against the bare skin beneath the hem of his jersey. “I’m serious, though,” he said quietly. “I really like you.”

The words still did strange things to your chest no matter how many times he said them. Not because you doubted him. But because part of you still wasn’t entirely used to being wanted this gently.

You looked at him fully. “I know,” you said softly. “I like you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His entire face changed.

It hit you suddenly sometimes, how different he was with you compared to everybody else downstairs. The version of Logan most people got was loud laughter, easy flirting, cocky one-liners, and chaotic energy spilling into every room he entered.

With you, he was soft in a way nobody would believe if they only knew him from hockey games and party stories and whispered puck bunny gossip around campus.

This version belonged only to you.

Before you could process the thought too deeply, Logan reached over and closed your laptop. “Hey,” you protested immediately. “I’m studying.”

“Nuh uh.” He grabbed the laptop before you could reclaim it and set it carefully on the nightstand. “Break time.”

“Logan.”

But he was already gathering your note cards into one messy stack, ignoring your increasingly offended expression entirely.

“You are the worst,” you informed him.

“Mm. Keep talking. Gets me all hot.” He tossed the final stack of cards aside before turning back toward you fully. Your pout barely lasted two seconds before he kissed you.

Heat crept into your face immediately. You hated how easily he could still do that to you. Logan was your first relationship.

Briar had been your first real school, your first time living around people your age instead of watching normal life through windows and secondhand stories from Garrett. 

Your first sememster had felt like everybody else had recived some invisible handbook you'd somehow missed entirely. Parties, flirting, hookups, dorm drama, it all seemed to come naturally to everyone exept you. 

Especially hockey culture. 

You still remember Garrett standing in the kitchen before the semester started, arms crossed while Dean snickered into a beer beside him. "No hockey players," Garrett had said flatly. 

You remember rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. Dean had immediately pointed at himself and Tucker. "What about us?"

"You especially," Garrett had laid the law. At the time, you'd thought it was stupid, embarrassing overprotective older brother bullshit. You'd assumed Garrett simply didn't want to hear locker room stories about his little sister from his teammates. 

Now, with Logan's mouth brushing yours softly while morning light spilled gold across your tangled bedsheets, it almost felt funny. 

Logans kisses were slow, not rushed the way your kisses sometimes became when you were sneaking around the house trying not to get caught.

This kiss felt like exactly what he’d said earlier.

I missed you.

Your fingers curled automatically into the front of his hoodie as he kissed you deeper, patient and unhurried as he pulled you closer across the mattress. 

Even now, months into sneaking around, it still caught you off guard sometimes—the way he touched you carefully without making you feel fragile, the way he held your waist like it belonged beneath his hands naturally, the way he kissed you like he genuinely missed you after only a few hours apart.

Your hands slid into his damp hair as he shifted closer, and suddenly your laptop and exam and notecards felt impossibly far away. “Missed you so much,” he mumbled again against your mouth.

You smiled helplessly into the kiss. “Needy.”

“For you? Yeah.”

Somewhere between one kiss and the next, you ended up in his lap.

One second he was beside you and the next his hands were spread warm against your waist, guiding you over his thighs while your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him. The position pulled a quiet sound from him, one that made your pulse jump embarrassingly fast.

The jersey had ridden dangerously high up your legs by now.

Logan noticed. His hands slid carefully from your waist to your hips, fingertips brushing beneath the hem just enough to make your breath catch against his mouth.

The look he gave you afterward nearly unraveled you completely.

Your heart hammered hard enough to make your chest ache. Maybe this would be the moment. The thought arrived suddenly and stayed there.

Heat bloomed low in your stomach when Logan kissed you again, slower this time, one hand slipping up your spine while the other settled low against your hip.

The knock at your bedroom door barely registered. You froze. Neither of you had time to move before the door opened.

Garrett stepped inside.

For one horrible second, nobody moved.

His gaze swept across the room slowly. The abandoned study notes, Logan’s practice bag at the foot of the bed, your bare legs over Logan’s lap, his jersey hanging off your body, Logan’s hands still spread across your body.

The silence turned suffocating.

You scrambled off Logan immediately, yanking the jersey down your thighs as heat flooded your face. Garrett looked stunned until his expression twisted. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

The words cracked through the room so sharply that it felt like the temperature dropped with them.

Garrett stood frozen in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame completely, hockey hoodie half-zipped. His eyes moved once more across the scene in front of him like he still couldn’t quite make sense of it.

You in Logan’s jersey.

Logan sitting on your bed.

His practice bag on your floor.

Your flushed face.

The way Logan’s hands had only just left your body.

You and Logan began speaking at the same time. "Garrett—"

"G—"

"No," Garrett snapped immediately, voice rough enough to cut skin. "Don't 'Garrett' me right now." Logan stood slowly from the bed to stand beside you. 

Garrett laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about. "How long?" The question was simple enough but neither of you answered fast enough. 

Garrett looked at you then. Anyone else might have mistaken his expression for just pure rage, but you could see the fear in his eyes. "You promised me."

Your stomach twisted. Because you remembered it. You remember Garrett standing in this exact house, telling every guy under this roof to stay away from you and more importantly you had promised, no hockey players. 

"G, listen, man—"

"Do not call me that right now!" Garrett barked. The force of it made silence slam back into the room. Then Garrett looked at Logan fully for the first time since walking in, betrayal twisting ugly across his face. 

"Out of every girl at Briar," he started harshly, "you just had to pick my baby sister to get you fucking dick wet?"

"What the fuck, bro?" And again, you and Logan spoke simultaneously. "Garrett, back off!"

The second the words left your mouth, Garrett went still. Something flickered across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn't have caught it, but you knew Garrett too well not to. 

It was shock. Not because you had yelled but because you had defended Logan. And suddenly Garrett was looking at the two of you like a pissed off older brother anymore. 

Logan stepped forward slightly. "I swear it's not like that, man," his voice was strained now, confused and defensive all at once, "we haven't had sex."

You actually thought, for one horrible second, that maybe that would help. Maybe if Garrett understood that this wasn't just some reckless hookup, he'd calm down. Maybe if he understood that Logan cared about you, really cared about you, the situation would stop spiraling so fast. 

Instead Garrett covered his whole face with both hands. "Jesus fucking Christ."

You chest tightened, you hated what this secret had done. "I really care about her, G," Logan confessed. 

Garrett dropped his hands slowly, then he laughed. Not because anything was particularly funny, but because he knew he was on the brink of loosing control. The sound had come jagged and breathless and it had made a knot form in your throat. 

"You care about her?"

Logan frowned immediately, he was really trying to not get worked up. But his defensiveness got the better of him as he yelled, "Yeah," he shot back. "I really fucking do."

The volume of it bounced off the bedroom walls. You recoiled, but the only person who saw was Garrett because Logan stood in front of you. The motion had practically confirmed every fear that Garrett was trying to prevent. 

And then suddenly he wasn’t standing in your bedroom anymore.

You could see it happen in real time.

His eyes stopped focusing properly. His jaw locked so tightly a muscle ticked there. Whatever Garrett was seeing now wasn’t you and Logan anymore—it was memory layered over reality until he couldn’t separate the two.

“What happens after a bad game?”

“Garrett—”

“What happens when your pissed off and she the only one home?”

Your blood ran cold. Logan's brows furrowed in confusion. “Garrett.” You try to pull his attention to you, anything to get him to stop talking, but his sights are solely set on Logan. “What happens when you start drinking too much and she says the wrong thing—”

“Garrett!”

The shout ripped out of you loud enough to sting your throat.

Garrett sucked his top teeth with his tongue hard enough for you to hear it. It took him a second to drag his glare away from Logan and back toward you.

Beside you, Logan had gone very still.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

But Garrett wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

Your palms were slick with sweat now. Your heart hammered so violently it made your ribs ache. Logan was standing right there. Right there. And Garrett was too angry to stop talking and Logan was far too smart not to put the pieces together eventually.

One more sentence.

That was all it would take and the one person in the entire world you tried to shield this from, would know everything. 

“You think dad walked around acting like a monster all the time?” Your stomach dropped. “Stop it, Garrett!” You stepped forward until you were standing in front of Logan, closer to Garrett. You don't know what you were going to do, but some insane part of you wanted to shield Logan even though he probably already understood what was happening. 

“You think mom didn’t love dad once too?” 

The room tilted. You made the mistake of glancing toward Logan and immediately regretted it because there it was.

That look.

Your entire body flushed hot with humiliation so intense it almost made you dizzy.

“Fuck you, Garrett!”

“Woah, baby—” Logan started but he was quickly cut off by Garrett.

“Fuck me?” Garrett snapped, pointing at himself before swinging that same finger toward Logan. “No, fuck him!” If not for pointing at Logan, you might have thought the him he was refering to was your father. 

Your chest hurt.

You suddenly couldn’t stand the way Logan was looking at you. Couldn’t stand the fact that he knew now. Maybe not every detail, maybe not every ugly memory, but enough.

Enough to understand.

“I watched mom make excuses for him for years—”

“I know,” you fired back instantly, voice shaking now. “I was there too.”

Garrett’s expression cracked for half a second. Then hardened again. “Then why are you making the same mistakes she did?”

“Shut up!” The words tore out of you so violently they almost sounded broken. Silence crashed over the room. Nobody moved. Your breathing sounded too loud. So did Logan’s.

Garrett stared at you like he wanted to say more and knew he shouldn’t. Logan looked like somebody had knocked the air out of him entirely. You suddenly felt sick standing in Logan’s jersey.

Like your own skin didn’t fit correctly anymore. “Get out,” you whispered. Garrett hesitated.

“Get out!”

The shout echoed off the walls.

Something ugly flashed across Garrett’s face then, anger winning over reason for one disastrous second. He slammed his fist into the hallway wall hard enough to shake the framed picture hanging beside your bedroom door.

The sound cracked through you instantly. You flinched before you could stop yourself. Tears burned your eyes immediately afterward, humiliation following close behind them. Because Garrett saw it. You knew he saw it.

Garrett looked horrified for exactly half a heartbeat. Then he walked out. The bedroom door stayed open behind him. Silence swallowed the room again. 

Logan moved first, slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. “Baby—” You stepped backward immediately.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, shaking your head before he could touch you. “Just please get out.”

He stopped a few feet away from you, chest still rising hard from everything that had just happened. His eyes flickered over your face quickly, like he was trying to figure out which version of this situation he was standing in now.

The girl he’d been kissing five minutes ago.

Or this one.

The one standing barefoot in the middle of her bedroom looking like the floor had dropped out from beneath her.

“Baby,” he said carefully, voice quieter than you had ever heard it. “Please just let me—”

“Get out!” Your breathing shook. Logan froze completely.

Heat crawled viciously up your throat. You suddenly couldn’t stand the feeling of the jersey against your skin anymore. Couldn’t stand standing there wrapped in something that belonged to him while he looked at you like that.

Before you could stop yourself, your fingers hooked beneath the hem of the oversized Briar jersey and yanked it harshly over your head.

Logan’s eyes widened instantly.

The cold air hit your skin all at once, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and underwear, chest heaving unevenly.

For one horrible second, nobody moved. Then you threw the jersey at him.

The fabric smacked against his chest before falling halfway down his arm, and Logan caught it automatically out of reflex more than anything else.

The expression on his face wrecked something inside you further. He was in complete and utter shock. Not because you were half-dressed, he’d seen you in less before.

Shock because he understood what you were doing.

Your eyes burned. “Take it,” you snapped, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “Take your shit and just go.”

“Baby—”

“No!”

Your gaze caught on the hockey bag sitting at the foot of your bed. Still sitting exactly where he'd dropped it after practice because he had come straight here. Like this room had become home to him too. 

The thought made something sharp twist painfully in your chest. Before you could think better of it, you grabbed the strap and hurled the bag toward him. It hit the floor beside his feet heavily with a dull thud, one skate shifting loudly inside the bag from the force.

Logan stared at it for half a second.

Then at you.

You hated how careful he looked now, how cautious. That look was exactly what you had spent your entire relationship terrified of.

Your throat tightened painfully. “Please,” you whispered this time, weaker now. “Just leave.”

Something else flickered across his face but it wasn't pity like you expected. God, somehow that would have been easier, you think. 

It was the look of pure heartbreak. Which was way way worse. Logan swallowed hard once before bending slowly to pick up his bag. He gathered the jersey after it, fingers tightening around the crumpled fabric for a brief second.

At the bathroom door, he hesitated but you couldn’t look at him anymore so you kept your gaze on the floor. 

A second later, the door shut softly behind him.

"breathe, y/n, stay with me." jaemin’s voice cut through the heavy fog clouding your mind. his hand was wrapped tightly around yours, grounding you, his thumb brushing against your trembling knuckles. "donghyuck, file a report now," jaemin ordered, his tone sharp and urgent. donghyuck doesn't hesitate, already pulling out his phone, dialing the police with shaky fingers.

but you couldn’t move. your body refused to. the world felt muffled, far away. your thoughts ran wild, colliding, scattering. only one thing was clear—jun. your son. your baby. the only piece of love you had left in this godforsaken world.

"y/n!" jeno’s voice pierced through the chaos as he shoved past the crowd, eyes wide, heart pounding. he looked between you and jaemin, voice strained. "what’s going on?"

"she must’ve taken him away!" you screamed, the words tearing out of you like they had been clawing at your throat for hours. your glare found jeno, sharp, accusing, and desperate. he froze. confusion flashed, then realisation hit like a blow to his chest. he looked around—donghyuck whispering frantically into the phone, jaemin steadying your shaking form, and you… eyes wild with fear.

the “she” in question—he knew who it was.

his lover.

and “him”— his only son, jun.

the air around you shattered. anger, grief, panic—all tangled and suffocating. you stumbled forward, pushing against jaemin’s grip. "i have to find him," you said, your voice breaking.

"y/n, wait—" jaemin caught you by the arm, pulling you close, his voice low, trembling but firm. "listen to me, you can’t run around like this. you’re not thinking straight. i’ll get the car. just… just stay here, okay? please. i’ll be right back."

he squeezed your shoulders, searching your eyes until you nodded, barely holding it together. then he ran off toward the parking lot.

and then jeno appeared again. breathless. disheveled. guilt written all over his face. "where is she?" you shouted, stepping closer until he had to stumble back. "where did she take him? where did that bitch take my son?"

"y/n—" his voice cracked. his phone was in his hand, trembling, the screen showing soomin’s name flashing. "i’m calling her—i’m trying to—i swear, i don’t know!"

"don’t lie to me!" you shoved him hard in the chest. jeno staggered back, barely catching his balance. your vision blurred with tears and rage.

"you did this!" you screamed, your voice raw. "you brought her into our lives! you let her near him! everything i love—everything that mattered to me—is gone because of you!"

jeno’s lips parted, but no words came. only a broken sound—half sob, half breath. he looked at you like he’d been hit, eyes glassy, his chest heaving. "i didn’t know," he whispered, voice trembling. "y/n, i didn’t know she’d—"

"you never know, do you?" you spat, your tears finally spilling. "not until it’s too late."

silence hung heavy between you—shattered only by the sound of sirens in the distance, drawing closer. jeno’s hand was still on his phone, but it had slipped to his side, forgotten.

you turned away before he could say another word, your knees weak, your heart breaking all over again. jaemin’s car screeched to a stop nearby, "y/n!" he called out, practically jumping out of the care to get you.

you didn’t look back. you couldn’t. because if you did, you’d see the devastation in jeno’s eyes—the same kind that mirrored your own.

jeno’s heart stopped the second your front door slammed behind you and jaemin. at first, he tried to tell himself everything was fine—that you were just upset, that jaemin would calm you down, that this wasn’t the worst thing it looked like.

his mind shot straight to his son, to every worst-case scenario a parent should never have to imagine. if anything happened—if even one thing went wrong—he would never forgive himself. not now, not ever.

he shot to his feet, almost stumbling as he sprinted toward the parking lot. his fingers trembled around his phone, thumb slamming the call button over and over.

“pick up, damn it—”

but the ringing didn’t even last.

straight to voicemail.

“fuck!” he barked out, voice cracking with fear as he fumbled for his keys. his heartbeat was pounding in his ears, drowning out everything else as he ran to get his car.

meanwhile in jaemin’s car, time had lost all meaning.

you sat folded forward, elbows braced against your knees, hands buried in your hair as if you could physically hold your thoughts still. your breathing was shallow and uneven, each inhale scraping painfully against your chest.

the world outside the windshield moved in cruel slow motion. traffic lights lingered on red. cars crawled forward at an infuriating pace. every second stretched thin and taut, threatening to snap.

jun.

his face flashed behind your eyes, sleepy smiles, sticky hands, the way he called you mummy when he was scared. your chest tightened until it hurt, a sob lodging painfully in your throat. you pressed your palms harder against your temples, as if that might quiet the panic screaming inside your head.

jaemin noticed everything.

the way your shoulders shook.

the way your breaths stuttered.

the way you looked like you were barely holding yourself together.

his grip on the steering wheel tightened. he hesitated—because touching you felt like crossing a line he didn’t know if he was allowed to cross anymore. but then you let out a broken sound, halfway between a gasp and a sob, and instinct took over.

slowly, carefully, he reached out.

his hand settled on your arm lightly. the contact made your breath hitch violently. your teeth sank into your lower lip as tears finally spilled over, hot and uncontrollable. you tried to stop them—you really did—but fear had hollowed you out from the inside, and there was nothing left to hold it back.

“i shouldn’t have…” your voice cracked, barely audible. “i shouldn’t have pursued the case.”

the words fell out like a confession.

jaemin’s head snapped toward you, eyes dark with concern.

“if i didn’t—if i just kept my head down—jun would be home. he’d be safe.” your shoulders shook harder now. “i should’ve known better. i should’ve—”

“no.”

the word cut through the air, firm despite the tremor beneath it.

you shook your head, tears streaming freely now. “this is my fault—”

“it’s not,” jaemin said, voice stronger, urgent. his hand tightened just slightly, anchoring you. “listen to me. you did exactly what you were supposed to do.”

the car rolled forward another few feet. another red light loomed ahead like a cruel joke.

“you protected your son,” he continued, jaw clenched. “you fought for the better of this society so that he can have a good future. you didn’t stay quiet when something was wrong. that doesn’t make you responsible for this—it makes you a good mother.”

your breath shuddered, a sob tearing free as you covered your face.

jaemin swallowed hard. “i’m going to find him i promise,” he said, the promise heavy, unbreakable. “i swear to you. i don’t care what it takes or who i have to talk to—I will bring jun back to you safely.”

you looked at him then, eyes red and glassy, clinging to his words like they were the only solid thing left in the world. jaemin’s jaw tightened when your gaze met his, the fear there mirroring his own. “but i need you to stay strong too,” he said quietly, voice gentle despite the tension running through it. “you cannot collapse now.”

you nodded, even though your body felt like it was on the verge of giving out. your fingers reached for his hand almost instinctively, curling around it where it rested on your arm. the warmth of his skin seeped into yours, grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you desperately needed. your chest loosened just slightly, the crushing anxiety easing enough for you to draw a fuller breath.

you didn’t say thank you. you couldn’t. but jaemin seemed to understand anyway.

he traffic light flicked to green.

jaemin stepped on the accelerator without hesitation, the car surging forward. his mind was already racing ahead, mapping routes, possibilities, contingencies. first, he needed to get you home—somewhere safe, somewhere you could breathe, somewhere he could think clearly without watching you unravel beside him.

his phone buzzed.

then buzzed again.

and again.

each vibration felt like a warning.

jaemin glanced down briefly at the screen when traffic slowed, his grip tightening on the wheel as donghyuck’s name filled the display over and over. he opened the messages with a sinking feeling in his gut.

lee donghyuck: checked with the school.

lee donghyuck: cctv footage is gone.

lee donghyuck: teachers said jun was last seen at the sandbox.

lee donghyuck: alone.

the word alone hit like a punch to the chest.

jaemin swallowed hard, his jaw locking as his eyes flicked back to the road. the city suddenly felt too open, too exposed—every passing street another place where something could have gone wrong. his fingers flexed unconsciously around yours, grip firming as if to reassure both of you at once.

your breath caught when you noticed the shift in him. “what is it?” you whispered, voice fragile, afraid of the answer before it even came.

jaemin didn’t answer right away. he exhaled slowly through his nose, steadying himself—because he had just told you not to collapse, and the last thing you needed was to see him do the same.

“donghyuck checked with the school,” he said carefully. “the cctv tapes… they’re gone.”

your hand tightened around his.

“jun was last seen at the sandbox,” jaemin continued, his voice low, controlled. “he was alone.”

the words settled between you like something heavy and unforgiving.

your heart stuttered painfully in your chest, fear surging back up so fast it made you dizzy. the image of jun sitting by himself—small, vulnerable, unaware—flooded your mind, and you had to bite down on your lip to keep from breaking apart again.

“alone?” you echoed faintly, like saying it out loud might make it less real.

jaemin tightened his hold on you, just slightly. grounding. “we don’t know how long,” he said carefully. “and we don’t know who saw him. but someone did. kids don’t just disappear without leaving a trace.”

your breathing started to spiral again, sharp inhales cutting short in your chest. “what if—” your voice broke. “what if he followed someone? he’s so trusting, jaemin. he talks to everyone.”

jaemin’s jaw clenched. the thought crossed his mind too—jun’s easy smiles, his curiosity, the way he believed the world was kind because the people who raised him tried so hard to make it so.

“hey,” jaemin said softly, glancing at you when traffic slowed. “look at me for a second.”

you did, reluctantly. your vision blurred, but you saw the resolve there. not panic. not doubt. resolve.

“we’re not going to spiral,” he said. “not yet. we’re going to do this properly.” he took a breath. “we’ll go home first. you need to sit down. the police are already on it and jisung's also driving around on a lookout. ”

your throat tightened. “and jeno?”

jaemin didn’t answer immediately. his grip on the wheel shifted, knuckles whitening.

“he’s probably already on the road,” jaemin said finally. “and panicking.” guilt twisted painfully in your chest. jeno’s face flashed in your mind—his fear, his desperation, the way his voice cracked when he said jun’s name earlier.

“this is my fault,” you whispered again, the words automatic, like a wound you kept pressing just to see if it still hurt.

jaemin shook his head sharply. “no no. stop.” his tone wasn’t harsh, but it left no room for argument. “nobody could've seen this coming."

the car turned into your street. familiar houses blurred past, looking wrong somehow—too normal, too untouched by the terror tearing through you.

when jaemin pulled into the driveway, he didn’t turn off the engine right away. he looked at you, really looked at you, like he was committing this moment to memory.

“you’re not alone in this,” he said. “do you hear me?”

your lips trembled. you nodded.

inside the house, everything felt frozen in time. jun’s sports shoes by the door. dino-chan that he loved so much sitting by the sofa. the silence was deafening.

the moment you stepped inside, your knees nearly gave out.

jaemin caught you immediately, steady hands on your arms. “sit,” he urged, guiding you to the couch. “just sit.” you did, curling inward, arms wrapping around yourself like that might hold you together.

jaemin pulled his phone out again. messages were still coming in. missed calls now—jeno’s name flashing across the screen.

he hesitated for half a second.

then he answered.

“jaemin,” jeno’s voice came through raw and frantic. “have you received any updates yet?” the question hung in the air and heavy.

jaemin closed his eyes briefly before replying. “we don’t know yet,” he said honestly. “but we’re working on it. the school’s cctv was wiped. last sighting was the sandbox.”

there was a sharp inhale on the other end. “how about y/n? is she okay?” jeno asked. even at times like this, jeno couldn't help but worry about you.

jaemin glanced across the room, catching sight of you hunched over the dining table, shoulders drawn inward like you were trying to disappear. “we’re back at her place,” he said quietly. “i’m trying to calm her down. you should come over.”

“no. she definitely doesn't want me around. i'm only going to make everything worse.” jeno said quietly, voice almost defeated.

“trust me, she needs you.” jaemin insisted. because if there's anything that he's learnt in the years of watching the two of you, it was that the two of you were each other's emotional pillars. you steadied one another in ways no one else could. and that's the very thing that jaemin was envious of since university days.

jeno doesn't answer and instead, the line went dead.

jaemin turned back to you. you were staring at nothing, eyes unfocused, like your mind had already gone somewhere dark. he crouched in front of you, lowering himself to your level. “jeno's on his way,” he said gently. “we’re all here now. we move together.”

your eyes finally filled again. “what if he’s scared?” you whispered. “what if he’s calling for me and i’m not there?”

that was the moment jaemin’s composure cracked—just a fraction.

he reached up, cupping your face, forcing you to look at him. “then we find him faster,” he said, voice thick. “because he has people who love him enough to tear the world apart if we have to.”

outside, a car screeched to a stop.

jeno had arrived.

jeno barely made it to the door before pounding on it. the sound cracked through the house like a gunshot, sharp and desperate. jaemin was already moving, opening it just as jeno stumbled inside, breath ragged, eyes wild like an animal caught in a trap.

“have we heard anything from the school other than what we know yet?” jeno demanded, voice breaking on the last word. his gaze swept the living room, the hallway, the stairs—every place jun should’ve been.

you stood up so fast the room spun. “we don’t know,” you said, and the words tasted like poison. “jeno, we don’t know yet.”

jeno’s knees nearly buckled at that. he dragged a hand down his face, pacing like he couldn’t stay still for even a second. “soomin won’t answer. she won’t pick up. i’ve been calling for an hour.” his chest heaved. “this isn’t like her. she wouldn’t—” he cut himself off, fear swallowing the rest.

the door opened again before anyone could respond.

chenle and renjun rushed in, coats half-on, expressions tight with worry. chenle didn’t even bother with greetings. “okay,” he said quickly, eyes scanning everyone. “tell us everything. from the beginning. no skipping.”

jaemin gestured for everyone to sit, though no one really did. you perched on the edge of the couch, fingers knotted together so tightly they hurt. jeno leaned against the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“school,” jaemin started. “donghyuck checked. cctv’s wiped. jun was last seen at the sandbox. alone.”

renjun swore under his breath. “wiped how?”

“gone,” jaemin replied. “not malfunctioned. gone.”

silence fell heavy.

chenle ran a hand through his hair. “that means this was planned.”

“we believe soomin has intent to kidnap jun,” jaemin said, his voice controlled but grim. “if she’s expecting anything in return, she’ll reach out soon. but for now, we don’t know where she’s holding him.”

chenle frowned. “does the police have all of this?”

“yes,” jaemin replied. “they’re on alert. but her whereabouts are still unknown.”

renjun turned to jeno, his expression careful. “jeno, you know her—and her family—better than anyone here. is there anywhere they might take him?”

jeno shook his head slowly. “her family never fully trusted me. not until i married into them.” he let out a hollow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “and after i refused to ask y/n to drop the case in front of them… they were already guarded around me.” his eyes drifted to you without meaning to. the air shifted. it was a sore subject—one he never wanted to drag back into the light.

then, as if summoned by the tension itself, his phone rang.

unknown number.

everyone froze.

jeno answered immediately on loud speaker, his heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else. “hello?”

“you betrayed me.”

soomin’s voice came through shaky, brittle, vibrating with something close to hysteria. every muscle in jeno’s body locked up.

“and now,” she continued, breath uneven, “i’m going to hurt the most important thing in your life.” in the house soomin had bought in quiet anticipation of building a future with jeno, jun sat bound to a chair. rope cut painfully into his small wrists. a strip of tape covered his mouth, muffling his sobs, a blindfold pulled tight over his eyes. tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking into the fabric. faint bruises marked his skin—evidence of rough hands, of fear, of a moment that never should have happened.

the school janitor—paid and bribed, was already long gone.

back in your house, jeno’s face drained of all color.

“soomin,” he choked, voice breaking as panic tore through him. “please. hurt me. do anything to me—just don’t hurt my son. please.”

the silence in the room turned suffocating.

jeno stood frozen, phone held tightly in his hand, his knuckles white as if gripping hard enough might keep the world from slipping any further out of his control. no one spoke. no one moved. even the air felt like it had stilled, waiting for soomin to breathe again on the other end of the line.

her laughter came instead.

it was soft—too soft. unsteady, brittle around the edges, like glass about to shatter.

“hurt you?” soomin repeated, almost thoughtfully. “jeno, you don’t get to decide that anymore.”

his throat closed. “please,” he whispered, the word tearing out of him. pride, anger, dignity—none of it mattered now. “he’s just a kid. he doesn’t understand any of this. this is between us.”

“between us?” her voice wavered, then sharpened. “you made it between everyone the moment you chose her. the moment you let everything that my family and i built burn into ashes today. the moment you left me to fend on my own.”

you felt your knees weaken.

jaemin was beside you instantly, steadying you with a hand at your back. chenle’s jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitching. renjun had already pulled out his phone, quietly dealing the primary investigator's number that donghyuck had sent over to him, his fingers moving fast but controlled.

jeno swallowed hard. “tell me where you are,” he said. “whatever you want—money, my shares—I’ll give it to you. just let him go.”

there was a pause. long enough for hope to flicker.

then soomin sighed. “see? this is all i wanted. for you to finally understand what you’re worth to me.”

your stomach dropped.

“you’ll do what i ask,” she continued. “you’ll make this right. and if you don’t—” her voice trembled, then steadied with resolve, “jun stays with me.”

jeno’s legs nearly gave out.

“he’s crying,” she added quietly. “he keeps calling for you.”

the sound that left jeno’s chest wasn’t quite a sob, not quite a scream. it was something broken and animal, ripped straight from fear. he dropped into the nearest chair, one hand braced against the table as if the ground itself had betrayed him.

“i’m begging you,” he said, voice hoarse. “don’t do this. he’s scared.”

on the other end of the call, jun whimpered.

it was faint—but unmistakable.

your hand flew to your mouth, a sob escaping before you could stop it. your vision blurred, the room tilting violently as your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

“that’s enough,” jaemin said suddenly, his voice cutting through the chaos like steel. he leaned closer to jeno, speaking loud enough for soomin to hear. “soomin, the police are involved. every second you stay on this call increases your sentence.”

soomin laughed again, breathless. “oh, jaemin. always the hero.”

jaemin’s eyes hardened. “you don’t want to do this. once you cross this line, there’s no coming back.”

“i crossed it the moment he left me,” she snapped. “and i won’t be the only one paying for it.”

the call ended.

just like that.

the dial tone echoed loudly through the living room.

for a second, no one moved.

then jeno slammed the phone onto the table so hard it skidded across the surface. he dragged both hands through his hair, breathing uneven, eyes unfocused. “this is my fault,” he kept repeating, over and over, like a punishment. “this is my fault. this is my fault.”

“she didn’t say where,” chenle muttered, rubbing his palms together like friction might spark an answer. “nothing. no hint.”

renjun was already pacing, steps short and restless. “the police checked her parents’ place. hotels near the school. jewel corp properties that are still active. nothing lines up.”

you sat frozen at the dining table, staring at the wood grain like it might rearrange itself into a map. jun’s cry—muffled, terrified—still echoed in your ears, replaying over and over until your chest hurt from the effort of breathing around it.

jeno hadn’t moved.

he was staring at nothing, eyes unfocused, lips parted like he was trying to remember how to breathe. his hands were clenched in his lap, knuckles white, veins standing out starkly against his skin.

“jeno,” you whispered, your voice barely there. “please—if there’s anything—”

he flinched, like the sound of his name dragged him back into his body.

“there’s… there’s one place,” he said slowly. his voice sounded wrong—flat, distant, as if it didn’t belong to him. everyone turned to look at him at once. “one place i didn’t think to check.”

chenle stepped closer. “what place?”

jeno swallowed hard. his throat bobbed. “she mentioned it once. months ago.” his brows knit together as he searched his memory, fingers pressing into his temples. “she said she bought it as a wedding gift. something about… starting fresh. somewhere quiet.”

your heart stuttered painfully. “a house?”

jeno nodded, breath uneven. “a coastal house.”

the room seemed to tilt.

renjun stopped pacing. “coastal how?”

“out of the city,” jeno continued, words coming faster now, urgency creeping in as the memory sharpened. “near the cliffs. private road. bad signal. she said that was the point—no distractions. just family.” his voice cracked on the last word.

jaemin straightened instantly. “address.”

jeno shook his head, panic flashing across his face. “i never went. she never took me.”

your hands curled into fists, nails biting into your palms. a coastal house. isolated. hidden. every instinct in you screamed that this was it.

“she said it was close enough for weekend trips,” jeno added, like he was afraid the thought would disappear if he didn’t hold onto it. “about two hours out. there’s a long driveway. cameras. she joked that it was impossible to find unless you knew where to look.”

jaemin was already pulling up maps on his phone, fingers moving fast. “there aren't any coastal properties purchased under her family name in the last two years,” he said to renjun. “we'll have to narrow it down by private access roads.”

"do you think... she could've bought it under your name jeno?" you slowly pieced it together through your hazy mind.

jeno's breath hitched, “what… what do you mean?” jeno finally asked, his voice barely audible. it wasn’t anger that colored his tone—it was fear. the kind that crept in quietly, already knowing the damage it would leave behind.

you looked at him, your chest tight, your fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. “you told us it was a wedding gift,” you said slowly, carefully, as if each word might shatter something fragile. “a surprise. something she wanted to give you once everything was… settled.”

jeno nodded faintly, eyes unfocused. he remembered soomin’s smile when she’d mentioned it—soft, almost shy. a place for us, she’d said. somewhere quiet. by the sea.

“she was obsessed with legitimacy,” you continued, your voice trembling now. “with making everything look right. secure. permanent. what if she bought it under your name so no one would question it? so it would look like it already belonged to you… to your family.”

chenle swore under his breath, pushing his chair back hard enough for it to scrape loudly against the floor. “that’s not just manipulation,” he muttered. “that’s premeditated.”

renjun, who had been silent until now, slowly turned his laptop toward jeno. his expression was tight, all humor gone. “jeno,” he said gently but firmly, “did you sign anything recently? contracts. ownership papers. trusts. anything she told you not to worry about?”

jeno’s head started to pound.

paperwork blurred through his mind—documents passed across polished tables, soomin’s fingers tapping impatiently, her parents’ eyes watching him from across the room. he remembered how tired he’d been. how badly he’d wanted the tension to stop.

“there was something,” he admitted, voice cracking. “she said it was about asset restructuring. pre-marital arrangements. i thought…” his throat closed. “i thought it was normal.”

jaemin exhaled slowly through his nose, already pulling his phone from his pocket. “it’s searchable,” he said. “if it exists, we can find it.”

as if summoned by his words, jeno’s phone vibrated violently on the table.

everyone froze.

jeno stared at it for a second too long, dread pooling in his stomach. then he picked it up with shaking hands.

a system notification glowed on the screen.

property registry accessed — gold coast residence ownership record located

his heart dropped.

“jeno,” you whispered, stepping closer.

his fingers trembled as he scrolled.

registered owner: lee jeno co-trustee: han soomin

the room seemed to tilt.

jeno staggered back a step, like the ground beneath him had given way. “she…” his voice broke. “she used my name.”

jaemin swore quietly, already grabbing his keys. “that’s where she took him.”

“it’s the only place,” renjun said, already pulling up maps. “remote. private. easy to disappear.”

jeno’s hands came up to his face, nails digging into his skin. guilt crushed his chest until it felt hard to breathe. “this is my fault,” he whispered. “if anything happens to him—”

you moved without thinking, standing directly in front of him, forcing his eyes up to meet yours. your own were wet, red-rimmed, but steady. “listen to me,” you said, voice shaking but unyielding. “she did this to you. but jun is still out there. and he needs his father standing, not blaming himself.”

jeno stared at you, lips trembling, then nodded once—sharp, desperate.

“take me there,” he said. “please.”

jaemin didn’t slow down.

the engine screamed as he pressed harder on the accelerator, tires skidding slightly as he cut between cars, horns blaring behind them like distant warnings he refused to heed. chenle barked directions from the front seat, voice clipped, eyes glued to the glowing gps screen.

“left here—no, tighter—don’t miss it.”

in the backseat, the world felt smaller.

jeno’s body shook beside you, uncontrollable, silent sobs wracking his chest as if his lungs were collapsing inward. without thinking, you pulled him toward you, his head falling against your shoulder like he had no strength left to hold himself upright. his breath came out uneven, broken.

“he’s going to be okay,” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair, voice barely louder than the hum of the car. you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince anymore.

jeno swallowed hard. “he’s going to be okay,” he echoed, clinging to your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

the road narrowed.

city lights faded behind them, replaced by darkness and the distant roar of waves crashing against rock. the gps guided them onto a single-lane road that twisted along the coast, sharp bends hugging the cliffside. there were no streetlights now—only headlights cutting through the dark, illuminating jagged stone and wild grass bending violently in the wind.

the closer they got, the heavier your chest felt.

“that’s it,” renjun said quietly from beside you. “that house.”

it appeared suddenly—perched dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, a modern structure half-swallowed by shadows. the ocean stretched endlessly behind it, black and unforgiving.

jaemin slammed on the brakes and everyone piled out at once.

the sound hit you first.

jun’s muffled crying.

your heart stopped.

she was already there.

soomin sat on the concrete steps leading up to the house, hair disheveled, eyes wild and red-rimmed. one arm was wrapped tightly around jun, fingers tangled violently in his hair, forcing his head back. he whimpered, small hands trembling as they clawed uselessly at her sleeve.

and pressed against his temple—

a gun.

"i knew you'll figure out." soomin let out a scoffed laugh. “soomin—” jeno choked, taking a step forward before jaemin grabbed his arm. “stop right there!” soomin screamed, voice cracking as she stood abruptly, dragging jun with her. the barrel shook in her hand, but it never left his head. “one more step and i swear i’ll do it.”

jeno’s face crumpled. “please,” he begged, tears streaming freely now. “he’s just a kid. he loved you."

"daddy!" jun sobbed, his little legs kicking up in hopes to release himself from soomin's tight grip.

soomin laughed hysterically, the sound sharp and broken. “you're fucking delusional jeno. your precious son hates me. you too. you chose her. you chose to let her continue with that case. you took everything from me.”

the wind howled around them, whipping her hair across her face. her grip tightened. jun cried out.

something in you snapped.

“it was me.”

all eyes turned to you.

you stepped forward slowly, hands raised, heart pounding so loudly you were sure everyone could hear it. “i’m the one you want,” you said, voice shaking but steady enough to stand. “i ruined your plans. i exposed jewel corporations. i didn’t back down.”

jeno turned to you in horror. “don’t—”

“leave him alone,” you continued, eyes never leaving soomin’s. “jun has nothing to do with this. hurt me. point the gun at me. if you need someone to blame, blame me.”

soomin’s eyes flickered.

for just a second, doubt cracked through the madness.

jaemin felt his heart slam violently against his ribs the moment you stepped forward.

“y/n stop.” he said, reaching out for you instinctively, fingers grazing the back of your sleeve before you slipped just out of reach. his voice wasn’t loud—but it was raw, stripped bare of composure. “don’t do this. please.”

you didn’t look back.

each step you took toward soomin felt heavier than the last, gravel crunching beneath your shoes, the wind clawing at your clothes as if trying to pull you away from the edge. jaemin followed half a step behind you, hand hovering uselessly in the air, afraid that touching you might startle her. afraid that not touching you would lose you entirely.

“y/n,” he said again, desperation bleeding into his tone now. “stop. this isn’t on you. you don’t have to carry this.”

you shook your head slightly, eyes never leaving jun. the gun trembled against his temple. he was crying quietly now, small shoulders shaking, too afraid to make a sound loud enough to anger her again.

“if she needs someone,” you murmured without turning, “let it be me.”

jaemin swallowed hard. “she’s unstable. you don’t know what she’ll do.”

“i do,” you whispered. “and that’s why i can’t let it be him.” you drew in a shaky breath, forcing your voice steady even as your hands trembled.

“if you want to hurt jeno badly,” you said, eyes never leaving hers, “kill me instead.” jeno broke behind you, a strangled sound tearing out of his chest, but you didn’t turn.

“that’ll hurt him for life,” you continued, each word deliberate, cruel in its honesty. “not just today. not just right now. forever.” your throat tightened, but you pushed through it. “i’ll be gone from your lives. and he’ll have to live with it.” you bit your lips.

“isn’t that what you want?” you asked softly. “to leave him with something he can never recover from?”

soomin’s grip on jun faltered—just slightly. the gun wavered, her breathing coming apart in sharp, uneven gasps.

jaemin’s voice cracked behind you. “y/n—please—”

you ignored him.

“let him keep his son,” you said, quieter now, almost pleading. “take me instead.”

the sound came faint at first—so distant it almost felt imagined.

sirens.

low, wailing, carried by the wind from somewhere far down the coast.

soomin stiffened.

her head snapped towards the sound, eyes blown wide, pupils trembling as reality finally caught up with her. whatever fantasy she’d been clinging to—control, revenge, leverage—it collapsed all at once.

“…there’s not much time left,” she whispered.

the words were soft, almost calm. that was what terrified you “soomin,” you breathed, stepping forward again, palms open. “please—”

the wind surged harder, ripping at hair and clothes, the ocean roaring beneath the cliff like it was waiting. soomin’s chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths. her grip on jun loosened just enough to be dangerous. her finger brushed the trigger—not pressing, not pulling—just grazing.

your heart dropped.

you didn’t think. your body surged forward on instinct alone. “jun!”the world exploded into motion—jeno shouting your name, jaemin swearing, chen le and renjun sprinting behind you. feet pounded against concrete, gravel skidding under shoes, the wind screaming in your ears. “y/n!” jaemin shouted behind you, panic tearing through his voice.

your shoes scraped violently against the concrete as you ran, lungs burning, vision tunnelling until there was nothing but jun’s small frame and the gun shaking beside his head.

soomin jerked in surprise as you lunged.

jeno reached him first. he crashed into soomin with the force of pure panic, tearing jun from her grasp as if nothing else in the world mattered. jun was yanked free, stumbling into renjun’s arms as chen le pulled him back, shielding him with his own body.

jaemin caught you instead. his arms locked around your waist, hauling you backward just as soomin shrieked, the sudden movement jerking her hand and then—

bang!

the sound ripped through the night. the sound was deafening, echoing violently off the cliffside, bouncing back at you in sharp, disorienting waves. your ears rang, the world blurring as the bullet tore upward into the sky, vanishing into nothing but darkness.

soomin screamed as the gun slipped from her hand, skidding across the concrete and her legs gave out beneath her. she collapsed hard onto the steps, sobbing uncontrollably, nails scraping against the ground as if she were trying to claw herself back from the edge she’d already fallen over.

sirens wailed closer now, lights flashing harshly across the scene—red, blue, red—casting fractured shadows across the house and the cliff.

renjun ran after the gun and jeno collapsed to his knees. jun was in his arms, shaking violently, face buried against his father’s chest. jeno sobbed openly, clutching him so tightly it bordered on desperation, rocking him back and forth as if afraid letting go would undo everything.

“it’s okay,” he choked, voice breaking completely. “you’re okay. daddy’s got you. you’re safe.”

you stood frozen, knees threatening to buckle, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. adrenaline drained from your body all at once, leaving nothing but shaking limbs and a hollow ache in your chest.

jaemin tightened his hold on you from behind, steady, grounding, his forehead pressing briefly against the side of your head as if to make sure you were still there. "she's alive... she's alive..." he gasped over and over again, anxiety high in body.

police cars screeched to a stop nearby. officers flooded the space, weapons drawn, shouting commands as they swarmed soomin, forcing her hands behind her back while she screamed and cried, her voice dissolving into the chaos.

the ocean roared below, endless and indifferent.

but above it—on the edge of everything—jun was alive.

and the night, brutal and unforgiving as it had been, finally began to loosen its grip.

the chaos around you—the flashing lights, the yelling officers, the screaming wind—faded into nothing as jun ran into your arms.

“mummy!” he cried, burying his face into your chest, tears streaking his small cheeks. you pressed your lips to the top of his head, holding him as tightly as you could, inhaling the sharp, salty smell of the ocean and the faint scent of gunpowder still lingering in the air.

jeno knelt beside you, wrapping his arms around both of you, a trembling, raw mixture of relief and exhaustion written across his face. “i’ve got you buddy,” he whispered, voice cracking. “i’m never letting you go again.”

you held him both, rocking back and forth gently, your heart pounding with a fierce, uncontainable mix of love and fear. on the side, jaemin leaned against a police car, arms crossed but loose, watching quietly. his gaze softened as he observed the reunion, his chest tight as he swallowed the lump in his throat. When your eyes inadvertently met his, he quickly looked away, shaking his head and taking a small step back, as though he weren’t allowed to be part of the scene.

but you didn’t care about rules tonight.

you pulled yourself from jeno and jun, brushing past officers and shouting, racing across the gravel to him.

“jaems,” you said softly, breathless, voice carrying over the roar of the ocean.

he froze, hand half-raised, stepping back instinctively.

“you should be with j—” you cut him off without thinking, crashing into him, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was raw, desperate, and demanding. your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, while his hand hesitated at your waist before finally settling, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

when you pulled back slightly, chest heaving, jaemin’s voice broke the silence, low and almost trembling.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, forehead resting briefly against yours. “i'm so, so fucking sorry.” you didn’t speak. you just let him hold you, letting the emotions spill.

“you’re the only one i’ve ever wanted,” he continued, voice breaking. “devastatingly… maddeningly… i tried to protect myself from losing you by pretending i didn’t care. by keeping you at a distance. i told myself you could never love me back… that i’d be safer if i let you go.”

he paused, swallowing hard, eyes glistening. “but i was wrong. every moment away from you, every second, it only made me want you more. i wanted to be with you, always, even if it destroyed me to admit it.”

he shook his head slightly, desperate, raw, as if saying it out loud could somehow cleanse years of self-inflicted pain.

“i should have fought,” he admitted, voice cracking with pain and regret. “i should have taken the chance, instead of locking myself away in my head. i was terrified… terrified that you’d never choose me. but all i’ve ever wanted was you.”

his lips hovered near yours again, eyes searching yours, trembling like a man who had carried his heart in pieces for far too long.

you reached up, cupping his face, brushing the tears from his cheeks.

“i love you, jaems,” you breathed, voice soft, trembling with everything you had kept inside for so long. his breath hitched. his chest heaved, heart pounding violently against his ribs, as if it might break free from the weight of his own longing. the words—your words—echoed inside him, loud and undeniable. “i love you too, y/n,” he choked out, voice rough, cracked with emotion. “i really… fucking do.”

for a heartbeat, he just stared at you, memorising your face, memorising the warmth of your touch, trying to convince himself this was real. after all these years of pining, of watching from the sidelines, of thinking that he had no chance against jeno, that he had lost you forever… now, finally, he heard the truth. you loved him too.

and that truth hit him harder than anything ever had. he pulled you into him with a force that nearly stole your breath, arms wrapping around you like he was trying to merge your bodies into one. you felt the tremor in his chest, the shaky rhythm of his breaths, the heat of the tears on his cheeks mingling with yours.

“you have no idea how long i’ve waited for you to say that,” he whispered into your hair, voice thick, shaking. “i thought… i thought you’d never feel the same. that i’d have to watch you love him and be happy without me. and i—i couldn’t. i couldn’t stand it.”

you held him just as tightly, letting yourself feel the flood of his desperation, his relief, his love, all the emotions he had buried for so long.

“i'm sorry for making you wait so long,” you whispered. he buried his face into your neck, inhaling you as if he could commit your scent to memory, and murmured against your skin, “i’ll never let you go. not ever. not after tonight. not ever again.”

and for the first time in years, he allowed himself to fully, completely, unabashedly feel it—all the love, the longing, the ache that had consumed him—because finally, finally, you were his too.

jeno watched from a distance, jun still wrapped tightly in his arms. he saw the way jaemin pulled you close, the way your hands stayed curled into his shirt like you were afraid he might disappear if you let go. he saw the way jaemin bent into you, protective, reverent, like loving you was something sacred he never wanted to mishandle.

and for the first time that night, jeno smiled. it wasn’t bitter nor was it jealousy. it was soft and full of understanding. for so long, jeno had carried the weight of knowing he had failed you—failed to protect the love you once had, failed to be the man you needed when it mattered most. seeing you now, held so carefully, so fiercely, something in his chest finally loosened.

you’re safe, he thought. really safe.

jaemin wasn’t trying to own you or save himself through you. he loved you quietly, deeply, the way jeno once wished he had known how to. the way you had always deserved.

jeno pressed a kiss to jun’s hair, blinking back the sting in his eyes.

“that’s your mum,” he whispered softly, more to himself than to his son. “and she’s loved right.”

he looked back at you one last time—your smile, finally free of the hurt he’d helped carve into you.

and he let you go.

not with regret, but with relief that you had found someone who could love you the way he never learned how to.

and jeno knew without a doubt, that you deserved nothing less.

two years later, the sunlight poured through the grand stained-glass windows of the chapel, casting fractured rainbows across the polished floor. the air was warm, heavy with the scent of roses and lilacs, and the gentle murmur of family and friends filled the room with life.

jeno stood quietly to the side, shoulders slightly hunched but eyes steady, watching. he watched you—his heart giving a quiet, tender ache—as you walked down the aisle in your flowing gown. your hair shimmered in the light, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with happiness, and a smile tugged at your lips that seemed to radiate a calm joy he had never thought he’d see again.

and yet, beneath that joy, he could see the way your gaze lingered for just a second, long enough for only him to know, as if tracing every line of a past you had both survived.

after the ceremony, when the last guests had smiled and clapped, you found your way to him. your dress brushed softly against the floor, the train trailing like a gentle echo of the life you had lived, and when you reached him, your eyes softened.

“jeno…” you whispered, voice hushed and trembling slightly, you took a breath, eyes glistening with the faintest shimmer of tears, and reached out to rest a hand lightly on his arm. “i want you to know… i have no regrets. none at all. everything we went through—the heartbreak, the fear, the nights when we thought we’d lose everything—it all brought me to this moment. and even now, standing here, marrying jaemin, living my life… i love you deeply. always. in the way i know you’ll love me too, the way only we could understand each other.”

jeno’s throat tightened. the hollow ache from old wounds opened just enough to sting, but there was no bitterness, only a quiet, profound sorrow that seemed to settle in his chest. “you deserve all this happiness y/n. you really do.”

you released him gently, turning as jaemin appeared beside you, hand outstretched, a soft smile playing on his lips. your eyes met jaemin’s, a spark of laughter and comfort in them, and you slipped into his hand as if it were always where you belonged.

in the years that followed, you, jaemin, chenle, and renjun moved to canada, opening your very own law firm. it was a quiet, bustling life, filled with late nights in the office poring over case files, laughter echoing through open-plan meeting rooms, and the soft clamor of phone calls blending into a rhythm that felt like home.

jun thrived in the new life. he grew tall and curious, taking a strong liking towards the work that you and jaemin are doing. mornings were spent biking along quiet streets, afternoons at the local park or library, evenings at the dinner table with stories spilling between bites of food. weekends were for laughter, building forts in the living room or snowball fights in the garden during winter, and the house always smelled faintly of cookies and freshly brewed coffee.

every night, after tucking jun into bed with one of his favorite bedtime stories or a soft song, jaemin would hand the tablet to him. jun’s eyes would light up the moment jeno appeared on the screen.

“daddy!” he’d shout, waving frantically as jeno’s face filled the screen, smiling despite the distance. jeno’s voice was always warm, patient, filled with the same love he had poured into your lives long ago. “hey buddy! how was your day?”

the conversations were filled with laughter, teasing, homework help, and little victories jun wanted to share. and though miles separated them, the bond between father and son remained unbroken. every three months, jeno made the trip to canada, and those visits were filled with hugs so tight they took your breath away, afternoons at the park, and evenings telling stories while jun sat cross-legged between you and him, soaking up every word.

you watched those visits quietly, heart full, understanding that jeno had found his place too. not as a rival, not as a ghost from the past, but as someone who loved jun unconditionally and respected the life you had built. he had become a quiet, steady presence in your world—a man who had learned to love without possession, to care without expectations.

and as you stood beside jaemin one evening, watching jun play in the garden with jeno’s laugh echoing through the video call tablet at your feet, you realised how far you had all come.

the sun was setting, casting long amber shadows across your backyard. jaemin’s hand found yours, fingers intertwining naturally, and he leaned down to press a soft kiss to your temple.

“we did good,” he murmured, voice low and content.

you smiled, eyes tracing jun’s joyful movements on the screen, then looking at jaemin, your heart swelling with a quiet, unshakable peace.

“we did,” you replied. “and we’re still going to do good. together.”

the sound of distant waves, the laughter of your son, the soft murmur of life around you—it was imperfect, messy, and real. and finally, it was enough.

because love had survived heartbreak, distance, fear, and chaos. it had survived everything.

and in this moment, surrounded by the people who mattered most, your heart could rest.

this was home.

and it was everything you could ever wish for.

// the end

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There is a strange calm that comes over the city on Christmas Eve. Fewer cars line the roads, lights go out behind shop windows, and it seems as though all the apartments in your street have the same deep orange glow, as if the city has put a blanket around itself and turned on a reading light.

Your place is a different story altogether.

The heater has given up on you yet another winter, and you exist in thick socks and oversized sweaters for the duration, fogging the air with your breath as if you’re holidaying in a downbeat ski lodge rather than your zone 2 apartment.

Your mother has already called three times, each a frantic ninety-second sprint through holiday plans: Will you bring the extra chairs? Are you still pescatarian, or just being difficult about red meat? Can you pick up the right cranberry sauce, you know the one in the glass jar, not the jellied monstrosity from the tin?

You agree to everything, phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder, trying to sound composed while your teeth threaten to chatter. You’re still perched on your bed, half-naked except for the red lace and those absurd little bells. Your thighs and shoulders ache with cold, and you’re painfully aware of every square inch of exposed skin.

Not ten minutes ago, you’d spent the better part of an hour contorting into increasingly improbable angles in red lace and utterly humiliating jingle bells, all in the name of looking effortless for Jeno, of course. 

Jeno: there’s a name your pulse seems to know better than your own. Three months of teasing pictures from him post-workout, with nothing but a towel slung over his hips so his abs take center stage. The subtext has never been subtle. Tonight you’d planned to stop being subtle in return.

Now, while your mom lists off a litany of tasks, you’re scrolling through chats ready to finally send the photo that’s taken nearly an hour (and a year’s worth of courage) to create. The cold had made the whole thing an endurance exercise, goosebumps rippling over your arms as you tried to ignore how the bells jingled with every movement. The best photo sits ready on your screen, the last thing you snapped before your mom’s ringtone interrupted.

She’s still talking about napkin colors, whether the buses are still running, and remindng you to bring nice pajamas for the inevitable Christmas morning photos. You’re only half listening as you thumb out a quick “Merry Christmas x”, attach the photo, and press send, so practiced in the gesture you don’t bother double checking.

There’s a satisfying whoosh.

Then your blood runs cold when you read the name at the top of the chat.

Lee Haechan.

Not Lee Jeno.

Not the man with gym selfies who’s been circling your DMs like a hawk.

No. You’ve just sent a very curated, very intimate, very jingling photo of yourself to Lee fucking Haechan—your brother’s best friend. Eternal nuisance. Long-time gremlin. The boy who once told your crush that you still slept with a stuffed animal named Mr. Toast when you were fifteen. 

The phone buzzes in your hand.

Haechan: holy. shit. Haechan: is this what you’re wearing to dinner tomorrow or…?

Your mother's voice becomes white noise as you watch those messages appear. The phone nearly slips from your suddenly nerveless fingers.

"—and don't forget the wine, the Pinot Grigio not the Sauvignon Blanc, you know how your father gets about—"

"Mom, I have to go," you interrupt, voice strangled and hysterical. "Emergency."

"What emergency, dear—"

You hang up. She'll forgive you eventually, probably after three glasses of the wrong wine, but right now you have bigger problems. Catastrophically bigger problems.

You: THAT WASN'T FOR YOU You: DELETE IT You: DELETE IT RIGHT NOW You: HAECHAN I SWEAR TO GOD

The typing bubble appears immediately. 

Haechan: you know, when you said you were bringing dessert tomorrow Haechan: i assumed you meant cookies or something

You're going to die. Actually, physically die. In your freezing apartment, still wearing the stupid lingerie.

You: it was meant for someone else You: obviously You: please just delete it and we never speak of this again

Haechan: someone else??? Haechan: so you’re just spreading holiday cheer randomly Haechan: i'm devastated

Your apartment feels even colder now, or maybe that's just the mortification freezing you from the inside out. You scramble for your oversized sweater, yanking it over your head while trying to type one-handed.

You: this isn't funny

Haechan: it's a little funny Haechan: do i say thank you? is this a secret santa thing?

You: how much

Haechan: ?

You: how much money to pretend this never happened You: name your price

You can practically see him in his apartment, probably sprawled on his sofa in those ratty joggers he refuses to throw away, grinning at his phone in glory.

Haechan: bold of you to assume i can be bought Haechan: but also Haechan: 50 dollars

You: done

Haechan: per day

You: WHAT

Haechan: do you want my silence or not Haechan: this is premium blackmail material Haechan: i could dine out on this story for years

You pull the sweater down properly, the wool scratching against your skin where the lace still sits underneath. He's literally coming to your parents' house tomorrow for Christmas. You'll have to sit across from him at dinner, pass him the potatoes, pretend everything's normal while he knows exactly what you look like under your ugly sweater.

Haechan: although i'm curious Haechan: who's the lucky recipient supposed to be Haechan: anyone i know?

You: none of your business

Haechan: it literally became my business Haechan: when you made it my business

Your phone starts ringing. His contact photo fills the screen with that stupid selfie he'd taken with your phone on Mark’s birthday last year, mouth full of roast potato, eyes crossed. You'd never bothered to change it.

You decline the call.

He rings again immediately.

"What," you answer through gritted teeth, pulling your knees up to your chest, trying to conserve what little body heat you have left.

"You sound cold," is the first thing he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

"My heating's broken."

"Again? Y/N, it's literally freezing."

"Yes, well, I've had other concerns tonight."

He laughs and you can tell he’s delighted by the sounds of it. "This is the best thing that's happened to me all year."

"I'm so glad my humiliation brings you joy."

"I wouldn’t call it humiliation," he says. "More like... revelation."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that I didn't know you owned anything that wasn't either stolen from your brother or three sizes too big."

You pull the sweater over your knees. "I contain multitudes."

"Clearly." There's a rustling on his end, like he's shifting position. "So who's the guy?"

"I told you it's none of your business."

"Come on, I'm going to find out anyway. Your mom tells me everything."

He's right, which is infuriating. Your mother treats Haechan like the son she never had, even though she literally has two sons already.

"It's just someone from class," you mumble.

"That Jino guy? The one who looks like he irons his underwear?"

"No." You lie. Another con from knowing Haechan for that long is that he knows most of your situationships.

"Thank god. I was concerned about your taste."

"My taste is fine."

"Debatable, considering you just sent me—"

"That was an accident!"

"A fortunate one," he says.

You're about to respond when your phone buzzes with another message. For one horrible moment you think it's Jeno, somehow cosmically aware of your failure, but it's worse.

Mum: Did you hang up on me? Mum: Haechan says he'll pick you up tomorrow since the buses aren't running Mum: So helpful, that boy

"Did you just text my mother?" you accuse.

"She texted me first. Apparently you're being difficult about the wine."

"I hung up because I was having a crisis!"

"Past tense? Crisis over?"

You look down at yourself in the giant sweater, exposed legs slowly turning blue, hair probably resembling something from a horror film. "No, it's very much ongoing."

"Want me to come over?"

The question catches you off guard. "What?"

"Your heating's broken, it's Christmas Eve, and you sound pathetic. I'll bring mulled wine."

"Absolutely not."

"I'll even delete the photo."

You pause. "Really?"

"I don’t know, but you can try to convince me."

"I hate you." You groan.

"I know," he says, and you can hear keys jingling on his end. "See you in twenty."

"Haechan, no—"

He hangs up.

You gape at your phone in disbelief. This night has already careened so far off the rails that him showing up feels almost inevitable.

You look around your freezing apartment, at the poorly decorated tree leaning precariously in the corner, at the mountain of unwrapped presents for tomorrow, at yourself in your ridiculous combination of grandma sweater and inadvertent festive lingerie.

Your phone buzzes once more.

Haechan: might want to put on some pants before i get there

You pad to your bedroom, feet freezing on the hardwood floors, and catch sight of yourself in the mirror. The sweater hits mid-thigh, the red lace barely visible underneath, and your face has a flush that comes from both the cold and mortification.

The bells jingle mockingly as you search for pants.

You manage to find a pair of shorts and yank them on just as your doorbell rings. The man has never been on time for anything in his life except, apparently, your personal disasters.

You check the peephole and immediately groan. He’s standing there in a perfectly tailored coat, scarf knotted at his throat, holding what looks like two bottles of wine and a carrier bag, looking infuriatingly put-together for someone who just invited himself over at half nine on Christmas Eve. There’s a glint in his eye that you recognize all too well. He’s about to make your life miserable.

“I can see your shadow under the door,” he calls. “Just let me in before your neighbors think I’m casing the place.”

You open the door, and he breezes past you, bringing a swirl of cold air and the scent of cinnamon and clove. He sets everything on your counter, shakes snow from his hair and surveys your living room.

“Christ, it’s colder in here than outside,” he says, setting down the wine. “How are you not dead?”

“Layers,” you mutter, though the truth is you’ve barely stopped shivering since your little photo shoot. He starts unpacking his bag: two bottles of red, a battered thermos emanating the smell of mulled wine, a packet of mince pies, and—

“Is that a space heater?”

“Borrowed it from my next door neighbor.” He’s already crouched by the outlet, plugging it in and aiming it at the sofa. “He has his girlfriend over, so he won’t need this.”

You roll your eyes at his suggestive tone. 

 “Plus he felt bad when I told him about your situation.”

“You told him?”

“Relax, I meant your heating situation. Not your…” He glances at you, eyes skimming a bit too long over your form, “…other situation.”

You tug your sweater lower, warmth prickling up your chest for a different reason now. “Stop saying situation.”

“Would you prefer predicament? Circumstance? Mistake?”

“I’d prefer you forget it ever happened.”

He fiddles with the heater settings, then stands and looks at you.

“Bit difficult, that,” he says.

“Why?”

He turns away, busying himself with the wine. “Because in all the years I’ve known you, that’s the first time you’ve ever texted me something that wasn’t a complaint or a threat.”

“That’s not—” You cut yourself off, frowning. “... True.”

He grins, handing you a mug which you take with a scowl.

“Come on. You’re shivering over there.” He sits, patting the spot beside him.

You hesitate, but the heater and the wine conspire against your self-control, and you find yourself sitting next to him, careful to keep a gap. You wrap your hands around the mug, breathing in the spiced steam as the heat seeps into your frozen fingers.

“So,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Want to see something funny?”

“If it’s the photo—”

“No.” He scrolls. “It’s Jino—”

“Jeno”

“—whatever. His Instagram.” He tilts the screen your way. Row after row of gym selfies, every caption worse than the last.

“‘Grind never stops,’” you read, making a face. “‘Discipline is my love language.’ Oh my god.”

“That’s who you were sending nu—” he gestures, one eyebrow raised.

“Festive greetings. Shut up.”

He grins, holding the phone just out of reach when you lunge. “‘Muscles are built in the kitchen’? Come on, Y/N.”

“He’s nice!”

“He refers to himself as an alpha unironically.”

“How do you even—” You scramble closer, grabbing for the phone, nearly spilling your wine. The movement makes the bells under your sweater jingle faintly, and you freeze, feeling a flush creep up your neck.

“You're still wearing it?” His voice drops half an octave.

You freeze, caught like a goddamn rabbit under a hawk’s shadow. “I forgot it was there,” you lie.

He lets out a soft laugh. Not his usual smug, shit-eating grin. Darker. 

“Yeah?” he says. “You forgot you’re sitting next to me in fucking lingerie?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. There was nothing to say.

He says nothing either, elbow on the back of the sofa, wine in one hand, and staring intently. His eyes drag across your face, your flushed cheeks, down to where your sweater bunches at your thighs, as if he could see the garter strap underneath. Like he remembered exactly what was in that photo, and now he was imagining it all over again—except this time, two feet away.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair and looking away.

You want to make a joke, deflect, do anything besides sit there.

“Stop,” you say quietly, when he tilts his head and opens his mouth again. “Don’t make this into something.”

“Make what into something?” he asks, far too innocent.

“This. The... situation.”

His smile is sharp. “You mean the one you told me to stop saying out loud?”

You put your mug down before your hands could betray how hard they were shaking. “Yes.”

He glances at your knees. Then at your fucking sweater again, and the way you were pulling it lower, as if it could somehow shield you from how naked the air between you had become.

“Okay,” he says, sitting up, setting his own wine down. “Let’s not make it into something. Let’s just sit here, like we’re normal people, sharing some warm wine by a borrowed space heater. Let’s not talk about the fact that you’re wearing lingerie underneath that. Let’s pretend I didn’t spend the entire ride here wondering what the fuck I was walking into.”

You swallow. “You came over to make sure I didn’t embarrass myself further.”

He smiles.

“No,” he says. “I came over because I couldn’t stop picturing it. Because every time I blinked, it was just you, in that red fucking lace.”

A silent gasp leaves your parted lips. What’s with the sudden tension? Why is he saying these things?

“And then I get here,” he continues, “and you open the door like nothing and you’ve got this little sweater on, acting all flustered and innocent. Meanwhile—” his eyes drop again, “—you’re jingling every time you move. Teasing me.”

“Stop,” you say. Your voice doesn’t sound like your own.

“Why?” he asks, leaning forward now, elbows on knees. “You don’t want to talk about it? Fine. But I’m losing my goddamn mind, and you're pretending this is some kind of accident.”

“It was.”

“You didn’t take that picture by accident. You didn’t pick out that set by accident. You didn’t forget to change.”

Haechan's gaze sharpens, pinning you in place as he leans back against the cushions. His eyes flick downward, catching the subtle movement under your sweater, and a smirk curled his lips.

The wine buzzes in your head, turning his words from mortifying to... intriguing. You feel a spark of defiance ignite, the alcohol stripping away your usual hesitation. Instead of shrinking, you meet his stare, tilting your chin up just a fraction. “What if I didn't forget,” you say, your voice steadier than you expected. You uncross your legs, letting the bells chime once more. You watch as his smirk falters for a split second, his pupils dilating.

Before you realize, he’s shifting closer until his knee presses against yours, the heat of his body radiates through his jeans. “Oh yeah?” Haechan's tone dips lower, teasing, turning predatory as his fingers brush the hem of your sweater, tracing the edge where it meets your thigh.

“So you sent me that photo on purpose, so I could what? Imagine peeling it off you all night?” His thumb grazed the skin just above your knee, circling slowly, sending sparks up your leg. 

Emboldened by the alcohol’s warmth spreading through you, you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean in a little, your hand resting on his thigh, fingers pressing into the firm muscle there. 

“Maybe” you whisper, the alcohol making your inhibitions dissolve like sugar in hot liquid. You can feel the dampness building between your folds, the thong growing slick as his words paint vivid pictures in your mind. 

Haechan's eyes darken, his free hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering at the nape of your neck. 

“Then you're playing a dangerous game.” His breath is warm against your skin as he leans closer. He tugs gently at the collar of your sweater, exposing the strap of your bra, the lace edge peeking out. 

The heater drones, the bells jingle, and for a suspended, ridiculous instant you register every outrageous detail at once: Haechan’s palm splayed hot over your ribcage, the hiss of his breath against your sternum, him moving to kneel between your legs.

“Wanna play Monopoly instead then?” you blurt, because your default coping mechanism is apparently panicked jokes while half-naked.

He huffs a laugh against your skin, mouth still hovering indecent inches from your bra. “Pretty sure you I’d bankrupt you in ten moves.” His thumbs stroke slow circles over the lace, coaxing goose-bumps you feel all the way down to your calves. “And I’m more of a chess man anyway. I like long games.”

Long games. Wonderful. 

You plant a shaky hand on his shoulder and manage a breathy, “You’re terrible at chess. You always forget the knights move in L-shapes.”

“Correction.” He kisses the edge of the bra, voice muffled. “I know exactly how the knights move. I just prefer a—” another kiss, lower, “—more aggressive opening.”

God. “Aggressive openings are u-unnecessary.”

“I can be patient.” He nips your sternum lightly, then leans back just far enough that cool air hits the damp spot his mouth left behind. “Though my patience has limits.”

You intend to reply but the sight of him kneeling between your knees steals the alphabet from your tongue. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown, but there’s wicked amusement still glinting at the edges.

He runs a fingertip down the center of your stomach, like marking squares on a board. “Here’s the thing… Every time these bells go off”—he flicks one, soft chime echoing—“I’m picturing exactly how you looked in that photo. Except now you’re warm under my hands”

“That’s… not helping,” you manage, hips tipping forward of their own accord. The bell rings again and he hums approval deep in his chest, as if the sound feeds him.

“Wasn’t trying to.” He nudges your knees wider, the gesture almost gentlemanly, except for the promise simmering beneath. “But since you’re so invested in fair play—”

He slips his free hand behind his neck, drags his scarf loose, then shrugs the coat off with theatrical slowness. Button by button, layer by layer, until the sofa swallows the fabric and he’s stripped to a black T-shirt that clings to lean muscle. You swallow. Hard.

“Your move,” he murmurs. “Want me to stop?”

It’s a genuine offer, a clear exit, but you can’t drag your gaze from the vein flexing in his forearm, can’t ignore the ache blooming low every time your garter shifts.

Instead of answering, you hook your fingers under the hem of your sweater and tug. Cool air kisses your ribcage, then warmer air, then Haechan’s stare, molten and adoring all at once. His lips part on a silent expletive.

“Shit—” He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Definitely a dangerous game.”

He stares at the red lace hugging your breasts, squishing them together so deliciously they seem about ready to burst from the confinement. The sight is a million times better than in the picture.

He leans in again, one palm settling on your knee, sliding upward with delicious inevitability.

“I thought you were a skilled player, show me then.” You breathe, and if he was restraining himself before, the words shred the leash.

He’s on you in a second, mouth reclaiming your lips, tongue tracing the seam until you open willingly, hungrily. His other hand skates up your spine, pushing you closer to him.

When he pulls back, both of you are gasping.  “You realize,” he says, thumb brushing your kiss-swollen bottom lip, “there’s no walking this back.”

You catch the thumb with your teeth, bite just hard enough to watch his eyes flare. “Then let’s walk it forward.”

His laugh is low, reverent, almost incredulous. “Forward it is.”

He coaxes you onto your back, clothes discarded beside the lingerie, bells chiming faint approval.

“These bells,” he murmurs, thumb dragging against your skin, “are ridiculous.”

Your hand slides up his thigh, brushing the growing bulge in his jeans. “Don’t act like you don’t like them now.” 

He inhales sharply, and his tongue presses to the inside of his cheek like he’s fighting a smile.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls, voice rough with desire. “Keep that up, and I won't be able to stop at just teasing.” He hooks a finger under the garter, snapping it lightly against your skin.

You press your palm flat against his erection, feeling it twitch under the denim. “Who said I want you to stop?” you shoot back, your words slurring just a touch from the alcohol, but laced with intent.

The bells jingle as you move closer, your free hand tugging at his shirt to pull him toward you.

Haechan's control cracks then. He captures your mouth in a fierce kiss again, his tongue sweeping in to claim yours, tasting of spiced wine.

His hand delves under your sweater, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then up to cup your breast through the lace bra, thumb rolling over your hardening nipple.

You moan into his mouth, arching into his touch. He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down your neck and nips at the sensitive skin while his other hand plays with the garter belt and the bells that dangle teasingly.

“These are fucking distracting,” he murmurs against your collarbone, his fingers plucking at one bell, making it ring out as he kisses lower, his mouth hovering over the swell of your breast. He tugs the bra cup down, latching onto your nipple with a wet suck that draws a sharp cry from you.

Your hands fumble with his belt. Boldness surges as you pop the button on his jeans and slide your hand inside to wrap around his thickening cock. He feels hot and hard in your grip, the veins pulsing under your fingers. You stroke him slowly, matching the rhythm of his mouth on your breast.

“Shit, yes,” Haechan groans, his hips bucking into your hand. He releases your nipple with a pop, his eyes locking on yours, wild and intense. “You're full of surprises tonight. That wine’s turning my good girl into a tease.”

He pushes you back against the sofa cushions, his body covering yours as he kisses you again, deeper this time, his fingers slipping between your thighs. They brush the edge of your thong, finding the soaked lace clinging to your core.

“So fucking wet already,” he teases, rubbing slow circles over your clit through the fabric. You grind against his hand, feeling bolder still, your free hand tangling in his hair to pull him closer.

“More,” you demand breathily, the wine stripping away any shyness. Haechan chuckles darkly, slipping the thong aside to trace your slick folds with two fingers, spreading your wetness without entering you yet.

He teases your entrance, while his thumb presses firmly on your clit, building the pressure until your thighs quiver. The bells ring out in a frantic melody as you writhe, your strokes on his cock growing faster.

He captures your wrist gently, pulling your hand away just enough to shed his shirt, revealing the lean muscles of his chest. Then he kneels between your legs again, hooking his fingers on the edges of the thong and pulling it properly to the side.

“Let's hear those bells one more time,” he says with a wicked grin, positioning you so your legs drape over his shoulders. His mouth descends, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit in long strokes, while his hands grip your ass, thumbs parting your cheeks slightly for better access.

You cry out, nails digging into the sofa, feeling every wet slide of his tongue, every suck that makes you clench around him. He delves lower, tongue thrusting into your entrance, fucking you with it shallowly as his nose bumps your clit. The tension coils tighter, your boldness shining through as you rock against his face.

“Haechan… don’t stop,” you gasp, one hand reaching down to tangle in his hair.

He growls in approval, the vibration sending jolts through you. Rising up, he frees his cock fully, stroking it once as he lines up with your dripping pussy. “You want this? All of me?” he asks, rubbing the head along your folds, coating himself in your arousal, prolonging the tease.

“Yes, please!” you urge, guiding him in with your hips.

He thrusts forward slowly at first, inch by inch, stretching you until he bottoms out, both of you groaning at the fullness. He pauses there, his hips flush against yours, letting you adjust to the thick length.

His eyes lock on yours, dark and intense, as he rolls his hips in a slow circle, grinding against your inner walls and brushing your clit with his pubic bone.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he murmurs, voice rough, before pulling back almost all the way out, the drag of his cock against your sensitive spots making you whimper.

He slams back in with a sharp thrust, the impact jolting the sofa and setting the bells to a sharp chime. You arch up, meeting him, your hands clutching his shoulders as he finds a steady rhythm of deep, measured strokes that have him withdrawing to the tip before plunging back in.

The pace builds gradually, his hands sliding under your ass to lift you slightly, changing the angle so he hits that spot deeper inside you with every push. You moan loudly, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, urging him deeper. Sweat beads on his chest, glistening under the Christmas lights, and you can’t resist leaning up to lick a stripe across his collarbone, tasting the salt of him. He groans in response and speeds up, his thrusts turning harder, more insistent.

“Like that? Fuck, you take my cock so well,” he pants, one hand moving to pinch your nipple, rolling it between his fingers as he fucks into you relentlessly.

The coil in your belly tightens, pleasure sparking with each grind, but it still isn’t enough. You need more, the edge hovering just out of reach. You buck your hips up to meet his, clenching around him deliberately, drawing a hiss from his lips.

“God, yes—keep doing that,” he demands, shifting his weight to hook one of your legs over his arm, opening you wider. This new position lets him drive even deeper, his cock stretching you to the limit with every brutal snap of his hips.

The sofa creaks beneath you, the bells a constant, erotic soundtrack, and you feel the pressure building, layer by layer, as he alternates between fast, shallow pumps that tease your entrance and long, slow drags that fill you utterly.

Your breaths come in gasps, bodies slick and sliding together, the room filling with the obscene sounds of your coupling, the squelch of your pussy gripping him, his grunts mingling with your cries. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as he swallows your moans. Breaking away, he nips at your jaw, your neck, marking you with light bites while his free hand slips between your bodies to rub firm circles on your clit.

The dual sensation pushes you closer, your walls fluttering around his pistoning cock. “Haechan, I’m—fuck,” you whine, nails raking down his back and leaving red trails that make him thrust even harder in response.

He is close too—you can tell from the way his rhythm falters, his cock twitching inside you—but he is holding back, drawing it out, wanting to shatter you first.

“Come on, baby, let go for me,” he urges, voice strained, his fingers working your clit faster now, matching the relentless pace of his hips.

The bells chime wildly as your body tenses, the orgasm cresting slowly at first, then exploding in a rush that has you screaming his name. Your cunt clamps down hard, spasming in rhythmic pulses that milk his cock. Waves of ecstasy rip through you, making your vision blur and toes curl.

He follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a final, deep thrust, his release flooding you in hot spurts. “Shit—yes,” he groans, body shuddering as he pumps through it, prolonging both your highs until he has nothing left.

Only then does he collapse beside you, both of you panting, chests heaving. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your thigh, and the bells are finally quiet.

You wake up to several immediate regrets:

1. Your muscles are screaming in an everything-hurts-and-I-know-exactly-why kind of way.

2. Haechan is humming "All I Want for Christmas Is You" in your kitchen way too cheerfully for someone responsible for your inability to sit cross-legged ever again.

3. The bells are still on your floor, glinting like mocking little ghosts of choices past.

"Stop that," you croak from the sofa, your voice demolished. Wrecked. A casualty of making sounds you didn't know you were capable of.

He appears in the doorway holding two mugs, wearing your "Grinch Don't Kill My Vibe" pajama pants that sit criminally low on his hips. "Morning, jingles."

"Do not."

"Bells."

"Haechan—"

"My little Christmas miracle." He's grinning now. "My festive angel. My—"

"I will throw this pillow at you."

"Didn't get enough violence last night?" He sets the mug down, dramatically rubbing his shoulder. "I think you bit me at one point."

You take a shirt from the floor (his shirt, you notice) and put it on, trying to look like someone who isn’t sore in muscles they didn't know existed. "I can't go to dinner. I'll die. I'll burst into flames at the door. My mother will take one look at me and know."

"Know what?"

"That I—that we—" You gesture helplessly between you.

"Had athletic, boundary-destroying sex that made you reconsider your stance on atheism?"

"I hate you."

"You really don't." He sips his coffee. "Your neighbors might, though. Pretty sure Mrs. Chen heard you calling me—"

You slap a hand over his mouth. He licks it. You shriek and wipe it on his chest.

"Also," he adds cheerfully, "I texted your mom. Told her we'd be late because you had a 'wardrobe emergency.'"

"A what?"

"Well, I couldn't say 'your daughter can't walk properly because I rearranged her spine,' could I?" He flops next to you on the sofa, bouncing once to make you wince. "Though technically, the emergency is that you're not wearing much of a wardrobe."

"HAECHAN."

Half an hour later, you’re sitting in his car, gripping the door handle like you're about to jump out at a red light. He's connected his phone to Bluetooth and is purposely playing "Jingle Bell Rock" at low volume.

"I will end you," you mutter.

"You already did. My back looks like I fought a tiger." He shows you a glimpse of the scratches behind his shoulder, looking far too proud. "How do I explain these? 'Oh, these? Y/N just really loves Christmas?'"

"Tell them you fell."

"Into what? A wood chipper?”

You didn’t dignify his attempt at a joke with a response, already feeling less than willing to express any kind of positive emotion in this supposed jolly day.

Truthfully, you were not upset at Haechan. You were upset with yourself for letting things get to this point, and even more for actually enjoying it to the point where you keep replaying every moment of it in your head.

Suddenly you’re pulling up at your parent’s driveway and Haechan is turning to you with dancing eyes. "Here we are! Ready?”

“No.”

“Too bad.” He leans closer. “Try not to make that face when your mother asks how we slept.”

"LALALA CAN'T HEAR YOU." You scramble out of the car.

Your mother opens the door before you reach it, and Haechan immediately transforms into the perfect guest.

"Mrs. Y/L/N! You look radiant! Is that a new apron?"

"Oh, Haechan, you charmer!" She's beaming, completely taken in. "Come in, come in!"

He follows you in, and as you pass, he whispers, "You're walking like a baby giraffe."

"And you're about to die," you hiss back.

Haechan has positioned himself directly across from you at the table, which was a mistake because now he's making eyes at you over the roast potatoes.

"So Haechan," your father starts, "how's work going?"

“Great, sir.” He keeps his voice spotless while rolling a green bean in gravy in the filthiest way imaginable. “Just got promoted.”

Your mother claps. “Y/N, did you know Haechan was promoted?”

“No,” you say flatly. “We don’t update each other on our lives. That would require me speaking to him voluntarily.”

"I don't like to brag," Haechan interrupts smoothly. "Y/N's been very supportive though. Very... hands-on with her support."

You kick him under the table. He catches your foot between his legs and holds it there.

"That's nice," your mother says. "You two have been getting along better lately."

Mark snorts into his wine. "Since when?"

"Oh, we're getting along great," Haechan agrees, running his thumb over your ankle. "Really found our rhythm, haven't we, Y/N?"

You're trying to pull your foot back but he's holding it hostage. "R--right. Yes."

"In fact," Haechan continues, now massaging your foot under the table while maintaining perfect eye contact with your father, the absolute sociopath, "just last night we were discussing how well we work together."

"You were?" Mark asks suspiciously.

"Yes," Haechan continues cheerfully, now eating mashed potatoes in a way that brings back vivid sense memories of his tongue doing things to you, "we had a very thorough discussion. Covered all the angles. Really got into it. Deep into it."

Your wine glass shakes as you set it down.

"Multiple positions," he adds thoughtfully. " I mean on the subject, different positions on the subject."

"What subject?" your father asks, bless his oblivious heart.

"Life," Haechan says philosophically. "Passion. The importance of... tension and release."

You stand so abruptly your chair screeches. "BATHROOM."

You’re standing by your mother’s frost-covered roses, pressing your cold fingers to your burning cheeks, trying to make sense of the last eighteen hours. The marks on your neck throb faintly. Your thighs still ache. And somewhere between last night and this morning, Lee Haechan has completely rewired your brain chemistry.

This is the same boy who put green food coloring in your shampoo and called you “Grinchey” two Christmases ago. Same one you’ve spent years cultivating a careful, sustained annoyance toward, like tending to a particularly bitter garden.

So why can’t you stop thinking about him?

“Plotting your escape?”

You jump. He’s standing there with two pieces of Christmas pudding, looking unfairly good in his stupid Christmas sweater, the one your mom bought him two years ago that he actually kept. You’d made fun of him for it then.

“Plotting your murder, actually.”

“Aw.” He holds out a plate. “Peace offering?”

You take it, careful not to let your fingers touch his. Can’t trust yourself anymore, apparently.

“What was all that ‘we found our rhythm’ crap?”

"We did, though." He takes a bite of pudding, considering. "We should try more next time."

You turn to glare at him, but he’s not looking at you with his usual teasing smirk. Instead, there’s something softer in his eyes that makes your stomach drop in a way that has nothing to do with last night’s activities.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing. Just…” He sets down his plate, runs a hand through his hair. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?”

“Have sex on my broken sofa? Weird kink, but okay.”

“Y/N.” The way he says your name makes you look back. “I’m being serious.”

“Since when are you serious?”

“Since you walked into your parents’ house freshman year wearing that ridiculous reindeer onesie and told me my haircut looked like a hedgehog had died on my head.”

You blink. “That was ages ago.”

“Four years, three months, and roughly two weeks.” He’s studying the frozen roses now, purposefully not looking at you. “But who’s counting.”

“Why… why do you even remember that?”

He tilts his head, looking faintly amused at your confusion. “Why do you think?”

“…You’ve liked me since then…”

“Liked is a generous word for what I felt when you were being a pain in my ass.” He finally looks at you, and that vulnerability is back, the one that makes him look younger.

“But— but the girls you’ve dated are so different. I mean I’m not your type at all.”

“God you are so blind.” He chuckles incredulously.

Suddenly, you’re thinking about all the moments you’d dismissed. How he always brought your favorite snacks. How he remembered how you take your coffee and always made it better than anyone else. How he terrorized every guy you dated but played it off as "brotherly" concern.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “You’re in love with me.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, trying for casual but failing entirely. “Surprise?”

“You’re in love with me and you let me send you that photo—”

“I mean it was an accident.”

“—and you came over and you brought wine and you fixed my heating—”

“Technically, I didn’t fix your heating—”

“—and then you fucked me on my sofa knowing you’ve been in love with me for FOUR YEARS?”

He winces. “When you put it like that, it sounds weird.”

“It sounds insane!” You’re pacing now, the pudding forgotten. “Who does that? Who just… sits on feelings for four years?”

“Someone whose best friend would murder them for touching his sister?” He catches your hand, stops your pacing. “Someone who was terrified of ruining the only excuse he had to see you? Someone who was willing to take whatever he could get, even if it was just annoying you at Christmas dinners?”

You stare at him. Past the jokes and the smugness and the playful torture. There’s Haechan, who drove over at 9 PM on Christmas Eve because your heating was broken. Who made sure you were warm and safe and… oh.

“I think I have feelings for you too,” you say, and it comes out accusatory. “Which is frankly inconvenient.”

His whole face changes. “Yeah?”

“I mean, I hated you twelve hours ago.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I strongly disliked you.”

“I don’t even think you believe that.”

“I…” You think about last night, how easy it was to let him in, how right it felt when he kissed you, how you’d wanted him to stay even after the sex. “You’re annoying and insufferable and you eat all my good snacks and—”

He kisses you, cutting off your spiral. Which you were secretly glad for because you were starting to miss his lips when they weren’t on yours. What the hell was happening?

“And?” he prompts against your lips.

“And I can’t stop thinking about you,” you admit. “Last night was… but even before that, you were everywhere. In my head. Under my skin. It’s extremely annoying.”

“Oh no,” he grins, “are you admitting you love me back?”

“I’m admitting you’re less horrible than anticipated.”

“Practically a declaration of love from you.” He pulls you closer, and you realize you’re not cold anymore. Haven’t been since he came outside.

"By the way, I still have your underwear in my bag."

"WHAT—"

He pulls back just enough to see your face. "Mark asked if I had a cat toy in there because of all the jingling."

"I'm taking everything I said back. And moving to Antarctica. I’m gonna be a penguin scientist."

"Penguins mate for life, you know."

"Not the kind I'll study. Mine will be commitment-phobic penguins."

He laughs softly and kisses you again. Soft and sure and nothing like last night's desperate heat. This is a promise kiss. A Sunday morning kiss. A forty-years-from-now kiss.

"Your family's taking bets," he murmurs against your lips, "on how long before we admit we're together. Your dad has Valentine's Day. Your mom's betting on New Year's. Mark, pessimistically, has next Christmas."

"And you?"

He grins, that playful grin that started this whole mess. "Oh, I already won."

"How?"

"Bet on Christmas Eve." He kisses you again softly. "I always had good timing."

From inside, Mark's voice carries: "ARE THEY KISSING?"

Your mother's response: "Leave them alone, they're having a moment!"

"WE'RE NOT HAVING A MOMENT," you shout back.

"Speak for yourself, jingles" He says loudly, "WE'RE HAVING A VERY EMOTIONAL MOMENT!"

"I swear to god—"

"Come on." He tugs you toward the house, fingers laced with yours. "Let's go inside before you freeze. Can't have you catching cold before our New Year's plans."

"We don't have New Year's plans."

"We do now. You, me, and the bells."

"I'm burning those bells."

"Please don't. They're sentimental to me now."

You let him pull you back into the warmth, where your family is pretending very badly not to stare, where Mark looks like he needs several shots of whiskey, where your mother is already planning what is clearly a wedding in her head.

You understand with perfect clarity that you're completely fucked. You're going to fall stupidly in love with Lee Haechan. Probably already have.