𑣲 loise

The words still rang in his ears as he walked away from your porch, the door slamming shut between him and your father's scowling face.

He couldn't blame the man, really. Martin knew what kind of person he was: a teenage delinquent that only gets himself into trouble, and would likely drag you straight into it sooner or later.

He himself still couldn't quite understand what about him had actually managed to win you over initially. You were everything he was not: a rule follower, an academic, someone with a much more promising future than the one Martin possessed. So how you found him to be anything other than a walking red flag was a mystery that kept him up at night.

He remembered the first time you'd spoken to him behind the gym in your second year of high school, his knuckles were bloody and his temper was still running hot. You'd appeared out of nowhere, holding out a crumpled napkin from the cafeteria.

"You're bleeding," you'd said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Not your problem," he'd muttered, trying to brush past you.

But you'd grabbed his wrist before he could fully turn the corner and pressed the napkin into his palm. "Just clean it up," you'd said. "You'll get blood on your shirt."

You then walked away, leaving him standing there with a bloody napkin and a strange feeling in his chest that he'd never quite managed to shake.

Martin had tried to push you away at first. He knew what people said about him: the troublemaker, the burnout, the kid who'd end up in juvie before graduation. He'd heard your father's warnings from across the street, loud enough to carry, "Stay away from that boy, Y/N. He's nothing but trouble."

Despite all of that you kept appearing.

You showed up at the diner where he worked, sitting in his section and ordering coffee you barely touched, just so you could talk to him during his break. You showed up at the auto shop, claiming your car needed an oil change, even though it was perfectly fine. You showed up at his apartment after he got suspended the second time, bringing takeout and a stubborn expression that said you wouldn’t leave under any circumstance.

"Why?" He’d finally asked you, exhausted and confused. "Why do you keep doing this? You know what I am. You've heard what everyone says."

You'd looked at him then, really looked, and said, "I see something they don't."

"What?"

"Someone who's trying."

And that was it. That was the moment Martin knew he was a goner.

It hadn't taken long for your father to work out that you had ignored all his prior warnings, though truly he should have realised it sooner.

You had been staying out much later than before, coming home with an almost lovesick grin. Your father knew you were in love—that wasn't hard to tell. Just in his own mind, the thought of you falling in love with the one boy he had forbidden you from even talking to was a concept so foreign, so utterly incomprehensible, that he simply refused to entertain it.

But the signs were all there. You'd rush through dinner just to get to your room and stare at your phone, waiting for a message whilst also deflecting his questions about your day with vague answers and quick subject changes.

It was only when your father found the crumpled napkin in your laundry with Martin's name scrawled on it in your handwriting, surrounded by tiny hearts, that the truth finally crashed down on him.

He'd confronted you that night, voice shaking with barely contained fury.

"Are you seeing that Martin boy?"

You'd looked at him, and for a moment, he only saw defiance in your gaze. "Yes," you'd said quietly. "I am."

The argument that followed was the worst you'd ever had. Your father had shouted until his voice went hoarse, listing every reason why Martin was wrong for you: his record, his reputation, his lack of prospects. You'd shouted back, defending him with a passion that only made your father angrier.

"He's not who you think he is, Dad. He's trying so hard. He's working two jobs, he's studying for school as best he can, he's—"

"He's a delinquent, Y/N. He's always been a delinquent, and he always will be. I won't let you throw your life away for someone like him."

"He's not a delinquent. He's just... he's just someone who never had anyone believe in him. Until me."

Your father had gone silent at that. Not because he agreed, but because he realised something crucial: you were in too deep. No amount of arguing would change your mind.

So he'd done the only thing he could think of. He'd banned you from seeing Martin, forbade you from leaving the house except for school and work, and took your phone, your laptop, everything that connected you to the outside world.

For a few weeks, it seemed to work. You and Martin had never shared a class at school, so he didn’t need to worry about that. Additionally, with so much surveillance surrounding you, you had practically given up even thinking of trying to find a way around it.

That was until one night a few weeks later when you were laying under the covers of your bed, staring at the ceiling with not a thought on your mind when the sound of something knocking on your window echoed through the room.

You sat up, heart pounding, and stared at the window. The blinds were drawn, but through the slats, you could make out a familiar silhouette you knew all too well crouched on the fire escape.

You scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over the blanket tangled around your ankles, and yanked the blinds open. There he was—grinning like an idiot, dirt smudged on his cheek, a small bag of takeout dangling from one hand. He was wearing that worn leather jacket you loved with the torn sleeve he refused to sew back together.

"Hey, princess," he whispered through the glass. "You miss me?"

You fumbled with the lock, pushing the window open as quietly as you could. Cold night air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and city streets.

"What are you doing here?" You hissed. "My dad could hear you!"

"Your dad's probably knocked out asleep right now." He climbed through the window with practiced ease, landing silently on your bedroom floor. 

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his jacket. "I thought I'd never see you again," you whispered, your voice cracking.

"Hey." He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. "I told you. Nothing's keeping me away from you. Not your dad, not the cops, not anyone."

"Martin—"

"Three weeks, Y/N. I spent three weeks without you and I was going insane." He pressed his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to something raw and vulnerable. "I thought about calling your house, but I knew your dad would just make it worse. I had to wait until I could figure out a way to see you."

"You figured out the fire escape."

"I figured out the fire escape." He grinned, but there was something softer underneath it. "Took me two days to find the right route. Nearly fell off the third-floor landing, but hey—" He shrugged. "Worth it."

You laughed, a wet, shaky sound. "You're insane."

"Only for you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then pulled back to hold up the takeout bag. "I brought food. Your favourite dumpling place with the spicy sauce you like. Figured you probably haven't been eating much."

You hadn't. The past three weeks had been a blur of forced dinners and silent meals, your father's disapproving gaze boring into you from across the table. You'd lost weight, and Martin had noticed it the moment he climbed through your window. 

"You're too good to me," you said.

"Not possible." He set the bag on your desk and pulled you over to sit on the bed. "Now eat. I'll keep watch."

You sat together in the darkness, sharing dumplings and whispered conversations. 

"One day," he said, "I'm going to have a real place with a good job and be something your dad can't complain about."

"I don't care about any of that."

"I know." He smiled, but there was something serious in his eyes. "That's why I want to give it to you anyway. You deserve the world, Y/N. I'm going to figure out how to give it to you."

"I just want you," you said softly.

"Good." He leaned in, his lips brushing yours. "Because you've got me. For as long as you want me."

It was reckless and dangerous and every time you heard a floorboard creak, your heart stopped. But as you sat there in the dark, wrapped in Martin's arms, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Your father never caught the two of you, and gradually he granted you back your privileges, though that also stemmed from your absolute refusal to even look at him until he did so.

A part of you secretly knew that your father had probably worked out you were still seeing Martin. He wasn't stupid—he'd raised you, after all. He knew the stubborn set of your jaw, the defiant glint in your eyes when you were hiding something. He'd seen the way you'd started leaving your window unlocked again, the way you'd come downstairs with pillow creases on your cheek and a sleepy smile that had nothing to do with a good night's rest.

But he never said anything and you remained in this strange stalemate situation for the following couple of years.

It was an unspoken agreement, really. Your father pretended not to notice the faint smell of motor oil that sometimes clung to your clothes in the morning. He pretended not to hear the soft thud of footsteps on the fire escape at midnight. He pretended not to see the way your eyes lit up whenever your phone buzzed. And you, in turn, pretended not to notice the way your father started leaving the back door unlocked, or the way he'd conveniently be in the living room with the TV turned up too loud whenever Martin was climbing the fire escape.

It was a strange kind of peace. Fragile, particularly tenuous. But it was peace nonetheless.

Then, finally, graduation day arrived.

You walked across the stage in your cap and gown, your father watching from the front row with a carefully neutral expression. Martin was a few students behind you, wearing his best clothes underneath the gown that you had bought for his birthday, his grin so wide it looked like it might split his face.

After the ceremony, you found him in the parking lot, still in your gown, your diploma clutched in your hands.

"We did it," you said, laughing. "We actually did it."

"We did." He pulled you into his arms, spinning you around. "High school graduates. Can you believe it?"

"I can't believe you didn't drop out."

"Me neither." He set you down, his hands still on your waist. "But I had a good reason to stay."

"And what was that?"

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "You."

You and Martin had separated before your father emerged between the cars with the promise of seeing each other tomorrow, however you failed to fully notice the strange glint in Martin’s eyes as he parted with you

The next morning, Martin showed up at your door, his hands shaking as he knocked.

You answered, still in your pajamas, your hair a mess. "Martin? What are you—"

"I'm here to ask your father for permission to marry you."

You stared at him for a few seconds. "Now? At eight in the morning?"

"Time's ticking." He tried to smile, but it came out nervous. "I've waited long enough. Three years. I'm not waiting anymore."

Your father appeared behind you, coffee mug in hand. He looked at Martin, then at the suit, then at the determined set of Martin's jaw.

"Y/N, go to your room," he said, his voice flat as you gave Martin a wary look before retreating, "you again."

"Yes, sir." Martin straightened his spine, watching you disappear into the background. "I'm here to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."

Your father set down his coffee mug, and for a long moment he just looked at Martin. "You must be out of your damn mind," he said slowly, "if you think I'd let you marry my daughter."

"Sir, I know I'm not what you wanted for her. I know I've made mistakes. I know I don't have much—"

"You've barely got a diploma, an unsecure job at an auto shop, and a reputation that makes me want to lock my daughter in her room until she's thirty-five."

"I know, sir. But I love her. I've loved her since I was fifteen, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life taking care of her."

"You think that's enough?" Your father's voice was rising. "You think love is enough? You have no future, no prospects, no—"

"I'm going to marry her anyway."

Your father stopped mid-sentence. "What?"

"I said I'm going to marry her anyway." Martin lifted his chin, his voice steady. "With or without your blessing. With or without your approval. I love her, and she loves me, and we're getting married. I'm just sorry you won't be there to see it."

"Get out." Your father's voice was ice. "Get out of my house before I call the cops."

Martin nodded slowly. He'd expected this. He'd prepared for this. It still stung. He turned and walked down the steps, the door slamming behind him.

Five hours later, Martin stood in front of you at the courthouse, him having snuck you out of your room through the very window he had spent years crawling through.

You'd changed into a simple white dress that you had worn a few times in the summer. Martin was in his navy suit from the graduation, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Dearly beloved," the officiant droned, "we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."

Martin barely heard the words. He was too busy memorising the way you were looking at him like he was the only person in the world.

"Martin," you whispered, "you're crying."

"Am not."

"You totally are."

"It's allergies."

"You're such a liar."

He laughed, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Fine, maybe I'm a little emotional. You're marrying me, Y/N. Me. The guy who couldn't even pass English without your help."

"I think you're pretty great," you said softly. "I always have."

The officiant cleared his throat. "The rings?"

Martin fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the simple silver bands he'd saved up for. He slid one onto your finger—it was a little too big, but you didn't seem to care, you just stared at it like it was the most expensive piece of jewelry in the world.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Martin’s lips were on yours before you could fully process the words.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. He was savouring the reality of this, you in his arms finally calling yourself his. Gradually it deepened, the years of longing and wanting pouring into every second your mouth remained on his.

When he pulled back, you were both breathless and grinning like idiots.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice rough and cracking. "I know I don't say it enough, but I do. I love you more than anything. More than I ever thought I could love anyone."

You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his jaw. "I love you too. Even though you're insane."

A wet laugh escaped him, his shoulders shaking. "Especially because I'm insane?"

"Especially then." You smiled, soft and radiant. 

He kissed you again, softer this time, because he felt he had all the time in the world, and, really, he did. Nothing else mattered to him except the way your lips moved against his, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the way your heartbeat matched his own.

When he finally pulled back, he was grinning like an idiot, tears still tracking down his cheeks. "Mrs. Edwards," he said, testing the words. "That has a nice ring to it."

You laughed, bright and beautiful. "Mr. L/N. That would have an even nicer ring to it."

"Hey." He poked your side. "I proposed first, that means you take my name."

"Fine." You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "But only because I love you."

"That's the only reason I need."

The courthouse was small and dingy, the officiant was already shuffling papers, clearly eager to leave, the neon sign outside flickered and buzzed. It wasn't the wedding either of you had dreamed of. There were no flowers, no guests, no white dress with a long train.

But it was yours.

And as Martin pulled you into his arms, his lips pressed against your temple, he knew he'd never regret a single moment of it. "I'm going to give you everything," he whispered against your skin. "I don't have much now, but I will. A home, a future, a life you can be proud of. I promise."

"I already have everything I need," you whispered back. "I have you."

He pulled back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, his smile shaky, his heart laid bare on his sleeve. "You really mean that?"

"Every word."

He kissed you one last time: deep, slow, full of all the promises he'd spend the rest of his life keeping.

Your father was going to be absolutely livid when he found out, though Martin didn't care.

The rush in the main hallway is always a headache. It's loud, suffocating, and smells faintly of cheap floor wax and too many different body sprays.

You’re just trying to focus on the lock combination beneath your fingers, tuning out the slamming lockers and chatter around you, trying to get through a day that already feels too long. You're completely in your own world when the sudden, sharp sting of a hand slaps your ass.

You gasp, the sound catching violently in your throat as you whirl around.

“Remember how much you liked that?"

"What the fuck Kai," you hiss. "I never liked it, you perv. And you lost my perfect ass the second you fucked Mina."

He doesn't even look guilty. He just leans against the locker grid, entirely too comfortable. "y/n, what did you expect? I’ve got needs."

"You’re right." you let out a cold, humorless laugh, tilting your head up to look him dead in the eye. "Honestly, it’s on me for expecting any form of critical thinking from a guy who’s nineteen and still struggling with his high school classes."

The smirk drops off his face. A flash of ugly anger crosses his features, the bruised ego of a boy who isn't used to being told no. "What did you say to me?"

Before you can pull away, his hand darts out, fingers snatching rough and tight around your wrist, ripping your bracelet straight off your skin.

You gasp, a genuine flash of shock hitting you. "Asshole."

"Ya want it back? Hm?" He steps closer, crowding your space, mocking you as he stuffs the jewelry deep into his pocket. "Okay. Come and get it."

You give him a look of pure disgust. You refuse to let him see the small tremor in your hands. "No. But maybe I’ll have you expelled for sexual harassment instead."

"Nah." He steps even closer, his shadow completely blocking the hallway light. The smell of his expensive cologne feels heavy, suffocating. "You know my dad funds the school too much to let that happen—" He leans in, lower, dropping his voice to a sickening murmur. "Come on, y/n, don’t play. I know you still want me."

James had been standing at his locker right next to yours for the last two minutes, quietly enduring the exchange. He looks like he always does—gritty, tired, the dark fabric of his jacket smelling faintly of the gym. And he’s completely fed up with Kai’s weird behavior.

Without a warning, James moves.

He shoves his hand straight out, aiming for the back of Kai’s head, and slams it hard into your open locker door. The sound of metal meeting bone echoes down the corridor.

"Fuck!" Kai hisses, his hands flying up to cup his nose. Blood is already leaking through his fingers. "I'm shooting an ad tomorrow, asshole!"

James doesn't even look at him as Kai runs off down the hall, cursing up a storm.

For a second, the hallway feels entirely empty. Your chest rises and falls, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your eyes meet James’s, they linger there for a second too long before you take a step closer to him.

"James," you say, a small, tentative smirk forcing its way onto your face to mask how badly your adrenaline is pumping. "Did you just save me?"

He doesn't look at you. He doesn't even look pleased. He reaches into his locker with a cold, uninterested shrug. "Your fuckboy was blocking my shit."

"Uhm, not my fuckboy," you clarify quickly, crossing your arms.

James doesn't say anything. The silence between you is heavy. He snaps his locker shut and just walks away, his long strides tearing down the hallway.

You blink, panic flaring in your throat, and follow him nervously. "Well... you know, you’re in a very good position to help me," you say, trying to sound happy, trying to sound like the girl who always gets what she wants.

Nothing. He keeps walking, his boots clicking against the floor. You have to jog a little to follow close behind his shoulder.

"Uhm, hello? I’m talking to you."

Suddenly, James stops.

Before you can even register the movement, he spins on his heel, his hand slamming into the locker right beside your head. The impact makes a boom against the metal, the sheer force of it pushing you backward until your spine hits the lockers.

You freeze. You are suddenly, dangerously aware of how close he actually is. You can taste the heat radiating off him. You can see the faint, dark bruise blooming under his eye.

"What do you want?" he asks, his voice low, scraping out of his throat like sandpaper. He looks like he just wants to get this whole thing over with.

There’s a long, agonizing pause. You two just stare at each other. Your eyes track the sharp line of his jaw, the irritation in his dark eyes, before you finally find your voice.

"Look," you say, looking up at him through your eyelashes. For a split second, that confident mask slips, and you look at him almost like you expect him to feel bad for you. "Kai hasn’t left me alone since we broke up. He follows me around school. He shows up at my house sometimes."

James’s eyes darken, a tiny shift in his posture, but his face stays a blank slate. "I got nothing to do with that though?"

"I know you don’t," you say, forcing a small smile back onto your face, trying to regain control of the room. "But I wanna change that. Maybe you could make him leave me alone."

"We don’t even talk."

"I know," you say, the smile growing a little wider, more confident. "It’s because he’s scared of you."

James lets out a dry, breathy sound that isn't quite a laugh. "How am I supposed to help you with a guy I don’t talk to?"

"Well, since you asked," you say, the excitement finally bleeding into your tone. Fully convinced he’ll say yes. "You’re gonna talk to me. Walk with me to my classes, sit with me at lunch... and just be with me all day!"

James tilts his head. The shadow of a smirk plays on his lips, dangerous and mocking as he looks down at you. "So you want me to be your fake boyfriend."

Your cheeks instantly flare hot. You look away and clear your throat. "N-no..." You scoff, trying to sound indifferent. "No one would even believe we were together. Less boyfriend... more guard dog." You nod your head, smiling again.

James leans in.

He goes so low, so deep into your space that your breath hitches in your throat. For one terrifying second, you actually think he’s going to kiss you, right here in the middle of the hallway. But he stops just inches away, looking dead into your eyes with a cold, unyielding finality.

"I’m not your bitch, y/n."

He pulls back and walks off, leaving you entirely breathless, words dying on your tongue as you watch his retreating back.

But three paces away, the sharp buzz of a phone cuts through the air. James stops. He pulls his phone from his pocket, his shoulders turning rigid.

Landlord: FINAL EVICTION NOTICE HAS BEEN EMAILED!!

Landlord: Locks changed, and belongings were moved.

James stares at the screen, the reality of the text sinking in, before he shoves the phone away and heads straight toward the exit.

"Hey! Where are you going? We still have classes!" you shout after him, watching him dismiss the school entirely.

And of course being you, and because you refuse to be left behind and unanswered, you follow him.

The air here is thick with the stench of sweat, and copper. It’s loud. The crowd presses in close around the makeshift ring, a suffocating wall of noise and flashing phone screens, screaming for blood.

In the center of it, James is fighting for his life.

He’s covered in dirt, his skin slick with a sickening mixture of sweat and deep crimson. His chest heaves violently. He has his opponent locked tight in a suffocating headlock, muscles straining, veins popping along his neck as he tries to end it, but the grip slips. The elder fighter drives a brutal, heavy punch straight into James’s side, right where a bruised rib was already screaming.

James loses it, the air exploding from his lungs as he stumbles back.

The crowd erupts into a feral roar.

"That’s what I’m talking about, baby! Take him down!"

"Finish him!"

The opponent goes crazy, pumping his fists, absorbing the chaos as he shouts back at the screaming crowd. "Yeah! Come on!"

James doesn't move. He watches him, one hand pressed hard against his ribs, breathing heavily through his nose, tasting dirt and iron. He doesn't have time to recover.

They collide again, and the violence is frantic. James takes a hard hit to the back, a blinding punch cracking straight across his face that sends spots dancing in his vision. As the guy lunges forward, aiming another devastating shot at his nose, James’s instincts finally kick in.

He darts his hands out, grabbing the man’s wrists to pin them, and hurls his own forehead forward, cracking a brutal headbutt straight between the guy's eyes.

The man staggers, and James instantly moves behind him, forcing him into a tight arm lock. He has him.

Then, the guy turns his head and spits a mouthful of warm, thick blood straight into James's face.

The sudden, disgusting distraction works. Before James can clear his eyes, a sharp blow drives straight into his throat. James chokes, stumbling backward, a raw, strangled sound tearing from his throat.

James straightens up, forcing his spine straight even as his vision blurs. He uses the back of his dirty forearm to wipe the slick blood off his eyes, his jaw setting into something demonic.

The opponent runs up, thinking he’s won, but James moves faster. He lunges, grabbing the man by the shoulders, and drives his knee straight up into his face.

The impact is sickening, the sound of cartilage cracking echoes over the shouting. The man collapses instantly, dropping heavily to his knees.

James stands over him, chest heaving so hard his bare shoulders shake, barely keeping himself upright. He reaches down, fisting a handful of the guy’s hair, and yanks his head back forcing him to look up.

The older man's face looks horrible, dark blood pouring out of his mouth, but he lets out a wet, twisted laugh.

And that’s when you walk in.

You step through the crowded, dim exit, the noise hitting you like a physical wall, and you freeze. You watch from far behind the crowd, your eyes widening in absolute disbelief as James brings his fist down. Once. Twice. Multiple times. He punches the guy's face in with a cold, rhythmic cruelty until the older man goes completely limp on the dirty concrete.

The crowd splits in half, a chaotic symphony of people cheering or booing because James won. James stands in the center of the madness, a dark, breathy smile crossing his bloody lips as he looks around, watching everyone go completely crazy for him.

Then, his eyes scan the back of the room. And he sees you.

The smile vanishes instantly. His face turns completely stone cold. He doesn't care about winning or the cheering, he shoves through the wall of bodies, a terrifying force of nature, and grips your arm tight, pulling you entirely out of the place and into the cold alleyway outside.

"What the fuck, y/n? Why’d you follow me?" he snaps, his grip tight enough to leave a mark as he drags you away from the door. "You need to leave now. It’s not safe for you here."

You try to catch your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs from the pure shock of what you just witnessed. "Well, you didn’t answer me at school, so I just—"

"For fuck's sake y/n, are you always like this? Hm?" he shouts, his voice echoing off the brick walls. He is visibly annoyed with how stuck-up you sound right now. "You need to stay out of my life. I got my own problems to handle, I don’t need some little rich girl following me around because she needs help with her drama."

"Illegal fighting problems?" you say, the adrenaline making you fire right back at him.

James steps closer, towering over you, the stench of blood and sweat radiating off his bare skin. "Lower your voice."

Your breathing slows a bit, the initial anger fading as you actually look at him. In the dim light, his dirtied up state looks even worse. There is blood everywhere, his and someone else's—and dark, ugly bruises are already forming over old ones that have been there for weeks.

"Mm, fine... i’ll stay quiet," you say, tilting your chin up, forcing your voice to stay confident as you take a step toward him. "Either you be my guard dog... or i’ll just turn you in."

James freezes.

"Which one sounds better, hm?" you say, your voice dripping with a teasing, dead serious malice. "Guard dog... or prison bitch?"

The silence that follows is thick. Both of your breaths are loud enough to hear in the quiet alley. James looks around, his dark eyes scanning the empty street, genuinely trying to calculate which option he’d rather take. For a moment, he actually considers letting you turn him in, he was that sure that being your little pet would be worse than anything else.

But then he thinks about the eviction notice. He thinks about having nowhere to go.

Finally, his jaw tightens. "Fine. I’ll do it."

A triumphant smile spreads across your face. You look up at him, entirely back in your element. "Good boy."

You turn to walk off, but before you can take a step, his bloody hand darts out, grabbing your wrist in a iron grip.

"But," he rasps, his voice dangerously low. "I need a place to stay."

You stop, staring at him, trying to read his expression, not knowing if he's being serious or not. "Why can’t you stay at your own place?"

"I need a place, or no deal," he says, his eyes unblinking, dead serious.

You hesitate. You almost think about changing your mind, the thought of him in your house is a lot. But then again, you think about Kai showing up at your house, lurking around your property. It wouldn’t be so bad having someone like James around to keep him away.

"Fine..." you say, rolling your eyes dramatically as you pull your wrist from his grip. "You can stay at my house."

You smooth down your clothes, fixing your purse over your shoulder, but your eyes can't help but slide over his bare, bruised torso one more time. The contrast between your clean life and his broken one is staggering.

You turn on your heel and walk off, leaving him in the alley.

When your car pulls up, James stops. He looks up at the house, his eyes tracking the massive columns and the sweeping architecture, taking it all in. It’s huge.

"Let’s go!" you say, rushing ahead, but when you look back, you watch as he hesitates to step any further onto the property. He stands at the edge of the driveway, looking around, almost like he’s calculating whether he’s even good enough to come inside.

“James…”

Your voice snaps him out of whatever mindset he was trapped in. He blinks, pulling his shoulders back, and you both continue to walk through your front yard, up the stone stairs until you reach the massive front door.

"Why do you seem so scared to come in?" you tease, jingling your keys to mask the sudden flutter in your chest. "Don’t worry, you’ll get your own room and everything."

He keeps his gaze fixed on the back of your head, following close behind you. "Nice."

"My walk-in closet."

James stops dead in his tracks. "You’re serious?"

"Mhm! Don’t worry, it’s really big," you say, tossing your purse onto the entryway table as you walk. "I just gotta hide you from my dad. But if we’re in my room by eleven, we should be good."

You keep walking, your voice echoing slightly in the high ceilinged hallway. "He’s always working, and before you say anything... no, it doesn’t bother me."

You flash a bright smile, turning around to face him just as you reach the inner doors.

James just stands there, watching you with an expression that reads you like an open book. He lets out a dry, quiet scoff. "Yeah, sure."

He doesn't press the issue, but his eyes linger on the empty, quiet house. "So, uhm... what does your dad do again?" he asks, taking one last look at the pristine walls.

"He’s a district attorney." You look back, smiling up at him.

James freezes completely. Every muscle in his jaw goes rigid. "Fuck."

"Don’t worry... I'm not a snitch, you can trust me," you say teasingly, stepping further into the warmth of the house.

"Do I even have a choice?" he asks. He’s still lingering by the threshold, his dirty jacket contrasting violently with your white molding, still hesitant to fully walk into your world.

"Nope!" you reply easily.

James finally takes the final step inside, closing the heavy door behind him with a soft click. "You’re very bossy, you know?"

"Yeah... that’s what people always say about a girl who knows what she wants," you say, tilting your chin up.

James looks around the house a bit more, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Then, he turns his gaze back to you. You're already watching him. He takes a slow step closer, entirely too close, until the space between you disappears. You instantly look down, suddenly hyper aware of his breathing, trying to avoid the heavy, awkward tension of this whole thing.

For a moment, neither of you move. You just stay there, staring at each other, the silence thick enough to choke on.

"So, where’s the shower?" he asks, his voice dropping low.

"Come on," you say, turning on your heel and walking away a little too fast, desperate to escape the suffocating closeness you two were just trapped in.

You lead him upstairs to the bathroom, and he steps inside, the bright vanity lights catching the raw cuts on his knuckles. Without hesitation, he immediately takes off his dirty shirt, tossing it onto the tile floor somewhere. He walks around the marble bathroom, looking around like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle.

"Yoo, how does this thing work?" he asks, peering into the massive glass shower.

You walk in a moment later, leaning against the doorframe. "Never used a shower before?" you tease.

You step directly in front of him, your shoulder brushing his bare arm as you reach for the sleek shower handle. "On," you say, switching the water on. "Off," you say, turning it back.

But you aren't looking at the handle. You've had your eyes locked onto him the entire tim, and James hasn't looked away from you, not once. The awkwardness from the hallway slips away, replaced by something much heavier. It feels like a game you guys have been playing, eyeing each other down through your lashes, trying to see who will be the first one to break eye contact.

James breaks the silence first, a lazy smirk pulling at his lips. "Are you gonna watch or something?" he teases.

"Nothing to see," you say dryly, keeping your gaze steady, refusing to back down.

"Mm, sure," he says, taking a half step closer, his bare chest nearly touching you, entirely trying to provoke a reaction.

Your heart takes a violent leap, and you decide to end the eye tag game before you lose your mind. You shove a clean towel into his chest. "Enjoy your shower."

You turn and leave, shutting the door behind you. Behind the wood, you can hear James letting out a low chuckle to himself. He runs a hand through his hair, genuinely not knowing what the fuck he’s got himself into.

You’re in your bedroom, organizing your vanity and trying to distract yourself, when the door clicks open. James steps in.

The towel you gave him is wrapped low around his waist, dripping water onto your hardwood floor. His skin is scrubbed clean, but the bruises across his ribs look even darker now, raw and exposed.

"Nice room," he says, his voice cutting through the quiet as he walks around, touching the delicate trinkets on your shelves with his rough hands.

"First girl's room you’ve been in?" you joke, trying to ignore how massive he looks standing in the middle of your space.

"Very funny," he mutters, stopping to look at a photo on your desk. "You’re just the first one who’s so... extra."

"Mm. So you must be pretty boring, hm?"

"Yea, and scary, remember?" He turns around, taking slow, deliberate steps toward you, using his height to crowd you against your bedpost.

You let out a laugh despite yourself, slipping past him. "Please. I remember you thumb sucking your way through kindergarten..."

You look back at him over your shoulder, your lips curling into a confident smile. "I’m not scared of you."

James drops his gaze, a sudden, unreadable shadow crossing his face before he looks back up. "Yeah, well... don't be so sure you know everything about me."

The words hang in the air. You both stare a little longer, the playful energy shifting into something deeply loaded.

"Your clothes were disgusting, so we’ll have to get you some new ones." you say, breaking the tension and offering him a small smile.

James’s posture goes rigid, his jaw tightening. "I don’t need your charity."

"It’s not charity," you counter smoothly, crossing your arms. "Just a makeover!"

"Okay," he says, stepping in close again, his eyes locked onto yours as he tilts his head down. "So... what are you gonna do to me?"

"You’ll see.”

Walking into the main hallway together, your arm is looped securely through his, and the contrast is loud enough to make people stop and stare.

"So what do I even have to do?" James asks, his voice low, barely cutting through the crowded halls as you two walk.

"Just stay with me," you say, a bright smile gracing your lips. It hasn’t left your face since you arrived at the front gates, fueled by the sheer thrill of the game.

You’re so focused on him that you don’t even notice Kai staring off to the side, leaning against the stairs, watching the two of you approach.

"Damn, y/n. I see you found a placeholder," He scoffs, his voice dripping with a bitter, bruised ego. "Are you really that desperate?"

You look over. He has some random girl clinging to his arm, but you don’t recognize her, and you genuinely don’t give a fuck. You don’t even give him the satisfaction of a verbal response. Instead, you just look up at James with a knowing smirk, silently sending him off toward Kai like a weapon you fully control.

Kai acts all confident when there’s a crowd watching, but deep down, he’s scared out of his ass. Especially in this exact moment.

"How about you fuck off, dickhead," James says, taking a heavy step directly into Kai’s space. They’re about the same height, but the difference is that James isn't afraid. The absolute lack of fear makes him tower over Kai completely.

Kai tries to laugh it off, stepping closer to seem less terrified than he actually is. "What, are you her fucking dog now, or what?"

"Just leave her alone, okay?" his voice dangerously quiet, dropping an octave. "Only time I’m gonna say this shit."

James starts to back up, turning his torso to face you again. But the second his back is turned, Kai snaps, letting his ego blind him as he hurls a messy punch right at the back of James's head.

"JAM—" you shout, the panic flaring hot in your throat.

But James is already moving. His reflexes are terrifyingly fast. Before the fist can even connect, he moves, catching Kai’s wrist mid air and violently pinning him back against the metal stairs he’d been leaning on. The sound of Kai’s spine hitting the railing is loud.

"Don’t fuck with me Kai," James hisses, his grip tightening until Kai’s face goes pale.

"I—I'm sorry man. Really," He stammers, the confidence draining out of him instantly.

James lets go, shoving him back slightly with a look of pure disgust. Kai immediately takes off running down the hall practically crying, the random girl scrambling to follow after him.

A breathy chuckle escapes your lips as you walk up to James, your chest humming with adrenaline. "That was so good. You have him running like a little pussy."

James doesn't laugh. He turns to you, his eyes dead serious, entirely unamused. "You’re gonna need to learn to protect yourself, y/n."

"But why when I have you?" you smile, completely missing the dark, protective hint in his tone.

James stares at you, his chest rising and falling. "Yeah. And when you don’t have me anymore?"

The words catch you off guard. A small pout forms on your lips, your voice shifting into a teasing, almost sad whine. "Wow. Are you trying to get rid of me already?"

"Just saying..." He looks down at you, his gaze heavy with a reality you haven't had to face yet. "There’s always gonna be more people like Kai."

You both stand there in the middle of the corridor, taking in the weight of his last words. The silence stretches between you for a second before James breaks it.

"Come on," he says, his rough fingers suddenly wrapping around your hand, pulling you along with him.

"Hey—I have forensics!" you protest, your heels clicking against the floor as you try to pull away from his grip. "Where are we going, asshole? And can you let go?"

"Shut up."

And you do—reluctantly, your heart doing a strange, stupid flip at the feeling of his hand entirely swallowing yours.

He drags you all the way to the school's old gym, pushing the heavy double doors open. When you're finally inside he lets go of your hand, a little too harshly.

"Ow," you mutter, rubbing your wrist.

"Fighting clean isn’t gonna work when you’re up against pervs like Kai," James says, entirely ignoring your complaint as he reaches down, pulling up his sleeves and roughly running a hand through his hair. "So you gotta fight dirty."

You slowly set your bag down on a bench, looking around the space, a nervous curiosity settling in your stomach.

"Come on, I’ll show you your first move," he says, gesturing with his chin for you to stand directly in front of him. You step into his space, the smell of his clean soap from this morning hitting you instantly.

"You be Kai. I’ll be you," he says dryly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "Try and kiss me."

You let out a loud giggle, completely unable to take him seriously. You just stand there, waiting for the punchline, but James doesn't blink. He just waits.

Playing along, you lean in, only moving the top half of your body in a joking, exaggerated way.

James instantly backs up, a flash of genuine irritation crossing his face. "What are you doing?" he asks, almost offended by the lack of effort.

"When are you gonna show me the move?" you fire back, crossing your arms.

"When you actually try and kiss me," he says, his voice snapping sharply through the quiet gym.

You freeze, staring up at him, the smile dying on your face as you realize he isn't joking. "Are you fucking with me?"

He doesn't answer. He just gives you a slow, provocative head tilt, an invitation.

Fine. You take a step closer, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. You raise your hand, your palm sliding against his sharp jawline, and you lean in for real. Your eyes flutter shut, your breath brushing against his lips—

And right before your mouth can touch his, James moves.

His hand darts out snatching your arm, twisting your body until you're forced into a tight, inescapable joint lock. You're forced face down, your breath exploding from your lungs, with James hovering dangerously close above you, his chest pressed against your back.

You let out a loud grunt, completely blindsided by how hard he went. "WATCH IT, JAMES! This sweater is expensive!"

"This is a joint lock!" he shouts back, his voice right next to your ear, mocking your high-pitched tone perfectly. "It’s about leverage." He applies more pressure, pinning you effortlessly.

"OW!"

"So even a little thing like you can defend yourself," he murmurs, his breath hot against the back of your neck. He still doesn't let go, holding you in place just to prove his point.

You start to frantically swat at his arm with your free hand, trying to get him off. "Okay, okay, I get it!"

James relents, starting to pull away, but you both try to move at the exact same time. Your foot slips. You stumble backward with a gasp, and James immediately lunges with you, his reflexes kicking in to keep you from crashing to the ground.

Your back hits one of the thick concrete pillars, and James is right there trapping you against it. His large hand is planted firmly on your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, while you’re holding onto his forearms for dear life, still shaking from almost falling.

Both of your breathings are heavy, ragged, echoing in the empty gym. You look up, your eyes wide, and find him staring down at your lips.

James is the first to snap out of it. He pushes himself off you, clearing his throat as he realizes the dangerous position you guys were just trapped in.

"Alright," he says, backing up a few paces to create space. "You’re gonna do it to me now."

He drops into a loose stance, his dark eyes tracking your movements. "Ready?"

"Alright," you say, trying to shake off the heat in your cheeks, still struggling to take the whole thing seriously.

James steps forward, his large hand coming up to gently cup your face. The second his palm touches your skin, you immediately grab his wrist, twisting your body just like he did to you, and hurl him forward into the exact same joint lock.

James lets out a low, surprised grunt. "There ya go."

"It’s about leverage," you mock in his exact deep tone, pulling his arm a little higher as a triumphant laugh bubbles up in your chest.

He wiggles out of your grip effortlessly, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. "Okay, okay," he says, a faint, breathless smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, you need to work on that."

You stay there together in the quiet gym for a while longer, classes completely forgotten. He helps you with more moves, teasing you every time you struggle badly, but beneath the grunting and the burning muscles, for the first time since this whole thing started, you find yourself somewhat enjoying each other’s presence.

Later that day, the massive dining room feels entirely too quiet. You and James sit at the dark wood table, eating Chinese takeout from cardboard containers.

Except you aren’t really eating. You’re just moving the food around with your chopsticks, your eyes tracking the quiet, efficient way James eats. The guilt from his confrontation with Kai earlier, the raw reminder of the violence he walked into for you creeps heavily into your chest.

"I'm sorry about Kai," you say, the sincerity catching in your throat.

James finally glances over at you, his dark eyes unreadable for a split second. "It’s whatever. I already know what you people think about me."

You look at him, instantly offended, your chest tightening. "What do you mean, 'you people'?" You already know exactly what he means, but the sharp reality of it stings too much to let him see it.

He looks back down at his food, entirely nonchalant as he takes another bite. "Rich kids."

You let out a sharp breath. "Okay, well... I don’t think I’m like him?"

You say it out loud, but it sounds more like you’re trying to convince yourself than him. James doesn't answer. He just stares back at you, a low, quiet chuckle escaping his lips as he watches you struggle with the realization.

Your shoulders drop. "Okay... maybe I am a little too privileged."

"A little?" he teases, his lips twitching upward.

"But Kai just acts like such a tough guy," you say mockingly, scrunching your face up as you lean over the table. "But really, he’s just this—"

"Insecure little bitch," James finishes for you.

The bluntness makes you stop your thought, a genuine laugh bubbling up as you look at him. "Yeah."

"I’d like to see Kai in a street fight," he says, his gaze locking onto yours, the amusement clear in his eyes.

You laugh, the tension completely breaking as you try to form words. "Can you imagine that? He’s like... the human embodiment of a porcelain vase. Someone would raise a fist and he’d probably shit himself" You wave your hands around, perfectly mimicking Kai’s frantic, spoiled gestures.

James chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "Nah, he’d be like ‘yo, you mess with me, you gon be hearing from my lawyers.’" He throws his head back, doing his own mocking impression.

"And then his nose gets all fucked up and he can’t model anymore," you add, tears practically forming in your eyes from how hard you're laughing at how pathetic your ex truly is.

Then, the heavy sound of the front door clicking open echoes through the foyer.

"Y/N?"

Your dad's voice cuts through the air like a knife.

The laughter dies instantly. You gasp, standing up so fast your chair scrapes loudly against the hardwood. Panic floods your veins. You frantically grab the edge of the long tablecloth, lifting it up. "Get down!" you hiss to James.

James is already moving, but the command makes him snap his head up. "You know I’m not your actual dog, right?" he murmurs, half serious, half joking just to keep you from completely spiraling.

"Do you want to get caught?" you whisper sharply, entirely unamused by the joke.

"Alright... geez," he mutters, dropping to his knees. But before his head disappears beneath the heavy fabric, he looks up at you through his eyelashes, his dark eyes flashing with mischief. "Woof."

You smack his shoulder. "Ow," he huffs, finally disappearing under the table. You let out a quiet, stressed chuckle just as the nerves come rushing back, your dad’s heavy footsteps entering the dining room.

"Hey, papa! You're home early!" you say, forcing the brightest, most natural smile you can manage onto your face.

"Yeah, I had to uh—" Your dad walks into the room, but he stops dead in his tracks, his eyes falling directly on the second plate sitting next to yours. "Who’s this plate for?"

"It’s for you! Aren't you hungry?" you ask, your heart beating so violently against your ribs you’re sure he can hear it.

"I am," your dad says, chuckling softly as he steps closer. "But it looks like someone else has already been eating from it?"

"Oh! I was just... making sure it tasted good."

He nods slowly, taking a seat directly in front of the extra plate. "Is it good?

"Yes!!" you say, entirely too enthusiastic.

Underneath the table, James quietly shifts his weight, sliding his large frame further away so your dad's legs don't accidentally brush against him.

"So, how was school?" your dad asks, pulling the container closer.

Suddenly—thud. James moves too fast, his head striking the underside of the table, causing the entire surface to jump.

"Ow, ow!" you shout instantly, throwing your hands down to steady the dishes, trying to cover the sound.

Your dad blinks, completely startled. "Oh, I'm sorry... did I kick you?" He immediately reaches down, his fingers grasping the edge of the tablecloth to lift it and check.

"No, no! I’m fine, I just hit my leg!" you blurt out, gently pushing his hand away. "School was great, dad. Really great."

You take a sharp breath, trying to redirect his focus before he looks down. "So, uh... how’s work?"

Under the table, James is frozen. His head is trapped right between your thighs, the heat of his breath rising through the fabric of your skirt. To keep himself still, his rough fingers reach out, idly tracing the tied ribbon of your knee high socks. The touch sends an electric shock straight up your spine.

"Oh, yeah," your dad sighs, rubbing his temples. "We’re looking into this illegal street fighting thing. The attorney general wants us to crack down on it. It’s very—"

Hearing the words street fighting ring, James tenses. He flinches, his foot knocking into the table frame again.

"Oh... ow!" you shout, your voice high pitched. You plunge your hand beneath the cloth, your fingers grabbing a tight fistful of James's thick hair, pulling just enough to give him the hint to stop moving.

"Oh, my knee... it hurts so bad," you whine to your dad, finally letting go of James's hair and giving the back of his neck a warning smack.

"So..." you clear your throat, “What’s so bad about these street fights?"

"Well, people are dying, y/nnie," your dad replies heavily. "I mean, this is uncontrolled stuff. There’s no protection, no protocols... you know."

Beneath the darkness of the tablecloth, James slowly shakes his head, silently disagreeing with the clinical way your dad is describing his world.

"Not to mention there are illegal bets. It’s dangerous stuff," your dad continues, shaking his head. "But enough about that. You know, I haven't seen Kai around lately. You guys okay?"

James lets out a very soft, vibration of a chuckle against your leg, his thumb brushing your skin.

"Uh, no. We broke up," you say, keeping your tone completely uninterested as you try to steer the conversation back. "But... how often do the fighters actually die during those fights?!"

"Too often," your dad replies quickly, clearly not wanting to bring his brutal work talk home to his daughter. "I thought you and Kai were doing great. What happened? Want to talk about it?"

"No."

James smiles in the dark, his palm resting warm and heavy against your shin, listening to every word.

"Well," you say, the panic making you desperate to get your dad out of the room. "If those fights are so dangerous, maybe you should go back to your office and start working on your case!"

Your dad pauses, looking up at you. He knows you inside and out, and he can tell something is entirely off. "y/n... What’s up with you?"

You take a deep, shaky breath. "Nothing! I just... I’m trying to help. I want you to do good dad!"

The praise works. You feed his ego just enough to keep him from overthinking the situation. He buys it, his posture relaxing, but before he can question you further, the sharp ring of his cell phone cuts through the dining room.

He pulls it out. "Oh, it’s the attorney general."

"See!" you point at the phone.

"So, I gotta go," he says, sighing as he stands up from the table. He looks down at you one last time, adjusting his suit jacket. "You sure you’re gonna be okay here?"

"Yes!" you smile, nodding rapidly.

"Okay... I love you."

"I love you too! Be safe!!" you shout toward the hallway, listening intently until the heavy front door finally clicks shut and the alarm system arms itself.

The second the coast is clear, you drive your foot forward under the table, kicking James's back.

"OW!"

James scrambles out from beneath the tablecloth, you stand up and slam both hands onto your hips, trying to look as intimidating as possible.

"What was that for?" he snaps, standing up to his full height.

"People die in your fights," you say, your voice dropping, the weight of your dad's words finally crashing down on you.

James rolls his shoulders. "Yeah. So? Why do you care?"

"Tuh—I don’t!" you stammer, crossing your arms tightly. "I just..."

"What, you worried about me?" James asks. He takes a slow, deliberate step closer, that dangerous, teasing smirk spreading across his lips.

"NO! Definitely not... I just—"

"Aww. The spoiled princess has a soft spot for her guard dog—“

"Shut up!" you snap, tearing your eyes away from his to avoid the sheer intensity of his gaze.

"Mm," James murmurs, looking around the room. "I thought you said your dad is never around?"

"He’s usually not," you say, the words tumbling out before you can think. “Normally, we could walk around naked and he wouldn’t even know..."

You regret it as soon as the words leave your mouth.

James freezes, a slow, incredibly wicked smile spreading across his face. You try your hardest not to smile back, your heart hammering against your ribs. Before he can utter a single word to tease you about it, you hurl your hands forward, pushing him out of the way, and run straight toward the safety of the stairs.

"Naked, hm?!" he shouts after you, his deep voice echoing up the stairwell.

"SHUT UP!" you scream back, slamming your bedroom door shut behind you.

Inside your massive walk-in closet, you can hear James shifting around. He’s walking around the racks, idly smelling the expensive perfumes, trying on random accessories, and picking up whatever shiny, ridiculous trinket that happens to stand out to him.

Meanwhile, you’re out in the bedroom, pacing in front of your vanity. You're supposedly getting ready for bed, but you find yourself lingering in front of the mirror, smoothing down your hair and adjusting your silk pajamas, making absolutely sure you look good for whatever stupid reason.

Eventually, the closet door clicks open. James wanders out to see what you’re up to, and you immediately scramble, finding a spot to sit on the edge of your mattress to look nonchalant.

He paces the floor, still taking in the sheer size of the room, looking around the high ceilings as he makes his way toward you. "So your dad's never really around," he starts, his voice low in the quiet room. "What about your mom, hm?"

You stiffen, your fingers gripping the silk of your sheets. "What about her?" you ask, your tone immediately dropping into something flat, entirely uninterested in continuing the conversation.

James stops pacing. He looks at you, picking up on the sudden shift in the air, and raises his hands defensively. "My bad. We don’t gotta talk about it," he says, exaggerating the apology. He really wasn’t trying to be an asshole, he was genuinely just curious.

You swallow the lump in your throat, looking away. "No, it’s fine..."

It doesn't sound convincing at all.

He noticed the look that crossed your face the exact second he mentioned your mother. He saw how fast you scrambled to pull that thick, untouchable guard right back up, the one you worked so hard to build.

You take a quiet breath, forcing your eyes back to his. "Yeah... uhm. She died giving birth to me."

The smirk drops completely from James’s lips. "I'm sorry," he says, his gaze never leaving yours.

He really hates this—all this emotional, heavy stuff just wasn’t something he was used to handling. He’d learned at a young age that the only way to survive was to keep your guard up and never let it fall.

Watching your armor slip right now, he feels entirely out of his depth. He doesn't know what to do with your sadness.

You don’t respond to the apology. Your eyes dart around the bedroom, desperately trying to avoid looking at him. You are fighting with everything you have to keep your mask intact, you definitely do not want James of all people to see you break.

But he notices anyway.

The mattress dips as James finally sits down on the edge of the bed beside you, his large frame grounding the quiet room. "You okay?" he asks. The roughness is gone from his voice, replaced by a quiet, genuine effort to show that he actually cares.

You look at him, the fragile smile returning to your face. "Yeah..."

You mean it—not completely, but you’ve grown up learning how to hide the ache better than anyone else.

"But it’s just..." You look down at your hands, your voice dropping to a whisper. "I don’t know if you saw, but when Kai was bothering me by my locker yesterday... he snatched my bracelet."

"Oh, yeah. I saw..." James murmurs, his brow furrowing slightly, not fully understanding the real reason you were bringing up a piece of jewelry right now.

"Well," you say, your throat tight as you stare at your bare wrist. "It belonged to my mother."

James freezes. The reality of the words hits him like a physical blow. He looks down at your lap, his jaw setting as a sudden, protective anger flares in his chest. "I’m sorry, y/n," he says, his voice rough. "Don’t worry. He won’t be bothering you anymore."

You let out a hollow, watery breath, trying to shrug it off. "It’s fine... I don’t need it anyways."

"Hey..."

Before you can pull away into your own head, James reaches out. His large hand extends, resting warm and remarkably heavy against your bare arm. The touch stops your thoughts entirely. "It’s okay," he says softly, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying amount of sincerity. "And if I can... I’ll get it back. Okay?"

You two just stare at each other. It’s the same intimate linger you always exchange, but this one feels entirely different. He isn't crowding your space or trying to provoke you like he usually does, but as you look at him, you realize you're starting to feel closer to him just in general.

Panicking at how fast your heart is beating, you abruptly break eye contact, clearing your throat. "Okay. Well... bye," you say, waving him off dramatically to break the tension.

James lets out a low huff, a familiar smirk crawling back onto his face as he gets up from the mattress, heading back toward the closet door.

"Night, princess," he says teasingly over his shoulder.

"Goodnight, puppy," you tease back.

The next morning, the kitchen is quiet. You’re standing by the counter, setting up breakfast for the two of you, slicing fruit and arranging the plates before he even comes downstairs.

You’re just placing the last bowl down when a low shadow falls over you.

James sneaks up behind you, his presence entirely too quiet for a guy his size. Before you can even turn around, his deep voice murmurs right against the shell of your ear. "Surprise practice session... three... two..."

He’s already moving, his large frame shifting to lock you into some new fighting position.

Startled, your brain scrambles, and you don’t even react immediately.

"One," he finishes.

With a practiced fluid motion, he grips your torso and hurls you completely around to face him. The sudden force sends you stumbling back until you're leaning hard against the kitchen wall behind you. James instantly crowds your space, hovering over you, his hands gripping your waist firmly to keep you pinned.

Your breath hooks in your throat. He’s standing so close you can feel the steady heat radiating off his chest.

"Remember what I told you to do when I try to kiss you?" he asks, his dark eyes dropping to your mouth, his own breathing heavy from the sudden exertion.

You swallow hard, nodding your head.

James immediately takes that nod as an invitation. He leans in closer, his large hand coming up to cup your face, tilting your head up.

You let him get entirely too close this time, so close your eyelashes practically brush his cheek before your instincts finally kick in. You hurl your weight forward, catching his wrist and twisting his arm back into the exact joint lock he taught you.

A triumphant smirk spreads across your face, pure pride flaring in your chest.

But the victory dies instantly. Before you can even celebrate, James lets out a low huff, shifts his body, and slips out of your grip effortlessly. He spins you around, pinning you chest first against the flat wall with your arm cranked tightly behind your back.

You can’t see his face anymore, but you feel him lean in close from behind you, completely taking control of the room again. One of his hands keeps your arm locked securely against your spine, while his other hand stays heavy, on your side.

You turn your head slightly against the drywall, catching your ragged breath. But the second you move, James grips your hip and turns you to face him again, pulling your stomach flush against his. His hands never leave your waist.

The kitchen is completely silent except for the loud, ragged sound of both of your breathings. The air feels thick. Neither of you move. Neither of you pull away. Instead, you both just start leaning in again, your eyes locking, getting entirely too close.

Panicking, you hurl your hands against his chest, pushing him off playfully. "Fuck off, James," you say, a breathless smile forcing its way onto your face.

James lets out a low laugh, stepping back a couple of paces, his chest still heaving.

"Okay, but seriously," he says, his voice dropping into that strict instructor tone. "Don’t let your guard down, even if you think you have the other person pinned."

You smooth down your shirt, your heart hammering against your ribs as you take a slow, deliberate step back into his space. "Okay, well... let’s try again," you say teasingly, tilting your head.

"Mm, can’t." James lets out a faint smirk, reaching past you to grab some of the grapes you put out, popping one into his mouth.

You blink, disappointed. "Why?”

"Gotta prep for this fight I have tonight," he says.

The playful energy drains out of you instantly. Your voice drops, getting incredibly soft, a sudden ache settling into your chest. "Can I come?"

James’s smile drops the exact second the words leave your mouth. He stops chewing, his entire demeanor shifting into something heavy.

You both just stand there in the middle of the kitchen, staring at each other, you looking up at him with genuine, unmasked concern, and him silently debating whether letting you come is a good idea or not.

Then, that dumb, frustrating grin returns to his face, masking whatever he’s feeling. "Hell no."

You roll your eyes, a sudden wave of hot, anxious anger making you snap. "Maybe you shouldn’t be going either then," you say, your voice rising.

"Well, I need the money," he says, turning on his heel and walking off toward the living room. "Can’t stay here forever y/n," he adds sarcastically over his shoulder.

You stomp to the edge of the kitchen, watching his retreating back, your throat tight. "Well, you better be back before eleven!" you shout out after him.

"Whatever!" he shouts back, the front door clicking shut moments later.

You stay there by the counter for a long time, the breakfast entirely forgotten. Your hands are trembling slightly against the marble counter as you take in the fact that he’s actually going back to that horrific place tonight.

Ever since your dad mentioned that people die during those fights, the reality of what James does has been clawing at your brain, stressing you out entirely more than you ever wanted to admit to yourself.

It’s late now. The television you left on for background noise is a low, unrecognizable murmur against the quiet of your bedroom, barely heard as you try to focus on finishing up your homework.

Then, the sudden, sharp scrape of metal cuts through the room.

Your window slides open. Your heart takes a violent leap into your throat, your mind immediately screaming that it’s Kai fucking around again, but the anger dies the second a heavy, shadow drenched figure stumbles over the sill.

It’s James. And he’s covered in blood.

He clearly lost his fight tonight, and every single inch of his body shows it. He’s leaning heavily against the window frame, his chest heaving.

"Your dad's home. I couldn’t go through the front door," he rasps, his voice thick and scraped raw, completely dismissing how entirely fucked up he looks and feels right now.

You hurl your textbooks aside, immediately scrambling out of bed and rushing over to him.

"Oh my god..." you whisper, the words catching painfully in your throat as your hands hover over him, terrified to touch him. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Dude had brass knuckles."

A cold dread settles into your stomach. Gently, you grip his uninjured shoulder, walking his trembling frame over to your bed and forcing him to sit down. James lets out a low, agonizing groan as his weight hits the mattress.

"Let me see," you breathe, stepping between his knees. Your fingers tremble as you gently tilt his chin up, forcing his head back to get a better look at the deep, ragged gash splitting the skin near his hairline.

"y/n, I'm fine. Chill," he mutters, his bloody hand coming up to push against your shoulder, trying to create distance.

But you don’t move. "James, you are bleeding from your head," you say, your voice cracking, sounding dangerously close to a cry.

You drop to your knees, pulling out the first aid kit that’s been sitting untouched under your bed. Your fingers fly through the plastic containers, desperately digging through the wraps and ointments to find something to clean the wound.

Above you, James sits heavily, his breathing ragged as he painfully peels his heavy jacket off his shoulders. When the fabric drops, you catch sight of a massive, deep purple bruise already blooming violently along the entire side of his ribs. You freeze, staring at the damage, swallowing hard as you try your absolute best not to panic.

You finally find an antiseptic wipe and stand back up, leaning into his space to press it against the cut. But James flinches, still trying to pull his head back, trying to push you away.

"I don’t need your—" He cuts himself off with a sharp, strangled groan. The slight movement of fighting back against you makes the pain in his ribs flare. He closes his eyes, his shoulders dropping in defeat. "Okay... okay," he mutters, taking slow, deep breaths to steady himself.

You gently press the wipe to the cut, your heart hammering against your ribs. "So, who won?" you ask softly, obviously already knowing the answer but desperately trying to keep a conversation going to distract him.

"Clearly the other guy, y/n," he says, his jaw tight as he finally relaxes his posture just a fraction.

"Yeah?" You look down into his eyes briefly, your voice dropping into a quiet, heavy murmur. "This is why I told you not to go."

Your hand loses focus for a split second, pressing a fraction too hard on a raw spot. James hisses through his teeth, his body tensing beneath your fingers. "Gentle bro."

"Sorry," you whisper quickly.

The bedroom goes completely, suffocatingly quiet. You continue to softly wipe the dark crimson from his forehead, your face only inches from his, while he looks up at you through his eyelashes, still trying to breathe properly. The room is so still you swear his respirations are getting louder, heavier, every single time your hand moves.

"Shh..." you murmur, as you try to get him to relax. "It’s okay.”

Your free hand reaches up, your palm resting warm and steady against the back of his neck, your fingers anchoring into his hair to keep him still. James freezes at the touch. His eyes don't leave your face, staring at you with an intensity that burns while you clean him up as much as you can.

You don’t even notice him staring, entirely too focused on the horrible state of his skin, completely consumed by the need to fix him.

Eventually, the bleeding stops, and James gets up from the bed, limping into the bathroom to shower the dirt and dried blood off his skin.

Left alone, you pace the length of your bedroom, the anxiety clawing at the inside of your chest. Your mind is racing, and your first immediate thought goes to the sleeping arrangements. You look at your large, plush bed, a sudden wave of guilt hitting you as you think about him having to sleep on that old, thin mattress in your walk-in closet.

When the bathroom door finally clicks open, you’re already in the middle of pulling back your heavy duvet, setting up the pillows so there's room for both of you.

James steps into the bedroom, his skin scrubbed clean, but he's still favoring his side, a visible limp slowing his stride.

"Hey..." you say softly, looking up at him with a gaze full of unshielded sorrow. "So... what’s got you off your game?"

James pulls a clean shirt over his head, his movements stiff. "I don’t know," he says, entirely dismissive.

"Maybe the old mattress?" you suggest, watching him closely, clearly already having that piece of the puzzle mapped out.

James pauses, his shoulders dropping a fraction as the reality sinks in. "Mm. Yeah. Probably," he mutters, realizing for the first time how much that thin closet floor had actually been draining him.

"You could sleep here tonight if you want," you say smoothly, your hand coming down to gently pat the empty spot next to you. "I’ll get you a better mattress tomorrow."

James stops dead in his tracks. He stares at your hand on the bed, his brow furrowing. "You want me to sleep with you?"

"No..." You let out a quiet, defensive chuckle, your cheeks flaring slightly. "No, I just... I feel bad. And plus, we’ll have our own sides."

James looks at the crisp, expensive white linen, then back at his own bruised, battered body. "You aren't worried about me messing up your sheets?" he asks, his voice low, genuinely unable to believe you're being entirely serious right now.

"It’s fine, James," you say softly, your voice leaving no room for argument. "Just lay down."

He hesitates for one more second before he finally gives in, crawling into the bed. You watch him closely as he moves with excruciating slowness, carefully lowering his torso onto the pillows, trying his hardest not to cause any more damage to his ribs.

You lie down beside him, the space between you small but loaded. For a long moment, you just watch his profile in the dim light, that heavy, unexplainable guilt still weighing on your chest.

"So... when are you gonna stop fighting?" you ask, the concern bleeding heavily into the quiet room.

James doesn't look at you. He keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling, staring at the plaster like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. "Most of us have to work for a living," he says, the biting sarcasm rushing back to protect him.

The words sting, a harsh reminder of the massive divide between your worlds. You shift a little closer to him on the mattress, your heart aching, completely not knowing what to say to that.

You swallow hard, staring at his jawline. "Well... what about your parents?"

James’s head snaps around. He looks at you, his eyes widening slightly, entirely unprepared for you to ask something so deeply personal.

He takes a long, ragged breath, his chest rising high before he finally answers. "Dad's not around," he says, his voice dropping into a rough, quiet register. "And my mom... she just... can’t."

He says the words like it’s a heavy, suffocating secret he’s been hiding his entire life. A deep frown settles on your lips.

For one, terrifying second, you can feel his thick wall completely collapsing, just a little bit, letting you see the raw, broken truth of what’s actually happening on the other side.

"It’s up to me to take care of myself," James murmurs, his eyes drifting away from yours. "And Lian."

Your brow furrows. "Who’s Lian?"

"She's my sister."

"What's wrong with her?" you ask, your gaze locked onto the side of his face. He’s actively avoiding eye contact now, his throat swallowing hard.

"It’s a lot to say," he mutters, his shoulder tensing as he tries to be completely done with the conversation.

But you don’t care. You'll listen to him for hours if he lets you. You keep your eyes fixed on him, entirely still, silently waiting for him to open up. James shifts, his eyes darting back to yours, and he notices the pure concern written across your face. He gives in. With a low, painful grunt, he shifts his entire body on the mattress, turning to face you fully now.

"She’s in the hospital," he says, his voice losing its sharp edge. "She used to follow me around all the time. When she found out I was fighting, she thought I was some kind of superhero." A tiny, faint smile touches his lips at the memory. "She looked up to me. So... I usually brought her around when I fought."

The smile fades, replaced by a sudden, sickening shadow. "And..." He stops, his jaw tight. You notice how uncomfortable he starts to look, the memory clawing at him.

"It’s okay," you interrupt gently, reaching out slightly. "You don’t have to explain anymore."

James looks dead into your eyes. He’s never opened up to anyone before, not like this. It’s just not who he is. But as he looks at you, something changes, and he continues anyway, even if the words are heavy and hard to drag out of his throat.

"This dude, Nicholas..." James rasps. "He, uhm... we don’t exactly get along. And so he caught Lian once, trying to get back at me... and he beat her up badly."

Your breath hitches, your hand flying to your mouth. "Oh my god... is she—"

"She’s fine. Well... she’s better now," he clarifies quickly, his eyes darkening. "But she’s gotta get a lot of surgeries to fully recover. And fighting is the only way I can pay for it."

The sheer weight of his reality hangs between you. James looks at your shocked expression, and a small chuckle escapes his lips, trying desperately to lighten the suffocating mood. "But... don’t you want me to fight anyway? With your whole guard dog thing?"

You don’t laugh. The profound concern doesn't leave your face, but you force a small, fragile smile onto your lips as you study the sharp lines of his face. "I just... I don’t want you ending up dead."

The words are entirely too honest.

James doesn't answer immediately. He searches your face, his dark eyes tracking the sincerity in yours, before a sudden, cold look flashes across his features. The guard snaps right back into place.

"Well... it’s not your problem anyway," he says coldly.

Before you can say a word, he abruptly turns his body the other way, presenting his broad back to you as he faces the wall.

"James..." you call out softly.

He doesn't answer. He’s completely still. He isn't used to people actually being there for him, but acting like they care when they really don't. He doesn't know what's real anymore, and he learned a long time ago to block out the entire world no matter what.

Slowly, you turn the other way too, facing your own side of the room. The mattress feels entirely too big now. You lie there in the dark, your heart aching with a profound sadness for him, knowing that even though he's lying right next to you, he’s obviously not there with you enough to let you comfort him.

Sometime during the night, the massive space you’d carefully kept between you and James had completely vanished. You are lying way too close to him, your head practically resting on his chest.

James woke up first.

He’s been awake for minutes, immediately noticing the heavy, warm weight of you sleeping against his side.

He thought he’d be weirded out by it, he thought his instincts would tell him to shove you away, but instead he’s just lying there. Quiet. He looks down, his eyes tracing your features in your sleepy state, studying the softness of your face. He finds himself leaning into the space, his head tilting down just enough to take in your scent.

Then, he notices the slight shift in your breathing. You're starting to wake up.

Instantly, his eyes drop shut. He pretends to still be asleep, his muscles going limp, just to troll you and see exactly how you’d react.

You blink open your eyes, confused at first as your brain tries to process the solid warmth beneath you. Then, you realize. You look up and see his eyes are closed, his sharp jaw relaxed in sleep. A small, helpless smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. Instead of scrambling away, you let out a quiet breath, sinking back down and shifting even closer into his chest.

"What are you doing?"

His deep voice cuts through the quiet room, a smug, low vibration against your cheek.

You jump up instantly, your face exploding in a violent blush. "Oh my god, I'm sorry!" you stammer, frantically trying to scramble out of the bed, but your knee drives straight into his bruised ribs.

James lets out a sharp, agonizing groan, his eyes snapping shut as his hand flies to his side. "Fuck..."

"I'm sorry!" you cry, finally tumbling out of the bed and fleeing the room before you can die of pure embarrassment.

Downstairs, the atmosphere is heavy. You’re sitting at the pristine dining table, your fingers flying across your phone screen, aggressively scrolling through your feed just to give yourself something to look at.

The heavy tread of footsteps echoes in the hall, and James finally joins you, carrying a bowl of cereal. He slides into the chair across from yours.

You don’t look up. You give him absolutely zero attention, keeping your eyes glued to your phone. James pauses, finding the sudden icy treatment weird. He eats a spoonful of cereal, stealing a glance. Then another. He’s finally fed up with the silence, setting his spoon down with a small click.

"You good?"

"Yep," you say, your tone clipping the end of the word. You finally lock eyes with him, your throat tight. "What about you? You look terrible."

It comes out sarcastic but underneath, it’s mostly just the hot, anxious anger from last night bleeding through. You're upset and terrified for him.

James stops eating entirely, taking in the backhanded joke as his jaw sets. "Yeah. Thanks," he replies, his voice dropping into a cold, flat tone.

"Seriously, James," you say, setting your phone face-down on the wood, leaning forward. "You have to stop doing these fights. You’re gonna get yourself killed."

James lets out a harsh, humorless scoff, leaning back in his chair. "Sure. That’s easy for you to say. Sitting up in your castle all day, swiping your daddy’s credit card." He looks dead into your eyes, his gaze dripping with a bitter, defensive finality. "You got no idea what it’s really like."

He pushes his chair back, standing up to leave, the walls snapping right back up around him.

But you’re already moving. The comment sparks something fierce in your chest, and you jump up from the table, throwing yourself into his path to stop him from walking out on you. "Look, James, I know you’re upset, but it’s not—"

"No y/n, you don’t understand shit," he shouts back, anger flashing in his eyes. "Stop acting like you care."

You look up at him, a sharp, physical ache hitting your chest. He thinks you’re performing. He thinks this is a game to you. The frustration boils over, and before you can think, your hand darts out, grabbing a tight fistful of his shirt and violently pulling him down into your space. "I’m not! I just—"

"WHAT?" James snaps, leaning directly into you, his face inches from yours, challenging you to finish the sentence—

Click. The heavy front door suddenly swings open. You both freeze, instantly backing up a step, detangling from each other just as your dad walks into the foyer.

"Forgot my glasses!" your dad calls out, stepping into the dining room. He stops dead, his eyes bouncing between you and the large, bruised teenager standing in his house. "Oh. Who are you?"

"Oh! Dad!" you blurt out, the fake, dazzling smile returning to your face so fast it makes your jaw ache. "This is James! My forensics partner!"

Your dad's eyes crinkle, his brow furrowing as he studies James’s face. "Oh... you look familiar. Have I seen you before?" He takes a step forward, extending a hand to shake.

"Dad, James has been in my class since kindergarten," you say, brushing it off with a casual laugh, gently guiding your dad toward the door. "You’ve definitely seen him a lot."

"Oh. Right," your dad says, checking his watch. He heads back toward the door, stealing one last glance over his shoulder. "Well, have fun with your project!"

"Bye, dad!" you shout.

You both stand completely still, watching through the window until his car pulls out of the driveway and the heavy silence of the house settles back over you.

The second the coast is clear, James spins on his heel, turning his full attention right back to you. The anger from before has shifted into something entirely different.

"So," he rasps, stepping into your space. "What were you saying?"

"Nothing," you say, your voice trembling slightly as you try to de-escalate, not wanting to start the fight back up.

But James clearly wants to start something. He takes another slow, deliberate step, crowding you. "So you weren’t just trying to kiss me?"

"What? No, I..." You look away, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "It wasn’t intentional. I meant nothing by it."

"Mm..." James lets out a low, breathy sound, his eyes dark as they trace your face. "So... since it didn’t mean anything..."

He moves fast. Before you can even register the shift, he walks straight into you, his large hands reaching out and gripping your waist firmly. You stumble backward, trying to find space, until the hard edge of the dining table catches you right at the hips. You're trapped. James follows you down, resting his palms flat on the wood on both sides of your body, leaning his entire weight into you until you can taste the heat off his skin.

"Can I do this?" he whispers, staring directly into your eyes, his voice dripping with a deep, provocative challenge.

You straighten your spine, trying with everything you have to regain some form of control over your own body. You look at his lips, your breath hitching. "Yes..." you whisper.

You lean in, closing your eyes, expecting the contact—but James pulls his face away at the last second, teasing you, refusing to give in that easily.

"And this?" he murmurs.

He reaches down, taking your hand in his rough palm, and lifts it to his lips. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your knuckles, and then his lips start tracking upward, moving slowly up the sensitive skin of your arm, tracing a path until he reaches the curve of your neck. He pauses there for a fraction of a second. You can feel his breath, hot and ragged, vibrating against your pulse point.

You melt into his touch instantly. The last of your defense mechanisms crumble, and your hands fly to his shoulders, pulling his heavy body closer, desperate for the friction.

But James stops, his lips brushing your skin as he waits. He wants the words.

"Yes," you breathe softly, your voice breaking.

The approval triggers something in him. He drives his lips against your neck, a deep, bruising kiss that makes you lean back against the table, tilting your head to give him more space. Your breathing is heavy, echoing in the empty room. You shift, your hands sliding up to his jawline, pulling his face up just enough to meet his dark, blown out eyes, and you lean in to finally kiss him for real. Your lips are a millimeter apart, the heat of them touching.

The sharp, violent buzz of his cell phone explodes from his pocket, cutting through like a siren.

You pull back, your eyes snapping open as you roll them, an intense wave of pure irritation flooding your veins. "Fuck..." you hiss, your hands dropping from his shirt. "Why don’t you have on do not disturb?"

James doesn't answer. He lets out a low, frustrated groan, his forehead dropping heavily against your shoulder for a brief second, just absorbing the ruined moment. Finally, he pulls away, reaching into his pocket to check the screen.

The second his eyes hit the glass, his entire expression changes. The playful, dangerous smirk vanishes, his jaw setting into a tight, pale line.

"It’s my sister..." he rasps.

Hearing those words, you stiffen. The irritation evaporates instantly, replaced by a cold wave of guilt and worry. You look at his worried face and nod quickly, stepping back to give him space. "Go, answer it."

He doesn't waste a second, turning and rushing out of the room to take the call.

Left alone in the dining room, you sink back against the edge of the table. You’re still trembling, your skin still hot from where his hands had just been holding your waist, but the ruined moment doesn't matter anymore. All you can think about is the suffocating concern for Lian.

You and James hadn’t spoken properly since the breathless, interrupted moment against the dining table this morning. The tension had just simmered between you all day, thick and heavy, until the final bell.

And now, at the end of the day, you’re standing at your locker. James is right there, hovering completely over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the hallway as his dark eyes lock onto yours.

"We never talked about what happened this morning," he says, a lazy, teasing smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

You feel your cheeks instantly start to heat up, and you desperately try to dodge the memory. "Oh! Yes, your sister..how is—"

James lets out a low, deep chuckle, leaning a fraction closer until his shoulder brushes the metal locker door. "Come on, y/n. You know what I mean."

You bite your lip, a smile forcing its way onto your face. You definitely knew exactly what he meant, but you didn't want to get all flustered in the middle of a crowded hall, so you chose to bring up literally anything else that would let this talk go by.

"Okay, but seriously though..." you ask, your tone shifting as you look up at him, your eyes softening. "Is your sister okay?"

James lets out a quiet sigh, rolling his eyes back because he knows you aren't going to drop it until you get an answer. "Yes," he says, his voice dropping into a rough murmur. "Now back to the other thing."

Your smirk returns, and you meet his gaze fully, refusing to let him win the standoff. "What about it?"

"You wanted to kiss me so bad."

You roll your eyes dramatically, crossing your arms over your chest. "Shut up, you obviously wanted to kiss me too."

"Yeah, yeah..." James teases, his eyes glinting with pure mischief as he tilts his head down. "But you definitely wanted it more."

"Oh, please. You started it and provoked me," you counter, tilting your chin up to maintain your ground.

"And you let me," he fires back instantly.

You stare up at him through your lashes. The crowded hallway around you seems to fade into background noise. The only thing keeping you from reaching out, pulling him down by his collar, and kissing him right here is the simple fact that you’re in public. But honestly? Looking at him right now, you don’t even care anymore.

Before you can even finish the thought, a sudden, violent force crashes into the space.

Kai blindsides James, shoving him hard into the metal lockers. The sound of the impact echoes sharply down the hall.

"What the hell?!" you shout, instantly stepping directly in front of James. You glare at Kai, your blood boiling. "Kai, just leave him alone, jeez! I get that you’re obsessed with me, but—"

"NO!" Kai shouts, his face twisted in a desperate, ugly rage. The volume of his voice causes nearby students to stop and look over. "You’re the one obsessed with me! Doing all this just to make me jealous?!" He steps closer, his eyes wild as he spits out the words. "You fucking bitch."

The insult doesn't even have time to hang in the air.

James moves immediately. He storms forward, pushing past you and shoving Kai back so hard it completely breaks his balance, causing him to crash violently onto the floor.

"JAMES!" you scream, your heart leaping into your throat, completely startled.

James doesn't say a word to you. He stands over Kai, his entire frame rigid with a terrifying, protective fury. "She’s not a bitch. And she’s not trying to make you jealous," James says, his deep voice shaking the walls. "She doesn’t give a shit about you, so fuck off."

Before Kai can even scramble to his feet, James throws a heavy, brutal punch straight to his face.

"James, seriously, STOP!" you shout, your voice cracking.

James isn't listening though. He’s completely gone, tuned out to everything except the raw instinct to hurt the person who just insulted you. He continues to beat Kai down, his fists connecting with sickening, heavy thuds. Everyone is watching now. A thick circle of students forms around them, some people even pulling out their phones to record the chaos.

But James couldn't care less about the crowd. His entire focus is pinned to the single fact that Kai seriously wouldn’t leave you alone. He told you that he’d make sure the guy never bothered you again, and he was going to do exactly that.

"JAMES!" you scream one last time, the sheer violence of it turning your stomach.

Still nothing. You can't bear to watch it anymore, the blood, the crowd, the horror of it all. You turn on your heel and run, sprinting down the hallway toward the exit, desperately wanting to escape the noise.

Behind you, James lands one final, devastating blow before he notices Kai is barely conscious beneath him, his face a swollen mess. "Don’t fuck with her again," James growls, faking one last punch. Kai’s hands instinctively fly up in a trembling, pathetic motion to try and block his face.

As James’s hand hovers, his eyes catch on something shiny wrapped around Kai's wrist. It’s a delicate, silver bracelet way too much to belong to him.

James recognizes it instantly. It's definitely your mother's.

Without hesitation, he reaches down and snatches it off Kai's wrist, tucking it securely into his pocket. He finally pulls back, his breathing ragged as he looks around the crowd for you, but you’re gone.

He sees the sea of shocked faces standing around watching him, but he doesn't give them a second glance. He turns and takes off down the hall, already knowing exactly where you went.

By the time he catches up to you, you've already sprinted all the way home.

"Y/N!" James shouts, his shoes slamming against the stairs as he follows you straight up to your bedroom.

You don’t answer him. You hurl your bedroom door open, your chest heaving with a mixture of terror and furious adrenaline.

The second you cross the threshold, you turn around and try to violently slam the heavy wood shut right in his face, but James is too fast. His hand catches the edge of the door, forcing it back open as he steps inside, shutting it behind him.

You turn around, the hot anger finally creeping up your throat, masking the trembling in your hands. "Never do that again!"

"What?!" James huffs, his chest rising and falling violently as he stares at you. "I told you I was gonna make sure he didn’t fuck with you again y/n!"

"No, I’m done with this!" you shout back, the tears finally burning the backs of your eyes. "I’m telling you now seriously, James. This is the last time I want to see you fighting. Ever!"

"What are you even saying?" James shouts back, his hands gesturing wildly between you, his voice thick with frustration. "You asked me to protect you, and that’s exactly what I did!"

"Yeah! By intimidating him! Not by beating him half to death!" you shout. The words rip out of your chest, and it doesn't sound angry anymore, it comes out sounding like you’re completely terrified.

James jaw sets, his dark eyes fierce. "Yeah, well, he deserved it."

"Yeah, but I just keep thinking about how that could be you in that ring!" you cry out.

All the suffocating anxiety from your dad's words, the blood on his face from last night, it all comes pouring out. "And I know that you said you fight for the money, but I will pay for your sister’s surgeries! I will pay for a new apartment, okay?! But I will not pay for your funeral, you asshole!"

James freezes. He stares at you, his chest heaving, his eyes widening as the weight of what you just screamed sinks into his skin. Slowly, he takes a heavy step forward, closing the distance between you until he’s looming right over you.

You don’t back up this time. You tilt your chin up, glaring at him through your tears. "Why?" he asks, his voice dropping into a low, dangerously quiet whisper.

"You know why," you say fiercely, your voice trembling but resolute.

"Say it,"

"Because I fucking care about y—"

He doesn't let you finish. James completely closes the remaining distance, his mouth slamming down onto yours in a desperate, bruising kiss. His large hands come up, framing your jawline and cupping your face with an intense grip.

A gasp escapes your lips, and you immediately bring your arms up, your fingers tangling deep into his hair, pulling him closer. It isn't a slow kiss. It isn't soft. It’s rough, chaotic, and desperately hungry, both of you chasing each other’s mouths like it’s the only thing you’ve been wanting for your entire lives.

His hands slide down the smooth line of your neck, tracking down your sides until they rest heavy and possessive over your hips, crushing your body against his.

The room spins. You finally break the kiss for a fraction of a second, your foreheads leaning together, your breathing ragged. "So..." you whisper against his lips, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. "No more fighting?"

James lets out a shallow, breathless exhale, his eyes dark. "I can’t just take all your dad’s money."

"It can be a loan," you plead, your lips chasing his even as you speak, the friction intoxicating. "But no more illegal fighting. Please."

Before he can argue, your mouth finds his again, diving right back into the heat of it. The kiss deepens, shifting into something so intensely heavy and real that James suddenly gets completely overwhelmed.

The gravity of how much he wants you, combined with the sudden collapse of his lifelong walls, makes his brain short circuit.

He abruptly breaks the kiss, stepping back and sinking heavily into the desk chair right behind him. "OKAY. OKAY!" he pants, throwing his hands out in front of him to keep some form of distance between you.

He’s completely out of breath, his cheeks flushed, unable to even think straight. "Just... lemme think about this first."

That confident dominance you always have rushes through you. You smirk, stepping forward without hesitation, inviting yourself right back into his space.

You slide your legs between his knees, reaching down to take his trembling hands and deliberately placing them right back on your waist.

Then, you lean down, your fingers sliding up the smooth skin of his throat, tilting his head back so he has to look up at you. "No more fighting?” you say, your voice dropping into that beautiful, bossy tone he can never resist.

James tries to catch his breath, his hands tightening on your hips as he stares up at you, completely defeated by the sight of you commanding his space.

"No more fighting," he rasps.

"You promise?" you say, a radiant, triumphant smile spreading across your lips.

"Jeez, you’re relentless," James mutters, a faint, breathless grin finally breaking through his exhaustion as he leans back against the chair. "You think you own me or something, hm?"

"Oh, I do," you say smoothly, leaning down until your breath brushes his nose. "But I think you own me a little now, too."

You lean in and kiss him again, soft and lingering this time.

James groans into the kiss, the last of his restraint snapping. He grips your hips and pulls you down completely, hoisting you up until you're straddling his lap.

His hands find their way down to your ass, squeezing firmly before his palms track back up, feeling the curves of your body through your clothes, memorizing every single inch of you.

Your arms stay wrapped securely around his neck, your fingers anchoring tight into his hair as the kiss turns deep and dizzying.

Suddenly, you pull back, your fingers tightening in his hair to force his head back just enough to meet his blown-out eyes.

"Bed," you say, a sharp, knowing smirk curling your lips.

James stares up at you, a low, dark growl vibrating in his chest as his hands grip your thighs.

He stands up effortlessly, lifting your entire weight with him. You immediately wrap your legs securely around his waist, your arms locked around his shoulders, as he carries you across the quiet room toward the bed.

When your back finally hits the mattress, the impact is soft. James follows you down instantly, his frame crowding out the rest of the room as he settles between your thighs.

"Still want to play the boss princess?" he murmurs, his voice low, sending a shiver straight down your spine.

You let out a faint smirk, your fingers tightening into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down until his lips brush yours. "Always," you whisper.

James lets out a dark, low growl, and the last shred of his restraint violently snaps.

He drives his mouth down onto yours, claiming your lips in a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like pure hunger. His tongue slides against yours in lazy, heavy strokes, claiming every single inch of your mouth while his weight presses you firmly down into the pillows.

He kisses down your neck, his lips pressing soft marks into your sensitive skin, making a shiver race straight down your spine.

Slowly, he takes off his shirt, exposing the heavy bruising on his ribs, then helps you out of your own clothes until there is nothing left between you.

He splits your knees with his thighs, crowding you completely, he leans down, his mouth tracing a path of burning kisses down your jawline to your throat, while his hand slides between your legs.

His fingers dive straight into your soaking wetness, finding your sensitive clit and frictioning it in deep, heavy circles.

A sharp, broken gasp rips from your throat, your fingers clawing into the sheets.

He doesn't edge you or pull away, he drives you higher and higher, his fingers moving in a relentless, punishing rhythm that has your hips blindly chasing his hand.

“Look at me y/n."

You force your eyes open, your vision hazy with tears of sheer overstimulation as you look up at him.

"James... please—" you choke out, arching your back against his hand.

"Not yet," he murmurs, a slow smirk touching his lips as he deliberately slows the pace down, playing with your leverage.

Only when you are completely breathless does he pull back murmuring low, possessive praises that make your heart ache.

He leans over the edge of the bed to pull his bag closer, unzipping it to retrieve a condom.

After rolling it onto his length with ease, he positions himself between your thighs again. His eyes never leave yours as he finally pushes inside.

"Fuck, y/n..." he groans, his jaw tensing as he pauses for a second, letting you adjust to the size of him before he starts to move.

He moves inside you with slow, deep thrusts that shake the entire frame of the bed. He keeps you entirely pinned, one hand wrapped possessively over your hip to keep you in place while his other hand stays loose around your neck.

You're a sobbing, trembling mess beneath him, completely undone by the sheer power of his movements. Every time you get close to the edge, your voice crying out into the quiet room, he slows his rhythm down, prolonging the sweet torture.

He watches every single expression on your face, consuming your reactions with a dark, heavy satisfaction.

"I've got you," he growls, his chest rising and falling heavily as he delivers three more deep, devastating thrusts. "Come for me princess."

The approval triggers the final cascade. Your orgasm hits hard like a physical shockwave, your walls clenching and spasming violently around his thick cock. Tears spill down your cheeks as the pleasure crashes through your entire body, your arousal soaking the condom.

James groans deeply, his jaw clenching as he comes hard, thick pulses filling the condom as his hips stutter and grind deeply against your crashing waves.. "Fuck—you did so good."

He collapses heavily against you, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his ragged breathing the only sound left in the room.

For a long time, neither of you move. The sweat cools on your skin as the high slowly fades, leaving a heavy, profound quiet in its place. Slowly, James pulls out, carefully disposing of the condom before sliding right back under the duvet next to you.

He reaches out, his large arm sliding under your neck to pull you securely against his side. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady, calming beat of his heart. His fingers gently trace the skin of your bare shoulder, his touch light, comforting, and entirely real.

The air in the bedroom is warm. You and James lay entangled in the sheets, both of your bodies hugging tight against each other as the high from earlier finally settles into something comfortable.

Your fingers move lazily, gently stroking through his thick hair while his large hand moves in a slow, soothing rhythm up and down your bare side.

"Mm... we took way too long to do this," James murmurs, his voice low and raspy against your shoulder.

"Yeah?" You let out a soft, breathless laugh. "It’s your fault, by the way."

"Mine?" He shifts slightly, a smile breaking across his sharp features. "How?"

"Mm, I don’t know... maybe because you kept trying to get yourself killed!" You exaggerate the words, your voice pitching up playfully, but the bright, radiant smile on your face doesn't leave for a second.

You both laugh, the sound quiet and intimate in the dark room.

"Yeah," James breathes, his eyes softening as he stares down at you. Suddenly, he shifts his weight, his large frame effortlessly moving until he’s hovering completely above you, trapping you beneath his chest.

He leans down, catching your lips in a deep, lingering kiss that melts whatever air you had left in your lungs.

You break the kiss after a while, panting slightly as you try to catch your breath against his mouth. "Wait... I’ll be right back."

You press one last, quick peck to his lips, playfully rolling him off your body.

James doesn't question you. He just sinks back into your pillows, his eyes tracking your every move as you slide out of bed and walk toward the door.

You steal one last glance at him over your shoulder before you fully step out into the hallway, and the look on his face makes your heart swell. He looks like he’s ready to stand up and follow you with absolutely zero hesitation, not even knowing where you're going.

Left alone, James sits back against the headboard, deciding just to wait for you, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

BZZZZ.

The sharp, violent vibration of his phone cuts through the quiet. James blinks, looking around the mattress for the device, not entirely sure where he’d tossed it earlier.

He leans over the edge of the bed, finally spotting it face up on the hardwood floor where it had fallen out of his jeans. He reaches down, picking it up.

Nicholas: let’s fight tomorrow night

Nicholas: winner takes 20k

James stares at the screen, his jaw tightening. He types out a response instantly, not even wanting to entertain the thought.

James: nah im out

He tosses the phone onto the nightstand, leaning back carefully against the pillows with a low groan. His ribs are still incredibly sore from the last fight.

BZZZZ.

Another text. James lets out a heavy sigh, staring at the ceiling. He debates just leaving it alone, he doesn't want to get sucked back in, and he definitely doesn't want you to find out.

But a strange knot forms in his stomach. He glances toward the bedroom door to make sure you aren't coming back yet, before reluctantly picking the phone back up.

Nicholas: damn why?

Nicholas: still taking care of ur sister?

Nicholas: what abt ur new girlfriend? u think she’d wanna fight

James reads the words, his face completely blank, his breathing freezing in his chest. Then, the final text pops up.

Nicholas: maybe i should just find out for myself, yea?

James sits up instantly. The blood in his veins turns to pure ice as he reads the last line over and over again. Nicholas knows about you.

The sickening image of the same monster who put his little sister in the hospital coming after you, hunting you down just to get to him, is something James would not let happen.

His fingers fly across the screen, his jaw locked in a lethal line.

James: i’ll be there.

He throws the blankets off his legs, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. Panic and adrenaline flood his system as he frantically gathers his scattered clothes from the floor, trying to hurry, desperately needing to get out of the house before you find him leaving.

But the door clicks open.

You walk back into the bedroom, a soft smile on your face. "Hey, I—"

The words die in your throat. You freeze in the doorway, your eyes dropping to see James aggressively pulling his shirt over his head, gathering his things.

"Uhm?" you whisper, the warmth completely draining from your face as you look at his hurried movements. "You going somewhere?"

James doesn't answer. He can't look you in the eye.

The heavy silence tells you everything you need to know. "James..." you walk up to him, your hands trembling, your voice already shaking violently. "I said no more fighting. You promised."

"I know," he rasps, keeping his back to you as he continues to shove his things into his bag. He forces his voice to stay steady, though his chest is screaming. "after this... I promise."

"No! Don't say you promise if you don't mean it!"

James finally turns around, his eyes wild, desperate for you to understand without him having to say the words out loud. "I really am done after I finish this."

“So what?" You take a sharp step forward, a bitter, agonizing sob escaping your lips as the worst possible thought takes root in your brain. "You lied... just to get in my pants, hm?"

"No! No, it’s not like that!" James snaps, stepping into your space, his hands reaching out as if he wants to grab you but forcing himself to drop them. "It's not like that at all. I just... I have to do this one more time."

"I told you I’d give you the money!" you cry out, the tears finally streaming down your face, your hands clenching into fists. "Why are you still doing this?!"

"It’s not about the money, y/n!" James shouts back, the frustration finally ripping through his throat.

The room goes completely dead silent. James takes a ragged breath, trying with everything he has to calm down because the last thing he wants is to get angry with you. He looks at your tear stained face, his voice dropping into a raw, hollow whisper.

"It’s him. Nicholas... he’s the one that put my sister in the hospital." He swallows the lump in his throat. "And he’s not gonna stop fucking with us until I finish it."

You stare up at him, your chest heaving. The name echoes in your mind, but the terror of losing James is too loud, too suffocating to let you think rationally. You're hurt, you're terrified, and you feel completely abandoned just moments after giving him everything.

"Okay. Fine," you say, your voice dropping into a cold, trembling whisper as you fight back the rest of your tears. "If you wanna leave, then leave."

James blinks, his shoulders tensing.

"But don’t come back here," you spit out. "I don’t ever wanna see you again."

"Y/N..." James steps forward, his voice cracking, completely blindsided by the venom in your tone. "Come on, don’t be like this."

You don’t say another word. You just shake your head, turning on your heel and walking straight out of your room, refusing to stand there and watch him walk away from you.

He stands alone in the center of your room, the quiet pressing heavily against his ears. He hesitates, his fist clenching as he stares at the empty doorway, a massive part of him screaming to run after you.

But he looks down at his phone, reminded of the threat against your life, and he knows he has to do this. He has to protect you, even if it means you’ll hate him forever.

Just as he’s about to leave, he stops. He remembers the heavy piece of metal tucked safely inside his front jeans pocket from earlier today.

Slowly, James digs his hand into his pocket and pulls out the delicate, silver bracelet.

He looks at it for a brief second, his thumb tracing the metal that belonged to your mother, before carefully placing it on the dark wood of the nightstand right next to your pillow.

Without looking back, he walks out and disappears into the cold night.

Later that night, the house is completely quiet, and you’re sitting in the middle of your bed crying your absolute ass off. The tears won't stop. You didn’t think it would affect you so deeply, telling him to leave and never to come back.

A part of you wanted so desperately to understand, to just let him do this one last fight and come right back to you. But the imagery of him covered in blood, the memory of his ragged breathing and his bruised ribs... it was something you simply could not continue to see. You couldn't bear the thought of watching him destroy himself.

The door quietly clicks open. Your dad steps in, checking up on you.

"Hey, y/nnie," he says softly, his face falling, already feeling terrible for you before he even knows any of the details.

"Hey, dad," you whisper, quickly wiping your face with the back of your hand, trying to hide the tears.

"What’s wrong, babygirl?" he asks, walking over and sitting on the edge of your mattress, his hand reaching out to gently stroke your hair.

You sniffle, looking down at your lap. "It’s nothing. I’m fine, I just..."

He studies your face for a moment. "Is it that kid from forensics?"

You hesitate, then give a small, miserable nod.

"Wanna talk about it?"

You shake your head, your throat too tight to drag the words out.

"Can I help in any way?" he asks, shifting his position towards you more. "I can help, you know. I can have that kid arrested with one phone call," he teases.

A small laugh escapes your lips despite yourself, the heavy atmosphere breaking for a split second.

"Alright, well... I ordered some thai food," your dad says, his tone softening as he pushes himself up from the bed. "Wanna come down? We can watch your favorite anime?"

You nod your head frantically, finally finding enough voice to force the words out, even if it isn’t much. "Yeah."

Your dad smiles warmly. But as he turns toward the door, his eyes catch on something catching the light on the dark wood of your nightstand.

"Hey... did this break?"

You sit up instantly, your heart stopping in your chest. You hadn't even noticed it being there before. You look over, and your breath hitches violently.

It's your mother's silver bracelet.

"Oh! No, I... uhm," you stammer, your brain scrambling for an excuse as you reach out, your fingers trembling as you snatch it up and press the cold metal tightly into your palm. "I took it off when I was finishing up homework. It was getting in the way."

"Oh, okay," your dad says, completely buying the lie. He gives you one last smile from the doorway. "Well, come down when you're ready, okay?"

"Yeah," you nod, the sadness from before completely evaporating from your veins.

The second the door shuts, you stare down at the silver chain in your hand. James. You remember him resting his hand on your arm and telling you so sincerely that he’d get your bracelet back if he could. And he really did.

The anger disappears. You had to see him, no matter how mad you were, no matter how bad you didn’t want him doing this. You couldn’t just give up on him all because of a stupid fight.

The next day, you get up immediately, your mind entirely set on finding James and bringing him back home with you.

You don't know the exact streets, but you force yourself to remember the twists and turns from a while ago—the grimy, industrial grid that led to the abandoned warehouse James fought in. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you navigate the empty gravel roads, praying that he’ll be there.

When you finally pull up and step into the damp, echoing structure, the space is mostly empty, only a few people around getting ready for their fights. You walk around the perimeter, your eyes frantically scanning the corners for his familiar, broad shoulders.

Suddenly, a heavy shadow cuts across the concrete. A tall, heavily built man notices you instantly, dropping his duffel bag and walking straight up to you.

"Well, hello," he says, a slow, predatory grin stretching across his face.

"Fuck off," you snap, entirely uninterested in dealing with a stranger.

The man lets out a low chuckle, raising his hands but stepping directly into your path anyway. "Chill. Are you lost or something?" he asks, his tone dripping with a smug, mocking smirk.

"No," you say, tilting your chin up. "I'm looking for James."

The second that name leaves your lips, something shifts violently in the man’s expression.

His smirk tightens, his dark eyes instantly sharpening as he becomes entirely more interested in you than he was a second ago. He studies your face, realizing exactly who you are to James.

"Well, as you can see," the man says, gesturing around the space behind him, "he’s not here."

You swallow the lump of disappointment in your throat, keeping your posture stiff. "Yeah... I see."

"But uhm..." The man steps closer, his voice dropping. "He’ll be here tonight. We got a fight... so you should come."

Your spine straightens immediately. The anxiety in your chest morphs into a cold, sharp focus.

You look at the man's arrogant stance, the realization hitting, this has to be him. This is the guy James is so violently eager to fight.

"I’ll let him know you stopped by, though," Nicholas says, a dark, sickening glint in his eyes as he turns to walk away. "Me and James were, uh... good friends."

A deep shudder runs down your spine, but you turn on your heel and leave the warehouse.

As you step out into the sunlight, your fist tightens around your mother's bracelet.

You would be back there tonight, because you were going to bring James back with you, no matter what it took.

Inside the dimly lit gym, the air smells thick of sweat, old leather, and dust. James is by the heavy bag.

He isn't paying attention to his surroundings at all, entirely consumed by the memory of the way you looked at him when you told him to leave—until the sharp, echoing sound of slow clapping cuts through the empty room from behind him.

He turns around, his muscles instantly locking up, startled.

"Woah, look at you!" Nicholas teases, stepping out of the shadows with a mocking grin plastered across his face.

James’s face drops into a lethal stare. He takes a heavy step forward, closing the distance. "Why are you here?"

Nicholas doesn't care about the hostility. He just shrugs, casually leaning his shoulder against the brick wall, entirely ready to start fucking with James's head.

"Ya girl came by the warehouse earlier," he smirks, tilting his head up. "She was looking for you, but... she got me instead."

James freezes. The blood in his veins instantly turns to pure fire. "Leave her out of this..." he says, his voice shaking with a terrifying, protective rage. The veins in his neck are already popping out, thick and taut, as he storms closer to Nicholas’s face.

Nicholas just raises his hands, laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world. "Chill, buddy. I didn’t do anything... yet."

James keeps his heated expression locked onto him, clearly not amused by Nicholas's twisted humor at all.

"Seriously, relax. Look, she wanted to see you, so... I invited her to the fight tonight," Nicholas says, shrugging his shoulders like it’s absolutely no big deal.

James rolls his head back, an incredibly irritated groan escaping his lips. "Why’d you have to bring her into this?"

"Just wanted her to see how much of a monster her boy toy really is.”

The words hit James like a physical blow. Instantly, his mind flashes back to your bedroom, the tears streaming down your face, the broken sound of your voice screaming that you didn't want to pay for his funeral.

He remembers how much you absolutely hate seeing him get hurt. He can't let you see him like that.

"Nah..." James rasps, his eyes hardening into cold stone. "Fight's off."

"Well.. fuck man," Nicholas says, his face twisting into a mask of genuine, exaggerated disappointment. He sighs, shaking his head as he pulls his back away from the wall. "Well, now I have to find another way to get to her."

James’s breath hooks in his throat.

"I’ll have to find out where she lives," Nicholas muses aloud, tapping his chin mockingly. "Get her number—"

"FUCK OFF!" he yells taking one final step forward until he is completely crowding Nicholas’s space, his fists clenched hard. "Leave her alone. Seriously."

"Ouuu," Nicholas murmurs, completely impressed with how hostile he’s actually getting him. He loves the leverage. He loves knowing exactly which wire to pull to piss James off.

"You know what?" He starts, a sickening grin spreading across his lips. "Fine. I’ll leave her alone."

James doesn't calm down, he stands there, his chest heaving, fully expecting something else to come with a statement like that.

"As long as you come to the fight tonight... and win," Nicholas adds, his voice getting louder at the end. "I stay out of your life. And hers! For good."

James stares dead into his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic, lethal rhythm against his ribs.

"But if not..." He drags out the words, slowly clicking his tongue against his teeth as his voice drops into a low whisper.

"Then I got something real special. Just for her."

The rage coursing through James's body right now is loud enough to deafen him, but he forces himself to stay entirely still. He shuts his eyes for a split second, knowing that starting something right now will only make things worse.

"I’ll see ya tonight, kid," Nicholas says, patting James’s shoulder mockingly before turning on his heel and walking off.

The second the door clicks shut, the composure completely drains from James's face. Visibly pissed off, his eyes wild with adrenaline, he runs straight across the gym floor to where his duffel bag is sitting.

He rips his phone out of the pocket, his fingers aggressively punching in a number.

He presses the phone to his ear, his breathing heavy as he waits for the line to connect.

"Hello?” he says into the phone the second someone picks up, his voice tight and dripping with a cold, desperate finality.

You walk into the warehouse again later that night, already fully prepared to watch James get himself hurt.

But honestly? You didn’t care anymore. You were entirely set on leaving with him tonight.

You walk further into the building, scared out of your ass from all the screaming and chanting echoing off the iron walls.

The air is thick with the stench of cheap beer, sweat, and smoke. You push your way through the rowdy crowd, your eyes frantically scanning the room for James, until you find him.

He’s already inside the chain link ring, standing face to face with Nicholas.

You don’t hesitate for a single second. You sprint straight through the sea of bodies, rushing right up to his side of the ring.

"James!" you shout, your voice piercing through the noise.

He turns the second he hears your voice, his eyes widening as his heart completely drops into his stomach. He handles the fence, leaning down toward you.

"You need to leave now!" he commands, his tone stripped of any rudeness, sounding completely protective.

"I’m not leaving!" you cry back, your hands gripping the cold metal of the fence.

"Y/N!"

"Not without you!"

James looks down at you from behind the wire mesh, staring into your tear filled, stubborn eyes, and he instantly realizes there is absolutely no changing your mind.

He let out a heavy, defeated sigh. "Alright. As soon as I win... run."

You nod frantically, your breathing heavy, your heart hammering against your ribs. "We run."

He gives you a firm nod, taking one final, deep look at your face before turning back around to face the center of the ring.

A woman steps between the two fighters, holding them back by their chests. "Alright, y’know what’s up," she announces loudly to the roaring crowd. "No rules. No rounds. And don’t expect anyone to save you."

The second she backs out of the center, the fight begins.

James doesn't even wait for a signal. He lunges forward, aggressively pushing Nicholas back the exact second she moves.

Nicholas stumbles, but he just lets out a loud, mocking laugh, ready to start the show, especially now that he knows you're standing at the edge of the cage to watch.

"Ohh, you're not fucking around today, huh?" he teases, hopping on his toes as he begins to circle the ring. "You ready to lose in front of our girl?"

James doesn't take the bait. He stays as calm as he can, entirely relying on his anger to carry him through this whole thing.

Suddenly, Nicholas rushes in. But James is faster, he throws a devastating punch straight to Nicholas’s eye. He yells out in pain, stumbling back, but the rage blinds him and he rushes right back in, throwing a wild flurry of punches, James dodging every single strike and returning them with brutal, bone-snapping precision.

He’s doing so well. Watching his form, a sudden spark of genuine hope flares in your chest.

James rushes in this time, landing a heavy punch across Nicholas’s face. But as he tries to follow it up with a second strike, Nicholas anticipates the move. He shifts his weight, grabbing James’s arm, violently pulling him forward into a tight headlock, and drives his knee straight into James’s face.

James hits the canvas hard. Your heart leaps into your throat, a gasp escaping your lips. But James scrambles, getting up quickly, only to find Nicholas already charging at him.

James moves out of the way just enough to catch him, spinning Nicholas around and violently pinning his broad back against the fence.

Nicholas groans under the pressure, twisting his body to slip out of the position. He swings a wild punch, but he misses entirely, and James seizes the opening, driving his forehead forward in a headbutt.

Nicholas loses his balance for a split second, his vision swimming, but as James throws another fist to finish him, Nicholas catches it in his palm, using his sheer body weight to push James down onto the mat.

You hate this so much you can barely breathe. Your fingers are dug so tightly into the wire fence your knuckles are white.

James is struggling on the ground, trying desperately to push his weight up, and Nicholas takes the sudden opportunity to walk right over to your section of the fence.

"Hey," Nicholas smirks down at you, leaning against the wire, completely unfazed by the chaos. "Don’t be scared. It’s gonna be okay... I’ll be able to comfort you soon." He winks, blowing you a sickening kiss.

You barely even register what the hell he’s saying, your eyes completely locked onto James on the floor.

Nicholas turns his attention back to James, his face darkening. "Get up," he mutters.

James tries to move, but the exhaustion is heavy.

“I SAID GET UP!"

The crowd grows deafening, screaming and stomping their feet for both fighters.

James is still struggling to find his footing, and Nicholas steps in, delivering a heavy, punishing kick straight to his bruised ribs, knocking him back down onto the floor.

James groans, trying to pull himself up again, but Nicholas reaches down, grabbing him by his leg to drag him backward, stopping his momentum.

But James uses his free leg and kicks back with everything he has, his foot connecting heavily with Nicholas's leg, knocking the older guy down onto his back.

"Come on, get up!" you cry out, violently banging your fists against the metal fence.

James forces his body up as fast as he can, marching straight over to Nicholas, who is also scrambling to his feet.

They are both back up now, settling right back into their fighting stances. Nicholas rushes in first, but James anticipates the movement perfectly, he blocks the oncoming strike and drives a punch straight into Nicholas’s stomach.

James traps his arm, locking him in place as he drives punch after punch into his ribs.

Nicholas tries to punch back, but James catches his wrist, pulls him close, and delivers one final, crushing headbutt.

Nicholas stumbles backward immediately, his legs turning to jelly. James rushes in, throwing a heavy kick that sends him crashing down onto the floor.

A triumphant smile breaks across your face, the hope rushing back into your veins as you see James back in control.

James drops down on top of him, straddling Nicholas's chest, and begins punching him continuously.

He isn't holding back anymore. Every single ounce of his strength, every single punch he delivers, is fueled by years of absolute torment.

All he can think about is how horrible this guy had made his life, so every punch went to that. For his little sister, for you, and for himself.

Nicholas’s head lolls back. He’s completely out.

The crowd erupts into a violent cheer, seeing the undisputed king of the warehouse knocked out cold on the ground.

You cheer too, letting out a loud, breathless scream of pure relief, so incredibly glad this horrific nightmare is finally over.

James doesn't even think about celebrating. The second the referee woman steps in to acknowledge his win, he ignores the crowd, sprinting straight over to your side of the cage and throwing the door open. "GO!"

"Not without you!" you shout back over the roaring noise of the arena.

Suddenly, a loud, mechanical crash echoes from the front of the building. The heavy warehouse doors are violently thrown open, and blue and red lights flash against the dirty windows.

“POLICE! DON'T MOVE!"

The crowd instantly descends into chaos. Everyone takes off sprinting toward the back exits.

James doesn't waste any time, he hurls himself out of the ring, grabs your hand and runs out into the dark night with you.

You guys run the entire way back to your neighborhood, your lungs burning, the high-voltage adrenaline never leaving your systems.

The moment you finally cross into the safety of your porch, you turn around and immediately pull him into a desperate hug.

“You won, oh my god!" you say, a breathless laugh escaping you, though your voice is still a little anxious from the madness of the raid.

James wraps his arms securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, hugging you back with everything he has.

You pull back just enough to look into his dark eyes, and before he can say a word, you lean in and kiss him.

"I'm so proud of you," you murmur against his mouth, breaking the kiss for a short second.

James manages to pull back, his chest heaving as he looks down at you. "I told you to go."

"And I told you I wasn't leaving without you," you counter, tilting your chin up and leaning right back in to kiss him again.

"You're so... fucking... stubborn," James murmurs against your mouth, the words broken up by the heavy kisses he’s returning.

You pull back completely to look up at him, both of you just staring into each other's eyes for a quiet, profound moment, before leaning back in for a much softer kiss.

James's lips slowly track down your jawline, moving down to press a warm kiss to your neck.

Your breath hitches violently at the sudden sensation, but as his bloody shoulder brushes your collarbone, you playfully push him back a bit, suddenly very aware of the state he’s in.

“You're getting blood all over me," you laugh, looking up at his messy face.

James smiles down at you, his eyes glinting with a soft warmth you’ve never seen in them before. "It’s okay. I’ll clean you up when we get inside."

You lean in, kissing him one more time, a low, quiet moan escaping your throat as his hands grip your waist—

“Ahem.”

You both pull apart immediately, your hearts taking a violent leap into your throats.

Standing on the porch, your dad steps out of the house, crossing his arms as he eyes the two of you mid-kiss.

"Oh! Dad!" you blurt out, your brain short-circuiting as you instantly smooth down your hoodie, putting on your best sweet, innocent daughter act. "You know James."

Your dad doesn't look angry. Instead, a calm, knowing expression settles over his face. "Yeah. I just got off the phone with the sheriff. He said the cops were a little late."

He looks directly at James, his brow furrowing slightly. "I thought you said the fight started at midnight?" he asks, his tone confused.

You blink, your head bouncing between the two of them. "You must’ve heard me wrong sir," James says smoothly, his voice rough as he still tries to catch his breath.

"Hm..." Your dad takes a step forward, eyeing the dark crimson staining James's knuckles. "And, uh... the blood? That from the dude they found laying in the warehouse?"

You watch the intense exchange between the two of them, completely confused. Your hands drop to your sides. "Uhm? Hello? What the hell are you two talking about?" you ask, looking at them both.

Your dad looks down at you, a soft smile touching his lips. "Your friend here had a hot tip for me."

James looks at you, his jaw relaxing. "In exchange for immunity."

Your dad nods in confirmation.

"And... paying for my little sister's hospital bills," James adds softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

He didn't just go to fight, he went to set a trap with the only person who had the legal power to protect you both. Your dad.

Your dad nods again, smiling proudly at the both of you.

Your face lights up completely, a massive wave of pure joy washing over you. You sprint over to your dad, throwing your arms around his neck in a tight hug. "Thank you," you say calmly, the words bursting with a deep, genuine gratitude. He hugs you back warmly, patting your shoulder.

The second he lets go, you run right back over to James wrapping your arm around his waist and hugging him tightly.

"Well, I gotta go down to the station," your dad says, pulling his car keys out of his pocket with a heavy sigh. "It’s a lot of paperwork to process a raid like that."

You and James both nod quickly.

"There’s food in the house. Don’t wait up for me," your dad says, giving you a final wink before walking off the porch toward his sedan.

The moment his car pulls out of the driveway and disappears down the street, you turn fully into James's space.

You pull him down by his shirt, diving straight back into a deep, giggly kiss.

James lets out a low, breathless laugh against your mouth, his large arms wrapping completely around you to pull you impossibly closer against him, chasing your lips with an intense, happy desperation.

You finally break the kiss, your fingers looping through his, and pull him eagerly into the warm, quiet house.

Later that night, the chaos from the fight feels like a distant memory. You’re sitting on the fluffy rug of your bedroom floor, the bright plastic first-aid kit popped open between your knees, carefully cleaning the raw, split knuckles on James's hand.

James sits closely beside you, his long legs folded on the floor, watching your face with a quiet, heavy intensity as you press an alcohol wipe to his skin.

He suddenly lets out a sharp hiss, violently pulling his hand back when you accidentally hit a raw, tender spot. "Ow!"

"Come on," you scold softly, a gentle command in your voice as you reach right back out for his wrist.

A small, knowing smile breaks across your face at his dramatic reaction, and James catches it.

His tough exterior melts instantly, a smile breaking across his features as he willingly gives you his hand again, letting his arm go completely lax in your grip.

You dab a fresh piece of gauze against his knuckles, tilting your chin up. "So... when did you tip off my dad, you little snitch?" you tease.

James lets out a low, breathy chuckle, his eyes tracking the movement of your fingers.

"I knew Nicholas was never gonna leave us alone." He pauses, his voice dropping into a quiet, rough murmur that vibrates straight through your chest. "Well... mainly you."

Your heart does a small, happy flip. "Oh?" you press, leaning closer into his space, your tone dripping with playful arrogance.

"And since when do you care, hm?"

"Since you marched into that warehouse and made me your bitch," he says. The words come out sounding aggressive, rough around the edges, but the deep, teasing smirk on his face completely gives him away.

"Yeah?" You let out a loud, melodic laugh.

Before he can even answer, you shift your weight, you climb straight into his lap, straddling his thighs.

The second your weight settles on him, James doesn't even hesitate. His large hands instinctively move straight to your waist, his grip firm and possessive as he locks you securely on top of him, anchoring you to his chest.

You tilt your head down, your hands coming up to gently tangle your fingers deep into his messy hair, forcing him to keep his blown-out eyes locked on yours.

"Yeah..." James rasps, his breathing instantly hitching as he stares up at you, completely defeated and loving every second of it.

“What can I say? I like 'em bossy."

A triumphant smirk curls the corners of your lips as you lean down, your breath brushing his lips.

"Mm. Good boy," you whisper.

And then you close the distance, catching his mouth in a deep, lingering kiss.

The argument is absurd, really — over a restaurant. Your monthsary dinner, to be exact. Every single time, without fail, Jay insists on the same overpriced venue with the same underwhelming menu: three kinds of salad, a charcuterie board that tastes like cardboard, and a wine list longer than the actual food options. A new place had opened across the district, equally elegant, actually varied, garlic bread that supposedly redefined the concept, and you'd simply suggested switching things up.

Jay had said no. Not because he had a real reason, but because that was his default. No was his reflex, and everyone in his life had always caved right after.

You hadn't caved.

So here he was, spiraling.

You continued walking, pacing circles through the ground floor of the house, not even granting him the courtesy of eye contact. That made it worse. Jay's jaw tightened as he trailed you from the kitchen to the living room, back to the kitchen, then into the hallway.

"Y/N, seriously?" He huffed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I'll take your silence as a yes then. That solves the problem. We're going to the usual place."

You stopped. Turned. Looked at him with a gaze so flat it could've smoothed granite.

"God damn it, Jongseong. Just give me a moment, can't you? You're way too stubborn for a lot to be coming out of your mouth."

Jongseong? Jongseong. Not Jay. His real name, the one you only used when you were genuinely agitated, and it landed like a slap. His lips parted, something flickering behind his eyes, shock, maybe, that you weren't folding, that you weren't apologizing the way everyone else always did. His family, his friends, his staff, they all gave in. You never did. That was why he loved you, though he was currently too bratty to remember it.

"Me? Stubborn?" He let out a disbelieving laugh, gesturing at you with both hands. "Please. You're the stubborn one here. We wouldn't even be arguing if you just caved. It's tradition, Y/N. We always go there. Why mess with something that works?"

"It doesn't work. You just don't like change." You turned on your heel and walked toward the stairs. "Because nobody's ever made you deal with it."

"That's not—" He followed you, footsteps quickening. "That's not fair. I'm not some spoiled brat, I just—Y/N, come on. Can you stop walking away from me?"

No response. You climbed the stairs, one deliberate step at a time, and his voice climbed with you, gaining pitch and desperation. He rambled about tradition, about how the other restaurant probably wasn't even that good, about how you were being unreasonable, about how he always compromised — laughable, really, given that he'd never once compromised anything in his entire privileged life.

You reached the hallway. The bedroom door was ajar.

Then something in you simply snapped. Not with anger. With resolve. Enough was enough.

You turned, caught his wrist mid-stride, and pulled. Jay stumbled forward with a startled yelp, and you walked him the remaining steps to the bed, pressing a palm against his chest and pushing. He fell back onto the mattress with a soft thud, not hard, not violent, but firm enough that his eyes went wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish pulled from water. He stared up at you from the sheets, hair fanning across the pillow, chest rising and falling faster than it had any right to.

"Y/N, what—"

"Shut up." You climbed onto the bed, onto him, knees bracketing his hips, and planted both hands flat against his chest. Beneath your palms, his heartbeat was already racing. "You've been following me around this house for an hour, Jongseong, whining like a child who got his toy taken away. Has anyone ever told you no before? Has anyone ever not given you what you wanted?"

His throat bobbed. "I—"

"That was rhetorical." You leaned down, close enough that your breath fanned across his lips. His eyelashes fluttered. "You're used to people bending for you. Apologizing. Folding the second you pout. That's not how this works. You don't get to bulldoze over me because you've never heard the word no before."

"I wasn't—I wasn't trying to—"

"You were." You shifted your weight, pressing your hips down against his, and the sound that escaped him, a broken and breathy thing, made heat pool low in your stomach. Already. Just from this. From you barely touching him. "You were trying to wear me down until I gave in. That's what you do, isn't it? Push and push until people just hand you what you want because it's easier than fighting you."

He didn't answer. Couldn't, maybe. His hands had found your thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of your shorts, and his chest was heaving like he'd run a marathon.

"You're pathetic," you murmured, and the word landed soft and devastating. "A spoiled, bratty, pathetic boy who can't handle being told no. And look at you now." You rolled your hips — a slow grind that dragged the seam of your shorts directly against the growing hardness in his sweats. "You're already this hard? From me just telling you off?"

A whimper. Actual, honest-to-god whimper, high and thready, his head pressing back into the pillow.

"That worked up after just me grinding on your pathetic dick?" You ground down again, harder, watching his face contort, eyebrows drawing together, lips parting, a moan slipping free before he could catch it. "This is what gets you going, isn't it? Someone finally not putting up with your shit?"

"Baby—" His voice cracked. "Y/N, please—"

"Please what? What am I gonna do with that please of yours? Use your words, Jongseong. You had plenty of them downstairs." Another grind, slower, torturous, and his hips bucked up involuntarily, chasing friction that you immediately denied by lifting yourself just out of reach. He let out a shattered exhale, fingers tightening on your thighs. "What do you want?"

"You. I want—please touch me."

"I am touching you." You slid one hand from his chest to his jaw, gripping it firm, angling his face so he couldn't look away. "You mean you want more. Say it properly."

His eyes were glassy, overwhelmed, and his lower lip trembled. "I want more. Please, Y/N. I'm sorry—I'm sorry for being—"

"Sorry for being what?" You tilted your head, pressing your hips back down, resuming that maddening grind. The friction made your own pulse throb, but you kept your expression cool, controlled. "Say it."

"Sorry for being—a brat. For—fuck—" He swallowed thickly as you picked up the pace, rolling against him in deep, rhythmic waves. "For always needing to get my way. I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry, please—"

"Good." You released his jaw and reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and off in one motion. His torso was lean, flushed pink from his collarbones down to his stomach, muscles tensing under your gaze. Pretty. He was so pretty, and even prettier like this, undone, desperate, trembling beneath you like you hadn't already given him everything he'd ever asked for. "You know, Jongseong," you said, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, watching goosebumps rise in their wake, "I think you needed this. Someone to put you back in your place."

He nodded frantically, a mess of ragged breath and half-formed sounds.

You leaned down and kissed him, hard and bruising, all teeth and tongue, swallowing the moan that poured from his mouth. Your hands found his sweats, yanking the waistband down along with his boxers, and his cock sprang free, flushed and leaking at the tip, straining against nothing. You pulled back from the kiss just to look at it, then at him, and let out a low, mocking laugh.

"You're dripping, baby. That's adorable." You wrapped your fingers around him, just barely, just enough to feel the heat and the way he throbbed against your palm, and his hips jerked up, a choked sound ripping from his throat. "So needy. So desperate. And for what? A little grinding and some mean words? That's all it takes?"

"Y/N—" His hand flew to your wrist, not pushing or pulling, just holding, like he didn't know what to do with himself.

You tightened your grip and stroked him once, slow, base to tip, swiping your thumb over the head and smearing the precum there. His back arched off the mattress, a whine ripping through the air, loud and unabashed.

"Look at you," you said softly, almost tender, which made it worse. "Whining and squirming like you've never been touched before. Tell me something, Jongseong." You stroked him again, setting a pace that was deliberately unhurried, grip just firm enough to feel good but too loose to satisfy. "You've had people before me, right? Of course, a pretty boy like you would have always had. Rich, charming. Probably had them lining up."

He nodded, biting his lip so hard it turned white.

"And how often did you actually finish with them?"

His eyes squeezed shut. A tremor ran through his thighs. "N-not—not often," he admitted, barely audible.

"Not often," you repeated, mocking. "Poor thing. Everyone is so busy worshiping you they forgot to actually take you apart, hmm?" You twisted your wrist on the upstroke, and his mouth fell open, a strangled moan echoing through the room. "No wonder you're like this. You've been half-satisfied your whole life and you didn't even know it."

"Only you—" He was gasping now, chest heaving, fingers clenching and unclenching in the sheets. "Only you can—make me—fuck, Y/N, please—"

"What? Only I can do what? Make you cum?" You slowed your hand to a crawl, and the sound he made was guttural. "Not yet. You don't get to cum until I say so. Do you understand?"

"I—I understand, please—"

"Good boy." The phrase hit him like a drug. His whole body shuddered, cock twitching violently in your hand, and you felt another bead of precum slide against your fingers. "Oh, you like that. You like being good for me."

He nodded again, frantic, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, not from sadness but from sheer, overwhelming sensation. You leaned down, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the spot below his ear that made him whimper, and then you began to move south.

Your lips traced a path down his neck, his collarbone, his chest, pausing to drag your tongue over one nipple, then the other, making him jolt and cry out, and further, over the trembling plane of his stomach, until your face hovered above his cock. It stood angry and flushed, twitching with every exhale you let fall against it.

You looked up at him through your lashes. He was staring down at you, wrecked — hair a mess, cheeks crimson, chest rising and falling like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

"Hold my hair," you said.

He reached down with shaking hands, gathering your hair into a loose grip at the back of your head, and you took him into your mouth.

The sound he made was broken. Your lips wrapped around the head, tongue swirling, tasting salt and skin, and you sank down inch by inch, letting the heat and wetness consume him. His hips stuttered up, greedy and desperate, and you pulled off immediately, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his cock.

"What did I just say about being patient?" Your voice was cool, but your eyes were sharp.

"Sorry—sorry, baby, I'm sorry—"

"Be good." You took him again, deeper this time, flattening your tongue along the underside, and set a rhythm that was designed to ruin. Wet sounds filled the room as you bobbed your head, hollowing your cheeks, taking him as far as you could without gagging. His fingers tightened in your hair, a warning, and you felt him try to push you down, try to make you take more, and you responded by dragging your nails down his thigh.

"Ah—fuck—sorry, sorry—" he stammered, but his grip stayed, trembling, barely holding back. You pulled off again with a slick pop, and the look you gave him was pure ice.

"You want me to deepthroat, Jongseong? You ask."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and he meant it, his voice fracturing on the second word. "Please—I'll be good—please keep going—"

You took him back into your mouth, and this time you relaxed your throat, swallowing around him, taking him deep, deep, until your nose pressed against his pelvis and he screamed, a shattered sound that bounced off the walls. His hips canted up involuntarily again but he caught himself this time, forcing himself still even as his thighs shook violently around you. Good. He was learning.

You set a brutal pace then, fucking your own throat on his cock, hollowing your cheeks, dragging suction that had him writhing and crying out in a mess of syllables — your name, baby, please, oh god, more, please more. His cock throbbed against your tongue, heavy and hot, and you could feel him getting close, his stomach tightening, his moans climbing higher, his hands trembling in your hair.

You pulled off.

"No—" The word ripped out of him, desperate, almost angry. "Y/N, no, I was—right—fuck—"

"Calm down, I know." You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, calm as anything, while he stared at you with wild, tear-glazed eyes. "You were close. And?"

"And I—please let me cum, please, I need it—"

"You need it?" You wrapped your hand around him again, slick with your own spit, and started stroking, slowly, so slowly, feeling every ridge and vein, every pulse of his racing heartbeat echoing through his cock. "You need it, but you've been a brat all day. Why should I let you?"

"I said I was sorry—I am sorry—" He was babbling now, words tumbling over each other, hips rocking up into your fist in tiny, uncontrollable thrusts. "I won't—I won't do it again, I'll listen, I'll go to whatever restaurant you want, I'll—ah—"

"Whatever restaurant I want," you repeated, amused. "You'd agree to anything right now, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," he gasped. "Anything. Anything you want, Y/N, just—please don't stop—"

You didn't stop. You kept stroking, kept that same torturous pace, watching him climb higher and higher. His abs clenched, his toes curled, his breath came in short, ragged huffs, and his cock jumped in your grip, once, twice, right at the edge.

And you felt it. That telltale tensing, the way his thighs locked up, the way his mouth opened in a silent cry.

"Oh?" You tilted your head, voice dripping with faux surprise, your hand never faltering. "You're about to cum already? Just like that?"

"I—yes—please, Y/N, let me—"

"Do I make you that needy?" You squeezed the base of his cock, and he actually sobbed. "All those people before me, and none of them could get you there, could they? But I can. Just my hand, just my mouth, and you're already falling apart."

"Only you," he choked out, and the words were so raw, so honest, that something in your chest clenched. "Only you, Y/N, nobody else—nobody's ever made me feel like this—please, I'm right there, I'm so close, please let me cum—"

"You're close," you echoed, and your voice softened, just a fraction, just enough for the air to shift. You stroked him steadily now, grip tight, pace deliberate, leaning down so your face was inches from his. "You've been so good, Jongseong. So good for me. Taking what I give you. Learning."

His eyes searched yours, wet and pleading and so impossibly open.

"You deserve it," you said quietly. "Cum for me."

And he would have, right then, right there, with those words, but you had something else in mind.

You let go of him.

His eyes flew wide with panic, but before he could protest, you were standing, shucking your shorts and underwear in one motion, and then you were back on him, straddling his hips, and you reached between your bodies to position him at your entrance.

"You want to cum inside me, baby?" You asked, and your voice had dropped low, rough, almost as affected as his.

"Yes," he breathed. "Please—"

You sank down.

The noise he made wasn't human. A full-body shudder wracked through him as you took him to the hilt, your own breath catching at the stretch, the fullness, the way he filled you so completely that your vision blurred at the edges. You gave yourself a moment, just one, to adjust, to feel the desperate throb of him inside you, and then you moved.

You bounced on him, once, twice, three times, deep, forceful strokes that had him hitting spots that made your thighs tremble. Your hand found his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands, and you gripped, firm and possessive, tugging his head back so he had no choice but to look at you.

"Eyes on me," you commanded. "Don't you dare look away."

He didn't. He couldn't. His gaze was locked on yours, glassy and worshipful, tears spilling freely now down his temples, mouth open in a silent, endless moan. You rode him hard, those few strokes enough to undo everything you'd built and broken and built again, and on the fourth bounce, he shattered.

His orgasm hit like a wrecking ball. He came with a sound that was barely a word and you felt him pulse inside you, hot and thick, filling you in waves that seemed to go on and on. His hips jerked up helplessly, overstimulated, and you kept moving, kept riding him through it, chasing the pressure that had been building in your own core since the moment you first ground against him.

It didn't take long. You were already so close, had been close through all of it, the power, the control, the way he looked at you like you were the center of his universe, and within a handful of strokes, your own orgasm crashed through you. Your walls clenched around him, milking his cock in pulses that drew a weak whimper from his throat, and your spine curved as pleasure whited out every thought in your head.

Then silence. Or something close to it, just the sound of two people breathing, ragged and uneven, slowly coming back to earth.

You collapsed forward.

Your face fell into the curve of his neck, his shoulder, and his arms came around you immediately, instinctive, warm, wrapping you up like you were something precious. His cock was still inside you, softening, and neither of you moved to change that. His hand found the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, and he ruffled it softly, tenderly, the way you'd grip him when you were commanding him. A mirror. A response. His other arm banded around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

For a long moment, you just breathed.

Then your chest hitched.

It wasn't supposed to happen. You'd been in control, composed, untouchable — but now, in the quiet aftermath, with his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek and his hands so impossibly gentle on your body, something cracked open inside you. A wave of tenderness so acute it hurt, and tangled up in it was guilt, the sharp, stinging kind that came from the realization that you'd been cruel. You'd called him pathetic. Degraded him. Treated him like he was less than, even if he'd liked it, even if he'd asked for it with every whimper and whine.

Your eyes burned.

"Baby?" Jay's voice was soft, concerned, the brattiness entirely gone. He shifted, trying to see your face, but you buried it deeper into his neck. "Hey. Y/N. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you mumbled, but your voice cracked, and you hated it. "I'm fine."

"You're not." He pulled back just enough to look at you, and his thumb found your cheek, catching the tear that had just begun to slide down your face, one single tear, the only one that escaped before you clamped down. He wiped it away with more care than you deserved, his touch feather-light. "Why are you crying?"

"Because I was mean to you," you whispered, and the admission felt like pulling off a bandage. "I didn't—I didn't want to be that harsh, I just—you were driving me crazy, and I—"

"Hey. Hey." He cupped your face in both hands, tilting it up so you had to meet his eyes. They were warm. So warm it made your throat ache. "You weren't mean. You were exactly what I needed." A small, breathy laugh escaped him. "I've never… Y/N, I've never felt like that before. Ever. You're the only person who doesn't just give me whatever I want, and I need that. I need you."

"But I—"

"You put me in my place," he said simply. "And I probably needed it a long time ago." His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, sweeping away the dampness there, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, soft, lingering, nothing like the bruising kiss from earlier. "I'm sorry for being a brat. I'll try harder. Okay?"

"I'm sorry too," you breathed against his mouth.

"Don't be." He smiled, the one that crinkled his eyes and made him look younger, softer, stripped of all the privilege and pretense. "And for the record—we can go to the new restaurant. I was being stupid."

A wet laugh escaped you, and he caught it with another kiss, pulling you tighter against him, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other traced lazy patterns on your spine.

You melted into him, every hard edge, every sharp word, every ounce of dominance dissolving into something small, soft, and fiercely tender.

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🎹 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ഒ west coast by lana del ray

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

Dirty secret: little dirty secret of him.

One time, you were making out so sloppily that some spit dripped down your chins, he gently brought his thumb to wipe it off from you, but you caught it up in your mouth, slowly sucking on his thumb while looking into his eyes. He was so mesmerized by you that he came into his boxer, causing you to chuckle by how a “meaningless” action can make someone THAT weak.

Experience: how much experienced he has.

I don’t think he’d be that experienced, maybe he had a girlfriend at some point, shared a few kisses at parties and had his fair share of crushes ESPECIALLY during that little “break” after the trainee A project got cancelled.

Favorite position: you get where it goes.

i can totally see him LOOOVING lotus, like having you on his lap, bodies completely pressed against each others, his hand on your hips guiding your movement while having a slow, heated make out session.

I think he’d like missionary too, I mean it’s intimate and the closest you can get to someone so yeah.

Goofiness: is he totally serious during it or crack some jokes.

I’m sure he’d make awkward jokes during it or mostly while foreplaying. You guys can switch off from silliness to being completely serious in a minute.

Hairs: is this guy bushed or shaved to clean.

To be honest, I think it’s pretty clean maybe trimmed or something but clearly not bushy and all.

Intimacy: how is he during it.

He would be soo attentive to you, he’d reassure and make sure you’re okay the whole time, especially if you’re feeling stressed. I think he’s a vanilla person who cherish and worship his partner. BUT sometimes it can turns completely raw, he can be rough if you’re both feeling it, he would still check on you even in the heat of the moment though.

Jack-off: is he active with himself ?.

In my opinion, It’s lowkey hard to jack off when you’re living in a dorm with 4 other guys and a manager who’s constantly here, so I would say when there’s a day off, and all his team is out in their hometowns, he would yk have a little seance with himself, but if he’s reallyyyy feeling it, a little trip to the shower would heal him, cause who’s gonna bother him there ?

Kink: what kink he’s into.

HEAR ME OUT, food play !! We all know his love for food so i won’t be surprised it he’d come up to you with chocolate, honey or even whipped cream and just spread it all over your bodies and then gently lick each other’s off, I think he’d be pretty into it cuz what’s better than making love and eating ? Mixing both !!

Location: favorite place to do it.

Honestly I don’t think he would risk it since he’s an idol, cause just getting caught breathing near a girl would demolish his career already, so yeah maybe a sneaky link in his hotel room or his dorm when no one is around during his day off is a safer option.

Motivation: what turns him on.

If you guys are watching a movie and an intimate scene pop out, he would start imagining you both and that would turn him on so badly, that’s one of the reasons why you barely finished a whole movie since you’re together.

No: something he wouldn’t do/not into.

Anything that could hurt you both like bloodplay, extreme bondage, bdsm or doing it on your period or some stuff like that.

Oral: is he only a munch or like to receive too?

He loves eating you out, but he lowkey prefer receiving. The view of you on your knees, mouth wrapped around him makes him soo weak, so I would say he’s more of a receiver.

Pace: is he more sensual, rough or maybe fast?

Depends on his mood, but he would alternate between fast and slow, James loves to have an unpredictable pace just to surprise you and add more heat to the feast.

Quickies: how often does he go for it.

I don’t think you’d have that much time to have quickies. And even so, James would rather build the tension by being patient and having you to himself for the whole day/night instead.

Stamina: how many rounds can he go for and how long they last.

I think he has a good stamina but since he has a really busy schedule full of dancing, traveling and stuff he can be really exhausted sometimes, which causes him to last two or more if he’s really into it.

Toys: does he owns toys and use them?

I don’t think he’d be agaisnt using toys, maybe he’d like to try it on you to add some stimulation, like using a vibrator while eating you out.

Unfair: how much he likes to tease.

He loveees to tease but also like to be teased. He says he hates being bossed around but when you do, he would find it incredibly hot. Also he knows you go crazy when he’s sweaty on stage so when he comes out, he would wink at you in that fuckass damp shirt clinging to his skin.

Volume: how loud he is, is he vocal or not?

Boyyyy he’s a whimperer for suree, he won’t be too noisy but not completely silent. I think he’s pretty okayy, you will certainly hear some breathes, curses, PRAISESSSS. Don’t worry !!

Wild card: random headcanon of James.

I saw a lot of people saying he’s more of a munch but hot takes, he LOVEEES FINGERINNNNNGGG, he knows his hands and arms are the weakness of many girls and so is yours. So when he fingers you he knows you’re having the best time of your life, and little bonus he likes to suck his fingers off, coated in your wetness afterward.

X-ray: well.. let’s see what’s going on under those pants.

I think he’s average maybe 6-7in (don’t start) so like 15-17cm. Since his arms are pretty veiny I’m gonna go with the fact he’s super veiny down there too.

Yearning: how high is his sex drive?

I think he’s pretty raisonable, he’s not horny 24/24, he has his little moments but he won’t be a hungry bear all the time.

Zzzzz: how quickly does he fall asleep afterward.

James would pass out during the aftercare, with you nuzzled up in his arms, feeling the warmth of your body, playing gently with your fingers.

MIC DROP MWAHH

©Dewylewis44

Pregnancy had its own fair share of weird effects. Odd cravings, your body changing, the fact that you were already lactating, and most especially — you being easily ticked off at every single small thing. Nothing was safe, not even your ever-so-lovely husband — Jungwon. Ever since, you'd always tried to be lenient around him, to maybe keep some attitude to yourself, but now, you couldn't help but throw a bunch of rocks labelled "attitude" at him.

You could tell it ticked him off, even in the slightest. And he was trying his very best to not complain about it, maybe because he was aware of the effect pregnancy had on some women, or if he just didn't want to piss you off even more.

"There's no such thing as 'too nice,' that dude literally held your hand. I was right there too! What could he have needed it for—like, what exactly? Tell me, Y/N."

"Don't know, don't care—he was just showing me where the olive oil was ever since the supermarket rearranged itself. I can't see why you're making it such a big deal."

"Baby, he could've—you know," splaying a hand in the air, "—done it without holding your hand."

Unbelievable. This guy found a reason to pick over anything. You only let out a very defeated sigh, rolled your eyes at him, and looked back onto your phone, watching a 20 second video about the perfect oven temperatures for certain pastries.

You could see him in your peripheral vision. You know he saw you roll your eyes at him. You literally couldn't care less, that's what you told yourself, despite your hand still ruffing through his hair.

The silence between you stretched, thick and stubborn, the kind that neither of you wanted to be the first to break. Your thumb swiped lazily across your phone screen, a video about sourdough, then one about candle-making, then something about a dog riding a skateboard. None of it registered. Your mind was half on the screen, half on the warm weight of Jungwon's head against your chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and the faint tension still coiled in his shoulders beneath your idle fingers.

You thought he'd let it go. You really did. He usually did, eventually — biting back whatever retort was sitting on his tongue, pressing a kiss to your temple instead, muttering something about how he "just worries." But tonight, something was different. The jealousy had dug its claws deeper than usual, and you could feel it in the way his jaw kept clenching and unclenching even in the way his hand rested a little too still on your waist.

Your fingers continued their absent rhythm through his hair — scratch, ruffle, repeat. It was mechanical, soothing, something you did without thinking.

Then you felt him shift.

It was just a nuzzle at first, his cheek pressing a little firmer into the soft cotton of your oversized t-shirt, his nose brushing against the curve of your breast through the fabric. You ignored it. He did it again, slower this time, his breath warm through the thin material, and you felt the faintest flicker of his tongue. It wasn’t even a lick, just a tease of damp heat against the cotton right over your nipple.

Your thumb stuttered on the screen. A pastry video replayed from the beginning. You didn't notice.

"Jungwon," you warned, though your voice came out far less sharp than you intended. More breath than authority.

He didn't respond. His hand slid from your waist to the hem of your shirt, fingertips slipping beneath, and his palm spread warm and wide across the bare skin of your stomach, just beneath the gentle swell where your baby sat snug and safe. His touch was reverent, almost, the way his thumb traced a slow arc over the taut skin, and something about the tenderness of it made your chest tighten even as your brain screamed that you were still annoyed with him.

Then he tugged the shirt up. He pulled the fabric up until it bunched beneath your collarbones, and the cool air hit your bare chest, raising goosebumps across your skin. Your breasts were fuller now than they'd ever been, heavy and sensitive, the darkened peaks already pebbled from the change in temperature and from the faint, persistent ache that had become a near-constant companion over the past couple of weeks. You'd bought new bras two sizes up and they still didn't fit right. Everything was sensitive. Everything was too much.

Your hand stilled in his hair. Your phone screen dimmed. You opened your mouth. To say what exactly? You weren't so sure. Something dismissive. Something like we're still fighting or I'm still mad at you—

His mouth closed over your left breast, and every thought in your head evaporated like mist.

A strangled sound escaped you. Not quite a moan, not quite a gasp, but something raw and involuntary that you'd never heard yourself make before. His lips were hot, impossibly soft, sealing around the stiffened peak with a hunger that made your thighs clench together on instinct. His tongue pressed flat against your nipple, then curled, swirling slow and filthy around the sensitive bud, and the jolt of pleasure that shot through you was so sharp, so sudden, that your spine arched off the mattress before you could stop it.

"Fuck—Jungwon—"

He hummed against you, low and approving, the vibration rippling through the tender flesh and straight down into your core. His hand cradled the underside of your breast, lifting it, weighing it, his thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath where his mouth worked. He sucked with intent, with a deep, pulling draw that made your nipple throb against his tongue. And then you felt it. That familiar, tingling pressure, the letdown reflex, triggered by the insistent pull of his mouth, and before you could process it, a thin, warm trickle leaked from you, straight onto his tongue.

Jungwon groaned. The sound was guttural, vibrating against your breast, and his suction deepened instantly, desperate, greedy, like the taste of you had flipped some primal switch in his brain. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes dark against his cheeks, and he swallowed, pulling again, harder, drawing out another thin stream that coated his tongue and spilled just slightly from the corner of his lips.

"Fuck," he rasped, pulling off just enough to speak, his lips still brushing your wet, swollen nipple. "You taste so fucking good, baby." His voice was wrecked already, rough and low, barely more than a growl. He licked a broad stripe across your nipple, catching every drop, then sealed his mouth over you again and sucked with renewed fervor, swallowing around you, and the wet, obscene sound of it echoed through the quiet bedroom.

Your phone slipped from your fingers. It landed somewhere on the mattress beside you, forgotten, the screen still casting a faint glow that neither of you noticed. Your hand, the one that had been scrolling, found its way back into his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands, and you gripped, pulling him closer, pressing his face harder into your breast. You hated yourself for it. You were supposed to be mad at him. You were supposed to be holding onto your irritation like a shield, refusing to let him charm his way out of this one. But his mouth was so fucking hot, and his tongue was doing something devastating, and every pull of his lips sent a lightning bolt of sensation straight to the aching, throbbing heat between your legs.

He switched to your right breast without warning, his mouth leaving the left with a wet pop, a thin trail of milk and saliva connecting his lips to your glistening nipple before it broke. He didn't give you even a second to breathe. His mouth descended on the other side immediately, sucking the neglected peak between his lips with the same ravenous urgency, and this time you did moan — loud, unfiltered, your head pressing back into the pillow as your hips shifted restlessly beneath him.

"Jungwon—ah—"

"Mmm," he moaned against you, the sound muffled by the soft flesh filling his mouth. Another pull, another leak, and he was drinking you in like you were the only thing keeping him alive, his throat working as he swallowed. His free hand, the one not supporting your breast, slid down your side, fingertips dragging across your ribcage, across the curve of your hip, and then dipping between your thighs where the heat had pooled into something unbearable.

You whined when his fingers pressed against you through your thin cotton shorts, feeling the dampness that had already soaked through the fabric. He groaned again, louder this time, pulling off your breast just long enough to mutter, "Already this wet? Just from my mouth on your tits?" The crude words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you felt your clit throb against his fingers as he rubbed a slow, deliberate circle through the wet cotton.

"Shut up," you managed, but it came out as a whimper, and you both knew it.

He laughed — low, dark, dangerous — and the sound skittered down your spine like a threat. He pressed one more open-mouthed kiss to your swollen nipple, lapping up the bead of milk that had gathered there, and then he shifted.

You felt him move before you understood what was happening. His body slid higher against yours, his mouth never leaving your skin, kissing a wet trail from your breast up to your collarbone, then along the side of your neck, and it was only when you heard the rustle of fabric that you realized what he was doing. One hand worked beneath him, shoving his sweatpants down past his hips, and then his boxers, the elastic waistband catching briefly on the thick head of his cock before he freed himself with an audible exhale of relief.

You couldn't see it from this angle, but you felt it — the hot, heavy length of him pressing against your bare thigh, smearing a bead of slick across your skin. He was hard. Achingly, aggressively hard, the shaft thick and flushed, and you could feel him pulsing against your leg as his hips rocked forward on instinct, chasing friction that wasn't there yet.

And then his hand wrapped around himself.

He stroked, slow, tight, almost lazy, and you heard the wet sound of it, the slick slide of his fist over his length, and the noise that escaped his throat was filthy. A groan, low and drawn out, muffled against the skin of your neck where his face was now buried. His mouth found your breast again while his hand worked himself, and the dual rhythm of it, his lips pulling at your nipple while his fist pumped his cock, was so overwhelmingly lewd that you could only lay there and shake, your fingers tight in his hair, your thighs pressed together so hard they trembled.

The sight of it alone would have undone you. Jungwon, whose head was between your chest and your neck, whose mouth was latched onto you like he couldn't bear to stop tasting you, whose arm moved in steady, deliberate strokes as he jerked himself off against your body. The quiet, wet sounds filled the room alongside his muffled groans and your broken, breathy moans, and you threw your head back against the pillow and moan loudly, your phone tumbling forgotten from your grasp, and the heat between your legs was no longer just an ache but a demand. A throbbing, desperate emptiness that needed to be filled.

You couldn't focus on your phone. You couldn't focus on anything. The pastry video had looped four times and you hadn't seen a single frame. Your hand in his hair wasn't ruffling anymore, it was gripping, tugging, your nails scraping against his scalp in a way that made him growl against your breast, the sound rumbling through your chest like a warning and a promise all at once.

"Jungwon," you breathed, and this time it wasn't a protest. It was a surrender. "Jungwon, please—"

He pulled off your breast with a gasp, his lips swollen and wet, a thin trail of milk dripping down his chin. His eyes were dark, not just with lust, but with something possessive, something fierce, the same jealousy from earlier transmuted into something rawer and more dangerous. He looked at you like he wanted to consume you, like he needed to remind you exactly who you belonged to, and the intensity of it made your breath catch.

"Please what, angel?" he asked, his voice rough like gravel and honey, and his hand slowed on his cock, a lazy, teasing stroke that made you want to scream. "Use your words."

You swallowed. Your throat was dry despite everything. "I want—need you so bad."

"Yeah?" He tilted his head, and the ghost of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth, both infuriating and devastating. "You need me? After you were rolling your eyes at me five minutes ago?"

"I—"

"Tell me what you need." A stroke. Tighter this time. His thumb dragging across the head of his cock, smearing precum. "Say it."

"You. Inside me. Filling up my pussy. Right now. Please—baby, please."

He pulled back just enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and underwear, tugging them down your thighs in one fluid motion, and you lifted your hips to help him, kicking the fabric off somewhere toward the foot of the bed. The cool air hit your soaked, swollen folds and you shivered, but the chill lasted only a second before he was settling between your legs, his body hot and spanning the entire width of you.

He kissed you. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and he groaned into the kiss, licking into your mouth with the same thorough, devastating attention he'd given your breasts. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the thick, hot length of his cock press against your bare core, sliding through the slick, the head catching against your clit with every roll of his hips, and the friction was so maddening that you were whining into his mouth before you could stop yourself.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours. "Gonna fuck you now," he murmured, and the crude simplicity of it sent a bolt of electricity straight to your core. "Gonna remind you who this pussy belongs to."

Then he reached between you, wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, and pushed inside.

The first inch made you gasp. The second made you whine. By the third, your walls were clenching so tightly around him that he hissed through his teeth, his jaw going rigid, his hips stuttering as he fought against the instinct to just thrust forward. You were too tight, the pregnancy had made you swollen and sensitive, every nerve ending screaming, and even though you were drenched, slick coating his cock and your inner thighs, your body resisted the sheer girth of him like it was too much, too full, too—

"Shit," he breathed, his voice thin and strained. "Baby, you're so fucking tight—I can't—" He pulled back slightly, then pushed forward again, and another inch sank into you, stretching you open around him.

He wasn't even halfway in. You could feel it, the thick, rigid length of him still mostly outside you, and the part that was inside was already pressing against spots that made your vision blur. He pulled out slowly, almost all the way, and you felt every inch of the drag, your walls fluttering around the head, and then he pushed back in, deeper this time, but still not enough, your body refusing to yield to the full thickness of him.

"Look at that," he rasped, and you opened eyes you didn't remember closing to see him staring down between your bodies, his jaw slack, his expression wrecked with awe and hunger. He shifted his weight onto one elbow, and his free hand reached down, his thumb and forefinger spreading your folds open, physically parting your pussy lips so that the stretched, swollen rim of your entrance was visible where it clung to his cock.

"There you go, angel," he murmured, his thumb still holding you open as he pushed forward, sinking deeper, inch by devastating inch, and your back arched off the mattress, your mouth falling open around sounds you couldn't control. "That's it. Taking me so well. So fucking tight for me—you feel that, baby? Feel how deep I am?"

You could. You felt him everywhere. He bottomed out with a slow, grinding press of his hips, and the head of his cock kissed your cervix with a pressure that was pain and pleasure in equal measure, and you heard yourself sobbing, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming fullness of it. Your hands flew to his back, nails digging into the hard muscle through his t-shirt, and you clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that had gone soft and spinning.

He held there, buried to the hilt, and breathed. His forehead dropped to the crook of your neck, and you felt the shudder that ran through his entire body, the restraint it took for him to just stay still, to let you adjust, to not ruin you the way every fiber of his being was yelling at him to do. His hand slid from between your bodies to rest on the swell of your belly, and his thumb stroked a gentle arc over the tight skin.

"Mmh, are you okay?" he asked against your neck.

"Yeah," you whispered, and you meant it. "Of course, I'm okay. Move—please, move."

He pulled back, slow, dragging, every inch a torture, and then thrust in.

The first real thrust punched the air from your lungs. The second made you cry out, your voice cracking, your nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks through his shirt. The third set a rhythm — deep, forceful, and relentless. Each stroke hitting the end of you with a precision that made your vision blur, his hips snapping forward with a wet, heavy sound that echoed through the room alongside your moans and his low groans.

"That's it," he growled, his voice strained, breathless, barely human. "That's my good girl. Taking my cock so pretty—fuck, this is the closest to heaven I’ll ever get—" He thrust harder, deeper, and the bed creaked beneath you, the headboard threatening the wall. "My pussy, isn’t it? All mine."

"All yours—ah—it's yours, Jungwon—"

"Louder." A particularly vicious thrust, angled just right, and pleasure detonated through you like a bomb, your walls seizing around him in a spasm that made him curse.

"It's yours! Fuck—it's yours, all yours—"

He moaned, long and low, and his pace shifted, faster now, more urgent, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room in a rapid tempo. His hand was still on your belly, grounding him, and you felt him throb inside you, felt the way his cock jerked and pulsed with every thrust, and you knew he was close already. The jealousy, the arousal from sucking on your breasts, the sight of you laid out and wrecked beneath him — it had been building from the moment he'd first nuzzled into your chest, and now it was all crashing toward a peak with terrifying speed.

"Gonna come," he panted, his hips stuttering, his rhythm faltering into something erratic and desperate. "Gonna come inside you, baby—fuck —I'm gonna fill you up—"

"Do it—"

"Yeah? You want that? Want me to pump you full again?" His voice was ragged, wrecked, and the words spilled out of him like he couldn't stop them — dirty, possessive, incantatory. "Gonna put another one in you—fuck—give you another baby to carry for me—you'd like that, wouldn't you? Walking around round with my kid, proof for everyone to see—proof that you're mine, that this body is mine, that you let me breed you like a good little slut—"

You felt your orgasm crash over you without warning, your entire body seizing, your back arching completely off the bed as your walls clamped down around his cock so hard that he shouted, his hips slamming forward one final time and holding, pressing as deep as he could go, and you felt it — the hot, thick pulse of him coming inside you, rope after rope of it, flooding you with warmth that seemed to go on and on and on.

You were shaking. Both of you were. His weight settled over you more fully, you could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest, or maybe that was yours, you couldn't tell anymore. The aftershocks of your orgasm rippled through you in waves, your walls still fluttering around him, milking every last drop, and he groaned — a weak, overstimulated sound that told you he could feel it too.

Silence. Heavy, breathless, broken only by the sound of your combined breathing slowly, slowly evening out.

You thought it was over. You really did. Your body felt like liquid, boneless, spent, your mind floating somewhere far above the mattress in a haze of endorphins and satisfaction. Your hand found his hair again, fingers carding through the damp strands, and you pressed a kiss to the top of his head, a silent forgiveness for the argument that already felt like it belonged to another lifetime.

Then he moved.

His hips rolled, a slow, experimental thrust. and you gasped, your overstimulated walls clenching around him in protest. He was still inside you. Still hard. Not as hard as before, maybe, but hard enough that the movement sent a jolt of sharp, almost painful pleasure through your core, and you felt him twitch, felt the blood rushing back into him with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man who'd just come that hard.

"Jungwon—" you started, your voice hoarse. "What are you—"

"Again," he said, and the word was simple, final, delivered against your jaw in a rough, open-mouthed kiss. "I'm not done with you."

His hips pulled back and thrust in, slow but deliberate, and the sound you made was embarrassing — a wet and broken keen that you'd probably be mortified about later. He was fully hard again now, his cock thick and insistent inside you, and the sensitivity from your first orgasm made every stroke feel amplified, each drag of his length against your walls like a match strike, friction and fire, too much, and not enough all tangled together into something devastating.

"Fuck, you're so sensitive," he murmured, his voice full of wonder and dark satisfaction. "Clenching around me like you can't help it. You can't, can you? Your body knows who it belongs to even when your eyes are busy rolling at me."

"I wasn't—ah—"

"You were." A thrust, deeper than the last, and his hand came up to cup your face, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to look at him. His eyes were nearly black, the pupils blown so wide that the warm brown was swallowed entirely, and the expression on his face was one of absolute, consuming possession. "Every time you look at someone else—every time someone else touches you—this is what I think about. Reminding you. Fucking you until you can't remember anyone's name but mine."

His pace increased, still controlled, but with a ferocity building beneath the surface. Each thrust was punctuated by a low, rough sound from his throat, and his hands roamed your body with a reverence that contradicted every filthy word spilling from his mouth. He cupped your breasts, thumbing your still-sensitive nipples, tracing the faint stretch marks that had begun to appear along their sides, pressing kisses to the swell of each one like he was worshipping them.

"So beautiful," he breathed, and then, almost to himself: "Carrying my baby. Fuck. You don't know what that does to me."

His hips snapped forward and the shift in intensity was like a gear change, the careful control fracturing into something rougher, more primal. The bed was moving now, the headboard striking the wall in a rhythm that you were grateful your neighbors couldn't hear, or maybe they could, but you were too far gone to even care. Your hands were everywhere, his back, his shoulders, the back of his neck, pulling him closer, dragging him down, needing his weight on you, needing to feel consumed by him.

"Gotta remind you," he panted, his rhythm brutal now, each thrust grinding against your clit on the downstroke and hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl and your mouth go slack. "Gotta remind you how good you felt when I fucked a baby into you. This—" A deep, punishing thrust that made you cry out. "—this is what happens. You let me breed you, and now you're walking around with proof—living proof of being a good little slut for daddy."

The word hit cracked something open inside you, something you'd been keeping locked away, and suddenly you were saying it — chanting it, really, the word falling from your lips in a broken, desperate stream that you couldn't have stopped if you tried.

"Daddy—ah—daddy, please—please—"

"That's right," he growled, and his pace became relentless, punishing, his hips slamming into yours with a force that rocked your entire body. "Who's daddy? Say it again. Who's your daddy, angel?"

"You are—fuck—you're my daddy, Jungwon—"

"My good girl," he breathed, and his voice cracked on it, raw and tender and filthy all at once. "My perfect, perfect girl. Taking everything I give you. Gonna pump my kids into you all at once—one after another—keep you full of me all the time—you'd let me, wouldn't you? Let me keep you bred and round and leaking—my little whore—my angel—mine."

Your second orgasm hit you like a wave breaking, not sharp like the first but deep and rolling, pulling you under in a slow, inexorable crush of pleasure that seemed to last forever, your walls rippling around him in long contractions that milked him in a rhythm your body knew by instinct.

He followed you over the edge, or maybe he was already there, had been hovering on the precipice since his first orgasm, his body chasing the second with a single-minded desperation that was almost violent. He came inside you again with a groan that sounded almost like pain, his hips stuttering, his cock jerking and pulsing as he added to the warmth already pooling in your core.

But he didn't stop.

Even as the aftershocks faded, even as his breathing went ragged and desperate, his hips kept moving, slower now, but not stopping, his cock still achingly hard inside you, and you realized with a mix of disbelief and exhausted arousal that he was chasing something else. A third peak. He hadn't even softened, hadn't even pulled out, and his jaw was set with a determination that bordered on feral.

"I can't—" he gasped, his voice wrecked, barely audible. "Fuck, I can't stop—it's building again—I—"

He pulled out.

The sudden emptiness made you whimper, your walls clenching around nothing, the loss of him almost painful after being so thoroughly filled. But he was already moving, shifting up your body, his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking fast and rough, his fist a blur over the slick, glistening length of himself. He straddled your chest, his thighs bracketing your shoulders, and the head of his cock, leaking precum and your combined slick, hovered inches from your mouth.

"Open wide," he commanded, and his voice was barely a thread, a fraying rope, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back the orgasm that was already cresting. "Open your mouth for me, angel."

You did. You opened your mouth, your tongue slipping out, your eyes fixed on his face, the agony and the ecstasy written across his features, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords, the sweat rolling down his chest. His hand moved faster, his strokes tight and wet, and then—

He came with a sound that was almost a sob, his cock jerking in his fist as thick, hot ropes of his release spilled onto your tongue and into your waiting mouth. The third orgasm was smaller than the first two, less in volume, but no less intense, and he groaned through it, his hips jerking forward in shallow, involuntary thrusts, the last few drops landing on your lower lip and chin.

He stared down at you. His chest was heaving, his hair was damp and wild, and his eyes were impossibly soft now, the dark possessiveness from earlier melted into something raw and achingly adoring. He reached down with a thumb, swiped the release from your chin, and pressed it gently past your lips.

"Swallow," he whispered, and his voice was so tender it broke something in your chest.

You swallowed. He watched your throat work, and the sound he made, somewhere between a groan and a sigh, was the most satisfied thing you'd ever heard.

Then he collapsed beside you.

His arms gathered you up immediately, pulling you against his chest, his nose pressing into your hair, and he held you. One hand settled over your belly again, and he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, then another to your temple, then another to the curve of your cheek.

"Are you feeling okay?" he asked, his voice was so soft, so careful, that the contrast from the man who'd been growling dirty things into your ear mere moments ago made your head spin.

"Mm," you hummed, too spent to form real words, your body loose and warm and thoroughly, devastatingly satisfied. Your hand found his on your belly and laced your fingers through his, holding on. "More than okay."

He exhaled and nuzzled deeper into your hair. Silence settled over you both, comfortable and complete, the earlier argument nothing but a distant echo in the warmth of the afterglow.

"For the record," he murmured after a long moment, his voice tinged with something sheepish, "I wasn't actually that jealous about the hand-holding thing."

You snorted. "You were literally fucking fuming."

"I was mildly inconvenienced by a stranger's lack of boundaries."

"He was showing me where the olive oil was, Jungwon."

"He was holding your hand while doing it. In front of your husband. Who is me." A pause. "And now you're full of my cum, so I think I made my point."

"Totally unbelievable."

"That works too." You could hear the grin in his voice, stupid and smug and so unbearably him.

Jungwon's breathing evened out slowly, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, and the last thing you felt before sleep pulled you under was his thumb tracing that same gentle arc over your belly, back and forth, back and forth, like a lullaby only the three of you could hear.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 : @simsimluver @maishee @grdientlips @yejisair777 @kristynaaah @heesroses @vmpiricou @seungiesdoll @malibluess @stwryun @hooniluhv @rikisn @hazeheart12 @exclipszz @melancholatte @bluepains @gojopolo @jasmineeeee1009 @ming1luvr @ni-k1ttie @enzsstuff01 @sserafimbaby @emvss @simjaeyunslut @luvlyjaemin @kikizzz0 @ilovhoonie @prettygirlthings-world @jaesim @luv4dani @perristar @bkatarina @fialtorelle @slutforaz @adoreade @la-choiblog @hoonieslove @hearts4chosoo @ddcyvn | send an ask if you’d like to be added ˙𐃷˙

🎹 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ഒ jungle by drake

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

a/n : please, no hate on this, i’m only human, this is fiction, please don’t come at me for writing this— when people quite literally romanticize rape on here. this was something i needed to write, i don’t want to get hate for it because it’s incredibly vulnerable so please give me a break im tired, take in consideration that this is purely a form of art. That being said, take care of yourself, if you can relate (which i hope you don’t.) please please please don’t let a monster dictate your life.

“HE GAVE IN TO TEMPTATION. Men are weak, you shouldn’t let one moment define the rest of his life.”

The priest’s voice drifted through the dim confessional like dust motes in a shaft of stained-glass light— heavy with the scent of old incense and mildew. Father Elias sat on the other side of the latticed screen, his silhouette hunched like a weathered gravestone in the small-town church.

The building itself was a relic— cracked plaster saints with peeling paint, wooden pews worn smooth by generations of sinners, a rusty crucifix hanging crooked above the altar as if even God had grown tired of holding it straight. Outside, the wind moaned across the empty plains, carrying the faint howl of coyotes circling the bones of dead cattle.

You knelt on the hard wooden step, knees aching, fingers twisting the hem of your thin cotton dress; the fabric clung to your sweat-damp skin, faded like everything else in this godforsaken stretch of America.

Your body felt foreign, animal.

The violence had stripped the softness from you and left something feral in its place: a wild thing with bared teeth and trembling flanks, hiding in tall grass, ready to bolt or bite at the slightest shadow.

Sleep came in fitful snatches, curled tight like a wounded deer, muscles locked against phantom hands. Hunger gnawed but food tasted of ash. Touch— any touch—sent you spiraling into that dark place where flesh became meat- where your own body betrayed you with memories of tearing and bruising.

You had come to the church seeking absolution for your anger— but Father Elias offered counsel for the sinner instead.

“You have to remember that forgiveness is for everyone, even the man who hurt you,” he continued, voice soft as grave dirt. The words landed like stones in still water, rippling through your chest.

You swallowed hard, throat raw— the confessional smelled of candle wax and old sins and through the screen, you could see the outline of his clasped hands, knuckles white. Everything was so detailed yet so distant.

“Father… he didn’t just hurt me. He took. I said no. I begged. And he laughed.”

The memory surged, brutal: gravel digging into your back like the teeth of the earth itself, his breath hot and sour like cheap whiskey and damnation, hands pinning your wrists as if nailing you to some profane cross. Your dress torn like fucking temple veil.

Afterward, you crawled into the ditch like an animal fleeing the slaughterhouse— limbs shaking, throbbing with violation, soul leaking out onto the dirt.

Days blurred into weeks of hiding in motel rooms, washing blood from your undergarments in sink basins, staring at your reflection until the girl looking back became something hunted and hollow-eyed.

The pain had animalized you: instincts sharpened to survival, trust evaporated like morning dew on the sagebrush. You flinched at footsteps, bared metaphorical teeth at kindness, fucked up your own attempts at connection because intimacy now smelled like violence.

A prey animal wearing human skin, yearning for a shepherd who wouldn’t lead you to slaughter.

Father Elias sighed, the sound heavy with centuries of doctrine. “Holding on to anger only gives the devil another victory, my child. Let it go before it festers into something that damns you both.”

You pressed your forehead against the cool wood, tears slipping silent down your cheeks. The church creaked around you, wind rattling the loose panes like bones in a shallow grave.

Outside, the vast western sky stretched merciless, highways cutting through it like veins opened for bloodletting. You thought of the man—your executioner —sitting somewhere in this same county, perhaps lighting candles in this very church, confessing to the same priest.

Forgiven by God while you carried the carcass of what he left behind.

“He has confessed his sins before God,” the priest said gently, almost pleading. “Perhaps it’s time for you to let this go.”

The words carved into you. Let it go.

As if pain were a coat you could shrug off on the porch step.

As if your body could forget the way it was split open under moonlight, turned from temple to battlefield.

You had become the wounded lamb limping through the valley of shadow, but no rod or staff comforted you. Instead, rage simmered beneath the fear—a wild, gnashing thing that made you want to burn the fields, to scream at the indifferent heavens until they cracked.

“We all fall into sin,” Father Elias murmured, finality in his tone. “His happened to hurt you. But grace is for the fallen. Pray on it, daughter. Seek the light.”

You left the confessional on unsteady legs, the animal inside you snarling low. The church nave stretched long and empty, dust dancing in beams of colored light from windows depicting martyred saints pierced and bleeding. You genuflected out of habit, the motion mechanical, then slipped out into the blazing afternoon sun.

The dirt parking lot was empty save for your old pickup, paint sun-bleached and rust-eaten. You drove the back roads with windows down, wind whipping your hair like a scourge. Fields of dying wheat rolled by, golden and rotten at the roots, scarecrows standing sentinel like crucified sinners.

Home was the crumbling farmhouse on the outskirts— the same one that would later shelter you and James. For now, it stood lonely, porch sagging under the weight of unspoken prayers.

You stripped in the dim bedroom, standing naked before the cracked mirror.

Your reflection showed the thing you had become: ribs faintly visible from weeks of barely eating, bruises long faded to yellow ghosts on your hips and thighs, eyes too wide and haunted. Scratches from your own nails where you had clawed at your skin in nightmares, trying to scrub him out. Breasts that once felt soft and inviting now seemed like burdens, cunt a site of trauma rather than pleasure.

You touched yourself experimentally, fingers tracing the folds that had been forced open, and flinched at the echo of pain.

No wetness, only dryness and dread.

The yearning was there, buried deep— a desperate hunger for tenderness that felt like blasphemy in this landscape of judgment.

Nights were the worst. You lay on the iron bed, sheets tangled like restraints, listening to the coyotes sing their hymns. Dreams came feral: running endless highways, hooves instead of feet, the executioner’s truck always gaining, his hands turning into claws. You woke gasping, body slick with sweat that smelled of fear.

Masturbation brought no relief— only fragmented attempts that ended in tears, fingers too rough in mimicry of violence, leaving you emptier.

The animal in you paced, wounded and wanting, craving a touch that healed rather than hunted.

Days passed in ritual. You worked odd jobs at the roadside diner, pouring coffee for truckers whose eyes lingered too long, making your skin crawl with animal wariness.

You avoided the church after that confession, but the priest’s words haunted the empty rooms like ghosts.

Forgiveness. Grace. Letting go.

They clashed with the truth etched in your flesh: some sins left teeth marks that no prayer could erase.

You read old Bibles by lamplight, tracing passages about redemption, but they felt hollow.

The God of this land seemed distant, more interested in forgiving the wolf than binding the lamb’s wounds.

One evening, storm clouds gathered low on the horizon, turning the sky the color of bruised flesh. You sat on the porch with a bottle of cheap wine, the animal inside restless. Thunder rumbled like distant judgment.

You thought of the man who hurt you— perhaps he slept easy now, absolved, while you carried the weight of his temptation.

Anger rose, hot and righteous, but so did the exhaustion of holding it.

The priest was right about one thing: it was poisoning you, turning you more feral, more isolated. But forgiveness felt like dying all over again.

So you drove to the edge of town as lightning split the sky, pulling over at an old crossroads where faded signs pointed toward forgotten places. The rain came sudden and violent, washing the dust from your windshield as tears from a penitent’s face.

You stepped out into it, dress clinging transparent, arms spread as if inviting the heavens to strike. Water mixed with salt on your cheeks.

“Why?” you screamed into the gale- to no one in particular. “Why why why why.”

That night, back at the farmhouse, you lit candles around the bedroom, mimicking some half-remembered ritual. Naked again before the mirror, you traced the lines of your body with trembling fingers, trying to reclaim it.

“This is mine,” you whispered to the reflection. But the touch stirred only echoes.

The yearning deepened into ache: for hands that asked, for a body that sheltered rather than invaded, for intimacy slow as desert twilight and tender as a mother’s lullaby.

Longing twisted with carnal hunger. You wanted to be laid on an altar of flesh and worshipped, not sacrificed.

Sleep claimed you eventually, curled fetal like a creature in its den. Dreams shifted slightly— a figure on the horizon, boots kicking up dust, eyes like moss after rain.

A lover, perhaps.

A man who understood the animal and gentled it without breaking.

Morning brought pale light filtering through threadbare curtains. You rose, body stiff but the feral edge slightly dulled by the storm’s catharsis.

The priest’s words lingered, but so did your truth.

Forgiveness might come later, or never. For now, survival meant seeking the light he spoke of, even if it led down uncertain roads.

You packed a small bag— few belongings, a worn Bible, a change of clothes—and climbed into the truck. The engine coughed to life and highways stretched before you, endless blacktop cutting through golden decay, telephone poles like crucifixes.

You didn’t know where you were going, only that staying meant becoming more of a beast.

The priest’s counsel echoed: forgiveness for all. But your body remembered the violence, and it demanded proof of another way. Proof that flesh could sing hallelujah instead of screaming damnation.

Proof that a man’s weakness didn’t have to mean your destruction.

The desert swallowed your taillights, stars wheeling overhead like indifferent witnesses.

You passed abandoned farms and rusted water towers, relics of dreams long dead. Each mile peeled back another layer of th armor— fear giving way, inch by painful inch, to the fragile wish for connection.

By the time the sun bled orange across the plains, exhaustion and something like grace settled over you. The farmhouse waited somewhere ahead, empty and beckoning, its porch light a distant votive in your mind’s eye.

You pulled over once more, killing the engine under a sky turning violet. Sitting on the hood, legs dangling, you let the cooling metal warm your thighs. Hands pressed to your stomach, you breathed deep the scent of creosote and possibility.

The rape had made you feral, yes— quick to run, slow to trust, body a battlefield of phantom pains and instinctive snarls. But beneath it, the girl who once believed in tenderness still flickered, a candle in the ruins of faith.

“Forgiveness,” you whispered to the wind, tasting the word like bitter sacrament.

Not for him.

Not yet.

But perhaps space for something new.

For hands that built instead of broke.

For a lover who would kneel in the dirt and kiss the wounds without demanding you forget they existed.

Night fell fully as you resumed driving. The radio crackled with a faint Jeff Buckley melody— your heart beat in time, animal and human entwined, carrying you toward the farmhouse where dust settled on empty rooms, waiting for the man who would finally answer the prayer.

In the days that followed, solitude wrapped you like a shroud. You cleaned the old place with ritualistic care: sweeping floors that groaned like penitent knees, hanging faded curtains, placing wildflowers in cracked jars on the windowsill.

Each task was an act of reclamation, pushing back against the wildness. Yet at night the memories returned— visceral torrents.

The weight pinning you.

The grunt of conquest.

The way your voice had cracked on “please” until it became whimper.

You woke clawing at sheets, nails leaving red crescents on your arms, body slick with the sweat of prey.

One afternoon, you found an old rosary in a drawer, beads worn smooth. You held it, running fingers over the cross, and whispered fragmented prayers.

Not for the executioner’s soul, but for your own. For the feral thing inside to find rest.

The priest’s words returned unbidden: “We all fall into sin. His happened to hurt you.” They stung less sharply now, tempered by distance, but still you rejected the easy absolution.

Your hurt was not collateral. It was a ravine carved through your life, deep enough to echo.

You began walking the back fields at dusk, boots kicking up red dust, dress trailing like a robe. Coyotes watched from the treeline, recognizing kin in your wary stride.

One evening, a storm threatened again. You stood in the open, arms raised, letting the first fat drops hit your upturned face. Rain soaked through fabric, outlining the curves the executioner had claimed, but this time you did not flinch.

Instead, you imagined different hands— gentle ones tracing the same paths with reverence. The yearning intensified, a deep ache between your legs that was desire and fear braided together.

You slipped fingers under the wet hem right there in the field, touching tentatively. Slow circles on your core, breath hitching not with trauma but with tentative want.

The animal watched, curious rather than terrified.

You did not come, but the act felt like small sacrament— reclaiming the altar of your body one raindrop at a time.

Returning to the house drenched, you stripped and stood before the mirror once more. Water beaded on skin marked by faded lines.

You spoke aloud to the reflection: “You are more than what he made you.”

The animal inside softened its hackles, curling tighter but no longer snapping.

Letters arrived sporadically— distant family, concerned friends— but you answered little. Isolation was both cage and sanctuary.

In the quiet, you read from the worn Bible and secular books scavenged from thrift stores: stories of fallen women finding grace on the road, of bodies remade through love.

The longing evolved from vague hunger to specific prayer.

You wanted eyes that saw the scars and kissed them anyway. A voice that praised instead of degraded. A sex that filled with consent and care, slow as the turning of seasons.

The priest’s final counsel lingered during a return visit to the church weeks later. You did not enter the confessional this time but sat in a back pew as Father Elias prepared for evening mass. He noticed you, offered a nod heavy with unspoken words.

After the sparse service— a handful of elderly parishioners murmuring responses—you approached him in the vestibule.

“Father,” you said, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “I heard your words. About forgiveness. About sin.”

He clasped your shoulder lightly, a fatherly touch that did not trigger flight. “The Lord’s mercy is infinite, child. Even for the weakest among us.”

You met his gaze. “I’m trying. But the animal he left in me… it doesn’t forget easily. I’m learning to walk again. To want again.”

He smiled sadly, the lines on his face deep as arroyos. “That is the beginning of grace. Go in peace.”

You left lighter, though not healed. The drive back felt like pilgrimage. The farmhouse appeared on the horizon, its lights (you had left one burning) like a beacon.

Inside, you prepared simple food, ate at the wooden table, then bathed by lamplight. The water caressed your skin, warm and forgiving.

Fingers explored again, slower, imagining a future lover’s mouth replacing them. Soft moans escaped, echoing off tiled walls— sounds of tentative healing.

That night, sleep came deeper. Dreams featured open roads and a man walking toward you, hands open, voice like gravel and honey. James, though you did not yet know his name.

The animal in you perked its ears, in recognition.

The road finally delivered you to him on a night when the sky hung low and bruised, thunderheads rolling across the plains like the wrath of an old testament God.

You had pulled into the gravel lot of a half-forgotten roadside bar on the outskirts of another nowhere town. The air smelled of spilled beer, cigarette ash, and the metallic promise of rain.

Inside, the jukebox wept low country songs, and he was leaning against the scarred wooden bar when you entered, a silhouette carved from the very dust and decay of this land.

James.

Tall and lean as a fence post left too long in the sun, shoulders broad from years of hauling lumber and laying rebar on half-built churches that never quite got finished.

His dark hair fell across his forehead in careless waves, streaked with blond like moonlight on barbed wire.

A faded tattoo of a thorn-crowned cross peeked from the open collar of his shirt, ink blurred by time and penance. Scars traced his knuckles and the line of his jaw— road stories, bar fights, nights spent wrestling with angels and losing.

He was no savior in white robes.

James was a sinner with callused hands and a quiet faith.

A drifter architect of sorts, he built things that stood against the wind: barns for widows, shelters for runaways, sometimes just temporary altars out of scrap wood.

Men whispered he had blood on his ledger from a youth spent running moonshine and worse, but the women who knew him spoke of gentle strength— the way he held doors and held silences, never rushing, never taking.

A man who had buried his own ghosts under desert highways and risen with dirt still under his nails.

Your eyes met across the hazy room.

Something ancient stirred in your chest— the feral animal inside you paused its pacing, ears pricking not in flight but in wary recognition.

He didn’t approach like the others, with hungry grins and grasping hands.

James simply nodded once, a slow tip of his chin, and slid a glass of whiskey down the bar toward you when the bartender asked your order.

“Looks like you’ve been driving through hell’s back forty,” he said, voice low and gravel-rough, laced with that slow southern drawl that wrapped around broken things and tried to mend them. “the name’s James.”

You talked that night in careful fragments, perched on stools while lightning flashed outside. He listened like a confessor who had never betrayed a secret, black eyes steady as you skirted the edges of your story without spilling the blood yet.

He spoke of his own wanderings: building in dying towns, laying hands on structures and souls alike, searching for something real amid the rot.

“I don’t pretend to fix what’s broken,” he murmured. “But I know how to hold it gentle. The world’s got enough violence already.”

He didnt come inside the farmhouse that first night. Instead, he walked you to the door, hat in hand, rain dripping from the brim.

“If you ever want company that don’t demand nothing, I’m staying at the old Miller place down the road. No pressure, pretty.”

Days turned to weeks.

James became a presence rather than a conquest. He appeared with fresh-cut wildflowers for the sagging porch, helped patch the leaking roof without being asked, his hammer strikes rhythmic as prayer.

Evenings found you on the porch swing, sharing silence and then stories. He told you of the churches he restored, of laying bricks like laying down sins, of praying over foundations that might outlast him.

You spoke haltingly of the animal the rape had left behind— the flinch at sudden movement, the nights curled like a wounded coyote, the way your body had become a locked tabernacle no one was allowed to enter.

James never pushed.

Touches came slow: a hand steadying your elbow on uneven steps, fingers brushing yours when passing a mug of coffee. Each one asked permission with its gentleness.

“You set the pace,” he would say quietly, eyes on the horizon. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Over months, he became your lover in the truest sense— not through claiming, but through presence. Shared meals at the scarred kitchen table. Walks along the dust roads where he matched your stride, never leading. Nights sitting close on the couch, his arm around you only when you leaned in first, thumb tracing soothing circles on your shoulder.

The animal in you learned his scent— sandalwood, sweat, and honest earth —and stopped baring teeth. Trust bloomed tentative.

One evening, as summer faded into golden, you sat together on the porch steps. James turned to you, voice soft as grave dirt.

“I see everything you carry, darlin’. The way that bastard tried to make you into something broken. I hate it down to my bones. But I see you too— my girl, still reaching for light. When you’re ready, if you’re ever ready, I want to show you that touch can be different. Yours to command.”

Your heart ached with the weight of it.

Here was the man who had become your lover through patience and quiet devotion, not force. The wanderer with boba eyes and callused redeemer’s hands, ready to kneel at whatever altar you offered.

The farmhouse waited behind you, oil lamps glowing soft, the longing had grown into something ready. James waited too— steady, reverent—until you took his hand and led him inside, the threshold crossing like the first true breath after long suffocation.

Pleasure wasn’t punishment.

Pleasure. isn’t. punishment.

James’ fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, gentle as evening vespers. “You look like you’re carrying the whole damn county on your shoulders tonight, pretty.” he murmured. “Let me take that weight off you.”

His breath hitched, thhose dark eyes, shadowed by the brim of his worn hat, filled with a sorrow so deep it mirrored the dry riverbeds outside.

He pulled you against his chest, heart thudding steady beneath faded cotton. “Christ, baby. It tears me up inside knowing someone laid violent hands on you. Made you think love had to hurt. I’d burn the whole fucking town down if it’d erase that night for you.” He kissed your temple, slow and lingering. “But I can’t undo it. All I can do is prove different. Every damn time you let me.”

The wrought-iron bed dominated your room, sheets worn soft from years of strangers’ dreams. You sat on the edge of the bed, knees together, vulnerable as a sinner at the altar.

James knelt before you, large hands resting on your thighs but not gripping. Never gripping unless you asked.

“Tell me what you need tonight,” he said, thumbs stroking circles that sent warmth pooling low in your belly. “We go as slow as you need. You say stop, I stop. You say more, I give you everything.”

“I need you close,” you whispered, voice cracking like parched earth.

All of you. Skin and soul. Show me tenderness, Make love to me like I’m something sacred.

James rose and undressed first, shedding flannel and jeans with unhurried grace. His body was lean muscle and scars— road life etched into him: a knife fight in El Paso, a crash outside Tulsa.

You reached out, tracing the tattoo over his heart— he shivered under your fingers but stayed still, letting you map him.

“Your turn, if you want,” he said softly.

You nodded.

He helped peel the flannelj from your shoulders, reverent as disrobing a saint. Cool air kissed your bare skin, nipples pebbling. His gaze drank you in—hungry but holy.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “Beautiful. So beautiful. I’m so lucky.”

Tears stung your eyes and he cupped your face, thumbs wiping them away.

“None of that shame, darlin’. Not with me. You’re allowed to want this— to need it slow and deep and loving.”

James laid you back against the pillows, the mattress dipping under his weight as he stretched beside you.

Skin met skin— warmth against warmth. His hand traced your collarbone, down the valley between your breasts, over the soft plane of your stomach. Every touch asked permission.

“Here?” he’d murmur.

You’d nod or whisper yes, and he’d continue.

You kissed him first, desperate for connection. His mouth tasted of smoke and salt, slow and devouring in the gentlest way, tongues slid together.

He groaned into you, a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. “So sweet,” he praised against your lips. “So pretty.”

Your hands roamed his back, feeling the flex of muscle, the raised lines of old scars. He rolled partially over you, careful to keep weight distributed, one thigh pressing gently between yours.

The pressure against your core made you gasp— slick heat building already, arousal a slow, sacred burn rather than frantic fear.

“Feel that?” he whispered, grinding softly, deliberately. “Your body’s getting ready for me, baby. So wet already. Does it feel good?”

“Yes,” you moaned, hips tilting up to meet him. “Don’t stop touching me.”

James worshipped downward— mouth latching onto a nipple, tongue circling with wet heat while his hand kneaded the other breast. Sensation bloomed: sparks shooting to your cunt, thighs parting wider of their own accord.

The old fear flickered— rough hands, forced entry—but James’s voice anchored you.

“You’re okay. It’s me, you’re okay, you’re safe pretty girl.”

He moved lower, kissing the dip of your navel, the crease of your hip. Pausing at the apex of your thighs, breath ghosting over glistening folds. “Can I taste you?”

You threaded fingers through his dark hair, tugging lightly. “Please, James.”

His tongue was heaven and hell— broad, flat strokes from entrance to clit, then tight circles that had you keening. He hummed in pleasure, the vibration pulling a curse from your lips, “Fuck—yes, right there.”

James drank from you like communion wine.

Two fingers pressed at your entrance, circling, waiting. “Inside?” he asked, voice muffled against your flesh.

“God, yes. Slow.”

He slid them in, curling against that spongy spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. The stretch was perfect, full without pain.

Pleasure wasn’t punishment.

He worked you open with patient devotion, mouth never leaving your clit. Pleasure coiled tight, intensse —body as altar, his tongue as prayer.

You came with a broken sob, thighs trembling around his head, walls fluttering around his fingers.

He licked you through it, murmuring, “That’s my girl. So good, coming so pretty for me. Let it all out.”

Aftershocks rippled as he crawled back up, kissing the tears from your cheeks. His cock rested heavy and hot against your thigh, leaking. You wrapped a hand around him, stroking the length.

“I want you inside,” you said, vulnerable and raw.

All the way. Skin to skin. Fill the places that hurt.

James’s eyes darkened with emotion. “You sure? We can wait. I’d wait forever for you.”

“I’m sure.“

James positioned himself between your spread thighs, rubbing the thick head through your slickness. Teasing your clit until you whimpered. “Eyes on me,” he commanded gently. “Breathe with me. If it’s too much, we stop.”

The first push was exquisite pressure. Inch by inch, he sank into you, groaning deep in his chest.

“Holy fuck— you’re tight. So perfect, swallowing me like you were made for me.” Fully seated, he stilled, forehead pressed to yours. Sweat beaded on his skin. The fullness was overwhelming—stretching, claiming, but chosen. “Talk to me, baby. How does it feel?”

“Full— fuck… safe.” Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. “Move. Please”

He did. Long, rolling thrusts, each withdrawal dragging against every nerve, each return grounding deep. The wet sounds of your joining filled the room— obscene. His hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit in lazy spirals.

“Look how well you take me. So fucking strong. Brave girl, letting me in like this. I love you.”

Emotions crashed through the pleasure. You clung to him, nails scoring his shoulders lightly.

James adjusted, hips undulating in deep, grinding circles rather than pounding. The head of his cock kissed that spot inside with every motion, sweat slickin your bodies, sliding skin on skin.

The scent was heady— sex and sage and his musk. You tasted salt on his neck when you licked him.

He whispered praises like scripture: “Am so lucky, so fucking lucky….”

Tears slipped from both of you now, mingling-/ his pace never rushed, even as your second orgasm built.

“Come for me again,” he urged, voice cracking. “Let me feel that pretty pussy squeeze me. I’m yours. All yours.”

It hit you like revelation— waves of ecstasy rolling from core outward, cunt pulsing around his thick cock. You cried out, and James followed soon after, burying deep with a guttural moan, spilling hot and thick inside you. Pulse after pulse, marking you with love instead of violence.

He stayed buried, collapsing carefully to the side and pulling you atop him so you rested on his chest.

For long minutes, only breathing and the creak of the old house. His hand stroked your back in long sweeps. “You okay? Any pain?”

“None,” you whispered, tracing the tattoo on his chest. “Just full.”

He kissed your hair. “Good girl. You were so good. So beautiful. I’m so lucky.”

The night stretched on. You talked in the afterglow, voices soft as he told you stories of the road— lost highways where he’d prayed for something real.

You shared fragments of the trauma, how it felt like God had turned his face away. James held you tighter.

“Maybe he sent me instead. A sinner to love a saint.”

Later, desire stirred again. You rode him this time, slow and deliberate, hands braced on his chest, he looked up at you like you hung the stars outside.

“Ride me however feels good, pretty’. Use me”

His hands rested on your hips, guiding but never forcing; you ground down, taking him deep, clit rubbing against his pelvis.

Curses fell from your lips —“Fuck, James, you’re so deep”— mixed with his praises: “Beautiful. Take what you need.”

Orgasm claimed you both again, slower, sweeter.

Afterward, he drew a bath in the clawfoot tub down the hall, lukewarm water from th pipes. He washed you with careful hands, soaping every inch, rinsing with cupped palms.

Then you did the same for him, kneeling between his legs, mouth eventually finding his spent cock to coax it back to life with tender sucks and licks. He came down your throat with gentle hands in your hair, whispering, “I love you.”

Days blurred into this rhythm in the farmhouse. Mornings where he woke you with his mouth between your legs, tongue tracing on your clit until you shattered.

Afternoons on the porch swing, his fingers inside you under a thin blanket while cicadas sang.

Nights of full union— missionary with eyes locked, spooning with his hand cupping your breast, against the wall with one leg wrapped around him, always slow, always checking.

One stormy evening, lightning illuminating the rusted cross outside, vulnerability peaked.

You broke down mid-act, old memories surfacing as he moved inside you. James stopped instantly, slipping free, pulling you into his lap.

“Hey, hey. I got you. We don’t have to.” He rocked you through sobs, kissing tears, murmuring, “That bastard doesn’t get this part of you. Only I do, and only when it’s love.”

You eventually asked him back in, needing the reclamation. He entered you again like returning to prayer, movements even slower, foreheads pressed. “You’re safe, you hear me?”

James proved it time and again— intimacy wasn’t the violence of the past. It was slow unraveling, ecstasy in the flesh. You found peace in the decay —in the creaking bed, the flickering lamp, the man who loved you like the last honest prayer in a godless land.

And in his arms, the truth finally settled over your bones like warm rain on parched earth: you were never guilty.

Not for a single second.

The violence done to you was not divine punishment, not the wages of some imagined sin, not a lesson carved into your flesh by a cruel God. It was cruelty, plain and merciless, enacted by a weak man who chose evil.

You carried no stain. You owed no penance. The blood and the breaking had never been yours to atone for.

And in that, you bloomed.

—🏷️ taglist

It wasn't malice. It was just their way of loving you, through expectations, through achievement, through the quiet satisfaction of watching their kid do something impressive.

Dancing lasted two months. Your body moved like it was being operated by a very determined committee that had never met each other. Your instructor, a gentle woman named Ms. Kang who had probably seen it all, suggested maybe you'd find more joy in something that didn't require your limbs to cooperate. You were seven. You agreed wholeheartedly.

Singing lasted three weeks. You loved music, truly, but the moment you stood in front of even a small group, your throat sealed itself shut like a vault. Your voice came out as something between a whisper and a dog whining for dinner. The stage and you were simply not on speaking terms.

Painting stuck around longer. A year, maybe. You loved the smell of acrylic and the way colors looked before they got mixed into something muddy. You loved smearing blue into white and watching it become a sky that only existed on cheap canvas. But your mother watched you paint one afternoon and said, gently, "It's pretty, sweetheart. But you don't love it the way you need to love something to be great at it." And she was right, annoyingly. You liked painting. You didn't live for it.

Languages, though. Languages were different.

It started the way most things in your life started: your parents decided your family should travel. A lot. Your mother was convinced that raising globally-minded children required exposure, and your father, who had the kind of job that made frequent international trips possible, agreed enthusiastically. By the time you were ten, you had been to fourteen countries, and your siblings handled it the way most kids handle constant uprooting: with a mix of excitement and exhaustion. They collected keychains from airports and fell asleep on long-haul flights.

You collected phrases.

It wasn't deliberate at first. You'd land in a new place and find yourself listening, really listening, to the rhythm of the language being spoken around you. The cadence of it, the way certain sounds rolled or clicked or hummed. In Madrid, you learned to order orange juice before you learned the word for bathroom. In Tokyo, you mastered the art of bowing and apologizing before you could count to ten. In São Paulo, a woman at a fruit stall taught you how to say "this is the best mango you'll ever eat" and she was right, and the phrase lived in your mouth like a song you didn't want to forget.

Your parents noticed. Of course they did. They noticed the way you'd come back from a trip speaking fragments of a new language, the way you'd write down words in a notebook you carried everywhere, the way you'd consume foreign films without subtitles just to see how much you could understand. And for once, for the very first time, their investment and your passion aligned perfectly.

They hired tutors. They bought software. They enrolled you in immersion programs that had you spending summers in cities where no one spoke your native language. You devoured all of it. You weren't learning because you were supposed to. You were learning because every new language felt like being handed a key to a room you didn't know existed, and inside that room were millions of people you could suddenly talk to.

By the time you were twenty-two, you spoke seven languages with varying degrees of fluency. Korean, Japanese, English, Mandarin, Spanish, Portuguese, and French. The first three were near-native. The rest were more than functional and getting better every day. You could switch between them the way some people switch between apps on their phone, quickly, thoughtlessly, and with the casual confidence of someone who genuinely didn't think it was that impressive.

Other people did, though. Other people thought it was very impressive.

That was how you ended up in this industry. A translating agency recruited you straight out of university after a professor mentioned you in a professional context, and within a year, you had built a reputation that most people took a decade to achieve. You were requested by name. Companies specified you in contracts. Managers called your agency not to ask for a translator but to ask for you. You were fast, accurate, and most importantly, you understood that translation wasn't just about converting words. It was about carrying feeling across a border without dropping it.

Jokes were your specialty, which sounded trivial until you saw how many translators butchered them. Humor didn't translate literally. Puns collapsed. Sarcasm evaporated. Timing warped. But you had a gift for finding the emotional equivalent, the phrase in the target language that made someone laugh at the same moment the original speaker intended. You treated every joke like a small bridge and built it carefully, and artists loved you for it.

So when a company reached out about an eight-month world tour for ENHYPEN, a group that was actively conquering markets in Japan, the Americas, Europe, and Southeast Asia, your agency didn't hesitate. They sent you.

You packed your bags, reviewed your terminology glossaries, and showed up at the first tour meeting with a notebook, three pens, and the quiet certainty that you were about to spend the better part of a year living out of suitcases alongside seven boys you'd never met.

The first day was chaos, but the good kind.

You arrived at the agency building early, which was a habit you couldn't break even if you wanted to. The meeting room was large and mostly empty, with a long table covered in printed schedules that already looked overwhelming. A tour coordinator was setting up a presentation, and the staff was drifting in with the slow energy of people who knew the real work hadn't started yet.

ENHYPEN filed in a few minutes later, and you observed them the way you always observed new clients, not to judge, but to read. You needed to understand their group dynamic, their communication styles, who was the talker, who was the listener, who needed space, who needed reassurance. It was part of the job, even if nobody had ever put it on your official responsibilities list.

Heeseung walked in first, loose and easy, the kind of person who made any room feel slightly more relaxed just by being in it. Jay followed, already mid-sentence about something, talking to Jake, who was nodding along with the enthusiastic attentiveness of a golden retriever being told about a walk. Sunghoon entered with the practiced calm of someone who knew people were looking at him and had made peace with it. Sunoo was close behind, bright-eyed and already scanning the room with a warmth that felt almost tactile. Riki, tall, relaxed, radiating the specific confidence of someone who was young and knew exactly how good he was, strolled in last but somehow commanded attention anyway.

And then there was Jungwon.

He came in somewhere in the middle of the group, not leading and not trailing, just naturally positioned in a way that suggested he was the center they orbited around without realizing it.

He was younger than you expected a leader to be, with a face that people probably mistook for soft until they heard him speak. There was something steady about him. Not loud, not aggressive, just present. The way he glanced around the room, checking that everyone was settling in, clocking each member's position without making it obvious. It was instinct. You recognized it because it was the same instinct you had, the one that made you scan a room for what was needed before anyone had to ask.

He noticed you almost immediately. You were sitting off to the side, clearly not staff but not a manager either, and his eyes lingered for a beat longer than casual observation before he smiled, polite, professional, the kind of smile he probably gave to everyone he was introduced to in a work setting.

"Hi," he said, stepping over. "You're the translator?"

You nodded, standing up. "Y/N. Nice to meet you."

"Jungwon." He extended his hand, and you shook it. His grip was firm but not performative. "We've had translators before, but never one for the whole tour. We're excited."

"I'll try to make your lives easier, not harder."

"You already are," he said, and the way he said it, simple, like it was a fact rather than a compliment, caught you slightly off guard. You were used to people being polite. You weren't used to people being sincere this quickly.

The other members drifted over one by one, and the introductions escalated in energy the way they always did with groups of young men who spent too much time together.

Jake shook your hand and immediately said, "Please tell me you'll be at the Japan stops. I have so many things I want to say to fans that I can't say in Japanese and it's killing me."

"You'll be fine," you said. "I've got you."

He clasped his hands together like he was praying. "You're already my favorite person on this tour."

Sunghoon gave you a composed nod and said, "I heard you speak seven languages," with the tone of someone who was impressed but refusing to show it.

"Seven and a half," you said. "I'm working on Italian."

He raised an eyebrow. "And a half," he repeated, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Sunoo introduced himself with a smile that could probably end wars and immediately asked what languages you spoke, then proceeded to test you by saying hello in four of them in rapid succession. You responded to all four without pause, and his face split into the most delighted grin you'd seen from anyone in your professional life.

"That's so cool," he said, and he meant it, and it was impossible not to smile back.

Riki, who had been leaning against the wall observing the whole thing, pushed off and strolled over. "What about slang?" he asked. "Can you translate slang?"

"Depends on the slang," you said. "Try me."

He said something in Korean that was absolutely not appropriate for a first meeting, and you laughed, genuinely surprised, before translating it into Japanese and then English, both versions equally incorrect for a professional setting. Jay, who had been listening from his chair, let out a startled laugh.

"She didn't even hesitate," Jay said, looking at Riki. "You're going to have to try harder than that."

Riki looked delighted. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

Heeseung, the last to come over, gave you a warm, easy greeting and then said, very kindly, "Ignore them. They're going to test you constantly. It means they like you."

"I can handle it," you said.

"Yeah," Heeseung said, smiling. "I think you can."

Jungwon was watching the whole exchange from his seat, and when your eyes met his, he gave you a small nod, not a smile, not words, just that nod. It felt like an acknowledgment. Like he'd already decided something about you, and the decision was good.

The tour began, and your life became a blur of airport codes and hotel keycards.

You learned the rhythm of a world tour faster than you expected. The cycle was always some version of the same: fly, arrive, check in, rehearsals, press, perform, pack, fly again. The countries changed but the schedule didn't, and you adapted to it the way you adapted to everything, by paying attention and finding your place in the machine.

Your actual job was straightforward in theory. You translated during interviews, press conferences, fan interactions, and any event where language barriers existed. You relayed questions from international journalists, converted the members' answers in real time, and helped them navigate meet-and-greets with fans who spoke languages they didn't. But the job grew. It always grew.

Within the first two weeks, you were also helping them order food in restaurants where the menu was entirely in Portuguese. By week three, you were the person they came to when they needed to understand a customs form in France. By week four, you had somehow become the unofficial guide for navigating public transit in cities where even the GPS looked confused. You didn't mind. This was the part of the job nobody wrote into contracts but was the reason you were good at it, you didn't just translate. You had a way of making foreign places less foreign.

And somewhere in those first few weeks, you noticed something small.

Jungwon always said good morning to you first.

Not in a group way. Not as part of a general greeting he threw at everyone in the room. He specifically found you. Sometimes it was in the hotel lobby at 6 AM when the group was assembled for departure, and he'd break away from the members to walk over. Sometimes it was in the green room before a show, and he'd catch your eye across the chaos and mouth it. Sometimes it was a text — simple, no pretense:

Jungwon [7:16 AM]: Good morning. Ready for today?

It was such a small thing. You didn't overthink it. Leaders were considerate; that was part of the job description. But then the small things started adding up, and the sum was harder to ignore.

He remembered that you put exactly one sugar in your coffee and would silently slide one toward you when the catering setup ran out. He remembered that your least favorite part of the job was simultaneous translation during loud events because the noise gave you headaches, and he started keeping earplugs in his bag, not for himself, because you'd never seen him use them, and would place them on the table next to you before press conferences in venues with terrible acoustics. He remembered that you were studying Italian, and one day, completely out of nowhere, he said "Come stai?" in a pronunciation so earnestly incorrect that you had to take a second to recover before answering.

"Your accent," you said, pressing your lips together to stop the smile.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. It's very—charming."

"I'll take charming," he said, and you watched him walk away with the expression of someone who had just filed that word away somewhere safe.

The other members noticed his behavior before you did, because of course they did. They lived in each other's pockets and had the observational skills of a surveillance team.

"Jungwon-hyung keeps finding reasons to talk to you," Riki said one afternoon, casual as anything, while you were sitting backstage waiting for a radio interview to start. He was sprawled across a couch with his phone held above his face, not even looking at you.

"He's the leader," you said. "He talks to everyone, no?"

"Yeah, but nah, not like this." Riki's thumbs were moving rapidly on his screen. "He asked me yesterday if I knew any good memes. Me? Memes! He hasn't asked me about memes since we debuted."

"Maybe he's just expanding his interests."

"He said he needed one you'd understand." Riki flipped his phone down and looked at you with the specific, unblinking stare of a twenty-year-old who had just delivered what he considered to be devastating evidence. "He's googling memes in languages he doesn't speak so you'll explain them to him."

You opened your mouth. You closed it.

"That's—" you started.

"Inventive?" Riki offered. "Creative? Hopelessly obvious?"

"Hopelessly obvious? I was going to say dedicated."

"Same thing," he said, and went back to his phone.

The months blurred together, and you became a constant.

Not a guest. Not a temp. Not a contractor who showed up for the work portion and disappeared during the downtime. You were there. You were in the airport terminals at 4 AM when everyone was too exhausted to function properly, holding coffee orders in your head because you'd memorized what each member preferred. You were in the hotel lobbies at midnight, still awake because someone needed help with a live broadcast that had international fans asking questions in three different languages. You were in the backstage rooms, the dressing areas, the tour bus, the weird gaps of time between events where everyone was too tired to entertain but too wired to sleep.

You became the person they turned toward without thinking.

Jake raised his hand for you during a Japanese interview when he forgot the word he wanted to use, and you supplied it without missing a beat, and he kept talking as if nothing had happened, because to him, nothing had. Your presence was that seamless. Jay started including you in conversations without translating first, then catching himself and laughing, saying "Sorry, I forgot not everyone in the room speaks Korean" even though you did, in fact, speak Korean. Heeseung asked you to help him write a birthday message for a staff member in Mandarin and was so genuinely grateful that he brought you snacks for the rest of the week. Sunghoon, who communicated primarily through glances and the occasional comment, started directing his comments at you specifically, and the fact that you always caught them and returned fire with equal precision made something warm flicker in his expression. Sunoo texted you in every language he knew, which was two and a half, just to practice, and you corrected his grammar with such dedication that he started calling you his language unni, even though you weren't strictly older.

Riki kept pushing your boundaries in the best way, and you kept pushing back, and somewhere along the line, the two of you developed a rapport built on mutual chaos. He would toss out slang in Korean just to see if you'd catch the nuance, and you would translate it into something equally irreverent in whatever language was required, and the two of you would share a look of pure satisfaction while the adults in the room sighed.

And Jungwon.

Jungwon, who somehow managed to be everywhere you were without making it obvious. Jungwon, who sat next to you on the bus more often than probability could justify. Jungwon, who asked about your day with a level of sincerity that made the question feel like it actually meant something. Jungwon, who fell asleep on your shoulder once during an overnight flight and woke up mortified, apologizing so many times that you finally said "If you apologize one more time, I'm going to translate your apology into six languages so everyone on this plane can hear it," and he stopped immediately, pressing his lips together, ears pink.

You saw the things he didn't show the crowds.

You saw him sitting alone before shows, running through setlists in his head with the intensity of someone who couldn't afford to make a mistake. You saw the way he checked on each member individually, a hand on Heeseung's shoulder, a quiet word to Jake, a nudge for Riki, adjusting, supporting, leading without ever calling attention to the fact that he was doing it. You saw the exhausted version of him, the one who pushed through a three-city day on four hours of sleep and still managed to perform like the weight of the group was something he carried willingly, not something that was crushing him.

You also saw the moments when it almost was.

Late one night in Berlin, after a day so long it had stretched across two calendar dates, you found him in the hallway outside the hotel rooms. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, phone dark in his lap, staring at nothing. Not sad, exactly. Just drained in a way that went deeper than physical tiredness.

You lowered yourself onto the floor beside him. You didn't say anything. You'd learned by now that Jungwon didn't always need words, which was almost funny, given your profession.

A minute passed. Then he exhaled, slow and heavy.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing enough," he said quietly. Not to you, exactly. More into the space between you. "For them. For the team. Everyone works so hard, and I'm supposed to—don't know. Hold it together. Make sure nobody falls through the cracks."

"You do," you said.

"You don't know that. You haven't been here long enough to know if I'm—"

"Jungwon." Your voice was gentle but firm. "I've been here for five months. I've watched you check on every single member before every single show. I've watched you stay late to go over choreography with Riki. I've watched you make sure Sunoo eats when he's nervous. I've watched you include Heeseung in decisions even though he's older than you and you don't have to. I've watched you apologize to staff when schedules run over even though it's not your fault." You paused. "You're doing enough. You're doing more than enough. And the fact that you're sitting in a hallway at 1 AM worrying about whether you're doing enough is, honestly, proof that you are."

He didn't respond right away. He turned his head to look at you, and in the dim light of the hotel corridor, his expression was open in a way you'd never seen during work hours. Unguarded. Young, almost.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don't thank me. I'm just the translator."

He almost smiled. Almost. "You're not just the translator."

A beat.

You let that sit there for a moment. Then you nudged his shoulder with yours, lightly.

"Come on. You need to sleep. We have a 5 AM call tomorrow."

"We always have a 5 AM call tomorrow."

"I know. That's why you need to sleep."

He got up, and when he offered you his hand to help you up, you took it, and he held on for maybe one second longer than necessary before letting go.

That night, in your room, you stared at the ceiling for a long time.

The tour wound through Southeast Asia, then back to Japan, then across to the Americas. Eight months shrank into what felt like eight weeks, and by the time the European leg was drawing to a close, you had translated in twenty-three countries and lost count of how many interviews, fan signs, and press conferences you'd navigated. Your languages had gotten sharper, your instincts faster, your bond with the members deeper.

You knew their speech patterns. You knew that Heeseung tended to trail off at the end of sentences when he was being thoughtful, and you'd learned to hold the translation for a beat longer to make sure he was truly finished. You knew that Jay was precise and deliberate, and you matched his clarity in every target language. You knew that Jake spoke quickly when he was excited and that his enthusiasm was its own kind of punctuation, and you made sure the translation carried that warmth. You knew that Sunghoon was economical with words and that every word he chose mattered, so you translated him with the same careful weight. You knew that Sunoo's brightness was genuine and that making it land in another language required not just accuracy but tenderness. You knew that Riki's playfulness was sharp and smart, and you never softened the edge because he didn't want it softened.

And you knew Jungwon. You knew his cadence better than any language you spoke. The way he built an argument, the way he softened a criticism, the way he gave praise, quiet, specific, never empty. You could translate him in your sleep. You almost had, once, during a 6 AM live interview in Madrid where you'd been running on two hours of rest and pure adrenaline.

You also knew that somewhere in those eight months, the feeling in your chest when he said good morning had stopped being simple and started being complicated.

But you were good at your job. You were professional. You did not let complicated feelings leak into your translations, and you did not let the warmth in his voice when he said your name change the way you did your work, and you did not, absolutely did not, let yourself think about the fact that he had started sitting close enough that your shoulders touched during press conferences, or that he'd started saying your name differently than everyone else's, softer at the edges, like it was something he wanted to hold carefully.

You were fine. You were completely, entirely, absolutely fine.

The press conference in London was the second-to-last event of the tour.

It was a big one, a room full of international journalists, cameras, and the specific buzz that came with the end of a long run. The members were seated in a row at a long table, microphones in front of them, the ENHYPEN logo glowing on the backdrop behind them. You were positioned off to the side, close enough to hear everything, close enough to be called upon, with your earpiece in and your voice ready.

The questions started predictably. What was the highlight of the tour? What was the hardest part? Which city surprised them the most? The members took turns answering, and you translated smoothly, shifting between English, Japanese, and Mandarin depending on the journalist who'd asked. It was mechanical by now. Second nature. You could do this in your sleep, and some days it felt like you were.

Then a journalist toward the back raised her hand. She stood up when called on, and her question was delivered in English with a slight German accent.

"This tour has taken you through so many different countries and cultures. What has helped you adapt to all of those changes throughout the year? What's been the constant?"

A nice question. A predictable question. The kind of question that usually got answers like "each other" or "the fans" or "our passion for performing." You expected Heeseung or Jay to take it, deliver something polished and sincere, and move on.

Jungwon reached for his microphone.

The other members glanced at him, not surprised, he often took the bigger-picture questions, but watchful. Jungwon had a way of answering that was never rehearsed but always felt deliberate, like he'd been thinking about it for longer than the moment allowed.

He started in Korean, and you began translating simultaneously, your voice layering over his in English for the room.

"I want to thank someone," he said, and you translated it, and the room's attention sharpened.

"Our translator."

You kept translating. Your voice didn't waver. Your pace didn't change. But something in your chest pulled tight, because he was looking at you when he said it, not at the journalist, not at the cameras, and you were already a third of a second behind, which never happened.

"She makes unfamiliar places feel less intimidating," Jungwon continued, and you translated each phrase almost as quickly as he spoke it, your professional voice steady, even as the words he was choosing made your breath come shorter. "She notices when we're struggling before anyone else does. She explains things before we even have to ask. She works harder than most people realize."

A ripple went through the room. The journalist who'd asked the question smiled, clearly charmed, but also clearly expecting this to be a brief, polite acknowledgment. Jungwon wasn't done.

"She translates jokes," he said, and his voice was lighter now, almost warm. "Not just the words. The actual feeling of the joke. Do you know how hard that is?" He looked at the audience. "She makes like, what? Six? Seven? Eight? Languages sound effortless. And she does it every single day, in every country, without ever making it seem like it's difficult. She makes it seem like the most natural thing in the world. And it's not. I know it's not."

You were translating. You were still translating. Your voice was level and clear and professional, and the words coming out of your mouth were his words, and every single one of them was landing somewhere behind your ribs.

"I want to say that the reason we were able to adapt to so many countries this year, the reason we never felt lost, the reason we always felt like we could handle whatever came next, is because she was there. She was always there."

He paused. The room was quiet. The other journalists had stopped shuffling. The cameras had stopped clicking. Even the members beside him had gone still, and you could feel the weight of their attention shifting between Jungwon and you without having to look.

"So thank you," he said, and his voice was steady and sincere and full of something that you could name but wouldn't, not here, not now. "Thank you for making the world smaller."

You translated the last sentence. Your voice held. Your hands, resting on the table in front of you, were trembling slightly, but nobody could see that, and your voice, your voice was perfect.

The room broke into applause. The journalist sat down with a pleased expression, already writing. The moment passed, and the press conference resumed, and you went back to doing your job the way you'd done it for eight months: flawlessly, consistently, as if nothing had happened.

But something had happened, and both of you knew it.

The clip hit the internet within an hour.

By the time the group was back at the hotel, it was everywhere. Fan accounts had clipped the moment, subtitled it in five languages, and captioned it with variations of "i’m tweaking the hell out" and "jungwon thanking their translator is the sweetest thing i’ve ever seen 🥹." Media outlets had picked it up too, with headlines calling it "the most thoughtful moment of the tour" and "ENHYPEN's leader credits their translator as the group's anchor."

You were sitting in the common area of the hotel suite they'd commandeered, pretending to review tomorrow's schedule on your phone, when the teasing started.

It started, predictably, with Sunghoon.

He walked into the room with his phone held up, playing the clip at a volume that was absolutely intentional, and sat down across from you with the serene expression of someone who was about to cause problems and enjoy every second of it.

"That sounded a lot like a confession," he said.

You didn't look up from your phone. "It sounded like a thank-you speech."

"It sounded like a confession," Sunghoon repeated, louder this time, making sure the others in the room heard.

Jay, who was sprawled on the couch with a bottle of water, looked up from his own phone. "He's right. I just watched it again. You spent three straight minutes listing her accomplishments, Jungwon. It was like you were introducing a distinguished guest speaker at an award ceremony."

Jungwon, who had been standing near the window with the specific body language of someone trying very hard to appear casual, turned around. "I was answering the question?"

"The question was about what helped you adapt," Jay said. "You gave a TED Talk about one person."

"I answered thoroughly."

"You answered personally," Sunghoon corrected.

Jake, who had been quiet until now, raised his hand from his spot on the floor where he was stretching. "Can I say something?"

"You're going to say something anyway," Riki called from the adjacent room.

"I've known Jungwon for years," Jake said, sitting up. "Years. I have never—and I mean never—been spoken about with the level of admiration he just used for our translator. I'm not offended. I'm just stating a fact, you know? That was unprecedented."

"You're offended," Riki said, wandering in.

"I'm not—okay, maybe a little. He's never called me the reason the world feels smaller."

"Nobody's ever called you that," Sunoo said, emerging from the hallway with a bag of chips. "Because nobody would."

Jake gasped. "Wow."

Sunoo sat down next to you, unaffected, and popped a chip into his mouth. Then he turned to Jungwon with an expression of pure, angelic innocence. "You've never talked about anyone that way before, though. Have you, Jungwon?"

Jungwon's jaw tightened. "I was being sincere. She deserves to be recognized."

"She does," Sunoo agreed. "And you recognized her. Very thoroughly. Very specifically. Very—what's the word—"

"Romantically," Riki supplied.

"I was going to say elaborately, but romantically works too," Sunoo said.

Riki pulled out his phone. "I've been rereading the translated snippets," he announced, and then cleared his throat with theatrical importance. "She notices when we're struggling before anyone else does." He said it in an exaggeratedly emotional voice, clutching his chest, his pronunciation deliberately dramatic. "She explains things before we even have to ask."

"Stop," Jungwon said.

"She makes the world feel smaller," Riki continued, now genuinely acting, one hand raised to the ceiling like he was in a drama. "She works harder than most people realize—"

"Dude, I’m gonna throw salt in your coffee tomorrow," Jungwon said.

"—and I just want to say, the reason we were able to adapt is because she was there." Riki placed his hand over his heart. "She was always there."

The room erupted. Jay was laughing with his head thrown back. Jake had collapsed sideways onto the floor. Sunoo was grinning so wide it probably hurt. Sunghoon was watching the whole thing with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had lit the match and was now enjoying the fire. Heeseung, who had been in the bathroom, emerged mid-scene, assessed the situation in two seconds, and leaned against the doorframe with a knowing smile.

"That's enough," Jungwon said, and his voice was firm but his ears were bright red, and the room could see it, and the room was not letting it go.

"You essentially wrote her a love letter," Jay said, recovering. "In front of the entire international press corps."

"Hey, that wasn’t a love letter—"

"You said she makes unfamiliar places feel less intimidating," Sunghoon said. "That’s practically close enough to count as a confession."

"You said she works harder than most people realize," Jake added. "That's a love letter with—whatchamacallit—citations."

"You said thank you for making the world smaller," Sunoo said, calm and devastating. "That's a love letter, a poem, and a confession at the same time."

Jungwon looked at you. For one brief, unguarded second, his eyes met yours, and in them you could see everything, the frustration, the embarrassment, the warmth underneath both. Then he looked away.

"I was being professional," he said.

"You made her translate her own compliment in real time," Heeseung said from the doorframe, arms crossed. "Quit playing."

That got another wave of laughter, and you felt your face heat up, because — yes. You had translated every word. You had stood there and converted his words into English and Japanese and Mandarin while he said them directly to you, and your voice had stayed professional, but your heart had been doing something very unprofessional the entire time.

"Actually, now that I think about it," Sunghoon said, leaning forward with the glint of someone delivering a closing argument, "this is the first time all tour that she stumbled over a translation."

Every head turned to you.

"I didn't stumble," you said.

"You paused," Sunoo said.

"I paused for half a second? That's not stumbling, if so, I was probably just catching my breath."

"That's stumbling for you," Jay said. "You've been flawless for eight months. Jungwon says something nice about you and suddenly you're half a second behind?"

"I was adjusting for his sentence structure."

"His sentence structure?" Riki repeated, delighted. "You've translated his sentence structure perfectly for eight months!"

"Silly, you're translating his emotions, not his grammar!" Jake added, pointing at you like a lawyer who'd just found a contradiction.

The room dissolved again. You pressed your lips together and stared at your phone and absolutely did not smile, because if you smiled, they would never let either of you live.

Jungwon, to his credit, held out longer than expected. He denied it twice more, with increasingly flimsy justifications, and each denial only dug him deeper because every excuse he gave was more personal than the last. "I was just being thoughtful" became "She's important to the team" became "I notice things about her because I—" and then he stopped, and the room held its breath, and he said "because I pay attention to the people around me," and the room exhaled in a collective noise of disappointment and amusement.

Later, after the noise had died down and the members had scattered to their rooms and the hotel had gone quiet, you were sitting on the edge of your bed with your earpiece out, your work bag unpacked, and your heart was still doing something it had no business doing at this hour.

Your phone buzzed.

A message from Jungwon.

Jungwon [9:13 PM]: Did you translate everything correctly?

You stared at it. Typed back.

You [9:14 PM] Yup! Every single word ☺️

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Jungwon [9:14 PM]: Good :)

A pause. Then:

Jungwon [9:15 PM]: I wanted to make sure you heard it exactly the way I meant it

God damn it, Jungwon.

You read the message four times. Then a fifth. Then you set the phone down on the bed beside you and stared at the ceiling, and the ceiling offered no help whatsoever, because the ceiling was a ceiling and you were a person who had just received a text that was not a confession except that it absolutely was, in every way that mattered, in every language you spoke.

Your phone buzzed again.

Jungwon [9:18 PM]: Goodnight 😊

You picked it up. Your thumbs hovered. Your heart was loud and insistent and thoroughly unprofessional.

You [9:19 PM]: Sweet dreams, Jungwon :-)

You sent it. You set the phone down. You pulled the blanket up to your chin and lay there in the dark of a London hotel room, in a country that wasn't yours, in a language that was, and you thought about a boy who had spent eight months learning how to say good morning in Italian just to hear you correct his accent, and who searched up memes he didn't understand just to give you a reason to explain them, and who sat on hotel floors and let you see the parts of him that the spotlights didn't reach, and who stood in front of an entire press corps and said your name like it was the most important word in the whole entire dictionary.

You thought about the fact that he wanted to make sure you heard it exactly the way he meant it.

You thought about the fact that you had. You had heard every word, in every language, in the only one that mattered.

And somewhere down the hall, in a room of the same hotel, Jungwon was probably staring at his own ceiling, phone on his chest, replaying your yes, every word on loop, holding onto it the way he held onto everything, quietly, carefully, and with the kind of sincerity that definitely did make the whole world feel smaller.

Not because the distances shrank.

But because someone had crossed them for you.

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🎹 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ഒ glue song by beabadoobee

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !