SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, bloodplay implications, sex during dissociation, power imbalance, emotional dependency, mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm, trauma, possessive behavior, emotionally intense dynamic, obsession themes. (lmk if i missed any) not proofread!

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You're running. Again. The strap of your tote bag digs into your shoulder as your shoes slap the sidewalk, water splashing up your ankles with each desperate step. Rain mist clings to your skin like sweat—except sweat would be warm. This is just cold and inconvenient. Your Literature lecture ran ten minutes over because, of course, your professor finally decided to acknowledge your existence the one time you needed to leave early. He asked for your thoughts on postmodern fragmentation in the age of digital alienation while you sat there wondering if postmodern fragmentation was what your GPA would look like this semester.

By the time you made it outside, the bus was already pulling up. You waved frantically, almost twisting your ankle as you darted across the crosswalk—nearly colliding with a cyclist. He swerved. You screamed. He cursed. It was poetic, in a tragicomedy kind of way. Now, you're clinging to the pole in the bus's center aisle, damp hair clinging to your cheeks as it rocks around corners, your phone buzzing with the time—12:46 PM.

Mrs. Do expects you at 12:30. Sharp, always sharp but today you're going to disappoint her, again and it makes you nervous cause this isn't your first fuck up. Getting off at the bus stop in Mrs. Do's neighborhood is like stepping into another world. Wide sidewalks, trimmed hedges. Every driveway is the kind of polished grey stone that seems to repel dirt on principle. The kind of neighborhood that smells like generational wealth and imported jasmine diffusers.

The sky's already sour when you round the corner onto the cobblestone lane. Gray and sullen, like it knows something you don't. Your thighs ache from sprinting across campus, your spine's slick with sweat under your too-thin hoodie, and your fingers are still raw from gripping the metal pole on the bus. You hadn't even realized how tightly you were holding on—like the bus was the only thing standing between you and collapse. You're fifteen minutes late, sixteen, actually.

The house looms before you like a museum exhibit—grand, sterile, and quiet enough to make you feel like you've already done something wrong just by being there. All tall glass windows and trimmed hedges, with a front door so glossy you can see your own desperation reflected in it. You ring the bell, sucking in a breath and she opens it almost immediately. Mrs. Do doesn't need to speak to make her opinion known. Her eyes flick down your frame—hoodie, faded jeans, dirt-smudged sneakers—and her mouth flattens like she's biting back something acidic. Her nose twitches once.

"You're late."

"I'm so sorry," you say, voice thin. "My class ran over and I missed my bus, and—" She rolls her eyes, cutting you off, "You people always have an excuse". You people. "I've already called your manager," she says coolly, stepping back just enough to make room for your shame to enter. "This is unacceptable. I hired help, not excuses."

Help. You step inside anyway because she hasn't technically slammed the door in your face yet. The floor gleams beneath your feet and you're careful not to drip on the marble. "I can still clean," you try, gripping the handle of your tote tighter. "I—I'll stay longer if you need. P—Please don't fire me." She turns slowly, folding her arms like she's posing for a luxury handbag ad. "You'll leave," she says. "And next time, be honest with yourself about what you're capable of."

That's it. No raised voice, no chance to plead. Just ice in human form and the creak of the front door swinging back open like a guillotine. You stand there a second too long—long enough for it to become pathetic—then you turn and walk back out with your head down and your heart thudding where your confidence used to be. It starts to drizzle as soon as you step off her perfect property. Of course it does.You jog down to the bus stop at the end of the street, ignoring the way your socks squelch in your shoes. Your bag knocks awkwardly against your side. You still have half a bottle of disinfectant in there, you could drink it and cleanse the humiliation right out of your system.

The bus pulls up late. You board with the same dread you imagine people feel before surgery—knowing it's necessary, knowing it's going to hurt. Inside, it's packed. You stand, gripping the pole, body swaying with every uneven turn. The lights flicker overhead. A kid is screaming two seats over. A man is coughing into his hand and not covering his mouth. You catch your reflection in the window—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, eyes dull, lips chapped from chewing them in nervous spirals. This is your life, this bus ride, this moment, is unfortunately your life. The route winds through the city, away from the clean sidewalks and polished gates, deeper into the cracked edges of town where the concrete is more gum than stone and the streetlights work in pairs—if at all. You get off at the corner near the faded liquor store, shoulders hunched under the growing weight of your day.

Your apartment building is a boxy, red-brick rectangle with iron balconies rusting at the corners. The woman who lives two floors up is yelling at her boyfriend again. You can hear every word, you wonder why they're still together seeing as they're fighting every other day. You climb the stairs slowly, dragging your legs like anchors. The third floor always smells like someone burned toast and sprayed perfume to hide it. Your door sticks and it takes three tries to get it open. The TV is already blaring, some british reality dating show, laughter, the pop of a beer can. Minjae is sprawled across the couch, shirtless, remote in one hand and a bowl in the other.

Your bowl. "Yo," he greets, mouth full. "You look like death."

"Thanks." You kick off your shoes and look around in the apartment that's in pure chaos—shoes everywhere, makeup on the kitchen counter, someone's bra dangling from the dining chair. Probably Jiyoon's. The dishes in the sink are starting grow by numbers. She appears in the hallway, barefoot and probably wine-drunk, wearing one of her boyfriend's shirts.

"Hey," she slurs. "How was the bitch?" You stare at her. "I got fired." "Again?" she groans, flopping dramatically onto the peeling loveseat. "Ugh. I told you to lie and say your grandma died. It works every time." You don't respond, heading to the kitchen to open the fridge, the light flickers when you open it. There's nothing inside except a carton of milk that expired last week and someone's half-eaten burger. You close it and lean against the counter, pressing your forehead to the cabinet above.

This can't be your life. This can't keep being your life.

Your socks are still wet when you drag yourself down the narrow hall toward the shared bathroom. You don't even bother turning on the light at first—just reach blindly into the shower caddy for your body wash, hoping a hot rinse will wash off the day, or at least the last of Mrs. Do's perfume that still clings to your sleeves like a curse. Your hand closes around the bottle.

Empty.

You blink, now flipping on the harsh fluorescent light. The bottle is sitting there—your expensive one, the only thing you splurged on in months, lavender and eucalyptus, bought during a panic attack at the drugstore like a promise to yourself that things would get better but now it's squeezed dry. You stand there, frozen. Cold water dripping off your hood. Your knuckles whitening around the neck of the bottle. "Jiyoon!" your voice cracks down the hallway like a whip.

A pause. "What?" she calls back, annoyed, like you're interrupting something important—like Love Island. You storm back into the living room, brandishing the empty bottle like evidence at a trial. Minjae doesn't even glance up from the couch, he's playing something on his phone now, earbuds in, cereal bowl at his feet. Your fucking bowl.

"Tell me this wasn't him." Jiyoon sits up, scowling at your tone. "What are you talking about?" "This." You shake the bottle. "My body wash. The one you 'borrowed' last week. It's gone. Empty. And I know you don't like the smell—so unless I'm hallucinating, your leech of a boyfriend used the last of it."

She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, it's not that deep. It's body wash." "No, it's my body wash. The only nice thing I own. And he used it, again, after eating the rest of my leftovers and leaving dirty socks in the sink and never ever paying rent!"

Minjae finally glances up, one earbud still in. "Damn. You need a Xanax or something?"

Your mouth goes dry.

Jiyoon frowns. "Okay, first of all, don't talk to her like that—"

"No, don't defend me now," you cut in, voice shaking. "You let him live here for free. You make excuses for him while I scrape together every last cent to keep a roof over our heads. I work two jobs, Jiyoon. I eat scraps. I got fired today and came home in the rain to this—and now I can't even take a damn shower without discovering he's drained the last thing I own that smells like something other than despair."

She shifts, uncomfortable. "You could've said something nicer."

"And you could've picked someone who showers in his own place instead of mine!"

Silence.

You don't cry and you won't. Not in front of him. Not even here. You don't wait for an apology that'll never come. You retreat to your room, slam the door, and lock it behind you—not because you're afraid, but because you're done.

You strip off your hoodie, throw it in the corner, and climb into bed fully damp and exhausted. The blanket clings to your legs. You curl around your pillow and let the tension tremble out of your fingertips like static electricity.

You curl up in bed fully clothed, hoodie damp and clinging to your skin, fingers still aching from scrubbing tile three days ago. The blanket smells faintly like bleach. Jiyoon is laughing in the next room, voice high and bright and grating. You close your eyes.

*•*•*

You wake up to the clink of glassware and Minjae's laugh from the kitchen, that smug, high-pitched snort that always sets your teeth on edge. There's no time to be angry—not this morning. You're already late. Again.

You roll out of bed and throw on the first vaguely clean outfit you can find, dragging a brush through your tangled hair and pinning it up like your life depends on it. Your backpack's already half-packed from the night before. You stuff in your worn-out copy of Beloved, a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbles and half-finished poems, and race out the door without breakfast.

It's colder today. The kind of cold that bites under your clothes and leaves your fingers raw. You catch the bus by sheer miracle—sprinting half a block and nearly losing a shoe in the process—and squeeze into the back seat between a teenage couple whispering too loud and a man who keeps humming to himself.

You reach campus with two minutes to spare. The lecture hall smells like chalk dust and old books. It's one of your favorite smells in the world. You slide into the third row, clutching your notebook to your chest, and feel a quiet sort of calm settle over you. This is your safe place. Literature. Language. Storytelling.

The professor enters with her usual elegance, a tall woman with soft curls and a warm smile that doesn't waver even when her students barely look up. She doesn't need to raise her voice to command the room. She carries presence the way some people carry perfume—effortlessly.

"Today," she begins, "we talk about longing." You feel your chest tighten in the most bittersweet way.

She reads a passage aloud—something from a contemporary poet you love but couldn't afford to buy the full collection of—and for a while, you forget the bruising ache in your back from yesterday, or the hollowness in your stomach. You forget Minjae. You forget Mrs. Do.

After class, you linger longer than usual, pretending to organize your papers while most students file out. Professor Cha doesn't seem surprised when you approach her desk.

"I loved what you read today," you say, voice still soft from reverence. "The way it ached."

Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. "That's a good word. A poem should ache. And yours always do."

You blink. "You read my last submission?"

"I did." She smiles, more maternal than academic now. "You write like you've lived ten lives. There's heartbreak in your syntax, but also something... resilient. It's beautiful. Raw."

The compliment hits deeper than she probably intends. You swallow. "Thank you. I... needed to hear that."

She tilts her head. "You've looked tired lately."

"I got fired," you confess, voice breaking a little at the edges. "From one of my jobs." She doesn't blink or pity you, she nods instead. "Then the world made space for something better. Keep showing up. Your stories matter even if no one pays you for them yet."

It's not much but it's enough to lift your spine straighter as you thank her and walk out the door.

The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.

You're halfway down the campus stairs, still thinking about her words, when your phone rings. A number you don't recognize, but one you know instinctively not to ignore.

You answer.

"About damn time," a gravelly voice snaps through the line. "Did you turn off your phone all day or do you just enjoy making my blood pressure spike?"

You wince. "Sorry, Cee. I was in class—"

"I don't care if you were in confession with the Pope," he growls. "You missed your shift yesterday and you got us fired from the Do account." You open your mouth to explain, but he keeps going.

"Lucky for you," he says, as if the words are knives between his teeth, "no one else wants this new job and I'm too tired to argue. Penthouse gig. Rich recluse. We charge double, client pays in advance, and no one wants to take it because apparently the guy's a freak."

You frown. "A freak?"

"Unstable. Hermit. Been on the news, but who the hell keeps track? Listen, I don't care if he's a lizard in a human suit—he's paying. You're taking it."

Your throat dries.

"How many days?"

"Three a week. Big place. Clean what you can, don't snoop. I'll send the address. Be early." and then, just before he hangs up, his tone softens—barely. "Don't mess this up, kid. You need it."

You really, really do.

You stare at the phone screen even after the call ends, the manager's words still ringing in your ears. Freak. Hermit. Don't mess this up.

The ache in your calves from walking half a mile after the bus dropped you off doesn't compare to the slow sinking in your stomach as you lift your head to take in the building before you.

It's not just big—it's obscene. The kind of place you'd see in a glossy magazine left behind in a waiting room. Black glass, white stone, gold accents on the automatic double doors. No peeling paint, no squeaky hinges, no smell of cheap weed in the lobby. You shift your backpack higher on your shoulder and wipe your palms on your pants, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you look.

The doorman gives you a glance that says you're not the usual type, but he opens the door for you anyway. Inside, the lobby is quiet. Too quiet. Your footsteps echo on the marble like you're trespassing.

You check the note your manager texted again: Penthouse, 45th floor. Don't use the front elevator. Service lift in the back.

Figures.

You find the service lift through a hallway no guest would ever wander down—a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of lemon polish and secrecy. The kind of place you get swallowed in. You step inside the narrow elevator, the floor humming under your boots.

The doors slide shut with a groan. You breathe out. The kind of breath that's supposed to steady you but doesn't.

Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.

Cee: Don't fuck this up. Get there exactly at 10, leave exactly at 4. Even if you finish early, you stay. No exceptions. And whatever you do, NEVER go upstairs. He has rules. Don't test them.

You stare at the screen.

What kind of house has an upstairs in a penthouse? you think, and the second the thought passes, the elevator dings.

The doors creak open onto a hallway draped in shadow. No welcome mat, no noise or signs of life. Just a wide, heavy door that looks more like it belongs on a bank vault than a home.

You step out.

Your boots sound stupidly loud on the marble tile, and you hesitate before raising your hand to knock. But there's no need. The moment your knuckles reach the wood, the door clicks open on its own.

Unlocked.

The place is massive. The ceilings stretch too high, the walls too white, everything too pristine. There's barely any furniture. Just space and silence and air so still it feels like it hasn't been disturbed in years. You don't call out cause your manager said he wouldn't speak to you and that he likely wouldn't even show himself.

Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.

You hold your breath and step inside.

The air smells like cedar and something colder, like snow, if snow could haunt. You set your backpack down, find the gloves and cleaning supplies neatly packed inside, and glance around for somewhere to begin. The living room stretches out in an open floor plan—windows from floor to ceiling, giving a panoramic view of the city that glitters like it belongs to someone else.

You move quietly, gently, like the house might shatter if you're not careful, there's a faint creak above you that makes you freeze.

Somewhere beyond the mezzanine level—a second floor, tucked behind shadows and sleek black railings—you hear slow footsteps. Nothing fast, just the sound of pacing but then it stops and you don't look up.

You don't have to but you can feel the weight of someone above you. Maybe it's just the paranoia settling in or maybe it's the echo of your manager's warning.

Don't go upstairs.

You lower your gaze and start cleaning the untouched coffee table. You don't see a single cup stain or a single fingerprint. You think of the journal in your bag—the one you always carry, the one you use to write about your clients. He'll be in there by tonight, nameless, faceless. The man who lives upstairs like a ghost in the penthouse he knows.

For now, you work. Quiet and invisible. There's a fine layer of dust on everything. Not filth—just time, settled air and neglect. No signs of life, no spilled coffee mugs or kicked-off shoes. Just clean lines, cold surfaces, and untouched space.

You start in the living room, wiping down the windowsills and working your way around the low furniture. The couch looks barely used, the cushions still stiff. You sweep, mop, vacuum, moving silently through the rooms that all look the same—stunning, sterile, too expensive to feel real.

In the hallway near the back, there's a closet.

You pause in front of it.

It's nothing special—just a tall, sleek black door flush against the wall like all the others. But your fingers hesitate on the handle. Something about it makes your stomach twist. A soft wrongness that makes you not open it, that makes you turn around and just keep cleaning.

By 2:30, you've gone through the whole first floor. Kitchen wiped down. Bathroom gleaming. Trash collected and everything you were paid to do—done.

But Cee's voice rings in your head; Even if you finish early—stay. No exceptions.

So you sit.

You settle into one of the chairs by the window, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass lulling you into something between boredom and thoughtfulness. You reach into your bag and pull out your journal—worn leather, pages soft at the edges.

You click your pen open and start writing.

Day one at the penthouse. It smells like dust and something else I can't quite name. The kind of clean that doesn't feel lived in. I didn't open the black closet near the back. It felt like something in a horror film but I'll pretend it's just full of broken umbrellas.

Got fired from the Do account. Still bitter. She had a face like a lemon and a heart to match. Professor was a much-needed balm in comparison—thank God for her and her endless belief in me.

New job might be decent money if I don't screw it up. Cee says the guy who lives here is a recluse. Said he hasn't left the penthouse in two years. But I don't know. Maybe he's just lonely.

You pause there, tapping the pen against the paper. The upper floor is quiet. Still. You underline the word lonely and draw a small star beside it.

At exactly 4:00, you pack up your supplies, double-check every corner, and sling your bag over your shoulder and slide your journal right back into the side pocket of your bag, safe and sound.

You take the service elevator down, your own reflection warping in the mirrored steel walls, and step out into the cool evening air. The sun is already dipping lower, the clouds streaked in gold and gray.

The bus ride home is slower than usual. You sit in the back corner, forehead pressed to the rattling glass, zoning out to the lull of traffic and tired bodies. The city outside blurs past in tired shades.

As your apartment door creaks open, you start praying no one hears or sees you. But it's already too late.

Minjae's voice rings out sharp and annoyed. "I told you I'm looking, Jiyoon. What do you want me to do, lie on a fucking application?"

Jiyoon fires back just as quickly. "No, I want you to try! I'm covering your half of the rent again this month—what do you think I am, an ATM?!"

You freeze in the doorway, trying to shrink into your coat. If you're quiet enough, maybe you can just slip past—

"Hey," Jiyoon says suddenly, spotting you over Minjae's shoulder. Her tone shifts fast—softer now, almost guilty. "You just get in?"

You nod, shrugging your bag higher. "Yeah." "How's the nut house?"

You drop your bag by the door and stare at her. "The what?"

"The place you're cleaning. You know, that recluse guy who's like—off his rocker? Isn't that what your boss said?"

You toe off your shoes and mutter, "It's just a job."

Minjae grins walking away from Jiyoon's presence like the change in topic is suddenly the end of their argument. "I bet he's got some freaky shit there. Hidden cameras. Severed heads. Weird old dude stuff."

"I don't even know if he's old," you say, voice low. "And you don't know anything about him."

Minjae snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

You turn back to Jiyoon, your constant irritation for her boyfriend crawling up your neck. "It's... weird," you admit. "But clean. Quiet. Better than getting yelled at by lemon-faced socialites, I guess."

Jiyoon gives you a weak smile. "Well, if anyone can survive a haunted tower or whatever that place is, it's you."

You hum, tired beyond belief, and slip down the hall toward your room without waiting for more, maybe more will come in the morning.

And when morning does come, it hits like a slow bruise. No alarm, just the muted scrape of a garbage truck outside and the sound of Jiyoon's laughter echoing down the hall, already too loud for the hour. You blink up at the water-stained ceiling, let the ache in your jaw settle, and for a few seconds, you don't move. The blanket's twisted around your leg like it's trying to keep you here. You wish it would.

But you're broke. So you move

You don't eat breakfast. There's no time, and besides, Jiyoon's boyfriend used the last of your cereal. You found the empty box in the sink this morning, soggy and limp with leftover milk, like a personal fuck-you from the universe.

Outside, the streets are still wet from last night's rain, the air sharp and cold enough to crack your lips. You tug your coat tighter around yourself and walk fast, half-hoping your legs will just carry you somewhere else. But the route to the campus library is too familiar, too automatic. You take the side street behind the deli, cutting through the alley behind the 24-hour laundromat where the machines always sound like they're choking. There's graffiti on the brick wall now—someone's drawn a woman with eyes for hands.

The library is warm in that stale, overused way that makes you sleepy, but you know the quiet corner where the heater rattles just enough to keep you awake. You sit with your laptop and your headphones, the cushion on the chair still warm from the last desperate student who used it.

This is job number two.

You click play on the next transcription project; an audiobook manuscript from some retired executive who thinks the world needs to hear about his rise to glory. The audio crackles. His voice is deep, smug, like he's narrating his own documentary.

"It all began with a vision. I was just a boy, standing in my father's study, realizing the empire I'd one day build..." You try not to roll your eyes. Your fingers find the rhythm. You transcribe as fast as he talks, catching every word, every pretentious pause.

"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some, like me, are greatness incarnate."

Jesus.

You pause the audio and lean back, pressing your fingers into your temples. He's unbearable. Still—you need the money, so you press play again. But somewhere in the haze of his bravado, your mind drifts, not too far, just up.

Up to the penthouse you cleaned yesterday. The thick silence, untouched surfaces and the staircase you weren't allowed to climb. It all made something you couldn't name press down on the air.

You wonder what he sounds like.

The man who lives there, the one Cee called a shut-in, a recluse. Heeseung. You only know the name because of the envelope on the front table. You weren't supposed to look, but you did. Of course you did.

You imagine his voice now, layered under the pompous narration. Not loud or self-important. Just... quiet. Measured. Maybe hoarse from disuse. You imagine what it would feel like to hear it. To be the reason it breaks the silence. Your fingers falter. The word "greatness" stutters across the screen three times in a row.

You stop typing.

And for a second, you just sit there, headphones still on, the man's voice buzzing in your ears like a mosquito trapped in a jar, and you wonder if loneliness has a sound. And if maybe you've already heard it.

You leave the library when your laptop battery dies, the sky already smudged with dusk. Your ears still ring faintly from the droning of Mr. Greatness Incarnate. You swing your bag over your shoulder, scarf loose around your neck, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets. The wind cuts sharper than it did this morning. You're too tired to fight it.

By the time you reach your apartment building, you dread the climb to the third floor, not knowing what's behind your door—and your key sticks like always when you jam it into the lock but when the door finally swings open, you freeze.

The apartment is clean. Spotless even.

No laundry tossed across the couch, no cereal bowls fossilized with milk crust sitting on the coffee table. The garbage isn't overflowing. There's even a faint citrus scent in the air, like someone opened a window and let the idea of cleanliness drift in.

And Jiyoon's on the couch. Calm. Legs tucked under her, hair braided down one side, munching on a bag of shrimp chips like this is just... normal. Like this is how things have always been.

You drop your keys into the chipped bowl by the door. "What happened?" She glances at you, shrugs. "I cleaned." You blink. "No, I mean... what happened happened. Did the landlord threaten an inspection or—"

"I broke up with Minjae," she says, and pops another chip into her mouth like she didn't just detonate an-eighteen-month-long catastrophe with five words. "Told him to pack his shit and go."

You stare. "You what?"

Her eyes don't even flicker from the TV. "He was a leech. I hate leeches."

You're still frozen in the hallway, bag slipping down your arm, unsure what dimension you walked into. The silence feels wrong. Too still. Too empty. But... not bad.

Just different.

Eventually, your feet remember what to do, and you drift to your room, slowly, almost cautiously, like something might jump out at you. You twist your doorknob, push it open—and stop again cause there's a gift bag sitting on your bed.

Brown paper, neatly folded at the top, a little gold sticker sealing the tissue paper closed. You don't touch it right away, you just stare at it like it might explode.

Then you sit, gently, fingers trembling a little now. but peel the sticker away anyway, opening the bag.

Two bottles. Your favorite body wash. The same kind Minjae used up without asking. Double this time, still sealed and tucked between them, a note—scrawled in Jiyoon's quick, sharp handwriting on a sticky note she probably pulled from her planner.

"I'm sorry."

It doesn't say anything else. Doesn't have to.

You let out this huff of a sound, half a laugh, half a sob—and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You weren't ready for this, especially not after today, not after everything you've been through this week. You sniff, smile through the sting behind your eyes, and whisper, "What the hell is going on?"

For the first time in a long time, no one answers and it doesn't feel like a threat. Just... peace. Quiet, a rare kind.

And the bathroom is yours again.

*•*•*

The next morning wakes you gently.

Not with screaming or slamming doors or the unmistakable sound of Minjae trying to justify why rent is a social construct—but with the smell of bacon.

You lie there for a moment, still curled in your sheets, nose twitching like it can't quite believe it. Bacon. And eggs. The sizzle, the clink of a pan. There's sunlight bleeding between the slats of your blinds, the kind of sleepy, golden light that feels warm just by looking at it.

You slip out of bed in your socks, shuffle into the kitchen, and there's Jiyoon—hair still messy from sleep, an oversized shirt hanging off one of her shoulders, poking a spatula at a pan like she does this every day, like this isn't a wildly new domestic era you've entered.

"Are you dying?" you ask, voice still rasped with sleep.

She smirks. "Sit your broke ass down. We're having breakfast." You do, blinking dumbly as she plates eggs and bacon and toast like some sitcom mom. The kind of meal that costs too much time and too many groceries for the world you live in. But it's real. It's on your plate. It's hot.

And it tastes like actual heaven.

"Okay," Jiyoon says through a bite, "you're not allowed to cry over eggs." "I'm not," you lie, chewing around the lump in your throat. "Shut up."

It's quiet for a beat, just the sounds of cutlery and your lives slowly stitching back together. Then she speaks, softer this time.

"I missed this."

You glance up.

"I mean—us," she says quickly. "It got weird. And Minjae was—he j—just made everything about him. And I let it happen." You nod, eyes falling to your plate. "I missed you too."

And that's all it takes. The two of you just... fall back into it. Like nothing ever cracked. Like the gap never grew wide enough to drown you.

You're halfway through your second cup of coffee when your phone buzzes. A bank notification lights up the screen.

Deposit: $400.00 — From: H.C.A. CLEANING INC.

Your breath catches and your stomach flips but you don't even have enough time to process it before a follow-up text comes in from your manager.

Cee: Well done. Keep it up.

You stare at your phone, stunned. Your fork hangs mid-air. "What?" Jiyoon leans over, eyes narrowing, trying to look at your screen. "What is it? What's that look?"

You show her the screen.

She lets out a whistle, snatching the phone out of your hand. "Four hundred dollars?! For one day?"

You nod slowly. "It's... the penthouse."

Jiyoon's eyes go wide. "Girl. Are you sure this isn't a sex dungeon?"

"It's not—!"

"I'm just saying!" she laughs, waving the phone in your face. "Do they need two cleaners? Cause I got two hands and a back that only mildly hurts."

You snort.

"No, seriously," she grins, handing your phone back. "Keep this up, and you're gonna sugar mama us out of this hellhole."

"Us?"

"Obviously. I've already picked out my new bedroom. It has a balcony."

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter today. There's food in your stomach, laughter in your lungs, and a number in your bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn't drowning, maybe someone who could start swimming soon.

You rinse your plate in the sink, tie your boots, and throw on your coat with renewed resilience. There's something weird in your chest—not bad weird. Just... fluttery. A quiet excitement you can't explain, maybe it's the money. $1200 a week is enough to make a broke girl like you feel fluttery.

The penthouse is a mystery. The man inside, even more so and something about it tugs at you. You leave the apartment with a full stomach and something flickering under your ribs that almost feels like hope.

The security guard barely glances up when you pass through the front lobby, your shoes echoing across the cold marble. You know the route now—the elevator on the far end, the one with the gilded trim and the keycard scanner that flickers green the second you swipe the little laminated badge clipped to your bag.

Penthouse access. Floor 45.

You ride up alone, the hum of the elevator filling your ears, your stomach still fluttering for some godforsaken reason. It's ridiculous, really. It's just cleaning. A job. A space.

Still—there's something about this building, this job, this man—something you don't have a name for yet. Something a little strange.

When the elevator dings open at the top floor, you step out and blink at the sheer silence. It always feels a little too still up here, like the air's holding its breath. You cross the short hallway toward the penthouse door, adjusting your bag over your shoulder, then pause.

A man is walking out.

Tall. Black coat. Black hair. He doesn't look up as he pulls the door behind him and lets it click shut. There's a thick folder of papers in his hand—some printed, some handwritten—and he's flipping through them like he's on a mission. Brows furrowed as though he's deep in thought. You shift slightly to the side, give a small, polite "Good morning," but he doesn't respond, he doesn't even glance at you.

Okay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, a little unsettled, but before your brain can start drawing conclusions, you catch something else. From behind the door.

Movement. Light.

A quiet creak, then a faint thump from the floor above. Right—he's upstairs. He hasn't come down, just like your manager said he wouldn't.

So, not Heeseung.

You shake it off, and push open the door to the penthouse. It's the same as last time. Too clean to feel lived in, a place more structure than soul. The marble kitchen glints under the soft daylight that pours in through those floor-to-ceiling windows, and the air smells faintly sterile. Like eucalyptus and untouched laundry.

You drop your bag by the door, change into your inside shoes, and head for the linen closet to start where you left off last time.

There's a note.

You spot it taped neatly to the inside of the closet door, white paper against the cool gray shelves. Typed in black ink, neatly, not handwritten.

You folded the towels wrong.

Beneath it, stapled neatly, is a printed diagram. A diagram with steps and numbered illustrations. You blink. It's absurd. It's pedantic. It's—

You laugh, quietly, to yourself. "What a nutjob," you mutter under your breath, echoing Jiyoon's words.

And then you catch yourself.

He's paying you. Four hundred dollars. For one day. To clean and to follow instructions. Folding towels properly is not asking too much—not for this kind of money, not for the kind of life you're trying to claw your way toward.

You shake your head, shoulders straightening, and refold every towel in the linen closet with the care of a military cadet. Corners aligned, fold sharp, just the way the diagram instructs.

Once you've checked them twice, you move on. The floors—again. There's always a thin veil of dust on the hardwood, like no one has lived here in years. The glass in the shower, the streaks on the chrome fixtures. You find a guest room with a window cracked just slightly, letting in the city noise below, and you seal it shut.

It's all the same movements as last time. Your body goes through the checklist while your mind wanders, as it always does. Little fragments of poetry rise up behind your eyes. A line about silence that weighs too much, about towels that speak louder than people. You file them away for later.

And like last time, you finish early.

3:26.

You double-check the space. Everything in order. Then you drift toward the single chair by the massive window that overlooks the skyline. The same chair you sat in last time. You pull out your journal, and you start writing.

He left a note about the towels. Said I did it wrong. I guess... he's not what I imagined. There's something almost neurotic about him, but not messy. Not in a Minjae way. It's all too deliberate. He's exacting. Controlled. Still not a trace of him anywhere—not a pair of shoes, not a book out of place. It's like he's trying to erase his presence even though it's so obviously here, breathing under everything.

Your pen hovers, you almost scratch it all out, but you don't.

A soft thud interrupts you. Distant. Upstairs. You freeze, eyes lifting from the page.

Another sound. A voice—muffled. A man's voice, low and smooth, bleeding through the ceiling like the floorboards are too thin to keep him contained.

You can't make out the words, but you hear the timbre. The rhythm.

You write until your hand cramps and the ink starts to skip. At 3:52, you check the time and shut the journal slowly, your gaze drifting out the window for a long moment.

But then... it happens again.

Your eyes flick to the closet door.

Same as last time. Same quiet weight pressing against your chest when you look at it. You don't know what it is about it—just a regular black door, no lock, no sign, nothing particularly ominous—but it nags at you. And before you know it, your legs are moving.

Soft steps across the hardwood. You don't even really make the decision—you just find yourself there, hand on the doorknob, heart ticking unevenly.

It's probably something stupid. Creepy. Like a skeleton, or jars of teeth. A body. It's always the ones who care too much about towel folding who hide people in their walls.

You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.

The door creaks open.

It's dim, a strip of light spilling in over your feet—and then your eyes adjust.

Not bodies. Not bones.

Photos.

Hundreds of them. Pinned to corkboard walls, stacked in boxes, frames leaning against shelves. Posters rolled into rubber-banded scrolls. A trophy case sits in the corner, glass clean, the metal plaques catching the light like little knives.

You blink, stepping in cautiously.

There are certificates. Paper yellowed with age. Borletti-Buitoni Trust Award. First Place—2022. Van Cliburn International Piano Competition 2021. Tchaikovsky Conservatory Excellence Award 2023. All in English, some in Korean, some in French.

You walk along the wall, fingertips brushing the edge of a matte photo. A group picture. A symphony ensemble, maybe. Then another, a candid shot of a teenage boy at a grand piano, his hands hovering above the keys, his brow furrowed like the music is something physical he's trying to catch.

And then another. A close-up this time. His face.

Heeseung.

Your breath catches.

He's younger in these—baby-faced almost—but you want to believe it's him. There's something about his posture, his expression, that quiet intensity even the camera couldn't wash out.

You crouch beside a crate of rolled-up posters and untangle one gently. The paper's dusty, brittle near the corners. When you unroll it, it flutters open across your lap.

A concert poster. The image glossy and faded with time: a sleek black grand piano under a single spotlight. A man sits at it, back straight, head bowed. His name sprawls across the top in elegant serif font:

LEE HEESEUNG

It's signed at the bottom, right across the curve of the piano. —With love, always, LH.

You stare at it for a long moment.

And then... the pieces begin to arrange themselves.

The penthouse. The silence. The exactness. The distance. And now—this.

He must've been a concert pianist.

You blink again, stunned that you'd never heard of him. Someone who'd clearly been celebrated, decorated, known. At some point, at least.

You tuck the poster back carefully and ease the door shut behind you. But the quiet feels different now. Not empty.

The whole bus ride home, your brain won't stop flipping through those images—trophies, posters, photos, that signature on the rolled-up poster. With love, always, LH. You hold it all in your head like puzzle pieces that almost fit, just not quite yet. But there's no mistaking it—the man in the penthouse was someone once.

The apartment smells like garlic and soy sauce when you walk in. You blink at the strange scent, automatically bracing for another fight—but it's quiet. Peaceful, even. The living room light is on, and Jiyoon's perched on the couch still in her stiff black skirt and her knock-off kitten heels, hair pinned up and eyeliner smudged.

"Hey," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Dinner's in the microwave. I made bulgogi."

You pause in the doorway, still blinking, confused. "You cooked?"

She shrugs. "Had a day. Needed to stir something before I murdered someone."

You heat up your plate and sink into the couch beside her, pulling your knees up and balancing the food on top. The meat is tender, warm and sweet, and the rice is just sticky enough.

"So?" she mumbles, mouth full of chips. "How's the nutjob in the tower?"

You laugh, almost choking on rice. "He's not a nutjob."

"Old man, then."

You glance at her. "He's not old."

She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? And how do you know that?"

You chew slowly, smirking to yourself. "I did his laundry today."

"Oh?" She sits up straighter, grinning. "And what? The briefs don't lie?"

You laugh, snorting, and try to wave her off, cheeks hot. "No, just—his clothes. They weren't... old man clothes."

She gives you the most exaggerated eyebrow wiggle you've ever seen. "Ohhhh. So they were hot man clothes."

"Shut up."

"You want to see what he looks like," she accuses, pointing a chip at you.

You mumble something under your breath, something you don't even realize you've said aloud until she gasps.

"What was that?" she demands. "Tell me. Tell me right now."

You set your plate aside and sink into the couch cushions, eyes on the ceiling. "Okay. Fine. I opened some weird closet in his hallway today"

Her jaw drops.

"And?"

You tell her everything. The photos. The awards. The posters and the certificates. The name. The signature. The signed poster. You recite the words, LEE HEESEUNG.

She blinks. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You mean the dude you clean for is famous?"

"Was," you say softly. "I think he was famous. He was a concert pianist."

There's a beat of silence then she's snatching up her laptop. "What are we doing just sitting here? Let's Google him."

You shift beside her as she types in his name watching it autofill halfway through. She scrolls.

First result: a blurry photo of a younger Heeseung at a concert, fingers splayed on the keys.

Second result: Top 10 Rising Stars of the Classical World.

Third: The Golden Boy of the Grand Piano—Why Lee Heeseung Was Next.

There are photos—clean, posed ones, then live shots of him in motion, bent over the keys, expression contorted like the music is tearing out of him.

"Damn," Jiyoon whispers. "He was hot."

You smack her arm. "Focus."

She scrolls again—and then pauses.

You feel her go still beside you.

Her thumb hovers over the next headline.

Concert Pianist Lee Heeseung Suffers On-Stage Mental Breakdown During Performance.

Your stomach drops. It's dated 2 years ago.

"Holy shit," she whispers.

There's a thumbnail image of the article and beneath it, a video. Your fingers are trembling but you press play anyway.

The video opens on a massive concert hall. Heeseung sits alone at a grand piano under a soft blue spotlight. There's silence—and then music. Soaring, masterful, all-consuming. His fingers move like they're made of air.

He plays so beautifully that you find yourself immersed but then, something shifts.

His hands slow. His face tenses. He mutters something under his breath, eyes wide like he's seeing something the rest of the room can't. Then—

A violent slam of the keys.

The audience flinches.

He starts playing again, erratically, pounding the piano with discordant noise. His head jerks to the side. He mutters again, louder this time. Words you can't make out. Security rushes the stage. The video ends in chaos, with the camera shaking, audience gasping.

You stare at the screen long after it's gone black.

"That's why," you whisper.

Jiyoon nods slowly. "That's why he lives like that now."

Neither of you speak for a long time. There's just the hum of the microwave clock ticking forward, the faint buzz of the fridge, the afterimage of that video burned into your mind.

Heeseung isn't just a recluse. He's a man who was once made of music—and then unraveled by it.

The video plays again in your head when the screen's long since gone black.

Heeseung's face in that last shot—wild and glassy-eyed, haunted—lingers like smoke. Even with the dinner gone and the dishes rinsed, even with the taste of bulgogi faded from your tongue, it clings to your ribs.

Jiyoon breaks the silence first. She sets her laptop down with a sigh and rubs her forehead like she's trying to will away her own stress.

"Anyway," she mutters, "my manager's still a raging bitch."

The shift in topic feels abrupt, like someone slammed the door on something unfinished. You blink and turn your head, trying to meet her halfway.

"She moved my report to a different folder this morning and then cc'd her manager asking where mine was," Jiyoon grumbles, tossing a chip in her mouth. "Like she didn't just put it there herself. I swear she's trying to build a case to get me fired."

You hum a vague sound of sympathy, but your eyes are unfocused. Your thoughts are half in that concert hall, half in that penthouse closet, all tangled up with things that don't make sense yet.

Jiyoon squints at you, crunching slowly. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, blinking hard. "Sorry. I just..."

"You look tired," she says gently. "Like tired-tired. Go to bed."

You nod. "I will. Just—gonna change first."

She lets you go, and you disappear into your room, clicking the door shut behind you.

The quiet hits fast.

You peel off your jacket, your jeans. Change into your sleep shirt. The light on your desk is soft and yellow, and you go to your tote bag by instinct, unzipping it without thinking.

You freeze.

Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.

You check again.

Then again.

Your journal's not there.

You turn the bag upside down—shake it, even though you know how pointless it is—and the only thing that falls out is a used lip balm, your wallet and your bus pass.

You drop to your knees beside the desk, rifling through the bag's compartments. Check under your bed. In your drawers. You dig through the laundry pile.

Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.

A whole year and a half. That's how long you've been writing in that journal. Every scattered thought, every tiny win, every loss, every panic attack, every private daydream. It's not just a notebook—it's you. You wrote yourself into those pages, over and over and you can think is; it's gone.

You dart back into the living room, voice already strained. "Jiyoon—have you seen my journal? The brown one?"

She looks up from her phone, blinking. "Journal? No. Did you leave it at the library?"

You shake your head too fast. "No—I had it with me. I know I had it with me. I wrote in it today, I always put it in the tote after, I—I—"

She sits up straighter. "Okay, hey. Don't panic. Maybe it slipped out on the bus?"

You clutch your arms, stomach turning. The thought of it sitting there in some grimy bus seat, left behind, already flipped through by strangers, your handwriting exposed—your insides exposed—makes you sick.

Your throat tightens.

"Hey," Jiyoon says, getting up now, her voice softer. "It's okay. We'll retrace your steps tomorrow, alright?"

But you're already crying. Not big sobs—just quiet, stunned tears, the kind that sting as they fall, the kind you can't stop once they start.

You laugh bitterly through it, pressing your palm to your mouth. "It's stupid," you mumble. "It's just a journal."

"It's not stupid," Jiyoon says, crossing the room and pulling you into a hug.

You close your eyes. Her office clothes smell like starch and soy sauce and the bad perfume her coworker probably wears, but her arms are warm and solid around you.

Still, your heart aches like something's gone missing.

And somewhere—somewhere else—those pages are no longer just yours.

*•*•*

You don't even realize how much weight you've been dragging until it starts to leave marks—under your eyes, behind your ribs, along your spine.

It's been a whole day without it. Twenty-four hours without your journal and you're already unraveling. Not crying anymore—just dulled out. The kind of sadness that makes everything taste like paper, feel like static.

Jiyoon tried her best. She really did. She even called in sick that morning just to help look. Said her manager could go chew on gravel, she didn't care. She pulled you out of bed, made you drink an iced coffee, and walked with you back to every single place you'd been.

You retraced your steps with her hand on your shoulder the entire time—gentle, like you'd break.

Back to the library. Back to the plaza where you sat for five minutes waiting on the bus. You even got on the same damn route, asked the driver if he'd seen a brown journal with an elastic band and too many taped-in receipts.

Nothing.

Just a kind smile from a man who said he was sorry and wished you luck.

So when Friday comes around—when you have to drag yourself out of bed again for the penthouse job—you feel heavy. Disconnected. You brush your teeth with your eyes half-closed. Tie your laces without bothering to double knot them. You're not crying, not even angry, just—

Faded.

You leave the house a little past nine. Jiyoon waves from the couch but doesn't try to stop you. She knows money talks, even when you're too tired to listen.

You arrive at ten sharp like always. Same hallway, same elevator ding, same code punched into the keypad.

The door opens.

And the stillness inside hits you harder than usual. Not just quiet—vacant. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

You don't bother kicking off your shoes this time.

You walk in and turn toward the kitchen to get the supplies—straight to the cabinets under the sink—and that's when you freeze.

There.

On the counter.

Your journal.

You stand still for so long the air starts to pulse in your ears cause it's open. Pages parted like a secret mid-sentence. And the breath that's been caged in your lungs for a whole day catches halfway up your throat.

You move closer. Like if you blink too hard it'll vanish.

It's turned to that entry. The one you wrote after cleaning here the first time—where you wrote about the towels and the light and the strange emptiness of a life lived up high and alone. The part where you called him lonely.

Your eyes track the handwriting in the margin. Small. Neat. Slightly angled.

An arrow is drawn from the word lonely and next to it, in ink that definitely isn't yours:

you have no idea.

Your throat goes dry.

You run your fingertips over the words—his words—like touching them will make them make sense. But they don't. Not really. They just buzz in your chest like something secret and sad and suddenly real.

He read it. He read it.

And not just read it—responded.

You sink into the nearest stool, heart hammering, holding the journal like it might slip away again.

This man—this ghost of a man, the one who hides behind silence and rules and perfectly folded towels—he read you. And then he left this like it wasn't a confession. Like it wasn't a crack in the wall you didn't think you'd ever see.

"You have no idea."

You don't.

But for the first time, you think you want to so you tear a sheet from the back of your journal. The lines are faint blue, the edge ragged where it rips. You stare at it longer than necessary—like the paper's going to change its mind about letting you say what you need to.

Your hand shakes as you write it, "I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest."

You don't sign it.

You fold it in half once, then again. Then you slide it under the coaster on the marble coffee table—tucked, but not hidden. If he wants to find it, he will.

And then you're out the door. Before 4, for the the first time not caring about the rule.

*•*•*

When you get home, Jiyoon's door is locked. You knock once, then try the handle. Still locked. "Jiyoon," you call. "Let me in." Nothing, so you knock harder. When she finally opens it, her hair is a mess and her cheeks are a deep, guilty pink. She looks like she just sprinted a mile and saw God somewhere in the middle of it.

You know what she was doing but you don't care, you just brush right past her and drop your journal on her bed like it's a live grenade.

"He read my fucking journal," you hiss, turning on your heel. "He wrote in it." "What!?" Jiyoon gasps, not even trying to play it cool. "That's where you left it?!"

"I didn't mean to!" "Wait—he wrote in it? Like, wrote wrote? Pen to page?" You nod, pacing like your bones are electric. "He responded to a line I wrote about him being lonely. Just—drew an arrow to it and wrote 'you have no idea.' Like what the fuck is that even supposed to mean!?" "That's—" She stops. Blinks. Then starts again, because of course she has to. "That's kind of hot," she says, lips twitching.

"Jiyoon!" "Okay, okay! It's fucked up, but it's also..." She trails off, thoughtful. "It's kind of giving tortured artist. Haunted tower. Piano-playing ghost with emotional constipation." You flop onto her bed, face buried in your hands. "I feel violated. But also like...I violated him first? Is that weird? I feel like we both got naked and didn't mean to."

"That is the weirdest metaphor you've ever said," Jiyoon mutters, but there's affection under it and you're about to respond but then your phone rings. Shrill and loud against the padded silence of Jiyoon's room. You check the screen and it's Cee. You answer it with a sigh. "Hello?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He barks immediately. "Did you leave before 4?" Your stomach drops. "Yes, I did, but—"

"You had clear fucking instructions! You don't leave before 4. Ever."

"I had to. I was done, I—" "I don't give a shit," he snaps. "From now on? You clean for him every day. That's what he wants." You blink. "Every day?"

"Every. Fucking. Day. Starting tomorrow." The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly and Jiyoon's looking at you like you just told her you're moving to Mars. "You're cleaning for him every day?" You nod, feeling numb. She whistles. "Guess you better start folding towels in your dreams."

You flop back on her bed again, journal beside you, limbs heavy and brain scrambled, because somehow this man has read your secrets, insulted your towel folding, haunted your thoughts and gotten you trapped in a daily cleaning contract. You stare at the ceiling, heart a mess of beats. You truly have no idea what the hell you've gotten yourself into, just like Heeseung wrote.

*•*•*

You hate today. Not in the throwaway I-hate-Mondays kind of way, but in that deep, simmering, "I'd rather get hit by a bus than scrub your already-clean floors for six hours" kind of way. It's Saturday. Saturday. And you're supposed to be doing anything else. Sleeping in. Going to the corner store with Jiyoon in your pajamas. Sitting in silence and mourning the part of yourself that used to be a free woman.

Instead, you're here. The penthouse again. Cold and looming and weirdly beautiful in a way you hate to admit. It's only 9:30. You're early and you could wait. You should wait. But something reckless and slightly unhinged is buzzing in your blood—maybe it's the journal thing, or the fact that he read every single thing you've ever written about yourself. You don't know.

You just know that this time, you're not waiting. You take the elevator up. No code. No warning. Just your footsteps, soft and slow, echoing across the marble as you step into the penthouse and then—you stop. Dead.

Because there's someone already down here, in fact two someones. One of them, you recognize as the man you saw leaving that day—now unmistakably a doctor of some sort, clipboard in hand, every movement clinical and restrained. He's sitting next to another man. A man who's— Oh fuck.

Shirtless.

Barefoot. Wearing only a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips like they're barely there at all. Lee Heeseung, the one on all the pictures and posters in the haunting closet, the one from the articles you saw.He's not a ghost or a shadow upstairs. He's definitely real and he's here, laughing at something he just said, a low warm sound that breaks the silence—and then cuts off the second he sees you.They both stare and you can't help but stare back cause your brain short-circuits because not only is he real—he's gorgeous. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that feels cruel. Sharp jaw, dark hair a mess, skin golden and soft in the morning light and then the audacity of the amused curl of his mouth as he takes you in.

The doctor doesn't laugh at Heeseung's joke, he just closes his clipboard with a hard snap, locks the files into a black case with practiced hands, mutters something clipped to Heeseung, and walks past you like you're air. You don't move, not because you don't want to but because you can't. And now Heeseung just stands there, right in front of you, 6 feet away. Shirtless.

As if this is all some sort of routine, where he expected you to show up early to catch him sitting there. Then he speaks. Voice low, smooth, maddeningly calm. "You're early."

You blink, stunned mute. He cocks his head slightly. Barely.

"Is this how you always barge into my home?" You open your mouth but you have to close it again because no words will come out.Because all you can think is holy shit. Not only is he not old, like Jiyoon said, not only is he not some weird piano hermit ghost—he is breathtaking. And apparently, deeply unbothered by the fact that you've just witnessed whatever strange intimate evaluation that was.

"I—sorry," you finally manage, voice rough to the point of shame. "I didn't think—there was someone—upstairs, usually—" Heeseung raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You didn't think as I didn't think you'd be here before ten, hmm?" You bristle, flustered and mortified and somewhere under all that, burning. "I'm just here to clean." He smiles at that and it's not kind, it's not mocking either. Just... knowing, he's got that look—the kind that says he's already pages ahead in your journal entry for tonight, already memorized the lines, already knows exactly how this ends.

"Good," he says. "Then clean." And he walks past you—slow, easy, barefoot steps—disappearing back up the stairs without another word. Leaving you there, alone with your rage, your humiliation, and your heart pounding so loud in your chest it echoes in the silence. What do you do now? You clean. Of course you do. That's what you're here for, and you already showed up thirty minutes earlier than you were supposed to, so now you're finishing faster than usual—dusting the shelves with extra care just to stall, organizing the rows of books he never touches, wiping down the marble countertops even though they don't look like they've been used in days.

And all the while your brain won't stop looping back to your journal on his kitchen counter, to the handwriting in the margins that isn't yours, to the arrow pointing right to the word lonely and the quiet weight of you have no idea written beneath it.

It's unfair, you think, the way he's just living in his architectural digest penthouse, barefoot and cryptic, while you're pacing through his living room, trying not to wonder how much of your life he's read. You almost forget the weight of it—almost—until he's suddenly back.

You hear him before you see him, the soft sound of his footsteps against the dark wood floor, and when you turn, there he is.

Coming down the stairs like a fucking problem you can't afford to have, still barefoot, still in those jeans that hang too low on his hips, but now in a loose linen shirt that he didn't even bother to button all the way.

It's distracting, infuriatingly so. You don't even want to think about how hot he is—because it's wrong, and messy, and also, you're still mad.

He sees you before you can pretend you weren't watching him descend like some kind of fallen angel with unresolved trauma, and for a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there at the bottom of the stairs, head tilted slightly, his eyes unreadably deep, like he's trying to pin you to the spot with silence alone.

Then he turns, walks toward the closet in the hallway—the one with the photographs and trophies and that signed, rolled-up poster of his own damn face—and you stare after him without meaning to, without even trying to be subtle. There's something about the way he moves, like someone who hasn't had to explain himself in years, like someone who only speaks when the silence becomes too loud to tolerate.

You don't expect him to come back out and walk straight toward you and you definitely don't expect him to stop right in front of you to speak.

"Do you always sit in my chair when you psychoanalyze me in your journal?" His voice is even, smooth, and just sharp enough to make your jaw clench. There's something teasing in it, mocking maybe, or maybe just observant, but either way—it makes your chest tighten.

You straighten where you sit, looking up at him without flinching. "You had no right to read my journal."

He doesn't flinch either.

"You wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?"

And that's what throws you—how casual he says it, how unbothered he is by the violation, like it was never that serious to begin with.

In your head, you're screaming. Not because you're scared, but because it's almost worse that he read it without hesitation. Because that journal was yours, it was everything. A year and a half of pain and boredom and loneliness and softness and tiny bursts of joy that you didn't know where else to put. Little poems about love you've never felt. Sentences that barely made sense to you at the time. Half-finished stories and full-bodied grief. And now he knows. Maybe not all of it—but enough.

You bite your tongue before your mouth runs wild, but your thoughts are already racing.

He read it. He read all of it, probably. God, did he see the poem you wrote about the boy who only existed in your dreams? Did he read the list of things you want to do before you die? Did he see the part about wanting someone to ask you how your day was, without needing a reason?

You want to be mad. You are mad. But under that is the hot sting of embarrassment, the helplessness of being seen without warning, without consent.

He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.

You blink hard. "It wasn't for you."

"I figured."

You exhale sharply through your nose. "Then why did you—"

He cuts you off without cutting you off. His voice is softer this time. "I found your note."

That makes your stomach turn.

You remember the note. I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest.

You didn't even think when you left it. You just wrote it and ran. And now he's standing here, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, chest half-exposed, staring at you like your truth didn't scare him off at all.

"I don't think you're invasive," he says. "You were just... honest, like you said."

That word again.

And suddenly you're not sure what this is anymore—what he is. Because he's not yelling. He's not smug. You don't even think he's trying to humiliate you, he's just standing there, calm, casual—as if this is routine, as if your journal wasn't a goddamn blueprint of everything you never said out loud. As if he didn't drag his pen under the word lonely and scrawl you have no idea in the margins, careless, cruel, and so absurdly calm about it.

You really don't know what to say but you guess your silence must say enough, because his eyes soften just enough to sting.

"People don't usually stay when I'm honest," He says it like it's already written in stone, something that happened, not something he's choosing.

You just sit there, unsure if you're still furious or if your heart just broke a little for a man you don't understand at all.

You really want to ask him why he wrote in your journal, why he felt comfortable enough to reply to it like you were in some kind of conversation. You should get up and walk out, slam the door for good measure, remind him you're the help and he's a man who's too comfortable living above the rest of the world, shirtless and half-smiling at things that should have been private. But instead, you're still sitting there.

And instead of leaving, you ask, "What's with the whole coming at ten and leaving at four thing?"

He blinks.

It's not the question he expected, maybe not the one you expected either, but it's already out in the air now and hanging between you like mist.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly as he leans a hip against the back of the chair across from you. You watch the movement—too closely—and hate how your eyes keep catching on the little things: the curve of his collarbone, the faint line of a vein down his forearm, the way he smells faintly like vanilla and clean linen. You force your gaze back up to his face.

He doesn't answer right away.

Then, after a moment, he says, "I just thought six hours was enough time for you to do what you needed."

It's almost clipped, controlled.

"And..." He pauses, eyes flicking to the side, as if choosing his next words carefully. "It's better for you if you follow it."

You blink. "What do you mean better for me?"

He shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant but not exactly casual. "You walked in on something you weren't supposed to see this morning."

Your mind flashes back to that moment—the doctor, the manilla folders, the way Heeseung was sitting on the chair laughing to himself with no shirt on and then suddenly not laughing at all.

Your throat feels a little dry.

"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.

He nods once. "Yeah." Then, quieter, "There are... things I deal with. Things I don't need anyone witnessing."

It's not quite a warning. Not quite a confession either. It floats in the space between.

You shift in your seat, uncertain. "So the schedule is more for... your privacy?"

He lets out a sound that's almost a laugh but not quite, low and humorless. "Sure. Let's go with that."

There's something in the way he says it that tells you he doesn't really mean it—not entirely. Like there's more he could say if he wanted to, but he doesn't.

Still, you nod slowly, even though you don't really understand. Even though the idea of spending six hours in a place that holds your most personal words hostage is suffocating.

Even though his presence is starting to feel... electric in the worst and best way.

And then, after a beat, you ask softly, "And what happens if I don't follow it?"

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And for a second, something shifts. The air between you turns thicker, heavier. You can feel his eyes like heat on your skin.

"I don't think you'd want to find out," he says, voice low and quiet, but not threatening. Just true.

And you believe him.

Not because you think he'd hurt you. But because there are some parts of him—some stories, some shadows—you haven't earned the right to touch yet.

You don't answer.

You just hold his gaze until it feels like it burns and then drop your eyes to your hands and stand up to walk away, walk towards the door

He straightens then, subtly, pushing off from the chair like the moment's passed. You don't know if you're relieved or disappointed.

"Of course a person as beautiful as you would write so heartbreakingly beautiful." It's low. Almost to himself. Like he didn't mean to say it aloud.

But you hear it.

And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.

You turn—just slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He's not even watching you. He's looking down at the floor, one hand resting loosely on the back of the chair like he hadn't just broken you open and left you bleeding all over his expensive floors.

"What did you ju—" you almost ask but he's already cutting you off. "You're done for the day, right?"

You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.

"Then you should go."

You turn around and walk slowly, legs a little stiff, journal heavy in your bag, chest heavier still.

And as you move past him, toward the front door, he doesn't say anything else.

He just watches you go.

You walk home like your body isn't yours, it feels like your bones are made of sound, the way you hear everything but can't feel a single step. Your bag is even heavier than it should be for some reason.

The door to your apartment creaks as you open it. Warmth hits you in the face. Jiyoon's music is loud—some upbeat synth-pop song she always plays when she's cooking—and the smell of garlic and oil and something spicy wraps around you like a familiar blanket. But you don't step in right away. You stand in the doorway a little too long, still wearing your shoes, still holding your keys in one hand like you forgot what they're for.

Then she turns. She sees you.

And she freezes.

The music doesn't. But she grabs her phone and hits pause mid-chorus, eyebrows already pulled together in the way they do when she's bracing herself for gossip. "You look... feral."

You blink. "What?"

"Your face," she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you. "It's giving war-torn romantic heroine. What happened?"

You close the door behind you. You walk inside. You don't know where to begin.

So you say the first thing that spills from your mouth.

"I saw him."

She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"

You nod.

"Lee Heeseung?"

You nod again.

She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.

You don't laugh. You can't.

"He was shirtless," you add quietly, like it's something illegal.

Jiyoon makes a noise so high-pitched only the dead could hear it.

"No. No. No," she says, rushing over and grabbing both your arms like she's checking for a pulse. "You have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Did he talk to you? Did he breathe near you? Did he smell good? Does he look weird? Did you black out? Are you still alive? Blink twice if you need CPR."

You let out a long breath, barely a laugh. "He was laughing with some man. A doctor, I think. He was barefoot. Just jeans, low. He didn't even look at me at first. Just kind of... existed."

You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles start to ache.

"Then he did see me later when he came back down, I was sitting. In that chair I said I always journal in. And he just... stared. Then he disappeared into that hallway closet with all the photos and came back out without something, and I watched him the whole time like a creep." Jiyoon looks winded. "This is already the best thing I've ever heard."

"He asked me if I always sit in his chair when I psychoanalyze him in my journal." Her eyes explode. "No."

You nod. "Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I told him he had no right to read it."

"Did he deny it?" You shake your head slowly. "He said—and I quote—'you wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?'" Jiyoon puts her whole body on the counter, like gravity's too much. "This is sick. This is sick. I can't believe you're living out the plot of the exact kind of emotionally unstable literature you always say you hate." You let your head fall next to hers. "I'm going to have to switch some of my classes."

She lifts her face, blinking. "Wait, what?"

"I can't keep going in the mornings. Not if I'm cleaning for him every day. The only opening left in my schedule is evening sections and some online ones, and I'll probably miss my favorite professors class."

"You love that class."

"I know."

"I don't know if you can tell but you're kind of acting like it's worth it"

*•*•*

You wake up feeling weirdly... eager. Which is insane in your opinion. It's cleaning. You're going to clean for six hours in a house where the walls are silent and the air feels kind of tight, and maybe—maybe—he'll come down again. Maybe he won't. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You dress in your usual oversized tee and leggings, but you switch your sneakers for the cleaner pair, the ones without scuff marks. You spend longer on your face than necessary. Just moisturizer, a little concealer—nothing obvious. Just in case. You tell yourself it's just habit. You tell yourself a lot of things.

You get there at 9:57. By 10:02, your coat is hung up and the cleaning supplies are laid out in their usual corners. The house is quiet—same as always—but now it's a different kind of quiet. Now you know who it's holding and it makes you all irrationally aware of everything.

You start with the mirrors.

Not because they're dirty. They're not.

But because they reflect the hallway, and every time you glance up, you can see the top of the stairs.

By 11:17, you've vacuumed every rug on the main floor. Nothing.

By 12:04, you've re-organized the kitchen drawers. Again. Not that he'd notice. You don't even know if he uses them.

By 12:58, you're dusting frames that don't need dusting, glancing at the ceiling like footsteps might fall out of it.

By 1:45, you've convinced yourself he's not coming down. That yesterday was a one-off. That he's upstairs doing whatever rich, complicated people do—brooding maybe, like some Austenian shut-in. You try to laugh at yourself for even caring but it sits low in your chest. He's just a man, you only even met him once.

So why does it feel this weird? You're so distracted you almost forget to check the pantry. You always check the pantry. And when you finally do, you find it's already been stocked. Someone else did it.

Maybe him.

Your stomach turns and don't know why. By 3:50, you're packing your things, fingers slow on the zipper of your bag. By 3:56, you're glancing around the room like it might give you a reason to stay longer. By 3:58, you hear it.

Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.

Heeseung. Descending the stairs like it's nothing. Like he didn't make you wait all day without knowing you were waiting. He's wearing another linen shirt—this one in charcoal—and it's loose over his frame, the top two buttons undone. His hair is a little messy, like he's been lying down or pulling his fingers through it and, he's barefoot again. He smiles.

"Hey," he says, voice warm in that slow, easy way. "You're still here." You swallow. "Not for long."

He steps down the last stair. "How was your day?" You blink at him. It takes a second for your voice to catch up. "I spent it here. You tell me." His brows lift a little. Not offended—more amused. He shifts his weight and leans against the banister.

"I missed my favorite class."

"You're a student? And you missed a class? Because of this?" You glance down at your hands. They're still a little red from scrubbing tile. "Yeah."

He's quiet for a second. "Have you had dinner?" You start to say no—but your stomach betrays you before your mouth can lie. It growls. Audibly. Your eyes go wide and he laughs at your expression. "Sit," he says, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."

You blink. "What? No, that's not—" He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Sit." And there's something in the way he says it that has you obeying, hesitantly still. The counter's cool beneath your palms as you lower yourself into the chair, eyes tracking his every movement. He moves so naturally in the kitchen—opens the fridge with one hand, pulls down a skillet with the other, all casual familiarity and soft clattering sounds. It smells like garlic again. Butter. Something fresh.

"What are you making?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."

Heeseung's cutting vegetables like he's done it a thousand times. He slices a tomato without looking down, throws it into a pan, then adds something else from a jar. The sizzle is instant.

You lean forward. "Do you cook for all your maids?"

He pauses, halfway to the sink. Then he glances at you, a slow grin spreading across his mouth. "You're barely a maid."

"Excuse me?"

He shrugs again, that same lazy charm. "Have you seen the state of the guest bathroom?"

You laugh—actually laugh, the sound startling even to you but you catch yourself wondering why you're not offended he just insulted your cleaning skills. You watch his smile grow wider and somehow, in the scent of sautéing herbs and low music playing from the speaker he must've turned on when you weren't looking, it feels normal. Almost. Except not at all. Because when he sets the plate down in front of you, you look up to thank him—and he's already watching you. Eyes soft and focused.

And for the first time all day, your chest doesn't feel so tight.

You dig in and it's stupidly delicious, making your eyes go wide again, mouth still full. "Okay.

That's insane."

Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.

You point your fork at him. "You made this? Just now?"

He nods, watching you intently. It doesn't take long before the plates are empty—yours cleaned down to the sauce, his barely touched—and there's music playing from somewhere in the house, something soft and unfamiliar, all instrumentals and quiet piano.

You're both still sitting at the counter, opposite ends, your elbows propped up, legs curled beneath the stool. He's lounging with his long body twisted toward you, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a wine glass he hasn't taken a sip from yet.

The conversation has slowed into something looser now—easier. He asked what books you've been reading lately. You asked if he's always this good at cooking. He pretended to be modest and then very much wasn't.

And then you ask, "Why every day?"

He looks at you. "Why did you suddenly want me to come clean every day?" There's a beat of silence. Heeseung's gaze drops to the rim of his glass, the edge of his thumb skimming around it once, twice.

"When I saw your note," he says finally, voice lower now, "I didn't know what to do with it." He lifts his eyes, meets yours.

"I knew you weren't going to come again until the day after next. And it made me... restless. Waiting for a reply. Not being able to ask."

You inhale, slow and careful.

"And then I read your journal."

You stiffen a little, but he doesn't apologize. He doesn't even flinch.

"I didn't read all of it," he adds, leaning forward, closer. "I swear. Just some pages. A few entries. And one poem."

You stare at him.

He sets the glass down. Both elbows on the counter now. His fingers lace together.

"I read this line—" he begins, eyes on yours, "Your silence filled the house louder than your voice ever did."

You're stunned like your brain can't comprehend he's reciting your poem word for word.

He doesn't even blink. "I memorized the gaps in your sentences like scripture. I waited for the ending, but all you left was air."

Your mouth opens—just barely—but you can't speak.

"There's still a teacup on the windowsill. There's still a sweater on the hook. There's still a ghost in the shape of you that lives in the room where you never said goodbye."

You whisper the final two lines without thinking.

"And I still set the table for two, like a fool. Like you might remember that you left me starving."

His lips part—just slightly. Your voice had gone soft at the end, cracking a little, like it didn't want to be said out loud. And maybe it didn't. Maybe it never was.

You didn't even think it was that good. You wrote it half-asleep. You'd forgotten you even. "I needed to know," he says, not looking away, "who could write something like that."

You're quiet for a long time. "You shouldn't have read it."

"I know."

"I didn't write it for anyone to—"

"I know," he says again, voice quiet now. "But I couldn't help it. I wanted to meet the person behind it. I wanted to see if you'd look at me the way your words did."

The room is suddenly very still.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if there's even language for the way your body is reacting. There's heat in your throat, under your skin, behind your ribs. You should leave. You really should but instead you ask, "Do I?"

His brow creases. "Do you what?"

"Do I look at you that way?"

He doesn't answer your question, not with words anyway. Just studies you with that same unreadable stare, something flickering behind his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

And then, as if someone's pressed fast-forward on the moment, he shifts his weight back and clears his throat softly. "Do you play any instruments?" he asks, voice casual, like he didn't just memorize one of the most vulnerable things you've ever written.

You blink. "What?"

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the counter. "You write. I assumed you like music."

"I do," you say carefully. "I like listening more than anything. I used to sing."

He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"

You sigh, deflecting. "It's different when people are watching. When you're older. The recorder was more forgiving."

That gets a real laugh out of him. He tilts his head, grinning. "The recorder?"

"Yes, and I was a prodigy. First chair in third grade." You press a hand to your chest dramatically. "The youngest to ever play Hot Cross Buns with such emotional depth."

He snorts and leans closer like he's about to say something else, but the next thing you know, he's not across the counter anymore—he's beside you.

You don't know exactly when he moved, maybe it was when he stood up from the stool to put the plates in the sink, still laughing about the recorder joke.

His elbow brushes yours. His shoulder is an inch from yours. You feel his presence like heat—radiating and dangerous in the best possible way.

And somehow, you're still laughing. You're still talking about childhood instruments and music you like and whether jazz is romantic or just sad in a pretty way. He teases you for not knowing any Miles Davis and you tease him back for quoting poetry like a teenage girl with a Tumblr account.

It's light. Easy. It's so different from the static in the air earlier this week, from the careful distance you both tried to maintain. But now...

Now his hand brushes the counter beside yours. And your breathing changes. And the silence feels like a held breath.

You don't look at each other—you're still talking, kind of. But your voices are softer now. Lower. A little slower.

And then it happens.

Your eyes meet.

His face tilts just slightly toward yours, making your breath catch.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you and doesn't. His eyes drop to your lips. He leans in, just a little—just enough that the space between you crackles—and you feel yourself tilting too, breath hitching, mouth parting.

And then he pulls back, all too quick and 

sudden. He clears his throat, looks away, stepping back so abruptly he almost knocks over the stool that was next to you.

You flinch at the sound.

"I—" he starts, then shakes his head, jaw tight. "You should go."

Your stomach drops.

"I didn't mean to—" he breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to come tomorrow. Go to your class. I'll tell your manager."

You stay frozen for a second, eyes wide, lips still tingling with something that didn't happen.

And then you nod, slow. Trying not to show how much you're shaking. "Okay."

He doesn't say anything else.

You leave quietly.

But your pulse pounds in your ears all the way home and in the haze of it all you don't take the bus home.

You don't want the rush of it—the closed windows and stale air and elbows brushing yours. You want air, real air, the kind that cools your skin and cuts through the confusion curling heavy in your chest. The heels of your sneakers hit the sidewalk harder than usual. You don't notice until your toes ache.

You can still feel it. The almost of his mouth on yours. His voice whispering poetry that used to belong to no one but you. The way he looked at you right before he pulled back—like he could drown and not care.

You don't realize how far you've walked until your phone rings, sharp in the quiet. You check the screen and it's Cee. You sigh, thumb swiping across the glass.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Where are you right now?"

You blink. "Uh... on my way home. I finished cleaning—he told me not to come tomorrow, so—"

"Yeah, well, change of plans," he cuts in, voice tight, clipped. "He called. Wants you in tomorrow."

You stop walking. "What?"

"That's what I said. Twenty minutes ago, he told me you weren't coming. Five minutes ago, he said make sure you do."

Your grip tightens around your phone. You glance down at the pavement, cracked and worn, your shadow stretched long in the streetlight. "That... doesn't make sense."

"Welcome to my fucking week."

You don't know what to say. You try to remember exactly how he said it. You don't have to come tomorrow. You can take your class.

He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.

Or maybe—maybe it was a trick. A test. Maybe you failed.

The line is quiet for a moment. Then, softer—softer than you're used to from him, like he has to chew it first before he can let it out—your manager says:

"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"

Your breath catches.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." A pause. "He hasn't done anything weird, right? Or tried something? You'd tell me, yeah?"

You blink again, hard. It feels like stepping off a curb you didn't see. Your lips part, your heart kicks—because no, he hasn't. But he almost did and you're starting to think maybe it would've been fine if he did. Maybe it would've been more than fine.

"No," you say quickly. "Nothing like that. He's... he's not like that."

"You sure?"

"Yes." You don't hesitate. "I don't want to quit."

There's silence on the line. You can hear him exhale.

"Alright," he says finally. "You're there again at ten. Don't be late."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Okay."

He hangs up.

You just stand there. A low breeze rustles through the trees, brushes cool fingers against your neck.

He asked for you. After almost kissing you and pulling away—after telling you not to come tomorrow—he called and asked for you. Your pulse flickers hot beneath your skin as your mind raced with questions.

Was he testing you?

Did he think you wouldn't come back?

You suddenly realize your mouth is dry, your throat tight. The stars feel too bright above you. Your phone buzzes in your palm, a silent reminder that something has shifted, again.

And for better or worse, you'll be seeing him tomorrow.

You don't even bother to take your shoes off when you get in the door.

The front door slams behind you harder than you mean it to, and Jiyoon—sweet, perceptive, too-curious Jiyoon—is immediately shouting from the kitchen, "Is that you? Are you okay? You've been gone forever, I was about to—"

"I'm fine!" you yell back, already halfway down the hall. Your voice cracks halfway through the word. You don't even try to fix it.

"Wait—" Jiyoon appears around the corner, wooden spoon still in hand, some ridiculous song playing from the speaker behind her. "Wait, wait, what happened? Did you see him again?"

You keep walking.

"Did he—?"

"I'm fine," you repeat, softer this time but not gentler. "He said I don't have to come in tomorrow, so I'll probably go to my class."

"Oh my god, what does that mean?" she laughs, stepping after you. "Did you finally tell him off or did he—?"

"I'm tired, Jiyoon," you mumble, hand on your doorknob. "So tired."

She crosses her arms. "You look like you just made out with someone in a Jane Austen novel."

Your face goes hot.

"I love you," you say, deadpan. "But I need to be alone right now."

She gasps dramatically, "You're hiding something! You always say I love you when you're hiding something—"

You shut the door in her face.

Lock it.

Lean back against it.

Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.

You sink down to the floor, journal already in your hands before you even realize you've moved. Your fingers tremble when you unscrew the cap of your pen. You press it to the page.

And for a moment, you just sit there, not even writing.

Just breathing.

You write, He said I write beautifully.

Then, slower, He said he felt restless about not getting a response.

And then, He pulled away.

The ink smudges beneath your fingers. You don't wipe it away. You just keep writing, your handwriting more frantic than usual, trailing across the page in swooping spirals and crooked curves. You write about the way he looked at you—so real and intense it felt like it burned. About how close he was, how you could feel the heat of him.

About the poem.

How he remembered every word.

How you finished it together.

And when you're done, you stare at the page—like maybe it'll give you answers. Like maybe it'll tell you what it means when a man like Heeseung tells you not to come, then calls your manager like he can't bear not seeing you.

You close your journal.

And press it to your chest.

You crawl into bed, still in your jeans, feet hanging off the edge, journal clutched to your chest like a heartbeat you don't trust to stay steady on its own.

It takes everything in you to peel yourself away, toss the journal aside, and dig out your laptop from where it's tangled in yesterday's laundry on the floor. You log into your evening class with exactly thirty seconds to spare, camera off, mic muted, chin propped against the heel of your palm.

The professor's voice starts droning through your headphones—soft, monotone, familiar—and for a second you think maybe you can do this.

And then your eyelids get heavy.

You blink hard.

You scribble your name into the attendance chat and pretend like you're absorbing something, anything, while your mind floats right back to—

That linen shirt hanging open just enough to see his collarbones. His voice, low and steady, reciting your words back to you like scripture. The smell of garlic and rosemary from his cooking still clinging to your hair. The way he moved closer without you even realizing. The moment before the kiss that never happened—the way your heart caught on the edge of it.

You shake your head violently, try to refocus. The slide on your screen says something about semiotic theory. You don't know what that means. You don't care what that means.

You're so screwed.

Your professor's voice fades into a low buzz, and you press your palm to your cheek harder, like maybe pressure can keep you conscious. It can't.

The laptop screen glares into your face. The chat scrolls with questions you don't have the energy to fake-read. You close your eyes just for a second.

You tell yourself it's only for a second.

Just one.

Just—

You jolt awake six minutes later to your professor asking, "And how might this apply to authorial intent, Y/N?"

You blink, brain empty.

You type in the chat: Sorry, my mic's not working.

And you thank every god that ever existed for mute buttons.

*•*•*

You find yourself hovering just outside the penthouse door, hesitating.

Your fingers are curled in a loose fist, suspended midair like they've forgotten how to move. You've stood in this exact spot every day for about a week now, but this time—this time you're unsure. The same polished floor under your shoes, the same towering door with its sleek gold handle and silent weight, but something about today feels different. You feel different.

You almost turn around.

Almost.

But then—voices. Muffled, low but distinct, curling around the edges of the thick door.

You lean in without meaning to, breath held as if your body knows this is a moment you're not meant to be part of. You recognize his voice first, Heeseung's—light, teasing, a tone you've come to know well, though it still unsettles you how easily it affects you. The other voice is lower, older maybe, with clipped words and a sternness that makes your stomach tighten. It must be the doctor from the other day.

"No," the doctor says, firm and quiet. "Now isn't the time to have a new person around every day. You know that."

There's a pause. You hear something creak—maybe a chair.

"It's fine," Heeseung replies, far too casually. "Nothing's happened. She's just cleaning. It's fine."

"She's not just cleaning."

There's silence. A long one. And then—Heeseung's voice again, softer. "Maybe she's good for me."

You freeze. You don't know what they're talking about exactly, not in full, but the heat that rushes to your face is impossible to fight. Good for him? What the hell does that mean? And why does it make your chest feel like it's caving in? Before you can hear anything else, the door swings open, making you stumble back just in time, blinking up at the man who steps through—tall, with sharp eyes that land on you and skim over every inch of your body like you're being scanned. He doesn't say hello, he doesn't smile just like last time. Instead, he mutters something—so low you barely catch it but the edge is there, sharp enough to wound. Something about "distractions" and "too young" and "another mistake."

You step aside without responding, your mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He walks past you with a slight shake of his head and a long sigh, like your very existence is a burden.

And then—

"Didn't think you'd come."

You turn back around.

Heeseung's standing in the doorway, barefoot again, hair still damp like he just showered, dressed in a loose gray shirt and soft black pants that cling to his hips in a way that makes your head fog. He's smiling—nothing too wide, just soft, like a secret meant only for you. Like he's genuinely happy to see you.

You open your mouth to say something, anything—but he's already speaking again.

"About yesterday," he says, stepping aside so you can walk in. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."

And the whiplash? It's instant. Because wasn't he the one who told you not to come today? All quiet and serious and guilt-stricken after nearly kissing you in his kitchen? Now he's soft again, familiar again, and it throws you completely off.

"You don't need to apologize," you say quickly, almost defensively, as you walk inside.

"I do," he says, just as fast. "I really—"

"No, Heeseung." You stop and turn to face him, heart in your throat. "You really don't need to apologize."

He opens his mouth again, brows furrowing, about to insist—but your voice cuts through the air before you can stop yourself.

Quiet. Barely a whisper.

"You didn't have to stop either."

Silence, all heavy and immediate. Heeseung just stares at you. Still and looking stunned. His lips parted like he wants to speak but the words haven't caught up to his brain. His eyes search your face slowly, like he's not sure if he heard you right—or if you meant to say it out loud.

And maybe you didn't.

But you did.

And there's no taking it back.

The door clicks shut behind you before you can even remember stepping inside.

Heeseung doesn't move at first. Just stares at you like he's not entirely sure you're real. Like maybe he conjured you up somehow. His eyes stay on your mouth a little too long, and you try not to notice the way his chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, as if he's reminding himself how to breathe.

Then you say it again. Softer this time.

"You didn't have to stop."

It hangs in the air between you. Heavy, reckless and unapologetic.

Heeseung blinks once. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shutters. He exhales through his nose—shaky—and drags a hand through his hair, the curls still slightly messy from sleep or stress or something in between.

"That's inappropriate," he says, not unkindly. More like he's trying to draw a boundary he doesn't even believe in.

And the words sting. Maybe more than they should. Maybe because you were just beginning to feel something real stirring between the two of you—something outside of your job, your journal, your blurring lines. You freeze. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first, and it's too late anyway. He's already turning from you.

The confused hurt in your eyes stops him in his tracks, but only for a second. He looks back at you—and really looks. Something passes behind his eyes, quiet and aching. Regret maybe or worse, restraint. You watch his jaw flex, as if he's chewing on something bitter, swallowing all the things he'll never allow himself to say.

Then he's stepping away. A slow, deliberate retreat. His footsteps are soft against the stairs as he disappears up them without another word.

And just like that, you're alone. Again.

The silence is incredibly deafening.

Your hands are still trembling.

They have been ever since you left his place. You could barely wipe the kitchen counters without your fingers missing the edge. The dishes were spotless before you even realized you'd scrubbed them twice. Your head was everywhere but here, rerunning that moment—that look in his eyes, the cold withdrawal of his body after your quiet, desperate confession.

And he never came back down.

You didn't know what you expected, but it wasn't this.

The day drags, and when the clock finally blinks 4:00, you practically flee. Your phone's already to your ear by the time you hit the elevator.

"I can't do this anymore," you say as soon as Cee picks up.

He sounds startled. "Do what? Are you—what happened? Are you okay?"

"Nothing happened. I just—" You press your fingers to your temple. The weight of everything suddenly lands all at once. "I don't want to clean for him anymore."

He's quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Did he do something?"

"No. I just..." You sigh. "It's better this way."

And you think that's the end of it.

But the second you step into the building's reception, the front desk clerk—neatly pressed shirt, neutral expression, his name tag slightly askew—glances up from his computer. "Miss," he says, "Mr. Lee is asking for you upstairs."

You freeze.

Your mouth goes dry. "I—I was just up there."

He nods once, polite. "He asked me to let you know."

You hesitate.

Everything inside you says don't go. That this is how it always begins—with soft invitations and good intentions and doors that don't close fast enough behind you.

But your feet are already moving.

The elevator ride is silent, save the rush of your pulse in your ears. And when you push the door open, Heeseung is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Waiting.

You can't read his expression.

"I figured you'd quit," he says. Not accusing. Not even upset. Just matter-of-fact, like he'd already prepared for it.

"I am," you say. "I think it's for the best."

There's a beat.

"I don't want that."

You scoff before you can help it, stepping inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft hiss. "I'm not even sure you know what you want."

You don't even realize you're walking until you're standing in front of him, so close you could count the lashes framing his eyes if you weren't too scared to look directly into them. There's something in his face—some falter in his composure—that makes your chest feel too tight.

He doesn't move.

So you do.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your heart hammers, and then—you're kissing him.

It's a mess of a thing. Sudden. Brash. Tipped forward on hope and recklessness. Your lips crash into his like a question you don't want answered and—

Nothing.

He doesn't move.

Your lips are on his, but he's frozen. Unresponsive.

The rejection burns so fast it chokes you, and you start to pull back, humiliated—but something in you makes you whisper to him, "Please," you almost sound broken. "Please kiss me back, Heeseung."

That's all it takes.

The air leaves his lungs like he's been sucker-punched. His hands are on your face instantly, his mouth catching yours like he's been starving for it. Like the moment he tasted you, he remembered how badly he wanted.

And this time, he answers the question

His mouth is on yours like he's finally allowed himself to breathe. You're not sure who moves first after that—him or you—but the space between you disappears completely. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like he needs the reminder that you're real and here and kissing him back just as desperately.

And when he pulls away to look at you—face flushed, eyes dark and confused—you whisper again, barely audible, "Heeseung..."

That does it for him because you can swear you see the moment something in him breaks. Suddenly he's not hesitating anymore, like the sound of your voice cracked through whatever restraint he'd been clinging to, and now it was all unraveling.

He's swallowing the soft sounds you make, capturing every gasp, every whimper, like he needs to devour them, and his mouth is hot and insistent as it trails down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin like he's trying to mark the moment there.

You gasp when he lifts you without warning, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It's erratic—wild—matching yours nearly beat for beat.

He sets you down on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, the cool marble biting at the backs of your thighs through your jeans. His lips return to yours before they begin their descent again, brushing over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest. His fingers find the hem of your top and pause, glancing up, breath hitching.

You nod.

That's all he needs.

He peels it off gently—too gently for the look in his eyes—and when your bra joins the growing pile of fabric, he's silent for a second. Just watching you. Then he exhales something like a curse and leans in, pressing slow, reverent kisses down your sternum, the curve of your breasts, dragging his teeth lightly, sucking your nipple into his mouth, making you shiver and arch into him.

Every time you whimper, he presses closer.

Every time you moan, he groans softly against your skin, like your sounds undo him.

And just when you think your legs might give out from how tightly your body is wound, he lifts you again. Not onto the floor—but down, off the counter, and turns you gently, pressing you forward. You gasp softly as your hands meet the marble again, your heart stuttering.

Your jeans are tugged down with unhurried hands. Your underwear follows. You're so exposed. Breathless. And behind you, Heeseung lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a prayer.

One of his hands smooths over your lower back. The other grips your hip. "God forgive me," he whispers.

You don't know how to stay quiet—not when his mouth is trailing behind you, kissing the backs of your thighs, the curve of you, everywhere—and when he finally leans in, when you feel the first sweep of his tongue, your entire body jolts forward like he's short-circuited something deep inside you.

"Heeseung—" It leaves your mouth like a sob.

He groans in response, tightening his grip around your thighs, but his pace doesn't falter.

And all you can do is press your cheek against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut, biting down on your own hand as he ruins you slowly.

Intimately.

He watches you unravel with so much intensity from beneath you, it's like he's trying to imprint every detail into memory. His tongue maps out every inch of you, teasing and tasting places you never realized could make you feel this way—until he finds your clit again. Instinct takes over; your hips roll down against his mouth, and he responds with a low hum, gripping your thighs to hold them open just enough to tilt his head and drag his tongue lower once more. "Spread your legs for me baby" He whispers it in a way that has you thinking you'll do anything he says, as long as he says it in that voice.

Suddenly and surprisingly, he shoves his tongue deep inside you while using his fingers to rub tight circles against your clit. "Hee—Ah!" You're moaning and whimpering so uncontrollably, the whole thing has your legs trembling where you're stood. You're convinced if he wasn't holding you up himself you'll collapse from the pleasure and pressure of it all.

His tongue is incredibly relentless, slurping you up, not even caring that he's drooling down his chin with your essence, "Wait! W-Wait!" You cry out suddenly.

"What? What? What's wrong? Did I hu—" His words cut through to you as he gets up off his knees where he was, but you're cutting him off and pulling him for another deep kiss, hopping yourself up on the counter again. Heeseung kisses you back like he's starving—like you're the first thing he's ever been allowed to want.

Your hands are in motion before you can think. Clumsy, eager, pulling his shirt halfway out from where it's tucked into his sweats, feeling the heat of his stomach beneath your palms. You moan into his mouth and his hands squeeze your thighs in response, hard enough to leave a mark.

He doesn't stop you when your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. If anything, he kisses you harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it—owns you—and you're letting him. Begging for more.

Your hands are shaking when you fumble at the button of his slacks, but you manage to get it undone, your fingers brushing the trail of skin that dips below the waistband. Heeseung lets out a sharp, broken sound against your mouth—fuck—his head tipping forward, forehead resting against yours as you palm him through the fabric.

You weren't ready for how hard and heavy he would be in your hand. It was like the length of him just went on and on.

You feel the twitch beneath your palm and gasp, and his breath stutters like he's seconds from losing it.

"Jesus—" heeseung grits, his voice deep and wrecked. His head tips back, neck exposed, throat bobbing, you've never seen someone come undone like this.

He's panting now, hips shifting forward like he needs the friction, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him.

"Is this okay?" you whisper, breathless, your voice barely steady as you trace him again, bolder this time.

His eyes find yours, blown wide and unreadable, lips parted. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, but he nods. "Don't stop. Please take it out, please."

Your hand moves again, more confidently now, doing as he says, and his mouth crashes into yours mid-moan—swallowing it whole, like he can't bear the sound of his own unraveling.

And when he groans into you, deep and guttural and feral, you feel it between your legs—hot and pulsing and near unbearable.

He grips your hips like he's trying to anchor himself—like you're the only thing holding him together. He's dragging you to the edge of the counter and pinning your hand behind you, it has you feeling dizzy—the way he has you pinned there, at his mercy.

Before you can pull away to look down at where you have your hand wrapped around him, he's picking you up off the counter yet again, carrying you and setting you down on the couch, ever so gently.

Heeseung is panting into your mouth, your bodies pressed flush—his chest against yours, your legs wrapped around his waist. The fabric between you is suffocating. His sweats are halfway down his hips, your jeans are already abandoned on the kitchen floor, along with your panties, your composure, and any shred of dignity you once clung to when it came to him.

He's got you caged between his body and the couch. One arm braced beside your head, the other skimming down your side until his fingers are slipping between your legs again. You jolt, gasping against his lips, forehead pressed to his as his fingers slide through the mess he's made of you.

"Fuck—" you whisper, clutching at the back of his neck.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice nothing but gravel and smoke, his thumb teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your spine curl. "You're perfect like this...I knew you'd come back."

You moan again, louder, desperate, rocking against his hand—your whole body begging for him.

His mouth finds yours again, kisses sloppier now, and then he's gripping himself, lining up with your entrance, breath hot and uneven against your cheek.

And then—

"Rina," he breathes.

You freeze for half a second.

It's soft—tender as a whispered prayer, effortless as a breath, a name escaping his lips before he even realizes it.

But your brain doesn't quite catch it—not fully. You're too far gone. Too overwhelmed by the stretch of him nudging at your entrance, by the unbearable heat of his body, the quiet, feral groan rumbling from his chest.

You blink, dazed. "What...?"

But the next second, he's pushing in.

And everything else disappears.

Your body arches, mouth falling open around a choked cry as he fills you in one slow, devastating thrust.

The stretch burns in the best way, and Heeseung moans something guttural, animalistic, like the moment he's inside you he's forgotten his own name too.

"So tight," he groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. "Fucking heaven."

Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth finding the shell of his ear.

"Heeseung—move. Please—"

He pulls back, just enough to slam into you again, and you swear the stars tilt. His rhythm is brutal, relentless, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, and you're sobbing now—moaning into his mouth like you've lost your mind. Maybe you have.

Maybe he has.

Because he's whispering things you can't quite understand—fragmented pieces of something almost sweet, almost unhinged.

"My perfect girl... only mine... waited so long—so long—Rina..."

You hear it again. Clearer now, but you're too gone to stop. Too full of him to question it. Your body writhes beneath his like it's what it was made for—like he's been carved into your DNA.

And you don't know what he means but something about the way he's holding you—possessive, reverent, frantic like he'll die without you—sends a chill up your spine even as you're unraveling around him.

Where they meet—the madness and the need—you don't know where you end and he begins. But you're already lifting your hips to meet his just to chase your high. You're pretty sure you're drooling now and by the way he looks down at you a smiles you know he likes what he seeing "You're so beautiful" "So tight wrapped aroun—" He keeps silencing himself with strangled moans, pulling back and sitting up, too overwhelmed to even remember he hasn't apologized for already being on the edge.

"I'm gonna c—" "Oh fuck fuck fuuuuckkk" He drawls on and on, you can feel your release coming too, in fact it almost feel like you're going to pee. "Don't stop! Heeseung! Fuck!" You moan loudly, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss before pushing his hips back, his cock slipping wet and twitching from your cunt. Without pause, your fingers find your clit, working it in savage, relentless circles, each one followed by a sharp slap that makes your thighs jolt. "Fuck—shit!" you cry out, body arching as a hot stream shoots from you, splattering across his stomach and chest.

His breath catches—eyes blown wide, chest heaving—watching you lose control all over him "You're so sexy". You haven't even caught your breath when he suddenly takes over again, letting the mess spill from you as if your trembling doesn't matter, pushing you down and driving himself deep into the pulsing aftermath still rippling through your body.

"Cum on my cock again, please" "Need you to, Rina—Fuck! I'm so close!" He's mumbling half incoherent half desperate and your overstimulated self doesn't seem to hear the alarm bells ringing in your head at the name he just called you again.  You're already on the brink again, trembling and aching for it, and when it finally crashes through you, it's because Heeseung drags it out with no mercy. He pulls out, cock dripping, and fists it furiously as he paints your stomach—but he doesn't let your cunt stay empty. Two fingers slam back into your soaked hole, curling deep and fast, forcing you to squirt all over his wrist as he talks you through it with a low, filthy grin.

You're both trembling.

Sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Harsh breathing. The deep, ragged quiet of two people who forgot where they were, who they were, what any of this even meant. He slumps forward, collapsing into you with a half-groan, half-laugh, and you let your fingers drift up his spine, your body humming with aftershocks.

You don't say anything and neither does he, not for a long, long moment.

Then he pushes up, slowly, gently—his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifts you off the couch. You whimper softly from the sensitivity, clinging to his shoulders.

"Come on," he says, voice raw and low. "Shower."

Your limbs feel like water, but you nod, letting him carry you. He walks the both of you to the massive bathroom like you weigh nothing—like you're still something precious in his arms—and sets you down on the warm tile floor. The shower clicks on, hot water spraying against his hand as he checks the temperature, then guides you under it with him.

The moment the water hits you, you shiver—more from the way he's looking at you than the heat. His gaze doesn't drop once. Not when he's rubbing gentle soap over your skin, not when he's rinsing between your legs with careful fingers, not when he presses a kiss to your shoulder like an apology he's too afraid to say aloud.

He doesn't speak until you're both out, towel-wrapped and damp.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, toweling off your hair with surprising tenderness.

You nod. And you don't stop him when he pulls one of his T-shirts over your head—soft and oversized, falling to your mid-thigh. You don't stop him when he pulls on a pair of boxers for you either, or when he leads you to the guest bedroom, the sheets cool and clean beneath your bare legs as you crawl under them.

He climbs in next to you, his body warm beside yours, and without a word, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's muscle memory.

There's no more heat. No more tension. Just his heartbeat against your back, his breath slow and steady in your ear and you fall asleep like that, in his clothes, in his bed, in his arms. Not thining about the name he whispered.

*•*•*

You wake up before Heeseung does.

There's no buzzing alarm, no sunlight breaking through the blackout curtains, but your body jolts upright anyway—like your soul remembered what your mind didn't.

Panic grips you first.

Jiyoon. She's definitely called. Probably texted. Maybe even filed a missing person's report.

You twist in the sheets, trying not to disturb the weight draped over your waist. Heeseung's arm. Heavy, possessive, warm. His hand is splayed over your hip like it belongs there.

You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.

What did I do?

Your heart's racing as you carefully, carefully peel his arm off of you, shimmying toward the edge of the bed. You manage to get one leg off, then another, tiptoeing like a thief in the early morning hush—

"Why are you sneaking out?"

You squeak.

Spinning around, your hands instinctively fly to your chest, but you're still wearing his shirt. You breathe a little but then freeze again when you see him. Heeseung is propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. His voice is low and scratchy—one of those voices that somehow sounds like velvet and gravel all at once.

You stare. And then it hits you—like a freight train right between the ribs. Everything he did to you. Every moan he pulled from your lips. The way he tasted. The way he touched you like you were something sacred and sinful at the same time. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth like you can trap the memory there.

His brow lifts just slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, flipping back onto the bed with a sigh, one arm flung over his eyes. "You're trouble."

"I have to go," you say quickly, eyes darting to the door. "My friend is probably freaking out, she didn't know where I was—"

"Okay," he murmurs, voice muffled beneath his forearm. "But can I get a kiss?" You blink, feeling your heart stutter. Then, slowly, you cross the room again, padding back to the side of the bed. His arm lowers just enough to watch you. When you lean down, brushing your lips to his, he hums—like he's been waiting for that exact moment.

But just as you try to pull away, he grabs you. You yelp, landing on top of him with a soft thud as his hands anchor you by the hips. "Heeseung—" He kisses you again and t's not a chaste goodbye kiss this time. It's deeper, hotter—his lips moving slow and sure against yours, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you melt against him without thinking, your fingers clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt over his chest.

You whine into his mouth. "I have to go..." He nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to breathe. "Come back," he whispers. "Tonight. Seven o'clock."

You're blinking at him, breathless. "To... clean?" He shakes his head once, lips twitching. "No. I'll cook." You can't help it. You smile. It's shy and warm and completely helpless. "Okay," you whisper.

He lets you go then, but not before placing one last kiss on your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Don't be late."

You close the door to the guest bedroom behind you, twisting the handle slowly so it doesn't make a sound, like he might stir just from the click, not that he could even be asleep again. Your heart's still thudding, though softer now, your body still warm from how he held you—not just last night, but moments ago. You feel him on your skin. Between your thighs. In your mouth, even. You pad into the hallway, feet silent against the floor, and the penthouse feels even bigger in the morning, stretching out wide and echoey. Sunlight slips in through the tall windows of the living room, golden and faint, catching dust in the air.

Your clothes are everywhere. A trail—your bra laying on the kitchen floor with your jeans close by, your shirt hanging from the edge of a barstool like some kind of white flag.

You sigh.

You gather them quickly, cradling the bundle to your chest. But when you unfold your shirt—well, what's left of it—you remember the exact moment he took it off, how he looked at you like you were some forbidden fruit he'd gone too long without, you hadn't even realized he had ripped it. It's unsalvageable.

So you just... don't put it on. You slip your bra back on, then shrug his black shirt over it. It swallows you, soft and warm from sleep. You wiggle into your jeans next, the ones he peeled off of you. Your hands tremble as you do the button up.

Last thing—your phone. You search the couch. Nothing. Under the cushions. Still nothing. You check the kitchen counter, the bar, even crouch down to peek under the sofa. "Come on, come on..." Then finally, mercifully, you spot it near the edge of the carpet, half-tucked under the dining chair. You dive for it like it's oxygen and fumble to unlock it.

Ten missed calls. Three voicemails. Twenty-two messages.

All from one name. You don't even get a word out when you hit call—Jiyoon answers on the first ring. "You bitch." You wince. "Oh my god," she cackles. "You bitch. Where were you? Don't tell me—no, no actually, tell me everything right now."

"Ji—"

"You slept with him, didn't you? You fucking whore. You got that psycho dick, didn't you?! Tell me. Was it good? Was it crazy?!"

You cover your face with your hand, crouching down behind the kitchen island like you're trying to hide from the embarrassment sinking into your bones. "I'm coming home," you say weakly, voice still raspy from sleep and... everything else.

"Oh," Jiyoon says, tone shifting slightly. "I'm not home right now. I'm covering a shift for my lazy coworker. But I'll be back later—wait, wait, is he still there? Are you still there? What's he doing?"

"Jiyoon."

"What?"

"Bye."

You hang up.

Still pink-faced and hot, you shove your phone in your pocket, tug on your sneakers, and walk to the elevator with your head ducked low—like the doors might open and the walls themselves would whisper what happened between them. You're not sure how to feel. Still floating. Still wrecked. But you know you'll be back by 7.

*•*•*

You unlock the door to your apartment with shaking fingers, pushing it open slowly like you might find the night before still waiting for you on the other side. But it's empty, cause there's no Heeseung here. No soft piano notes echoing from hidden corners. No whispered "be back by seven." Just your little apartment, lived-in and warm and smelling faintly of vanilla from the candle Jiyoon must've lit last night. You step inside, close the door behind you, and lean back against it for a second. Just to breathe. Your body aches so deliciously and shamefully. Your lips are sore. Your thighs. Your heart.

You change into something soft and oversized before dropping onto your desk chair and logging into your online class, the kind of class that requires so much effort to focus on even when you haven't just had... whatever that was. The screen lights up. A professor you don't care about is already talking, already droning on about something you're not registering. You blink at the slides. The bullet points. You try. Really, you do. But your brain?

It's busy. Because it won't stop showing you his face in the dark. The way he hovered over you, lips parted, skin burning hot against yours. The way he touched you like you were something he needed to know. Memorize.

The way he whispered—low and wrecked—"Rina." You flinch.

It hits you all at once. You'd been so caught up in the moment, too far gone to process it then. But now? Now it loops. The way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Rina.

Who the hell is Rina? You shift in your seat, open a new tab, and hesitate. Your heart is racing again—not the good kind this time, as your hands tremble over the keyboard. Then you type it in regardless,

Lee Heeseung Rina

The search bar blinks at you. You hit enter. And there it is.

The very first result is a glossy thumbnail from three years ago. Heeseung in an interview, seated on a sleek navy couch, wearing black slacks and a gray button up sweater and a white shirt beneath it. He's smiling. That breathtaking smile you've only seen a few times up close, so effortless and disarming. You click the video.

The host laughs and leans forward. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone wants to know. Who's Rina?" Heeseung chuckles, mouth tugging up at one side. You sit a little straighter.

"She's my first love," he says. "And probably the only one I'll ever love like that." The crowd awwws and your heart cracks like glass under pressure, you have pause the video. So she was real. A real woman.Someone he loved so deeply he admitted it on camera—publicly, permanently. Your throat closes up. Your chest tightens. He called you that name. Did he think of her while he was—. You don't even finish the thought. Instead, you search harder. Scroll deeper. You need to know what she looks like. If you look like her. If this is some messed up ghost-of-an-ex situation.

Another video pops up—this one titled "Behind the Scenes | Seoul Symphony Ensemble (ft. Lee Heeseung)"

You click it. The footage is candid, grainy. Heeseung's younger here, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, still too beautiful for it to be fair. The camera follows him backstage as he leads a film crew through the dim corridors of a concert hall. Then he stops, turns to the camera. "Come here," he says with a quiet laugh, gesturing to the next room. "You have to meet her." The camera jostles slightly as they follow. Heeseung walks up to a sleek, glossy black grand piano and runs his fingers across the keys. "This is Rina," he says, like he's introducing a person. His voice is reverent. Almost loving. "She's been with me since I was thirteen. She's...kind of everything to me."

You freeze.

The camera zooms in slightly. Heeseung brushes dust from the piano's surface with his sleeve, smiling at it so softly it hurts. "She's my first love." You sit there, staring, mind blank and full all at once.

Rina's not a person.

Rina's a piano.

A fucking piano. A part of you wants to laugh at your delusion but you don't, instead you just sit there.  Eyes glued to the screen. To him. To the way he's speaking—not to the camera, not even to the crew—but to the piano, like it's something alive. Like it's someone he's missed. Someone he still longs for in the softest, most ruined parts of himself. And that name—Rina—sits different now in your head. Not like a rival. Not like someone he's still in love with. But like... a memory. A feeling. Something that made him whole when the world couldn't.

Rina is his piano.

You let the video run, sound turned low, just watching him—barely twenty two, still beautiful, still broken. The way he presses one key gently and listens. How he says, she's been with me since I was thirteen. How he adds, she's my first love like it's a secret and a confession all at once. Your heart folds in on itself. Because in a way it makes sense now. The way he said your name last night, the way he whispered Rina instead—like he couldn't tell the difference. Like in his mind, in that haze of need and obsession and closeness, you had become something sacred. Something he hadn't let himself love in years. Something he used to play like music. And he'd touched you the same way—with reverence and hunger, as if trying to figure out where you end and he begins. You press your palm to your chest, like maybe you can settle your heartbeat if you hold it hard enough.

He doesn't see you as a replacement. You're not her. But in that moment, you think he felt something he hadn't in a long time. Something pure. Something familiar. Something maybe even terrifying. Heeseung, in his fractured, beautiful, obsessive mind, didn't just mistake you for his piano, he associated the moment—you—with what he once felt when he played Rina. And maybe he's so far gone he doesn't even realize he did it. And maybe you should be scared, but all you feel is this deep, warm ache in your ribs that won't go away. You close the laptop, completely forgetting about your class, and press your fingers to your lips. They still tingle from kissing him and you feel your stomach turn with excitement for the night to come.

*•*•*

You hear it before you see her. The clatter of her keys on the counter. The heavy sigh. And then, sharp—like a bullet of disbelief,  "YOU BITCH." "OH MY GOD." You don't even turn. Just let your eyes flutter shut and mentally brace for it. "You absolute filthy little minx," Jiyoon hisses, storming into the hallway in her work flats and crumpled apron, "Don't even try to deny it—I know you did it." "I'm not denying anything," you mumble, turning slowly to face her. She's halfway through unzipping her jacket, eyes wide, expression scandalized.

Your entire face bursts into flames. "Jiyoon—" "Oh my God, you did sleep with him." She points at you like she's witnessing a war crime. "You have sex hair. You're literally glowing. What the hell is that shirt? Wait—don't tell me." She takes a dramatic step back. "Is that his shirt?" You tug the hem instinctively. "It's just... something I had to wear. Mine got—um. Ripped." She stares at you. Blinks once. Twice. Then screams. "Oh my GOD. He ripped your clothes off? That's—like—that's premium movie-level sexy violence."

You bury your face in your hands. "Please lower your voice." "You didn't even text me last night!" she cries. "Do you know how worried I was? I thought he locked you in a cage or something!"

"I was busy," you say, voice strangled. "You were BUSY getting ravenously destroyed," she says, flopping onto the couch like the dramatics are too heavy for her legs. "Okay. Tell me everything. Don't leave out any of the details. Did he talk? Was it intense? Slow burn? Did he like—say your name all rough and gravelly or was he like, all quiet and crazy about it?" You hesitate.

You want to tell her and you almost do, but something about that moment—about everything that happened last night, the hazy weight of his body pressed against yours, his breath in your ear, how he held you like you were a prayer and a ghost all at once—feels too delicate. Too personal. You can't even begin to explain the shift you felt inside yourself, let alone the strange ache in your chest when he said that name. You swallow, keeping your voice light. "It was... really good."

Jiyoon lifts a brow. "That's it? Good?" You shoot her a look. "I'm not giving you a full play-by-play." She gasps. "So it was insane." "I'm gonna be late," you deflect, brushing past her to grab your phone. "I told him I'd be there at seven." "Ugh. Seven is such a romantic time."

"What does that even mean?" "Like. Not too early, not too late. Right in the middle. Candlelight o'clock." She wiggles her eyebrows. "You gonna let him feed you and then fuck you again?""Jiyoon."

"You are. Oh my God. Are you shaving again or are we doing stubble and surrender tonight?" You groan. "I can't talk to you about this." "Yes, you can," she says, pulling her hair into a bun. "We signed a roommate agreement, remember? Emotional nudity clause." You smile despite yourself. "Just wish me luck, okay?" She softens then, eyes scanning your face. "You like him." You hesitate, fingers pausing on your necklace clasp. "I don't know what I feel," you say truthfully. "It's... fast. Messy." "You don't do messy."

"Exactly." Jiyoon walks over, squeezes your shoulder. "That shirt looks hot on you, by the way. Like dangerously I-was-just-fucked-by-a-mentally-ill-man hot." "Thanks, I think."

"Be safe. Don't let him tie you to anything unless there's a safe word. Call me if he tries to perform an exorcism." You laugh, heading for the bathroom door. "You're gonna fall for him," she calls behind you. "You already are, huh?" But you don't answer, because you don't know that yet, and if you do, you're not ready to say it out loud.

You check the time again when it's 6:38 PM. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at you—doe-eyed, glossed lips parted slightly, a tiny knot of nerves cinched beneath your ribs. You smooth your hands down your dress for the fifth time, whispering to yourself under your breath like it might change something. "Okay," you murmur. "Just dinner. It's just... dinner." With Heeseung. At his penthouse. In a dress you specifically picked to walk the very fine line between I wanted to look nice for you and I definitely didn't spend two hours trying on everything I own. A dress that clings at your waist and floats at your knees and makes you feel pretty but also exposed. Not in a bad way, just... in a way that makes your skin feel watched. Known.

You hesitate in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the stairs. And then you groan. "Nope. No way I'm taking the bus." You can already see it—you standing sandwiched between strangers, one arm clutching the overhead bar, the other yanking at your skirt, trying not to breathe too loud. You can feel the wrinkles forming just thinking about it. You'd show up looking like a disheveled little sandwich and Heeseung—Heeseung with his white linen shirts and leather watchbands—would tilt his head and maybe smile and maybe not say anything, but you'd know. You open your phone and call a cab.

It feels ridiculous. Extravagant even. But the moment you sink into the backseat, cool leather beneath your thighs and the city lights blinking past your window like slow breaths, something quiet settles inside you. You take a long, shaky inhale. Heeseung's face comes to mind. The way he looked last night—flushed and breathless and so terribly hungry for you, like you were the first and last thing he'd ever wanted. The way he whispered your name. Except—it wasn't your name. Not the first time. Your fingers tighten slightly on your bag and you push the thought away. You already made peace with it—told yourself it didn't mean anything. Not really. You'd seen the videos. You know what Rina is. And in some strange, abstract way, you think maybe you understand what happened better than you should.

Maybe he sees things in fragments—maybe he feels things in them too. Maybe last night, you reminded him of something he loved once so deeply he carved a home for it in his bones. And maybe tonight, you want him to start carving space for you instead. You glance atthe time on your phone, 6:53. Your stomach flutters. Are you nervous?

God—yes. Your knees won't stop bouncing, and your fingers keep picking at the edge of your dress. But you're also... excited.You don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this ride—don't know if dinner will be awkward or sweet or laced with something heavier—but it feels like something real. Something different. And that terrifies you. Because you've never been looked at the way he looked at you last night. Not like you were music.

The cab pulls up to the building. You pay with shaky hands, thank the driver too softly, and walk inside. The elevator ride is a blur of breath-holding. The ding at the top floor even sends a jolt through your chest. And then you're standing in front of his penthouse door, your hand hovering, not sure whether to knock or just—. It's not locked. The knob turns and you step inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, and you're met with... silence. You take one hesitant step forward into the quiet space. It's too quiet. The air feels still in a way it didn't the last time you were here—when it was thick with the scent of his skin, his hands, your gasps and moans echoing off the walls like confessions. Now it's like the space is holding its breath again.

"Heeseung?" you call, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance at the clock on the wall, 7:01. You chew on your lip, glancing around. The kitchen looks untouched. There's no trace of movement, no clatter of pans or scent of dinner in the air. There's a single light on in the far corner by the bookshelves, casting golden shadows across the couch where he held you just hours ago, his mouth in your hair and his arms locked around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. You exhale softly. "Heeseung?" you try again, louder this time, taking cautious steps farther in. Still nothing.

And then it hits you—you don't even have his number. You came here like some wide-eyed idiot with your heart between your teeth, expecting him to just be there, waiting, arms outstretched. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not hear the door, or might be upstairs, or might have changed his mind entirely.

God. You sink down onto the arm of the couch and try not to panic. You won't text Jiyoon—not yet. She'd tease you mercilessly and then probably tell you to go snoop in case he was sleeping with other people or something absurd. You don't want to snoop. You just want to see him. You shift in your seat, smoothing your dress again, tugging at the edge of it and check the time again, 7:06. You blink, already feeling defeated and ready to leave but then a sharp loud sound echoes from upstairs that has you snapping your head towards the stairs. There's another thud—louder this time—followed by a crash that sends a sharp jolt through your chest. Something shattered. And then, unmistakably, screaming. Blood-curdling. Ragged. Like pain clawing itself out of a throat too raw to hold it anymore.

Your breath snags. Your heart kicks into high gear. Your body's moving before your mind can catch up, instinct overriding hesitation as you bolt through the living room, past the grand piano, toward the stairs. Breaking every rule you were given when you first started working here, but that's the last thing on your mind.

He's upstairs. That's him—him screaming.You take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, fingers scrambling against the banister. When you reach the top, there's only one door that makes sense—tall and black, you sprint to it, chest heaving, and try the handle.

Locked.

Your fist slams against it before you can think. "Heeseung?!" There's no response—just another crash, something metallic this time, like a stand being thrown, maybe a chair. Your knuckles are pulsing against the wood. "Heeseung, open the door! Please!" Still no answer. Just a chorus of garbled words—frenzied, nonsensical, frantic.

"They changed the notes—don't you hear it? It's all wrong, out of key, they're inside the piano! Stop watching me! The rhythm's bleeding, I can't—" Another crash. "It's too loud in here, too loud in my head, make it stop!" Your blood runs cold. Something primal flickers inside you—panic morphing into something sharper, braver. You back up, brace your shoulder against the frame, and throw yourself forward.

Once. Twice—

CRACK.

The door flies open, and you stumble into the absolute chaos, the first thing you see is the floor, and at the center of it all; a piano or what's left of one. Splintered wood. Torn wires. Ivory keys cracked like teeth knocked from a skull. You recognize it instantly. Rina.

There more glass and splintered wood than floor beneath her. Crumpled sheet music. A chair lying on its side. Blood. Blood like paint streaked across the wooden floor, thin trails leading to—

Him. Heeseung.

Standing in the center of it all like a broken monument. There's a deep gash across his forearm, blood still dripping sluggishly onto his hand and down his knuckles. His chest rises and falls too fast, ribs pushing sharply beneath skin that gleams with sweat. His hair sticks to his face. His eyes—wide, unseeing, glazed with something far away and chaotic and terrifying—don't register you at first. He's breathing like he's drowning.

You try to speak, to talk to him, but your throat won't open. He moves before you can. Quick, jerky. Like his body's not entirely his own. He spins, stares at the wall like it's speaking to him, fingers twitching at his sides. "They changed the notes," he mutters. "They changed the fucking notes." His voice is shredded. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours. Maybe he has. You take one step closer, and your heel lands on a snapped piano key. It clicks beneath your foot like a trigger. He whips around, eyes on you now, all wild, unhinged and unfocused. "Who are you?" he rasps.

You freeze. The question slices clean through you. Your mouth opens, but your voice won't come. Heeseung stares, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. His hands curl and uncurl like he's not sure if he wants to reach for you or strangle you. "Who are you?" he repeats. "Why are you watching me? Are you one of them?"

Them? Your heart stutters. "Heeseung..." you whisper, finally finding your voice. "It's me." But he flinches like you've struck him. You take another step and watch as he instinctively steps back. "No," he whispers. "No—Rina? I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You were perfect and I ruined you. My perfect girl. Please forgive me." Your breath catches.

"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know where it comes from. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the way his voice cracks like the word is a wound. "I forgive you," you say, voice steadier this time. "I came back for you." His mouth parts and his whole body stills. You can see the thought slotting into place behind his eyes, crooked and trembling and fragile. But it settles. "...Rina?" You nod. "I'm here."

He walks toward you slowly. So slow. Like every step might set him off again. And still, you don't move. His bloodied hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek—his touch clumsy and too hard at first, like he doesn't remember how to be gentle. But then it softens. His palm cups your jaw, and he leans in so close his breath skates across your lips. "I knew you'd come back," he murmurs. Your throat tightens and swallow around the ache, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. "I'm here now."

"Don't leave," he breathes. "Please don't leave me again. The music stops when you're gone. It stops and I can't breathe, I can't—"

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper. He leans back just enough to look at you. The way he's looking now—it breaks you, because there's no rage or wildness. Just pure, shivering exhaustion. He's unraveling at the seams, and you're the only thread keeping him together. "I want to play," he says softly. "Let me play you."

You nod. And when he tugs you toward the mangled piano, you follow. It's barely standing. The legs are cracked. One pedal's missing. The keys are uneven—some bloodied, some broken. It shouldn't work. It shouldn't sound. But he sits on the shattered bench, breath hitching, and gently pulls you onto his lap.

You settle there, straddling him, your dress bunching slightly against the rough edge of the wood. Your hands brace on his shoulders. His arms wrap around you, drawing you closer. And then—fingers trembling—Heeseung presses his hands to the keys. The sound is... haunting. Off. Warped. But he plays anyway. A melody, jagged and soft. A lullaby with broken bones. The piano cries beneath his touch, but he keeps playing. For you, because of you, it all makes your chest ache for him, you even feel your eyes sting. And all you can do is hold him, let him pour whatever's left of himself into the broken body of his piano—into you.

Because right now, in this room thick with blood and chaos and ghosts, you're the only thing anchoring him to earth. The music tumbles out of him in discordant bursts, crooked and aching like his mind, like his body—like whatever this is between you. And you swear, you'd let him play you forever. But then his fingers slip, not from the broken keys, but because your breath stutters against his jaw. He stills, drifting one hand away from the piano to find your waist instead, the other continues to play, the curve of your back—and then he's holding you so tight you feel the blood from his arm soak warm through your dress.

You don't flinch.

He tilts his face up, searching yours. Your lips part, not for words, but for the way his mouth captures yours the second you breathe in. It's so so desperate. A kiss that tastes like iron and sweat and the kind of madness that wants to be known, wants to be seen.

You whimper into him, clutching at the front of his shirt, and his hands are already moving—shaky, hurried, needing—grabbing at your dress, dragging it up your thighs as if he doesn't care it's stained now, doesn't care it's soft and new and something you wore for him.The keys beneath you clatter with each shift of your hips, and his fingers fumble at the zipper on your side like it's fighting him. He groans low in his throat, kissing you harder, tongue sliding hot against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside of you—trying to disappear there, to lose the noise in his head.

"You came back," he gasps against your mouth. "You really came back—" You nod, breathless, eyes wet, thighs tightening around his waist. "I told you I would." He tugs the dress down your shoulders, hands smeared with red, smearing it onto you, painting you with it. It sticks to your collarbones, your arms, a fever-warm trail of devotion and ruin, but you don't stop him.

He's kissing you like he needs this to survive, like he'll lose his mind all over again if you pull away. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans at the way you pull, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—biting, tasting his blood smeared there, claiming. You tremble. And then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through your panties, a low, reverent moan tearing from his chest when he feels the heat there. "For me," he mutters, delirious. "You're like this for me."

"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips into his hand, nails clawing at his back through his shirt. "Only for you." He groans again, like the words unmake him.

Your dress is halfway down your body, straps hanging off your arms, and you're so tangled together that it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose. He continues kissing you then like a vow. Like salvation. And everything else—the broken piano, the screaming from earlier, the sharp pain in your back from the cracked lid—fades to nothing. The music stutters beneath you—sharp, erratic keystrokes like a hymn being pulled apart at the seams.

But he doesn't stop playing. Even as his bloody fingers slip over the ivories, even as his other hand bunches your dress up around your hips, even as you gasp into his mouth and his teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You're still straddling him, thighs trembling on either side of his lap, and he's shifting beneath you like he can't get close enough, like the distance between your bodies is an insult to the devotion he's shaking with.

"Heeseung," you whisper, breath hitching as his hand slides between your legs, the fabric of your panties clinging to you wet and ruined. "Please—" "Shh," he hushes, mouth dragging down your neck, blood and spit slick on your skin. "It's okay, it's okay—I got you, baby, I got you—" His fingers tremble as he pushes the fabric aside, clumsy and rushed, and you flinch when his knuckles brush over you. He groans against your throat, hand gripping your hip like he might break it, like it's the only anchor he has.

"Fuck, you're so warm—" he pants, "—I missed you so much, I missed you—" You don't know if he's talking to you or to her, to Rina, to whatever memory he's tangled you up with—but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's freeing himself beneath you with frantic hands, moaning under his breath as he fumbles himself through his sweats, panting into your collarbone like he's on the verge of falling apart. And then he's there. Thick, flushed, already so hard it makes your head spin. He grips your thighs, pulling you up just enough—just enough to align—and then sinks you down onto him in one ragged, choking breath.

You cry out, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Heeseung's head snaps back, a guttural sound ripping from his throat, and his hands clamp down on your hips like he's afraid you'll vanish again. "Oh my God—" he gasps, "—move, baby, please, come on—come on—"

He's twitching inside you already, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he's begging for more. Encouraging you, pushing up into you while his hands guide your hips, while his fingers—still stained with his blood—return to the keys beneath him, pressing out that same broken melody. You try to move—hips rising, sinking—but it's messy. Desperate. Your thighs burn, your breath hitches, and your forehead presses to his as he whispers, "Just like that, just like that—don't stop—don't stop—" The piano groans beneath you both. His legs tremble. Your panties are barely hanging on, twisted and soaked, caught somewhere between you, and still—still—he keeps playing.

Keeps playing through the rise and fall of your bodies, through the wet slap of your hips, through the breathless moans and the ache and the madness. He's shaking beneath you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sobs, blood smearing from his wrist to your waist as he holds you tighter—deeper—closer.

"I knew you'd come back," he whispers, forehead to yours. "You always come back to me." You can't answer. You can only cry out his name, again and again, as the notes beneath you unravel into chaos and crescendo Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you rock against him, pace faltering with every thick thrust. The bench groans beneath your bodies, protesting under the weight of it all, but you don't stop. Neither of you could if you tried.

His hands are all over you—up your back, into your hair, clawing at your waist like he doesn't know where to hold, just that he has to hold somewhere.

The piano is completely forgotten now. The keys he was so desperate to press—abandoned mid-chord, half-played notes frozen under bloodied fingertips. But Heeseung's mouth is moving and he's moaning something. At first it's a whisper, hoarse and uneven, barely above the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again. But then—clearer, louder— "Y/N... oh my god, Y/N—" You halt for a second. Barely. Just long enough to catch your breath. To hear him. Your name—your name, not his pianos—spilling from his lips like prayer, like apology, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Heeseung's head drops to your shoulder, and he's panting your name again, so sweet and unguarded it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. "Y/N," he gasps, "you feel so good, baby—fuck—so good—" It's like he sees you now. Really sees you. And his hands are softer now, less frantic, still trembling but reverent in how they hold you—his thumb brushing your waist, his other hand cradling your jaw as he lifts your face to his.

Your noses bump. His eyes search yours like he's never seen anything more precious. "It's you," he whispers, almost awed. "It's really you..."He leans in, kissing you like the world's finally slowed down, like he's finally returned to it. To you. And when you move again—hips grinding, slow now, deeper—he moans your name into your mouth, over and over like it's his undoing. Each syllable spills from him shakily, soaked with disbelief and want and something that almost sounds like worship.

Your hands find his cheeks, thumbs stroking where the dried tears have clung to his skin, and when you whisper his name back, soft and breathless, he shudders. Heeseung's forehead presses to yours. You feel him twitch inside you, thighs clenching around him as you both near that terrible, beautiful edge again, and he breathes your name one last time— "Y/N, I'm—fuck—I'm gonna cum, baby, please—stay with me—stay—" Your hips stutter. His hands seize. And then everything splinters—. Your name tears from his throat in a ragged moan, your own lips parted in soundless release as your body collapses forward, curling into his chest like instinct.

Heeseung's arms close around you immediately. One low on your spine, the other twisted into your hair, as if he can press you into him hard enough to keep you there forever. Your pulse throbs everywhere. Between your legs, in your throat, under your tongue. Heeseung is trembling beneath you, arms loose but shaking, chest heaving like he's run for miles and only now stopped to breathe.

He's still inside you. Still in you, cradled and connected and caught in the softness of what just happened. No piano. No ghosts. Just this.You shift slightly, just to catch your breath, and he shudders around you with a hoarse gasp. His head drops to your shoulder, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stay there a while. No words. No need. Just the sound of the wind against the high windows, the echo of your breathing, and the quiet creak of a broken piano bench holding two too-lost people.

Eventually, his fingers twitch against your waist. "Y/N," he breathes, voice scratchy and soft. You hum, stroking the sweaty strands of hair back from his temple. Your touch is gentle, slow, grounding. He lifts his head—eyes glassy, wide and wet around the edges. You watch them drop down, settle on the stains between you, the faint blood still smudged across his hands and chest. He catches your wrist.Brings your fingers—still trembling—to the mess of red streaked across his ribs. The open cuts from earlier have mostly clotted, but the wounds are still fresh, angry-looking, like they're still listening to the madness that tore them open. He presses your palm there, over his heart.

"This body..." he whispers, eyes still downcast. "It belongs to too many ghosts." Your chest tightens, but you don't pull away. Instead, your fingers spread gently over the damp skin of his chest, pressing softly, reverently. You guide his gaze up to meet yours. "It belongs to me tonight," you murmur, voice quiet but sure. "It's okay, Heeseung. I've got you."

He blinks hard and for a second, something in him flickers. Something soft. Almost boyish and safe. Then his forehead presses against yours again. He leans into the cradle of your hands like he's never been touched this way before—like he doesn't know what to do with it. "...Don't let go yet," he whispers. "I won't," you promise. "Not tonight." Heeseung's head is resting against yours, your hand still pressed to his chest, when he whispers it. So faint, it's nearly lost in your breathing.

"...Call her." You pull back a little, brushing your nose against his cheek. "Hm?" He blinks slowly, like the exhaustion is hitting him all at once. "Phone's somewhere here, on the shelf by the metronome. Just—tell her it's bad, she'll come." You stare back into his eyes cluelessly,

"My nurse".

You nod, slipping gently off his lap. He groans softly at the loss of you but doesn't stop you. Doesn't move at all, really—just tilts his head back against the edge of the bench, hair damp with blood sweat and tears. You find the phone where he said it would be, swipe up, and call the nurse. She picks up after one ring. You tell her to come and you don't have to say much more—she must be used to these calls by now. And as you're hanging up, you hear him say it behind you, low and soft, "Thanks... for coming upstairs."

You turn, heart squeezing. He's still sitting there, shirtless and smeared in blood, legs parted like he couldn't stand if he tried. But he's looking at you—really looking—and something about it makes your breath catch in your throat.

You walk over. Kiss his forehead. Then slip into the bathroom for towels, water, and cleaner. By the time the nurse arrives, you're back upstairs, on your knees by the piano, gently gathering the shattered ivory keys and splintered wood into a pile. You've scrubbed some of the blood from the floor, though the stains are stubborn. The piano looks gutted—her insides exposed, wires torn and twisted like veins. Your heart aches again. Not for the piano. But for him.

Heeseung, who stayed downstairs. Who let someone else tend to him while you tried to do what you could for the mess he left behind. You hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then his voice—calmer now, hoarse, but steady. "Leave it." You glance over your shoulder. He's standing there, freshly bandaged, a clean shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose on his frame. The nurse must have left quietly.

"I'm still your cleaner, remember?" you say lightly, trying to ease the air. "Let me do my job." His lips twitch. But there's something softer in his eyes now—something closer to sorrow than amusement.

"You're more than that." You pause and look down at the broken keys in your hands. "I know."

And he comes to you—sinks down beside you on the floor, still moving slowly like he's holding his bones together by sheer will—and rests his forehead to yours again. Neither of you says anything else, you just sit in the wreckage of something beautiful. Together.

*•*•*

It's hard to say how much time has passed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The kind that blur together, quiet and golden at the edges, like light filtered through gauze. The scar on Heeseung's arm is healing well—just a thin red seam now, barely visible when he rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.

You're downstairs today. The sun is dipping low and warm across the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air. The piano stands rebuilt, restored—not the same one from upstairs, but something new. Something you picked out together.

You're sitting beside him on the bench, your knees touching. Heeseung's hands are guiding yours across the keys with quiet patience.

"No, baby, focus" he murmurs, laughing when you hit the wrong note again. "That's an A, not a G."

"I am focused," you argue, shoulders tensing in mock defense. "I just—I forgot which finger goes where." He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple. "The one I showed you. Your third finger. C'mon. Try again." You exhale, pouting a little as you reposition your hands. Heeseung watches you with a softness that folds itself into the corners of his smile.

You press the keys again. It's still wrong. You groan dramatically. "Ugh, why is this so hard?" And he can't help it—he grabs your chin and kisses you mid-pout. Quick and warm. The kind of kiss that says you're the most precious thing I've ever ruined myself for.

Your lips curve into a grin beneath his. He chuckles. "You know what I think?"

"Hm?"

"I think you just like messing up so I'll kiss you."

You nudge him with your shoulder. "Maybe." Heeseung leans in again. A little slower this time. A little deeper. Then his hands return to the keys. And so do yours.

You sit like that a while—two shadows against the shine of the piano, laughter and missed notes echoing softly in the room. And if someone were to peek in just then, they might think it's a simple thing. A boy and a girl, and a piano between them. But it's not. It's an anchor. A promise. A world rebuilt from ash and ghosts and broken music.

And maybe you never learned to play perfectly, but he never stopped telling you you were the most beautiful song he'd ever heard.

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Riki, eyes glued to his omelette as he settled into the seat. “I said no.” His dark hair fell over his forehead until he brushed it back—another small movement that looked like art. Now slicing into his food with the shiny utensils that had the family crest carved into them. “Riki, I’m not asking to get in the field and hold a gun. I just want to…be an informant almost. Like your Oracle.” You turned to him, crossing your legs—not even wanting to touch your food now. 

He furrowed his brow incredulously, “Oracle?” He muttered with a mouthful of eggs. 

You nodded with a smile, “Mhm! Like the girl from Batman.” 

“You’ve been watching too much TV, baby.” 

You throw your hands up in frustration. “Because you won’t let me do shit besides that!” You whined, desperate to prove a point.

Since marrying Riki, you have taken up the cushy, spoiled housewife role. And while there was nothing wrong with that, after a while you started to feel antsy. You had bought every bag, every shoe, every diamond, every car, watched every show, even rented out Disneyland for you and Riki to enjoy one day just because you only wanted to go on the Radiator Springs ride. Even the Chanel Private Client Services wasn’t enough.

While you acknowledged the pleasures of being able to spend so indifferently, you started to get restless. There was something about the fact that he was able to go out every single day, going to be productive in more ways than one that made you feel almost…useless. The staff around you stopped bustling, a bit shocked to hear your raise of voice. Even Clara paused, hands folded over a linen napkin, her gaze flicking to Riki like she wasn’t sure whether to intervene or bow out of the scene entirely.

Riki didn’t even blink. He just calmly chewed his omelette like your words bounced off that thick wall of stoicism he kept tightly bolted around anyone who wasn’t you. “I’m not telling you again.”

You didn’t care, you pressed further just because you knew you could. “I know I can do it.” You frowned, “I just wanna help. Most I’ll be doing is sitting at a desk and—”

His eyes looked ahead, nodding once at Clara after she slid him his poured glass of water. But you saw his fingers clamp around the glass. Paling, but his face wasn’t. Riki was calm, tempered as always. At least on the surface but he was patient with you. Something you took for granted. “You know what’s interesting about Oracle?” He said as he sipped his water. You didn’t answer verbally but nodded for him to continue.

“She’s sharp, stubborn, always ready and willing to help. A lot like you.” He gently stabbed the strawberry from the shared fruit bowl in the middle. “She helped Batman and Robin. An amazing partner, she was.” He chewed on the fruit.

You perked up, “See! Then I c—”

He calmly interjected, still not looking at you. But the vibrato of his voice verberated throughout the room. Bouncing off the walls, glass, and stainless steel. “But then one day, Joker shot her. Right in the back. And now she’s paralyzed.”

You blinked.

The sentence lingered in the air like smoke—harmless at first, until it filled your lungs. Riki still hadn’t looked at you. Still ate like nothing had shifted. But everything had. The room was silent. Not the type of silence that asks to be broken—the kind that warns you not to try.

You swallowed. “That’s fiction,” you muttered, softer this time. “That’s not real.”

“Neither is invincibility,” he replied simply. “Not even for people who think they’re behind the screen.”

Finally, he glanced up at you—dark eyes laced with something you couldn’t name. Something heavier than anger, deeper than fear. “You think I’m keeping you out because I don’t think you’re capable?” He chuckled once, dry and humorless. “I’ve seen you lie through your teeth and charm your way out of federal security checkpoints. You’re brilliant. I’d trust you to run the whole damn empire if I died tomorrow.”

Your heart skipped.

He set his fork down. “But I’m not dead yet.”

Then he rose. Just like that.

You expected him to storm off, to make a scene. He didn’t. That wasn’t Riki. He just straightened his cuffs, softly kissed your cheek, gave Clara another kiss on the forehead, and walked out of the kitchen and to the front door with the kind of quiet command that made everyone else shrink. “I love you, angel. Love you too, Claraboo.” The guards fell in around him, black suits rippling like shadows. “I love you too…” You whispered, but loud enough for him to hear it because you knew he wouldn’t leave until he heard you say it. And within seconds, the heavy front doors whispered shut, and the house exhaled a hush that felt a lot like defeat. You stared at the imprint his coffee cup had left on the wooden coaster. Inherited empire, inherited fears. Same old script.

A gentle hand touched your shoulder. Clara. Cinnamon‑and‑steel Clara, who’d watched him grow from toddler to tycoon.

“Tea?” she offered.

You shook your head softly, leaning on the marble with your shoulders slumped and frown etched onto your face. “No thank you, Clara.” The older woman had sort of become your best friend and aunt all rolled up in one over the last few years, sitting right where Riki did. She smiled bitterly as she rested her hand on your cheek. “Young master doesn’t mean to hurt you. Just doesn’t know how to let you help without feeling like he’s failing you.” You blinked up at her, lips parting, but she beat you to the thought. “He thinks protecting you means keeping you in the dark. It’s not fair. But it’s what he was taught. The men before him—his grandfather, his brother, his father at first—they didn’t marry for love. They married for legacy. You? You’re the first thing he ever chose.”

Her thumb brushed along your cheekbone before dropping back to her lap.

“He’s scared.” She said it like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t something Riki would ever say himself. “Not of the enemies. Of what happens to him if something happens to you.”

You exhaled through your nose, scoffing softly at the bitter twist in your chest. “He could just say that.”

Clara smiled gently. “He could. But you married a yakuza, babygirl. Not a poet.”

You cracked a smile—small, but real.

“He’ll come around. Just don’t mistake his silence for stubbornness. That boy listens. Always has.” Your eyes met hers, lashes trembling just a little, because you were tired. Not tired of him—never of him—but of what came with him. The silence. The walls. The feeling that even though you slept next to each other every night, there were parts of Riki that refused to come out from behind that iron curtain in his chest.

“He talks like someone who’s already buried a wife,” you muttered.

Clara sighs, “Because he’s seen it all of his life. Colleagues dying, their wives dying. His mother…” She trailed off. Riki’s mother had been shot and killed when he was two. He hadn’t had any memories of her, just the things that his family wanted him to remember. All of his life he had heard stories of his mother’s laugh, how fun she was, and that one time she accidentally overheated the soup in the kitchen and made the pot boil over and explode all over the counter. Riki had seen no point in being upset over it, he didn’t remember her. In his mind, there was no use mourning someone he never knew. She didn’t mean much to him until he brought you to meet his dad. While you were in the parlor, leg bouncing and nearly hyperventilating, Riki and Mr. Nishimura were speaking in the hallway. Riki would never forget. 

“Her laugh reminds me of your mother’s.”

That was all his father said. Stern and weathered, voice like gravel under boots, but his eyes softened for half a second—just one—as he looked past Riki into the parlor, where you sat nervously smoothing out your dress. Riki stood there frozen. Because in all the years of funerals and retellings, of whispered stories around the dinner table and framed photographs that never moved from the shrine, not once had anyone ever made her real. He’d never known her laugh. But apparently, you sounded like her when you did that thing—laugh with your whole chest, eyes squeezing shut, hands slapping his shoulder even when he barely cracked a joke.

That was the moment his mother became real—not a figment, not folklore.

And that was when fear sunk its teeth into him.

But Clara didn’t need to say anything. You knew. He knew. Everyone did and you couldn’t forget because he wasn’t going to let you. 

So you sat there, knowingly and sighed in resignation. “I just…I love him and I want him to see me as an equal.” You brushed your hair back, jewelry cold on your warm face. “He does, sweetie.” The elder nodded with an endearing smile. “He’s just a prideful and protective man raised by a lot of prideful and protective men. And sometimes that gets in the way. They’ll do anything to ensure the safety of each other. That’s how they were raised. You’re his world, don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I know,” you whispered as you stared down at your doll-like shoes. Rubbing them together lightly and creating a creaking sound with the coated leather.

Clara stood, brushing off her apron. “But if that’s not enough, then…just talk to him. Seriously,” she lightly pinched your cheek. “You know just like I do that he’ll listen.”

She left you with that, bowing before she went to go dust the living room. And you stayed there, heart heavy and at this point, you felt like that same frown was going to become permanent. But you just turned to eat your breakfast. 

Chewing on your omelette and it was cold and bitter, akin to what you thought battery acid could taste like. You frustratedly put the fork back on the plate, and just grabbed your apple juice. Leaving everything else in your wake.

—

Later that day

—

You lay in bed, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it owed you answers. The moonlight spilled through the blackout curtains, painting silver streaks across the sheets—cold and unforgiving. Riki moved around the room with his usual quiet precision, the soft click of his dress shoes replaced by the muted sound of him slipping out of his clothes. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch when he pulled back the covers and settled beside you in just his briefs. He liked sleeping this way.

He glanced over, catching the set of your jaw, the silent storm brewing behind your eyes. His voice was low, cautious—the kind reserved for moments when words had failed too many times already.

“You still upset?”

You stayed quiet.

Your husband sighed as he stared at you, a mixture of pity and frustration. “I just want you to be safe…” He leaned up on his side as he tilted his head. An idea came to his head as he smiled softly. “I have good news.”

You tightened your arms, still looking to the ceiling and staying silent.

But he kept talking, “While I was out, I got those chocolates you liked. I know you haven’t been able to find them for months. They’re downstairs…I can have Clara bring them up for you.” He said hopefully but you still didn’t dignify it. “And…tomorrow when I get back from work we can finally watch that show you’ve been wanting to. The Vampire Diaries you said?” He reached to lightly brush your cheek with the back of his hand, to which you almost fell for it then but you had more resolve. “I promise not to get jealous when you call that Klaus character sexy.” He smiled gently, hoping to make you laugh but to no avail.

“C’mon, my love.” Riki kissed your temple, “don’t be so mean to me.” He said with near desperation. 

Your eyes flicked toward him for a split second. Just one. That was all he got.

He saw it, too.

“I’m not being mean,” you muttered finally, voice flat. “I’m just tired.”

Riki stilled. His hand dropped back to the sheets.

“That’s not what this is about and you know it,” he said, his voice quieter now, more careful. “You’re punishing me.”

You looked at him, “You’re underestimating me.” He furrowed his brows, “I…no I’m not. I told you earlier. I have no doubts. I love you more than you could ever understand but…you’re naïve.” His gaze wavered for the first time you saw in him, fear. “A-And you get in over your head sometimes. I know you won’t be in direct danger but…it’s enough and that’s all I need to make me say no to you.”

You sat up, “I am not naïve!” 

Riki smiled gently, nodding as he moved his hand to your waist. “Yes, you are.”

“Name one time.”

Riki held your gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was debating whether or not to say it. “One time?” he said softly. “Alright.” He ran a hand through his hair, then let it fall to his lap. “That day you tried to drive yourself to Ryujin’s house across town because ‘it was just lunch.’ No guards. No heads-up.” He paused. “You didn’t notice the car that trailed you for ten blocks. You didn’t notice it double back when you stopped at the café. I did. Because I had someone watching.”

You blinked, jaw dropping in disbelief.

“You brushed it off when I brought it up. Said I was being paranoid. But that same car was on our street the next night.” He leaned in a little, voice lower now. “I didn’t tell you that part. Because I knew it would scare you. And I didn’t want you to feel guilty.”

He exhaled. “You’re amazing. Brave. Smarter than anyone I know. But baby…that’s what makes it worse. You think you can’t be touched.”

“Have you…been touched?” You whispered in defeat.

“Me?” He snorted, “Fuck no,” letting out a small laugh.

“Riki…” you whined as you leaned back onto the headboard with a pout.

“What?” He laughed, but quietly gathered himself for you. “I’m sorry, but no. I haven’t but that’s because this is something that I was born into?” He said it as if it was obvious—because it was. “You married into this life and this is just something you’d have to learn. But it’s been four years of me keeping you away from it and it will stay that way until we both croak over.” Riki nods affirmatively as he lays back down on his back. Eyes leering at the ceiling the same way you were. A beat of silence fell over you two. You hated to push him, but this was the last time you would. “Okay but…at least think about this. I married you because I love you.” You huffed, looking at the ceiling as well. “You, our union, this ring, our family name…it means the world—the universe and galaxy—to me. But I swore to love, honor, and respect you in sickness and health, for rich or poor. But…” You turned to him with gentleness in your eyes. “I promised to protect the integrity of the Nishimura name. That I wouldn’t shame this family, myself, or you. That by becoming Mrs. Nishimura, there’s tremendous responsibility and I’m ready for all of it.” You tenderly pecked his lips, to which he quickly reciprocated. “I love you, and if I ever do anything to make you think I cannot handle this…then pull me out. But don’t just say no if we haven’t even seen how I would do.” 

Riki didn’t respond right away. You watched his chest rise and fall, steady, like he was working through every word you’d just said.

Then, slowly, he turned his head toward you.

“…Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll think about it.”

You blinked, surprised he hadn’t shut it down completely. But before you could say anything, he leaned over and kissed your forehead—then your lips. It lingered this time. Less reflex, more emotion.

“Goodnight, baby,” he murmured against your mouth.

You nodded, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “Goodnight.”

He waited until your breathing evened out beside him. Waited until your hand slipped from his chest and onto the pillow.

Then, carefully, Riki slipped out of bed and into a silk robe.

He moved quietly, barely letting the bedroom door creak open before he was down the hall, bare feet silent against the marble.

—

The door clicked shut behind him. Clara glanced up from her desk, already halfway into her second espresso. She didn’t even look surprised.

“I figured you’d come,” she said, setting her cup down. “You only knock when it’s about her.”

Riki didn’t smile. Just stood there for a second.

Then: “What do I do?”

Clara smiled fondly, “What you think is best, son.” As she sipped her coffee. 

Riki sat down on the chair in front of her desk with a sigh. “But that’s why I came to ask you.” He gestured to the elder with an annoyed expression but quickly hid it as he actually had respect for her. “She made a good point. Too good. I just don’t want her to get taken advantage of. I don’t want her to lose her light the way so many of us did.” Clara laughed, “You still have your light, Riki.” She leaned back in her chair as she adjusted her glasses. “You didn’t always have it…but she gave it back to you.” He nodded with a firm look. “She did. She’s my light. She’s my—oh gosh—” Riki exhaled firmly as he buried his head in his hands, slightly shaking as he bounces his leg. Anxiety peeking through. “I can’t lose her. I won’t. I will not end up like my dad. I refuse to.” He shakes his head vehemently, his black hair falling in his face to which he swiftly pushes it back. 

“She’s strong. You’re even stronger. Use your strength to help her get there. She just wants you to meet her halfway. That’s all she needs from you.” Clara said softly. “She’s capable and you know it. I believe so.”

Riki looks up at her through hooded lids. “You think so?”

Clara nodded, “I know so.” She stood up and beckoned him to follow her. “Come on,” 

He complied and followed her to the east wing of the home—where his office resided. She used her key to open it and walked to his file cabinet and pulled out a black folder and handed it to him. “Here.”

The tall man scanned the folder and looked up at her. “What’s this for?”

“A test.” she said simply. “Start small. Give her something to handle. If she can carry it—then you talk.”

Riki stared at the folder, thumb brushing over the edge.

“You sure?”

Clara’s eyes didn’t waver. “I’ve never been more.”

—

You sat in the living room, watching another installment of some YouTube gameplay of a horror game. After last night, you had hope. Hope that something in the universe would change the mind of your vexingly stubborn husband. That for once he’d let you have a little more agency than he’d let you have any other day. Though, please don’t misunderstand. Riki wasn’t controlling by any means. He let you do and practically say whatever you wanted. You spent his money, were able to go out at your leisure (not without security), utilize…him as much as you wanted. But especially, he let you argue. Riki never let anyone argue. Being the man he was, prideful and a leader, his word was always going to be the last one. It was his way or no way, and this was the first time he had fought you so hard on something as this only made you want it more. You wanted to help, of course. But you just wanted to be more important to him than you already were. You knew that he loved you, you had never in the four years that you were together doubted the affection he held for you. You had just wished that he let you have a little more freedom. So you adjusted yourself on the couch, your shorts twisting and crop top riding up just a little but it didn’t matter because you had a throw blanket on. Riki entered the living room with something hidden behind his back. “Hello, my love.”

You furrowed your brows, “What are you doing?”

He shrugged as he padded over to the couch and plopped beside you with a knowing smirk. You turned off the TV and turned to face him, giving him your undivided attention. “I have to talk to you about something serious.”

You frowned, “If this is about yesterday then I—” He shook his head with a smile now, “Ancient history, passé.” 

Growing suspicious, you hugged the blanket close to you. “Okay?”

He revealed a black folder from behind him and flashed it with a smile. “Ta-da!”

You shrug, “A black folder. Wow…”

He smacked his teeth with a grunt. “Take it,” he said gently, smiling with tenderness. 

You grabbed the folder reluctantly, opening it to sift through it: three different color USBs, CCTV stills, ledger excerpts, and then a sealable, ivory envelope with a Kaminari recommendation card on it. 

Your heart dropped, tears welling up in your eyes as you looked at him. “No…”

He nodded, smiling, “Yes, but only if—” 

You cut him off by throwing yourself on top of him in excitement. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” The black folder behind you now and your legs tangled with his as you held his face between your hands, kissing him once, twice, a third time just to make sure this was real. Riki laughed into your lips, arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like the choice didn’t shake him a little too. Like giving you this meant everything would be fine. “Wait, woah slow down.” He smiled, “there’s something else too. Come with me.” He stroked your cheek as he helped you up and off of the couch, grabbing the folder. Without a word, you followed him to the east wing as if you were going to his office. But then you made a strong left. This house was so big that there were rooms you hadn’t even seen yet; and you’d been living here for two years. But he handed you a key to a door, the door being right down the hall from his. 

You took it without a word and unlocked the door to see an office of your own. A pink, girly office.

You stepped inside slowly, mouth parting in a silent gasp. It was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in soft morning light. White marble floors. Blush-toned walls. Shelves already stocked with delicate file boxes, soft leather notebooks, gold-trimmed pens, and what looked like a crystal lamp shaped like a cherry blossom. Then you looked around in the corner of the room, a plush carpet and loveseat with a mini-fridge. There was a glass desk in the center, wide and sleek, with your name engraved on a pink acrylic placard: Mrs. Nishimura—but underneath, in smaller script, it read:

Behavioral Intelligence Officer

Your knees buckled a little.

“Riki…” you breathed, turning around with trembling hands. “What is this?”

He stood at the doorframe like he wasn’t watching your entire soul ascend out of your body. His smile was slow, private. “This is where you’ll work from now on. The folder stays here. You get full clearance, unmonitored access, your own contact line with everyone, and burner accounts we’ll rotate weekly.”

You stared at him, absolutely speechless.

“You said you wanted to help,” he added softly. “But more than that…you wanted me to treat you like a partner. So here you go. This is me treating you like a partner.”

Tears filled your eyes again, but this time they didn’t sting. They shimmered.

“And I don’t have to…ask permission to come in here?” you asked, still stunned. Riki shook his head, stepping in and running his hands up your arms. “This is yours. It’s your space, your case, your decisions.” He paused. “I’ll still worry, and I’ll still protect you. That’s not up for debate. But this—” He looked around. “This is where I start learning how to let go a little.”

You threw your arms around his neck again, burying your face into his shoulder. “I’m gonna cry all over this expensive-ass marble.” He let out a breathy laugh as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Don’t. I don’t want a slip and fall one day in.” Kissing your temple lovingly, his voice softening. “I love you, you’re Mrs. Nishimura. Not just in love, but in title and it’s time we all started acting like it.”

You peeled off and pulled him down a bit to lay your lips onto his. Resting your hands on his nape as you kissed him like it was the last thing you’d ever do. 

Riki, letting out a groan as he picked you up off of your feet, grabbing your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist. He smiled into the kiss as he massaged your ass in his large hands. “Should’ve done this sooner.”

“Mhm,” you hummed into the exchange as you tilted his head back to start showing his neck some attention.

Riki’s pulse thrummed beneath your lips, his head tipping back just enough for you to taste the faint salt of his skin and the trace of expensive cologne he only ever wore for you. His breath caught—low, rough, entirely at odds with the marble‑cold composure everyone else knew.

He shifted, pressing you against the edge of your new desk. The glass was cool, a soft contrast to the heat rolling off the two of you.

“Careful,” you whispered, teasing your teeth along his jaw. “That’s my desk now.”

He hummed, voice vibrating against your mouth. “Then I guess I’ll just have to get used to doing things your way.” His hands skimmed up the backs of your thighs, thumbs drawing lazy circles that made you shiver. The black folder still sat secure on the far corner—close enough to remind you why you were here, but far enough to keep from shattering the moment. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—dark, dilated, a storm held only by sheer will. “Thank you,” you murmured. “For trusting me.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering at your cheek. “Thank you for demanding it.” The weight of those words settled between you—equal parts promise and permission. He leaned in again, slower this time, lips hovering at the shell of your ear.

“Lock the door, Officer,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “We must discuss business.” You squealed in glee as you hopped off the desk and closed the door, clicking the lock and scampering to your desk chair to sit dramatically. Crossing your legs like this was your throne and you were about to speak to one of your subjects. “Behavioral Intelligence Officer speaking,”

Riki smiled at your corniness. “Woah there, Powerpuff Girl. We gotta lay down the ground rules first.” He leaned against your desk, half sitting—his long legs in his signature black slacks looked you in the eye.

Raising your brows in curiosity, you knew this was coming. “Rules?”

He nodded once, “Rules. There are quite a few.”

“What are these rules?” You grabbed the folder to open it but he quickly took it from you, barely leaning forward as his long arms made quick work. “Hey!” You tried to grab it back.

He held the folder out of reach and held his hand up. “Nope, I need your attention.”

You huffed in frustration and leaned back in your chair. “Okay, you got it.”

He nodded, something behind his eyes switching. That domestic, loving, caring husband disappeared and now thunder, cold, and firm boss made an appearance. This is how you know he was being totally serious. “Rule one: you never—and I mean ever—do anything without consulting me. You report to me, you run things by me, you address me. This goes for everyone in the organization. I am the boss, I am your leader, I will be respected as such.” Your eyes widen at his unyielding tone; unsure whether to find this scary or sexy. But you concede, “Okay. Number two?”

Riki nodded, “Number two: one-way door policy. Do you know what that means?” He tilted his head. 

You shook your head with wide eyes. “No,”

He smiled politely, “It means that whatever comes in here, stays here. That folder? Stays here. External drives, put it in the safe.” He points to the hidden safe behind the big picture frame of you two, the photo of him proposing to you in Cabo. “Don’t screenshot anything. Don’t even mention anything outside of here. The only other place that’s acceptable is my office. Understood?”

You nod, “That makes sense, I get it. Understood.”

“Good. Number three: when this button lights, pick up your phone. It means there’s an emergency and someone needs to get a hold of you.” He nods to the clear knob on your PC keyboard. “We haven’t had a situation where we’ve needed to do it for years. But it’s necessary. Simple.” He claps his hands as she slowly paces the room now. “Next rule: Every accusation needs proof. Time, place, motive. You can’t just say you have a gut feeling. I would believe you if you spat on me and told me it was rain. But here, we need proof. No baseless accusations. This goes for everyone, even me.” He put his hands in his pockets, as he looked at the marble floor. Letting himself think, doing that thing with his tongue-in-cheek. “Any questions thus far?” 

Even with receiving all of this information, you shook your head. “No, keep going.”

“Beautiful,” he half-smiles. “Number four, this is a special rule: mental health days for you. Brains work better when they’re not being fried. Take a day to decompress, all of our problems will be there when you get back. And you will stop working at midnight, every night. No exceptions—I’m not going to explain it.” He said firmly. “A few more rules.”

He stopped walking to look you in the eye. “You only break rules to save a life, not for curiosity. It’s cute in a mystery film but people’s lives are at stake everyday here, don’t just do shit for the fun of it.” He comes back to his slow pacing.

“Third to last rule: this,” He gestured around the room, “is all yours. But this position isn’t a sure thing—”

Your jaw dropped, “Riki—” you whined in protest, finding it to be unfair. 

“I’m speaking.” He held his finger up to silence you, to which you complied. Cowering in your seat as you looked at him with a pout.

“You’re going to be headed into this with little training. You’re not used to being under constant pressure, sometimes when you aren’t used to that…well…” He shrugged, “you can choke.” Riki sighed. 

“You think I’m gonna choke?” You applied pressure to your tone, tilting your head in confusion. “I thought you said I was capable.”

Riki’s jaw flexed, eyes flicking up to meet yours—and for a moment, the weight of all this vanished. He looked at you like he always did: like you were the sun wearing heels, a hurricane with heart. But even so, his voice stayed firm.

“I know you’re capable,” he corrected. “But being capable and being ready aren’t the same thing. This isn’t a trust fall, baby. If you fall, someone could die.”

You stared at him. The silence between you stretched just long enough to feel like a power shift. Like you weren’t his wife at that moment—you were his kobun, his chosen partner, sure. But still…new.

You swallowed your pride and gave a tight nod. “Alright. Next rule?”

He sighed again, knowing this one would damper you a little. “No pet names. No ‘baby,’ no ‘my love,’ no ‘babe,’ ‘babe-arsaurus.’” 

“Not babe-asaurus!” 

He gave you a flat look. “Especially not babe-asaurus. We’re not at home. You wanna call me something cute, you do it in the kitchen.”

You snorted, arms crossed as you leaned back in your chair. “So dramatic.”

“I’m serious.” He circled back behind your desk, hands coming to rest on the armrests as he leaned in close. “Pet names blur the lines. And here, we don’t blur lines.”

You blinked. “Okay, edgelord.”

He grinned against your cheek, voice dropping again into that teasing warning. “Keep it up and the next rule’s gonna be ‘no lip gloss if you’re gonna talk back.’”

You raised your brows, daring him. “You gonna confiscate it?”

He took your gloss right out of your shorts pocket like he knew exactly where it was. “First offense: warning. Second offense? I keep it. Third…” He leaned in and whispered against your jaw, “You come to my office to earn it back.”

“Ooh…” you smile as you nuzzle his neck then pull back. “Am I speaking to my husband or Kaminari?”

He smiled back, “Both…but I’m serious.” He raised his brows, “No names.”

You smacked your teeth, “Okay ba—I mean—sir.”

Riki smiled kneeling in front of your chair now. “That turns me on too, but final rule. And it’s the one I’ll break before I ever let you break it.”

He leaned forward, holding your face in his hands. His cool rings melted against your cheeks as he looked you in the eye. “No lying,” he said. “To me. Ever. If you’re scared, tell me. If you messed up, tell me. If you don’t know what to do, you come to me. We do not lie to each other.”

This was an unspoken rule, not only in your career but in your marriage too. The only lie that Riki had ever told you was that he was going to work but was going ring shopping instead. With the candor of his own family—meaning that Riki’s family physically never lied to each other—he saw that lying was the ultimate form of betrayal. The only time that lies were acceptable were under moments of extreme duress (e.g. his job). When you two had discussed deal breakers on your first date he had said ‘lying’ before the question even left your mouth. And funnily enough, he never lied to you. He just withheld things or simply never brought things up until you asked. He never spoke about work, and if you asked about his day then it was: “Today was shitty.” Or “It was good. Just work.” Or “Productive, fortunately.” He never wanted you to know anything because knowing means danger and danger means you die. And it’s not paranoia! No. Never. 

If you asked how a pair of jeans looked on you and he didn’t think they suited you then he’d give a simple “You’ve got better ones, my love.” Riki’s brand of honesty wasn’t mean—just wrapped in a velvet glove with iron beneath. Never cold, never cruel, never abrasive. He just valued the truth and gave it to you whether you liked it or not. Simply, he’d want the same thing from you. He’d rather you hurt his feelings with the truth now than hurt it even more with a lie if—and when—he found out. You never lied to him, even when the truth would hurt more. So now, as he knelt in front of you, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like you were made of glass and fire at the same time, it wasn’t just a rule. It was another vow. Not just for the sake of your marriage but your new dynamic. 

“Not even if it’ll hurt you?” You whispered, leaning your forehead on his.

He closed the gap a little, leaning to place a gentle kiss on your lips; letting it linger. “Especially then,”

“…Is this the part where I get my badge and cool-girl gun holster?” you mumbled against his mouth.

He snorted, pulling back. “You are so annoying.”

“Hot and annoying,” you corrected, poking his chest.

“Yeah, unfortunately,” he sighed, mock-disappointed, before grabbing the case file from the desk. “Alright, dude. Let’s ruin someone’s day.”

—

Riki sat on the edge of your desk again, this time with the folder open in his lap, flipping through it casually—composed as usual. “We have a leak,” he said simply.

Your brows pulled together. “Internal?”

He nodded once. “High-level. The kind of leak that gets people killed.”

You leaned forward in your chair, pulse ticking up. “What kind of intel got out?”

“Shipment logs. Safehouse rotations. Even a few agent profiles,” he said, tapping the page with the back of his ringed hand. “All routed through dead drops in Nishiyama territory. No digital trail. Clean. Old-school.”

You scoffed under your breath, “So we’re dealing with a professional.”

“We’re dealing with a mole.” His voice hardened like concrete setting. “Someone inside Kaminari is feeding information to the Nishiyama syndicate. Which means one of ours is playing both sides.”

You blinked. “A double agent?”

He met your gaze with a heavy look. “Exactly.”

You swallowed. This wasn’t just a briefing. This was serious. “You already have a suspect?”

“I’ve got three.” He flipped to the next tab. “Some important people. Social Liaison, Yuna. Logistics, Jo. Then Sohee, the Accountant. All had access to the stolen intel.”

You reached out, but Riki didn’t hand over the folder yet. “Your objective,” he said, his tone dropping into something deadly smooth, “is to make contact with all three. Casually. I want your read on them. Behavioral patterns. Speech tells. Any inconsistencies.”

You raised a brow. “You want me to profile them.”

“I want you to read them like a book, baby,” he said, before catching himself—then exhaling. “Sorry. Not on the job.”

You smiled a little. “Slipped out. I’ll allow it.”

He looked at you, seriously now. “You’re not just my wife here. You’re the only person I trust to do this clean. No bias, no noise. I don’t need proof yet. I need instinct. Which might contradict a rule but you aren’t making a move yet. That’s up to me…or maybe you depending on how this goes.”

“And if my gut tells me who the leak is?”

He nodded. “Then we build the case. Surveillance, comms trace, movement logs. But you’re the first step.”

You inhaled. “Understood. Where do I start?”

Riki handed you the folder at last.

“Page one. Then you come to the compound with me tomorrow morning.” He smiled, tilting his head. You stood with slight nervousness, shaking your hands as if the feeling was water and you needed to let it dry. “Tomorrow?” You muttered as you paced in front of him slowly. “I’m going tomorrow?”

Riki smiled at your demeanor, “Yes, you will be coming with me tomorrow.” 

“What? So like, do I go in a disguise or something?” You stopped and put your hands on your head dramatically, cropped shirt lifting just a tad to reveal the hem of your bra. Not that you cared, Riki had seen you as naked as the day you were born. Letting out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners and that was enough to soothe you. Hearing him laugh. “Sure.” He crossed his arms. “Your disguise will be ‘my wife.’” Riki leaned off of the desk as he approached you. “You’re just going to talk to them. Like I said…read them. Point out red flags, assess a possible motive. But even then, you are not to engage further. No strong-arming. That’s my job.” 

“Because you’re mean to people.”

Riki snorted. “I’m not mean. I’m...assertive.”

You raised a brow. “You once threatened to staple someone’s tongue to a desk.”

He held up a finger. “Because he lied. With confidence. That’s worse.”

You blinked. “You smiled while doing it.”

“And I was right,” he replied, smug as hell.

You muttered something about psycho husbands under your breath and flipped open the folder anyway. Inside were three crisp profiles: one woman, two men. All clean-cut. All smiling in their ID photos. Like one of them could’ve handed someone a kill order and then gone out for ice cream after.

Your stomach twisted just a bit.

“You good?” Riki asked softly.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just a lot to take in.” He paused, reading you again like he always did—too carefully, too much like someone who knew every version of you. The tough one. The soft one. The one who panicked over brunch menus and the one who could lie on cue if called for it.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said quietly. “To me. Or anyone else.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “That’s funny. I thought this whole thing was a test.”

“Oh it is,” Riki pursed his lips. “And you do have something to prove, I just wanted to make you feel better.”

“Whatever happened to not lying?” You furrowed your brows, now getting irritated that he was making a joke of you.

Riki didn’t flinch. “I’m not lying. I’m softening the blow. Totally different.”

You scoffed, folding your arms. “Feels the same from where I’m standing.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your spine straighten. “If I didn’t think you could handle it, you wouldn’t be here. I don’t hand out assignments because of marriage certificates.”

You held his gaze, jaw tight.

“So yeah,” he continued, “it’s a test. But not of your worth. Of your readiness.” Your heart beat just a little harder at that. Not because you were scared—but because you hated how much you cared about passing. How much you wanted him to see you pass.

“…Still feels like lying,” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

“Then lie back,” he said, almost a whisper now, brushing a knuckle down your arm. “But I owe you a receipt, though.” Riki pouted his lips mockingly. 

“A receipt?” Your eyes flitted to the side for a moment in confusion.

“Mhm,” he hummed as he sharply pulled you in by your biceps, your chest meeting his upper abdomen as he towered over you. “Don’t think I forgot the tone you took with me yesterday morning.”

Your heart raced and the breath caught in your throat like it had something to lose. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was firm enough to remind you: Riki didn’t bluff.

“I had to assert myself,” you said, chin tipping up even as your voice dipped lower.

Riki smirked, eyes flickering between yours. “Oh, you asserted something, alright. Had me rethinking our marriage vows halfway through my eggs.”

“Should’ve read the fine print,” you quipped, trying to deflect the way your pulse was going off like sirens under your skin.

His smile widened just a bit—dangerous and sweet, like a dare in the dark. “Fine print said mutual respect,” he murmured. “And you disrespected your superior officer, baby.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Superior officer? That’s what we’re doing now? You get off on that?”

“I get off on putting you in your place.” He stroked your cheek with his knuckle as he leaned in, grazing his nose with yours. “I think you forgot who you married.” Something behind his eyes flickered, something dark, menacing, and slightly sinister. He leaned back as he scanned your body. “Go to our room,” he said, voice low and unshakable. “Lose the attitude—and the clothes. I want both off by the time I walk in.”

—

Getting ready the next morning at six ante meridiem was the hardest thing you’ve had to do in a very long time. You don’t know how Riki did it. If it was a solid nine then that was right up your alley. And considering the events of last night, your husband wasn’t exactly forgiving. You were sore as a bitch, with every part and limb aching. Nevermind your glorious dream about riding unicorns in the rain. It didn’t matter because it wasn’t rain, it was your despicable husband shaking his wet hair in your face as your wake up call.

“Grand rising, beloved!” He beamed with a boyish smile.

You jumped up, clenching the linen sheets to your bare chest and gasping for air. “Oh my God.” You grunted as you swung on him, hitting his bare arm. “You’re such an asshole! Fuck you, you scared the shit out of me!” You’re still spent for air as you fell back on the bed and he was towering over you from beside the bed, laughing from the pit of his gut. He grinned, completely unbothered by your assault. “Don’t be mad. You looked peaceful. Like Snow White, but, like...if Snow White had a felony record.”

You tossed a pillow at him, which he caught easily with one hand, the other holding his towel around his waist. “I’m not the one with the felony fucking record.” 

“Well technically I don’t. But if I did then I’ll add something else to my list if you don’t get up.” He tossed the pillow back at your face. You launched yourself at him like vengeance itself, arms wrapping around his neck as you tackled him backward. The towel slipped just enough to make it personal.

“I hate you,” you growled, even as laughter bubbled in your throat.

He caught you mid-flight with that irritatingly perfect upper-body strength, stumbling a little before regaining balance. “Lies,” he muttered against your shoulder. “You were just singing my praises last night.”

“That wasn’t singing, that was—” you cut yourself off, groaning as you buried your face in his collarbone. “I’m too tired for this. Let’s call in rich.”

“We are rich,” he said, smug. “But we’re also very much still showing up, because I’m not digging the ‘sore and cranky’ excuse from you today.”

You sighed and looked up at him, “I would kiss you but you pissed me off and I have morning breath.”

Riki smirked, unfazed, and leaned in anyway. “Lucky for you, I have a piss kink and no sense of smell.”

You smacked his chest, scandalized. “Riki!”

He just laughed, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Relax, I brushed my teeth for both of us.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not how hygiene works.”

“It is in marriage,” he said, already walking away like he didn’t just say the most obscene things before the Lord Himself was awake. “Now move it. We’ve got a mole to sniff out.”

You stared after him. “I swear, I’m calling HR.”

“I am HR.” he yelled from the bathroom. “You have two hours.”

God help you.

—

“Okay, so what’s the plan?” You exhaled shakily, trying to rub the sweat off of your palms and onto the leather seats of black car. 

“My love, you asked like twi—”

“I don’t care, I’m asking again.” You looked out of the car window, watching the trees turn to mush and blur as the car sped through the highway. “Three people, one woman: Jung Yuna. Two men: Asakura Jo, and Lee Sohee.” He said, carefully, as he soothed your nerves, gently massaging your thigh. “Leak. You’re going to talk to them, get a feel for their personalities. Just…get to know them. That’s all.” He pressed a tender kiss to your shoulder. 

“Okay,” you huffed. “Simple enough.”

Riki gave a soft hum. “Simple, yes. Easy?” He flicked his eyes toward you, a warning there. “Not even a little.”

You glanced at him. “What’s the catch?” He didn’t answer immediately, just adjusted his grip on your thigh and dropped his voice. “One of them’s working with a third-party buyer. We don’t know who. We don’t know why. But we know it’s internal.”

Your brows furrowed. “And they don’t know we know?”

“Exactly. As far as they’re concerned, I’m bringing my sweet, unassuming wife for a fun day at work. Yuna knows me. Jo doesn’t trust me. And Sohee…” he trailed off, pausing. “Sohee thinks he’s smarter than everyone in the room.”

You clicked your tongue. “So you want me to play dumb.”

Riki’s lip curled into that crooked smirk—the one that always meant trouble. “Not dumb. Charming. A little naïve, maybe. But observant. You’re not interrogating them. You’re studying them. I want your instincts, not your analysis.”

“So this is ‘vibes-based’ intel?” You made quotation marks with your fingers.

“This is you-based intel.” His hand slid up your thigh, fingers curling gently. “You see people. You’ve always seen me—even when I didn’t want you to. That’s your edge.”

You fell silent for a beat. “If I’m the edge, what are you?”

“The blade,” he said simply. “So keep it cute. I’ll do the cutting if we have to.”

You let out a breath, heart pounding as the trees blurred past faster now. “Okay. Let’s find our mole.”

—

You entered the expansive compound, smiling and waving at the different people. At times—and the very few times you’ve been here—you forget that this is an organized crime group and not an organization, a conglomerate even. And seeing Riki walk in here was like seeing a switch flip and the light turn on. Gone was your generous, funny, doting lover and now straight-faced, strict, articulate Komichō. It was slightly overwhelming to be able to see someone just turn themselves on and off like that.

So when he walked in, every person lined up to greet him. His kobun, bloodbound kobun. Trained, loyal, and unshakably his. They bowed—not out of introduction, but acknowledgment. You weren’t a stranger here, not technically. They knew your face. They’d watched you stand beside Riki in silk and gold, watched you kiss him with a thousand eyes on your back. But none of them knew you.

Not really.

So when you walked in today—no veil, no curated elegance, no fanfare—there was a shift. A flicker in the way some of them looked at you. You were here, which meant something had changed. You weren’t just the wife anymore. You were part of the inner workings now. At least you and Riki knew that. Still, he said nothing else. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough to quiet any question before it could rise. But the way his hand hovered at your back—subtle, protective, claiming—told the whole room that you weren’t just tagging along. You were trusted.

A few of them looked surprised.

One or two looked uneasy.

And at least one looked curious.

You kept your posture steady, offering a nod of acknowledgment. Cool. Collected. Just another day casually stepping into your husband’s criminal empire. Totally fine. Absolutely fine. Zero panic. Riki leaned in just enough to brush his lips against your temple. “They remember the wedding,” he murmured, “but they don’t know you.”

“Good,” you replied under your breath.

He smirked. “That’s my girl.”

—

You strolled into one of the lounges, making decent use of your time here. You were careful to not immediately get to work as you didn’t want to make yourself super obvious. So here you were, walking around, scaring Heeseung—head of operations—every now and then just because you could. But after about thirty minutes, you decided to pull the trigger on this. Your eyes found Sohee sitting at one of the many tables, tip-tapping away at something on his laptop. Presumably not work-related because this was considered a breakroom. But Riki wasn’t that strict, he didn’t care where the work got done—as long as it was in the building and nowhere else. 

Putting on a friendly smile, you approached the table with politeness. “Hi, Sohee. How are you?”

The guy looked up from his laptop, the blank stare turning to a smile that mirrored your own. “Okaasan, I’m doing fine. You?”

You waved him off with a smile, telling him to drop the formalities and that calling you by your name was more than fine. But he didn’t comply, stating that Riki insisted that they call you Mrs. Nishimura or Okaasan.

“No, I’m telling you to call me by my first name. Please, it’s okay.” Smiling, nodding your head to ensure he felt a little more comfortable in this exchange. Being on a first-name basis establishes comfort. If there’s that then the conversation won’t be so rigid. Sohee smiled gently, being slightly flustered at your friendliness. He hadn’t spoken to you ever and only knew you in passing. He was at the wedding like most of the group but besides that there were very little interactions between you and the other affiliates. No one knew about you aside from Riki’s close friends—some of whom were a part of the group and his groomsmen, and his family by the time of the ceremony. “Of course…” He rubbed his eyes, “But yeah, I haven’t seen you since the wedding. Tell me about married life, how’s it treating you?” You slid into the seat across from him, adjusting your blouse just slightly as you crossed one leg over the other. A friendly smile stayed on your lips, but your eyes had already started their sweep—watching his fingers, his posture, how fast he minimized whatever was on his screen.

“Oh, you know,” you started, tone breezy like the back patio of a brunch spot. “We argue about whether the AC should be at sixty-eight or seventy-two, and then he kisses me. Classic honeymoon phase stuff.”

Sohee laughed politely, but you noticed the slight tug at his lip—like he was trying to decide if it was okay to really laugh. That was good. You liked that.

“It’s different though,” you continued, tilting your head thoughtfully. “Being someone’s girlfriend, and then suddenly you’re…really a part of their life. Your world is one, I guess. Still getting used to the perks.”

He snorted at that, relaxing a little. “I mean, if by perks you mean the estate and a guy named Chan who opens your car door every morning—yeah, not bad.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Exactly. And the complimentary paranoia’s cute too.”

Sohee’s eyes flicked up at you, and for a second, you saw the calculation behind the smile. He was smart. They wouldn’t have put him over logistics if he wasn’t. “You say that like you weren’t built for this. I mean, most people around here kind of expected you to be the accessory. No offense.”

You smiled wider at that. “None taken. Accessories don’t walk themselves in here and sit across from the guy who tracks where all the money goes.”

He stilled—just barely—but you caught it. Bingo.

Before he could volley back, you softened your voice, brushing invisible lint off your sleeve. “Anyway. I’m not here to scare anyone. I’m here to get to know people. Riki’s always talking about how tight-knit the team is. Family, right?”

Sohee nodded slowly, and you could practically hear the mental gears clicking. “Yeah. Family.”

“And family talks,” you said lightly. “Even if it’s just about what’s stressing them out…or keeping them up at night.”

He leaned back slightly, tilting his head. “That’s a very specific way to phrase that.”

You looked at him with a half-smile. “Well. I’m a very specific kind of person. Plus, I spend his money, I gotta make sure it gets where it has to be right?” You try to break the subtle change in vibe with a joke. He bites, somewhat relieved that the woman who has the power to either put him on the unemployment line or in a body bag wasn’t taking him too seriously. 

Despite that, you took it for what it was and whatever he was giving you. Before either of you can stretch the silence too far, the door swings open.

“Heard there were pastries in here,” a voice calls out playfully, and in walks Yuna—light on her feet, dressed like her outfit alone had a LinkedIn profile, and confident like someone who always gets the last word.

Her gaze slides over the room, landing on you and Sohee.

“Oh,” she says, lips curving upward as she closes the distance. “Didn’t know this was a members only table.”

You gesture to the seat beside you. “Not at all. I was just catching up with Sohee. Join us.”

Sohee stands halfway out of his seat in reflex—a gentleman or a little afraid, who’s to say—before awkwardly sitting back down once Yuna waves him off. “So,” she says as she takes a seat, folding her arms on the table and angling herself toward you. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding. You were a vision by the way. I mean, the ceremony? You two could’ve had a Vogue cover, just stunning.”

You chuckle, nodding politely. “Thank you. It was a blur, but I do remember crying over my lashes right before walking down the aisle.”

Yuna laughs, then tilts her head a little. “So, married life? How’s it been? I imagine being Mrs. Nishimura is…an adjustment.”

The way she says it—like she’s biting into something sweet just to test the aftertaste—tells you she’s digging. Not cruelly. Just…curious. Or pretending to be. You tilt your head, mirroring her. “We were just talking about it.” You gesture to Sohee with a smile. “It’s been good.” You always loved to overshare, but it was no one’s business what consisted of your relationship. Namely how well your husband treated you. You had to learn that lesson better now than later.

Yuna hums. “Right. He’s always had that...edge. But seeing him soft for someone? Kind of wild, honestly.”

You smile, gentle but unmistakably proud. “It’s a side of him you have to earn.”

That lands. You see it in the way her jaw shifts just slightly, like the compliment doubled as a subtle door slam.

She nods slowly, playing it off. “Must be nice—being the one person who gets let into the inner sanctum. He doesn’t really do vulnerability.”

You rest your elbow on the table, your chin on your hand. “No, he doesn’t. Which is why I don’t take him for granted.” 

And that right there—that soft, unapologetic weight behind your words—is when the intimidation really hits.

Yuna smiles, but this one doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You make it look easy.”

Sohee clears his throat, trying to reroute the conversation back to safer shores. “You always had that energy, though,” he says. “Even at the wedding. People were talking more about you than the cake.”

You grin. “Then I hope they weren’t talking about the dress fitting too tight. I ate like four slices of that cake myself.”

“Bold,” Yuna murmurs, sipping her drink. “That cake was like five hundred a slice.”

You glance at her. “When you marry a man who owns the bank the baker owes a loan to, cake isn’t a concern.”

Sohee chokes on a laugh, half trying to hide it. “She’s not wrong.”

Yuna raises an eyebrow, lips twitching. “That sounds like something Komichō would say.”

“He’s rubbing off on me,” you say. 

“Definitely rubbing,” she mumbles beneath her breath as she sipped her tea again, you barely heard it but it was definitely loud enough for you to catch. Your ears perked up at the comment, “I’m sorry?” Tilting your head with a small smile, acting as if you didn’t really hear her. 

Yuna blinked, playing it off, though her smirk didn’t quite fade. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

You let out a soft chuckle, resting your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand. “You should be careful doing that around here. People might think you’re losing it.”

Sohee glanced between the two of you, sensing the invisible knife sliding onto the table. “Right, well, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear anything either.”

“No need,” you said smoothly, eyes still on Yuna. “I just thought I heard something interesting. Wouldn’t want to miss out.”

Yuna gave a small shrug, eyes cool. “Guess my mind wandered.”

“To Riki?” you asked lightly, no edge to your voice but every word precise.

Her lips parted like she might defend herself, but instead she laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re good.”

You smiled wider. “I know I am.”

Sohee cleared his throat again—less out of nerves, more out of self-preservation. It seemed so with him, Riki said he always thinks like he’s the smartest in the room but it might not even be that. Maybe, but he shrinks beneath the gaze of someone bigger. Though, intelligence and bravery aren’t mutually exclusive in this case. Or any of them for that matter. But you didn’t break your gaze from Yuna, not just yet. “Don’t worry,” you finally said, sitting back in your seat with a gracious tilt of your head. “I don’t bite unless I’m hungry.” Your eyes glinted, like the once inquisitive look was suddenly demoted to annoyance. But you knew better than to let her get the best of you. Yuna lifted her tea, trying to cover the shift in her posture—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightened for just a second. “Good thing I’m not on the menu.”

“Of course not,” you said sweetly. You stand, brushing off your skirt as you slide out of your seat. “I’ll be going now, guys. Thanks for hanging out with me.” 

“No problem,” Sohee said with a gentle smile as he stood up to shake your head. To which you nodded respectfully, returning the gesture. “Hopefully we’ll be seeing more of you around here.” You laughed with a nod, “For sure, I’ll definitely be around.” Glancing at Yuna, you smiled gently. “See you around, little one?” You reached out and rubbed her arm, to other eyes it was friendly. Between you two—and maybe Sohee if he squinted—it almost seemed like you were rubbing the metaphorical snot she sneezed onto you, back on her. Sonning her, ‘little girl-ing’ her.

Nonetheless, she smiled. She nodded. And just took it. “Yes, see you around.”

And off you were.

—

Speaking to Riki after that little exchange was definitely on your mind. Seriously it was, every aching part of you was determined to run down on him and question him until he physically choked on his every word. Because for real, what the fuck was that? Why was Yuna so comfortable speaking about your relationship and Riki in such a way? How has Riki made her so comfortable? When has he done that? How did it happen? Who even brought this up to her in the first place? As the five W’s were this close to the edge of your tongue, you decided to save it for later. Not now, no. And it’s not even like you were shy about your marriage. If one couldn’t tell by now, you took any and every opportunity to mention Riki. You swore to your friends that once you got married you would ‘my husband…’ the fuck out of them and everyone else around you. But you didn’t know Yuna, hardly even. You’d known her as one of the heavy hitters—essentially the PR for the group. The Social Liaison. She was delicate, yet biting. Subtle, yet direct. She was gorgeous and that’s exactly why she was appointed, because she was easy on the eyes and no one could dare turn away a beautiful woman. You didn’t feel inferior, there was no reason to. Yuna was Yuna and You were You. Both of you were beautiful young women in a field dominated by men no matter how you sliced it. So to see her be so combative when you didn’t do that to her made you feel like you lost a friend before you could even make one. So as you were on the hunt for Jo, passing through each hallway and scouring every nook and cranny for this guy. You peeped Riki a few feet away in the broad, wide-ranging room. Speaking so firmly to one of the kobun, not making eye contact but nodding along as he walked and they briefed him on something. They were too far for you to hear but he had noticed you, almost like he felt you from ten feet away. He didn’t stop what he was doing, didn’t pause, he was slick as always. Riki kept walking and as he was listening but he made eye contact with you. His gorgeous, alluring eyes followed you as you kept moving but he didn’t smile. He just poked his tongue out—quick, barely there, a flicker of his usual mischief. The kind of look that says I see you, and I know you see me, without saying a single word. It wasn’t apologetic. It felt more like a challenge. Like he was telling you to come find him. To press him. To demand what you wanted to know. At least to you because that’s what you felt like doing. But knowing him, he was just teasing. Letting you know that beneath the hard shell of the Komichō was your childish, teasing, yet loving husband. You held his gaze for a moment longer, then kept walking. Because no matter how much your fists itched to grab his collar and ask him what the hell Yuna meant by that, you had other business to handle. Logistics came first. And Jo—well, Jo was never easy to find. Which was kind of the point.

So you tucked Riki into your back pocket for now, like a loaded question you’d pull out later.

Jo was somewhere in this damn compound, likely holed up with blueprints, phone calls, and at least five burner devices. And if there was anyone (sans Riki) who could give you the real lay of the land—or shift it completely—it was him.

Riki could wait.

You pulled out your phone to shoot him a message, though:

thorn in my side: do yk where jo would be right abt now?

He replied back in a split second.

idiotbox: should be in his office. upstairs, 5th floor. 509.

thorn in my side: thanks

idiotbox: i love you

…

???

i said i love you

i love you baby ????

now girl…

You didn’t even care to respond, you were mad at him for something you only assumed he did and that was childish, of course. You were petty, but so was he and that was how you two worked so well. He’d pick up eventually, but you hated the fact that such a menial exchange had irritated you this badly. But you knew better than to put him in a bad mood at work.

thorn in my side: i love you more babe-asaurus

idiotbox: hm

we’ll talk later

You rolled your eyes at how easily he was able to read you even without seeing you. But whatever, you have a guy to find and Riki was close to your heart as always; but the least of your worries.

Taking the elevator was intense because you hoped that it would be slower, honestly. Like how much of a rush were these guys in? You reached the first to fifth floor in less than two seconds. Now, here you are, scanning the doors and you finally reached Jo’s appointed office and you politely knocked. Waiting for a ‘come in’ or ‘enter’ or ‘who is it’ literally anything. But nothing. You scanned the hallway, peering both ways up and down. No one was around, no one seemed to be passing through and you stepped forward a little bit to put your ear to the door. Also silence. 

Racking your brain, Riki’s words kept ringing in your mind: you are not to engage further.

You are not to engage further.

You are not to engage further. 

You are not—fuck it.

Without another thought you twisted the knob to Jo’s office and as fate would have it, the door was unlocked. You pushed through the door and peeked your head in.

Empty.

So as you slipped in, gently closing the door behind you before locking it, you reminded yourself of what you came here for. It was to get a hold on behavioral patterns, but there’s no harm in scanning. With a shaky exhale, your eyes followed through the space. Very minimal. Only necessary items here: desk, chair, file cabinet, desk lamp, simply essential office gadgets. But as you neared his desk, you spied a ton of papers scattering across it. You hovered, unsure whether you should touch them, but then again, Riki did say not to engage further. He didn’t say anything about observing. Which, in your opinion, made this a grey area. And what were grey areas for, if not you skating through them with barely plausible deniability? The first sheet that caught your eye was a layout of the compound—more detailed than the blueprints you’d seen before. Color-coded zones, timestamped patrol shifts, even ventilation system routes. Jo is definitely playing chess while the rest of these guys are just showing up to the board. The next paper underneath made your stomach pull a little tighter. It was a list. Names. Some you recognized, some you didn’t. Some were marked with symbols: asterisks, slashes, question marks. What you did know was that this was the definitive roster—essentially—for everyone in Thunder. 

Sans one other: Yuna.

Weird.

Then you saw it.

A manila folder tucked half underneath a blueprint sheet. You knew you shouldn’t, but girl—curiosity is a disease. You slid it out just an inch, enough to see the label written in Jo’s tight, deliberate handwriting:

“INCIDENT REPORT — LEAK”

Then another:

“NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”

You didn’t let your initial shock cloud your common sense. Without another thought you grabbed the two files and shoved them inside of your shirt. Dumb decision, yes. Strange, absolutely. Just as you were heading to the door to make your graceful exit (you’ve been doing a lot of those lately it seemed), you heard footsteps and jingling keys right outside of the door. 

“Fuck!” You mouthed in panic and scanned the room. A sliding closet was your best bet so you took shelter there, squatting at the floor and hugging the cloth covered folders to your chest. Knowing better, you ensured your phone was on silent and not on the hard floor to make noise. 

And not a second too soon.

The lock clicked, the door swung open, and Jo entered—as leisurely as one can be. You watched through the thin slits in the closet door as he moved with practiced ease, the way only someone who expected to be alone did.

He muttered something under his breath, inaudible, as he tossed a USB onto the desk and rolled his chair out with a squeak. You swore your heart was doing parkour in your chest, beating a rhythm so loud you were sure he could hear it.

He started typing.

Clicking, clacking, clomping. Jo hands had left the keyboard to feel for his folders—the absent ones. 

His hands patted the desk once. Then again. Slower.

You could hear the moment he realized something was off.

Click, click.

Rustle.

Click.

Pause.

“…Huh.”

He stood up. You could see his silhouette shift through the closet slats. Jo leaned over the desk again, rifling through papers, lifting one corner of the blueprint like the folders might be playing hide and seek with him.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then he muttered, low and sharp: “Motherfucker.”

Busted. Not completely, but the clock was officially ticking.

Jo paced once, then sat back down hard, fingers drumming against the desk in a rhythm that screamed calculating. You knew Jo very vaguely—this wasn’t confusion. This wasn’t panic.

This was inventory. This was war.

And you were right there in the middle of it, like a roach under a glass.

He pulled his phone out. Tapped. You didn’t hear the call ring—probably encrypted, burner-to-burner. Probably to someone way too important to be talking about two stolen folders and a potential mole crouched three feet away.

Still, his voice was ice when he finally spoke:

“They’re gone. Both of them. Yes. Both. Folders. No. Nobody else’s been in here.”

He huffed as he slammed the device down on the desk and left without another word. Closing the door behind him. 

You didn’t move for a full thirty seconds.

Just breathed.

Slow and shallow, trying not to make even your lungs betray you. Your heart was doing a drum solo in your chest, and the folders clutched to you suddenly felt like live explosives. Your knees were screaming. Your brain was screaming.

But Jo was gone.

And you were still here.

When you finally uncurled yourself and opened the closet door like it might squeak out a betrayal, the coast was still clear. The office was eerily quiet, save for the dull hum of whatever sinister programs Jo had left running on his screen.

You grabbed his phone too, along with the USBs. Leaving that behind, what a dummy. 

You crept out like a cat burglar in a heist movie, glancing around one more time before heading to the door.

No one.

No shadows.

You slid out and shut the door behind you, just as quietly as you came.

And then booked it.

—

Muscle memory had you headed there before you could even second-guess the idea. Ninth floor, west wing, room 920. You’d memorized it months ago without even meaning to—like the curve of his signature, or the way his voice dipped when he was serious. The folders were still tucked under your shirt like contraband, stabbing awkwardly against your ribs as you power-walked. You probably looked suspicious. Not that anyone was around to clock it—yet. But paranoia was creeping in like a slow leak. Any second now, you were sure alarms would start blaring.

You rounded the corner, heart racing. Riki’s door stood at the end of the hallway, clean and unassuming. You didn’t knock. Just turned the handle and slipped inside like a shadow.

He wasn’t at his desk.

He was standing at the window, back to you, hands in his pockets like some tortured antihero. Of course. Of course he was being dramatic today.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, without turning around.

You rolled your eyes and let the door click shut behind you. “This is where my man is, this is where I’m due. Thank you very much.”

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable until his eyes landed on your shirt—and what was very obviously not a very lumpy new bra.

“You didn’t,” he said flatly.

You didn’t say anything. Just reached under your shirt, pulled the folders and phone out like a magician producing a rabbit, and dropped them onto his desk with a soft thump.

Riki stared at them.

Then at you. “...You’re insane.”

“I love you.”

He pressed his fingers to his eyes, already visibly aging five years. “I love you too. But I told you not to engage.”

“Yeah, well.” You walked to his side of the desk as he sat. “I’m starting to think you only say that when you don’t wanna deal with the fallout.” You lifted yourself to sit atop his desk, folding your legs.

He didn’t argue because a part of him knew better. But he was going to ask questions.

“Before I open these, Oracle.” He smirked as he leaned back in his chair, rubbing your bare calves. “You are going to tell me how you got these.”

You tilted your head, half-smirking, half-daring him to press. “Before I tell you,” you said, voice sweet as poison, “you’re going to tell me who Nishi is.”

He paused, the playful squeeze he gave your leg faltering for just a second. Just enough for you to catch. Just enough to confirm that the name meant something. Something serious.

“That’s not how this works,” he said slowly, like he was weighing each word. “You first.”

You leaned back on your palms, eyes dragging lazily across the office like you were bored—like you weren’t high off adrenaline and one bad decision away from spiraling. “Door was unlocked. Papers were out. Your little friend Jo doesn’t have the cleanest filing system.”

“You broke into his office,” he said, amused but exasperated, like a teacher trying not to laugh while writing you up. “You hid in his closet.”

“And you told me not to engage, which is very different from telling me not to investigate,” you quipped. “And how do you even know I did that?”

His hands were warm against your skin again, this time steady. Grounding. He sighed, and there was something tired in it. Like this day had finally worn him down. “First off, you came in here winded. Which means you were running. Something you never do.” He nodded affirmatively, like he had seen this scenario a million times before. “Then you have extra padding in your bra like you don’t have enough going on there alrea—” 

You squinted at him, offended but mostly appalled. “Excuse me?”

Riki had the audacity to grin, all smug and unbothered, like he wasn’t skating on the thinnest ice imaginable. “What?” he said, lifting his hands in fake innocence. “I notice things. You weren’t exactly subtle and I’ve seen them enough to know what they do and don’t look like. The folders are poking out like a second set of ribs.”

You smacked his arm. “You are insufferable.”

“Observant,” he corrected, laughing under his breath. “And I know you. You only get this chaotic when you’re pissed or nosy. Or both.”

You rolled your eyes and slipped off his desk, pacing a few steps to blow off steam. “Well, congrats. You know me. You want a medal or a map to Jo’s shitty closet?”

“I want you to tell me why you went looking for him,” he said, the smile in his voice gone now. “What made you dig?”

You paused, fiddling with the edge of a stray paper on his desk, not looking at him. “I was just making my way down the list.” You shrug with a slight pout. “I had already spoken with Yuna and Sohee. Conveniently they were both in the same room. Then I saw you enroute to Jo, knocked on his office. Nobody home. So I took it upon myself to find what he wasn’t there to tell me.” You sighed with a firm nod. “Who’s Nishi? Is it short for Nishimura? Or short for Nis—” You paused as something in your brain had clicked, the lights weren’t dim anymore. “The Nishiyama syndicate that you were speaking of.” Humming in understanding finally as you leaned against the desk. “Is that it?”

Riki’s then blank expression shifted to a smile, not devilish. But kind, almost…proud despite the weird situation. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Somehow you felt small beneath his gaze, so your eyes shifted to the files and phone. “Are you gonna open the files?”

The raven-haired man sighed, leaning back into his chair. He was entirely too cavalier for your liking but you kept your lips glued. This was his world, not yours. At least not yet. “No.” He shook his head gently. “You’re gonna read them and tell me what you find.”

You blinked. “Okay,”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Riki leaned up and handed you a new notepad and pen. “Don’t write on his stuff. I’m sure he knows they’re missing.”

“He does,” you took the items with both hands. “Is he going to hurt me if—”

“Over my dead fucking body.”

Your breath caught—not because you didn’t believe him, but because of how fast he said it. Like it wasn’t a question. Like the very thought of Jo trying anything had flipped a switch in Riki’s brain that only lived between rage and devotion.

You stared at him. “That’s dramatic.”

“I mean it,” he said, and this time there was no smugness, no teasing. Just that low, steady tone that made your spine straighten and your chest feel way too small. “He touches you, he dies.”

Laughing him off, you waved your hand. “Again, dramatic.”

“There’s nothing dramatic about it. I have no problem putting anybody six feet under if it’s about you. I’m telling you now, I will kill him. Myself, with my bare hands.” He nods calmly. You nodded, lips pursed as this weird feeling of not believing him but absolutely believing him came over you. Now you aren’t stupid, there’s very few people in this life that have clean hands but since you never saw that side of Riki—it was hard to fully compute that. You were used to the version of him that bit you when he just found you cute. The one that whenever he ate french fries, he would put them in his mouth and act like he was a walrus. The part of him that whined whenever his food touched.

The Riki that kissed you like it was his first and last, everytime. When he made love to you it was passionate, like he cared. Savoring every part of your body and ravishing it like a starved man. And even though you’ve been together for as long as you have, he still makes you feel like you’re in high school. Both his and your inner child’s connect and that’s what makes every part of being with him so worth it. Hearing him talk about putting someone in the dirt for hurting you didn’t scare you. At all, if anything a depraved part of you loved that he was so ready and willing to take care of you. But because he had kept you so far from this life—to the point where you never saw him right when he came home from work. You only ever saw him after a shower when he got back. The house was big enough for him to avoid you and he didn’t want you to even see him in any other way aside from put-together or casual. He simply wants to keep your perception of him one way. Now he’s at the point where he doesn’t need to get his hands dirty, but he’s not above it. He knows he’s not but he doesn’t want you to know that. Maybe because you’re pure, the only clean thing in this world and he wants to honor that sanctity.

Thus you nod with a tight-lipped smile. “Aye-aye captain,”

Riki nodded curtly, “Thank you, now sit.”

“Can I take this home with me—oh wait, no, the rule.” I sighed as I sat down on his couch. 

He laughed, “Right, good, good. But…” He breezed past his desk to now sit beside you. “Why didn’t you tell me you loved me?” He leaned back against the back of the couch, crossing his arms as he peered at you with patient eyes. 

You furrowed your brows, snorting at his ridiculousness. “I tell you that multiple times an hour, Riki. I just said it when I came in. What are you talking about?”

“Babe—sorry—” He covers his mouth, trying to muffle a smile at the minor slip-up. 

You point at him, “Ah-ha! You broke your own rule, genius.” Laughing as you twirl the pen between your fingers.

Riki groaned dramatically, tipping his head back against the couch cushion like the weight of his love-induced hypocrisy had just crushed him. “God, I’m so weak,” he mumbled into the ceiling.

You giggled, nudging his leg with your knee. “You made a rule you couldn’t keep. Who does that?”

“A man in love,” he sighed, hand flopping over his heart. “A fool. A slave to your eyes and...whatever scented oil you’re wearing today. Beautiful gourmand.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your past mistakes. “You suck so bad.”

He turned to look at you again, his playful expression softening slightly. “You didn’t say it earlier. In the texts. Well you did, but I just had to pull it out of you. Which is unusual because usually it happens easily. Like a nice, well-lubricated machine.”

You paused, the smile still on your lips but tinged now with something quieter. “I was annoyed.”

“I figured,” he said.

“And don’t use ‘well-lubricated’ like that ever again.” You laughed as you adjusted your position, kicking off your shoes just because you could. Placing your legs on his lap as he instinctively went to massaging your aching feet. 

Riki laughed beneath his breath, “Mmm, how else should I use it then…?” He trails his hand up your calf.

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,” you said, pointing the pen at him like it doubled as a taser. “I’m in work mode now. No nasty metaphors.”

Riki smirked, thumb dragging slow circles into your ankle like he was trying to hypnotize you. “You sure? I’ve got a whole glossary. Synonyms. Imagery. PowerPoint, even.”

“PowerPoint?” You quirked a brow. “Wow. And here I thought this organization was low-tech.”

“We save the advanced tech for seduction,” he deadpanned.

You threw your head back in a laugh, letting your legs go slack against him. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.” He smiled proudly, then leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knee. “But seriously...I knew something was bothering you. I felt it.”

You nodded, brushing a bit of lint from your lap like it was your own way of smoothing down your thoughts. “I didn’t like the way Yuna talked about you. Like she knew you. Knows you. I know it’s stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cut in gently. “Whatever it is, it’s not.”

You looked at him. “I didn’t want to make it a thing while you’re working, but...she got under my skin.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing really,” You shook your head as confusion plagued your expression. “Like she was just throwing jabs at our marriage. Like—”

“Do you want her gone?”

“Wait–damn! Can I at least tell you what happened?” You put your hands out in panic.

Riki blinked, caught between his gut reaction and your clearly not-yet-finished train of thought. “Right. Sorry.” He held up his hands, leaning back slightly. “Continue. Full dramatic reenactment, if you will.”

You gave him a flat look. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here I am. Devoted. Foot-rubbing. Ready to commit crimes in your honor.”

You fought back a smile, exhaling sharply before continuing. “She just said some things. Made it sound like she knew you in a way I didn’t. Nothing direct, but it was all…in the way she said it. Like she was watching me, waiting to see if I’d flinch.”

Riki’s jaw ticked just slightly, and his hand stilled again on your leg. “What did she say exactly?”

“She joked about you being soft for me. About how it must be wild seeing you like that. And then she muttered something under her breath—‘definitely rubbing’—after I said you were rubbing off on me.” You rolled your eyes. “While it was funny,” you smiled as you reflected on the moment. “It was just the tone she took, it was petty.”

His voice had that eerie calm again—the kind that made you picture storms on the horizon. “And do you want her gone?”

You hesitated. “I don’t want to make you cut people loose just because they annoy me.”

“Not just anyone,” he said slowly. “Her. You disrespect my wife, you disrespect me. End of discussion.”

You sighed. “I just didn’t like feeling like I was being tested. Like I had to prove I was worthy to be here. That I deserved you.”

“No. You don’t need to prove shit to anyone. She works for you, baby. Not the other way around.” He scoffs in irritation, not at you. Just at the situation.

“You think she wants you or something?” 

Riki rolls his eyes, “Please,” he waves off.

“No, I’m being serious.” 

He furrowed his brows, “That has nothing to do with me, I chose you. I love you. Yuna is just…Yuna.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, folding your arms across your chest as your legs stayed propped on his lap. “That is the vaguest, most non-answer answer I’ve ever heard.”

Riki groaned, tilting his head back like the ceiling was somehow responsible for your suspicion. “Baby, come on. You want me to what—spell out that she probably has some weird little crush from back in the day? Okay. Maybe. Possibly. Who wouldn’t? But that doesn’t matter. I don’t want her.”

You blinked, lips parting just slightly. “Weird little crush from back in the day?”

He froze. Froze frozen. Like someone had just hit pause on his entire soul.

Then slowly—painfully slowly—he sat up straighter and scratched the back of his neck like a man about to give a deposition. “...I mean, like…a crush she invented in her head. You know how people do. Delulu culture. She’s a millennial. Or—whatever she is.”

You gave him the most unimpressed stare humanly possible. One that could suck the air out of a room if you held it long enough.

“You’ve been avoiding answering straight for two full minutes,” you said, your voice sharp but cool. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He let out a deep sigh, eyes flicking briefly to your legs across his lap—like grounding himself with you physically would make the words come easier.

“Nothing happened,” he finally said, slow and careful, like laying down a live wire. “She flirted. Years ago. Once. I didn’t flirt back. I shut it down. It didn’t become a thing because I didn’t let it become a thing. Plus by that point, I had just started seeing you.”

You stared, not blinking, not speaking. Just letting the silence stretch until it felt like your heartbeat was echoing off the floors.

“And now?” you asked at last, voice like velvet over a blade.

His gaze lifted to meet yours, firm and unwavering. “Now she’s someone on payroll who will never get that close again. You have my name, my ring, everything. And if I could give you more of me, I would. She’s noise. Vapor.”

The words settled in your chest like something warm and weighted. The kind of thing that wasn’t just sweet, but true. You didn’t nod. You didn’t smile. You just breathed—and it came easier after that.

“Good,” you murmured.

“Good,” he echoed, reaching up to squeeze your ankle gently.

Riki had never given you any sort of reason to doubt his loyalty to you. But something about Yuna just made you feel some sort of insecure. And that’s never a good feeling. “Okay, so back to work on these thingies.” You sighed as you grabbed all of your things, the files and notepad. 

—

You settled deeper into the couch, the file balanced on your knees, pen in hand. Riki stayed quiet beside you, hands behind his head like he wasn’t five seconds away from snatching the folder and reading it himself. But this was your job now. He gave it to you. He trusted you. And trust in this world was rarer than sleep.

The first folder you opened was the one labeled:

“INCIDENT REPORT — LEAK”

Your eyes scanned the top page. Neat, efficient language. Jo’s writing was all business. But beneath that business tone… was tension. A lot of it.

Summary: On 05/23, it was confirmed that classified movement data regarding the Nishiyama holdings in the Shibuya district was compromised and intercepted by an unknown third party. The breach occurred between the hours of 03:00 and 05:00 JST.

Method of Leak: Evidence points to an internal device tap. Most likely wireless, planted within the logistics room (3rd floor).

Potential Suspect(s):

T. Nakamoto (denied access two weeks prior but showed up in building security logs 24 hours before the breach)

Sohee Lee (recent behavioral inconsistencies; requires further monitoring)

UNCONFIRMED: External syndicate involvement possible (see cross-file: “NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”)

You sucked in a breath. “Sohee?” you said aloud, almost in disbelief.

Riki’s voice was low. “Keep going.”

You flipped to the second page—grainy black-and-white images from security footage. A figure moving at 4:12 AM through a hallway near the logistics room. Hood up. Face obscured. But the time stamp matched Jo’s report exactly.

You shook your head. “This is bad. Whoever this is knew where to go. No camera catch, no chatter, just straight infiltration. Like a ghost.”

Riki didn’t speak—his jaw was tight. He already knew this. He’d probably seen the footage himself.

You flipped to the next folder:

“NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”

Your stomach clenched.

This one wasn’t a report. It was…a dossier.

A breakdown of an entire group.

The Nishiyama Syndicate. Or, as Riki had called them before—“Nishi.” A former rival organization that went dark years ago.

Overview: The Nishiyama Syndicate—presumed inactive by 2017—has begun resurfacing under new leadership. Not confirmed, but rumored to be operating under a splinter faction using legitimate business fronts. Possible laundering through offshore holdings (Monaco, Belize, Singapore).

Recent Activity:

Acquisition of real estate adjacent to Nishimura holdings.

Shadow-bidding on construction contracts connected to your family’s public-facing properties.

Unusual surveillance patterns noted around Nishimura residences.

Notable Names:

A. Nishiyama (deceased, patriarch)

M. Nishiyama (???) — identity redacted

“Subject N” — possible mole or double agent; suspected to have contact with active Nishimura staff. (PRIORITY)

You looked up at Riki. “This reads like they’re trying to move in. Slowly. Quietly.”

He nodded, lips pressed tight. “I think the breach might’ve come from a mole inside the building. Someone feeding info.”

Your pulse spiked. “Who do you think it is?”

He looked at you carefully. “I haven’t ruled anyone out. Neither has Jo. But everyone’s guilty until proven innocent.”

“It’s inno—”

He held his hand up, “I know what it is.”

You snorted as you looked back down at the file but then suddenly looked back to him. “Hey, did Jo call you at all today on one of the burners?”

He frowned in thought. “No, why?”

Your eyes widened in slight fear, feeling adrenaline pump through your veins. “His phone is on your desk.” Pointing to it with urgency. “He called someone earlier, letting them know the files were missing.”

You felt like the floor shifted under you.

Riki stood up and grabbed the phone, unlocking it as he sifted through it. “Go. Continue, let me do this.”

Then you flipped one last page in the NISHI folder—and your heart stopped.

REDACTED TARGET LIST [photo attached]

R. Nishimura (active)

“Okaasan” (active, unnamed spouse)

Status: Tracking active; no confirmed contact attempts. Maintain passive surveillance.

There was a picture.

Of you.

A candid photo. Leaving your favorite coffee shop. Hair in a bun. Not even looking at the camera.

They knew who you were.

They were watching.

“Oh my fucking…” You whispered as your hands started to shake. 

Riki didn’t look up—yet. He was still going through the burner phone, locked in, muttering something under his breath. But the second your voice cracked, just the edge of that whisper, he froze. Your hands were trembling around the paper, your breath shallow as if the photo alone had stolen the oxygen from your lungs. “They’re watching me, Riki,” you said quietly. “They know. They know who I am.”

That’s when he looked up.

His gaze flicked to your face first—then to the folder in your lap. You didn’t even have to show him. He crossed the room in three strides, dropped the phone without care, and snatched the folder from your lap with steady hands but a murderous edge in his jaw.

He saw it. The image. The note. The label: “Okaasan – Active, unnamed spouse.”

Your face. Your fucking face. On a watch list.

Riki’s breathing changed.

Not heavy. Not loud.

But measured. Controlled. The kind of breathing someone does right before they explode.

“No contact attempts,” he read aloud, barely above a whisper. “Passive surveillance. Maintain.” His jaw flexed once. Twice. “That means they’ve been watching. But not enough to tip me off. Or you.” You still couldn’t speak. Your mind was spiraling, thinking back—every time you thought someone was staring at you too long in the coffee shop. Every car that took a little too long to pull away. The time your key fob didn’t register on the first try and you swore you saw someone standing at the edge of the parking lot.

You knew. Felt it more than anything.

Riki stepped back, slowly. “You’re done,” he said, coldly.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re done with this.” He gestured to the papers—everything. “I don’t want you involved anymore.”

“No—Riki—”

“I said you’re done.”

His voice wasn’t raised, but it was final.

You stood, breath catching again—not out of fear this time, but out of frustration. “You can’t just—”

“I can, and I will.” He looked at you, eyes flashing with something deeper than anger. “They put you on a list. A list with my name. They put a target on your back for being married to me.”

“You said you’d pull me out if I couldn’t handle it. I can and—”

“No. You said that,” he bit out. “Thank you so much for your interpretation of how you think this works. But I’m telling you now, sweetheart. You’re finished.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. “So what, you’re just gonna hide me away like a secret? Lock me in the house?”

“If I have to,” he said without hesitation. “I’d rather you hate me than end up in a morgue. You think I give a fuck about being the bad guy in your story if it keeps you alive?”

And for the first time, you realized—he wasn’t just angry.

He was scared.

Riki Nishimura, the man who ran empires with a flick of his fingers, the one who made people disappear without batting an eye—was looking at you like he had already lost you. Like he was trying to stop the bleeding before the wound even opened.

And you didn’t know whether to fight him or fall apart.

—

Within the next hour, Riki sent you home. 

No yelling. No begging. No stomping down the hallway with your shoes in hand like you wanted to. Just a tight-lipped goodbye, a long look that said please don’t fight me on this, and the subtle pressure of his hand on the small of your back as he walked you to the elevator. Kissing your cheeks and temple as he guided you.

“I’ll be home later, I love you.” he said, eyes fixed on the elevator door as it closed, locking you in. Locking you out.

You didn’t say anything. You just nodded, chewing the inside of your cheek like it’d keep your heart from leaping up and making a scene.

And now here you are.

In the house. Your house. His too. That same massive, almost-too-silent house where the floors were spotless, the air always smelled faintly of clean linen and sandalwood, and the fridge was somehow always stocked but never truly full. You hadn’t even changed clothes. You hadn’t moved much. Just sat on the edge of the bed for a while, fingers interlaced, something so mundane like Riki’s silver watch still on the nightstand like it might grow teeth.

Because it could’ve been anyone.

Anyone watching you. Anyone taking that photo.

You didn’t even realize you’d started crying until you saw the wet spot on your blouse. And then more tears followed—not because you were scared. But because he had known. About the business. The threats. The danger.

And he kept you out of it. You were so proud. Marching into lounges. Reading body language. Toying with people like you were ten steps ahead. But the whole time, you were in a different game.

A different arena.

You weren’t playing chess. You were the queen piece. And someone had started planning your checkmate.

You wiped your face and reached for your phone.

Nothing from Riki yet. Of course. He needed time. To clean up. To cover tracks. To burn things down.

You opened your texts anyway. Clicked on the chat.

thorn in my side: i’m home

i love you, baby

Message delivered. No reply yet.

You stared at the phone until the screen went dark.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence in your house didn’t feel safe. It felt like someone else might be listening too.

—

Riki came home and the house was equally as silent. 

He’d come home to a quiet home almost everyday, nothing new. Most times you were in the bath, in the living room buried in a book, or on a good day—you’d already be in bed. And by this time, he’d shower before he came to greet you but the weird thing about being with someone for so long—you feel them everywhere. Your warmth, your mood, he feels it all. 

But this time he felt nothing. 

Immediately his mood dampened, the intuition that he had relied on so heavily over the last twenty-four years of his life already letting him know something was amiss. “Baby?” He called out as he slipped his shoes off. 

No response. 

He smacked his teeth, “My goodness, I shouldn’t have gotten her those fucking headphones.” He placed his jacket on the coat rack and skimmed the area. Your keys were by the door, as usual. The sweater you wore today, okay fine. Your Mary Janes—your favorite shoes that he always tripped over and threatened to throw away. Huh.

Again, that strange nagging feeling in Riki just never went away. He padded over to the kitchen, seeing dinner spread out on the table. Wrapped up and ready for yours and Riki’s consumption, there was a serving taken out of it which meant you ate something. Good.

But you weren’t in the kitchen. And you weren’t in the living room.

The staff not being around makes sense, he sent them home for the day. Clara wanted to spend time with her son so who was he to tell her no? 

And now, the fucking office that he had built with his own hands—empty.

This house was huge, humongous—but there would’ve been some way you heard him already.

He called your name firmly. Riki never says your name, that’s like the rule. Still, no response. He calls your phone because knowing you—it’s never too far. Straight to voicemail. 

“What the fuck.” Riki Nishimura doesn’t panic—but something cold and venomous slithered up his spine as he stood in the middle of that pristine kitchen as he now made his way back there, fists clenched, jaw ticking.

And then.

Then he saw the note.

Sitting prettily on the marble counter—in a little nook. Surprised he had missed it before. 

Simple. Clean. In all capital letters.

YOU WANTED HER OUT. SO WE TOOK HER OUT.

And on the back of the note was a photo of you. Gagged, tearful eyes, messy hair, scratched face. You had put up a fight that was for sure, it wouldn’t be you if you didn’t. 

The marble counter shattered first.

He slammed his fists down, hard enough to crack the stone. The note crumpled beneath him as he shouted, loud and hoarse, like it had been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.

“FUCK!”

Everything after that was instinct. A storm. A full-blown implosion. He threw the nearest chair across the room. It smashed into the wall with a satisfying crack, splintering on impact. Plates followed next, flying off the table with a feral sweep of his arm. Food hit the cabinets, the fridge, the floor. A glass shattered under his heel. He didn’t even flinch.

“I told her to go home!” he roared. “I sent her home!”

His eyes were wild. Drenched in something between fear and fury. The kind of look no one ever saw and lived to describe.

He yanked open drawers. Punched the fridge. Tore the cabinet door clean off the hinge and hurled it across the room. A vase hit the floor and shattered—porcelain flowers slicing across the floor like confetti made of rage.

And then—his voice broke.

“Fuck—fuck, fuck—”

He grabbed the sink with both hands, chest heaving, eyes squeezing shut like maybe, if he tried hard enough, this would all vanish. That the note would disappear. That you’d walk out from your office and ask what the hell happened to the dining room. But all he heard was silence. All he felt was the absence of you. The kind of stillness that only existed in grief. He sank to the floor—only for a second—hands gripping his hair. And then the door creaked open.

Clara opened the door with glee, bags from the nearest arts and crafts store. “Riki—?”

She froze in place.

The kitchen looked like a warzone. Dinner ruined. Furniture destroyed. Her boss—on the floor, shaking, breathing like a wild animal trying to hold in a scream.

She didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t have to.

Because then she saw the note. 

The note.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my goodness.”

Riki slowly stood. There was a line of blood down his knuckles—he hadn’t even noticed. His breathing was low now. Tighter. Like someone was holding his lungs closed.

He didn’t look at her as he spoke.

“Tell everyone to get on the line. Now. I want every runner, every affiliate, every fucking rat with ears in this city looking.”

Clara nodded, frozen.

“If she’s not found by midnight—” He turned to her. Eyes glassy. Voice cold. As he stepped beside her, venom in his eyes as he looked down at her with nothing but truth in his eyes.

“—Everybody’s fucking dying, Clara. You included.”

Clara didn’t say a word. Just nodded, pale as a ghost, and scrambled to grab her phone. Riki didn’t even watch her leave. He turned on his heel and stormed toward his office, blood trailing faintly from his knuckles and dotting the floor like red ink.

He slammed the office door behind him so hard the glass panel trembled.

Without hesitation, he slammed the heel of his palm down on the black switch embedded into the side of his desk—an unmarked button that immediately turned the room red. Not metaphorically. The lights literally shifted into emergency mode, casting the entire office in a crimson hue. The kind of red that let every handler in his operation know: This is DEFCON 1. Life or death. Burn everything if you have to.His jaw clenched so tight you could hear the creak in his teeth. Then he yanked open the bottom drawer, reaching for the sleek matte tablet hidden beneath a stack of decoy files. With a swipe and a facial scan, he opened a security interface. His fingers flew across the screen.

“Tracker,” he muttered under his breath. “C’mon, c’mon…” He clicked into a discreet sub-menu, one labeled ‘PRIVATE ACCESS – VELOMY.’ The screen lit up, pulling a location from a hidden signal.

Riki’s chest stopped moving for a full beat. The blinking dot that represented you was there—active. 

“You’re still wearing the ring,” he whispered to himself. A dark smirk twisted his lips, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “You stubborn little thing…”

That ring. The one he gave you at the altar when he promised to you, his family, and yours that he would love you during your highs and lows. The ring that tethered you to him forever. 

He put a chip in it. Just to be straightforward.

Riki’s paranoia ran so deep that it became difficult for him not to. And funnily enough, he remembers he didn’t tell you that it was in there until your honeymoon. 

You both were lounging on your private beach in front of the newly bought property in the Maldives. Sun setting, breeze flowing through your hair as you both laid on your stomachs. Simply gut-laughing at any and everything, everything was funny at this moment. You’re newlyweds.Riki smiles as he plays with the ends of your hair, twirling the end of a braid. “You know,” he glances down at your left hand. “I’ll be able to find you anywhere now.” His smile settles into something soft, something more than just teasing. “What do you mean?” You tilt your head in confusion. The sun hitting your face at the perfect angle. 

He brought your hand to his lips, kissing the ring. “I put a little locator in your ring.” Riki’s heart raced, using your conjoined hands to cover his mouth as he nervously awaited your reaction. “See? You can’t even tell.” You brought your hand back to inspect the enormous rock and he’s right. You really can’t tell. And you weren’t going to ask why he put it there because you knew why. Again, you knew who you married. Plus you didn’t even have the energy to be mad at him right now. You couldn’t be mad after you just swore to forever with your best friend.

“Okay, but I still need privacy, Riki. I don’t just want to be a—”

He shook his head, “No, no, no. It’s not even activated. I just…in the event that something would happen to you—hopefully that’s never—but it gives me peace of mind that I can always find you, baby.” Riki smiled gently as he carefully caressed your cheek. “Only I can activate it. It just tells me where you’re positioned but it only works if you…” His chest caves slightly as his words tremble at the thought.

“If what?” You placed your hand on his shoulder, holding yourself up on your other arm.

“It only works if you have a pulse.”

“What if I take it off?”

Riki laughs.“You wouldn’t though, and I know you wouldn’t. There’s nothing you do that warrants taking it off.” He shrugs as he lays on his back and pulls you on top of him swiftly. 

You yelp at his almost reflexive motion, putting your hands on his chest to stabilize yourself. “You’re right. But it’s not like someone’s gonna want to snatch me up at the grocery store or something.”

Riki had laughed with you then.

Really laughed—head tilted back, his arms wrapping tight around your waist as if just the idea of losing you was so ridiculous, so farfetched it barely warranted a real thought.

But now?

Now that blinking dot on his screen was the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the marble floor of his office.

His hand hovered over the location map, the tracker still active. Still moving.

You were alive.

That was the only thing keeping the wrath at bay—barely. Because while the dot pulsed, it wasn’t close. It was on the far edge of the city, in one of the zones they rarely used. Industrial. Warehouses. A part of town they had all but erased from operations.

Which meant someone wanted you hidden. Not hurt. Not yet.

Still…the bloodlust was roaring now. In all of his life, he had never felt such an insatiable, primal urge to kill like he did now. It was truly like the spirit of the devil ran through his veins and possessed him. That thirst wasn’t going to be quenched until you were back in his arms. Riki stood from his desk, shoving his chair so hard it crashed against the wall. He pressed the emergency button again—just in case. Red lights flashed once in the corner of the ceiling. His hands moved on autopilot, grabbing his bulletproof vest to put on over his compression shirt, his sidearm, his second piece, and the long black blade he hadn’t used in years. The blade that had started it all. The blade they said made him infamous. The one he swore he’d never need again.

He strapped it to his back. Along with one of the embossed Kaminari guns.

Grabbed the note again from the kitchen and stuffed it in his pocket—not because he needed it, but because he wanted to burn it on whoever sent it. By now, Clara had rallied his top men. Jake was on standby, speaking through the comms with a strained voice—he had been yelling at people relentlessly within the last twenty minutes.

Riki didn’t even look at the others in the room as he walked toward the front entrance, eyes locked on the car waiting just outside.

He paused only once.

To grab a bottle of your favorite perfume.

He sprayed it twice across his collarbone, once across his wrist. Something grounding. Something to carry you with him while he burned everything else down.

As soon as he stepped outside, he made contact with the two security guards meant to get you back here. They stood at the base of the steps—nervous, unsure if they should speak first. Their eyes flicked from the tension in Riki’s jaw to the fine mist of blood still drying across his knuckles.

He didn’t blink as he approached them. “You were supposed to bring her home and ensure she was safe. I gave explicit instructions.” His voice was eerily calm, but it buzzed like a live wire underneath.

“We—we did, sir,” one of them stammered. “She went inside. We locked the door right behind her—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you did!” Riki stepped forward, face to face with the buff man that cowered in the face of his lean figure. “My wife is not in my fucking bedroom because you failed to do your job.” He leaned in now, nose hardly touching his—his cologne and your perfume clashing between their senses.

The other guard interjected, “Sir—”

Before he could utter another word, Riki placed the barrel to his forehead. Squeezing the trigger and letting a metal bullet ripple right through his brain. Watching his body fall to the ground with a thud.

The echo of the gunshot rang out like a death bell across the courtyard. Riki didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. His jaw tightened as he watched the second guard freeze, paralyzed by fear and disbelief. A splatter of red stained the granite steps, and he finally looked down—then calmly wiped the barrel of the gun with the hem of his shirt. No one moved. Not even the wind dared.

“Let this be the part where you realize,” he said slowly, eyes locked on the remaining guard, “that I don’t make idle threats. I don’t give second chances. And I don’t tolerate incompetence.” The man nodded furiously, hands trembling at his sides.

“Good. Now get your shit together and get in the fucking car. If she loses a single hair on her head, I’m putting a bullet in your mouth. Understand me?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Riki exhaled sharply through his nose, holstering his weapon. His knuckles were cracked and bleeding again from how tightly he’d gripped it. It didn’t matter. He turned back toward the house and grabbed your scent once more—letting it wrap around him like armor. The tension in his shoulders didn’t loosen; it hardened. Sharpened. Weaponized.

He climbed into the car.

Clara’s voice came through the comms again: “Riki. We’ve found the tunnel entrance. Sealed off, looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. But the tracker’s pinging beneath it.”

His fingers tapped against his thigh—once, twice—before he answered. “Good. Blow it open.”

“Already on it.”

Riki leaned his head back, eyes half-lidded. “And tell someone—I don’t care who it is—to get rid of what’s-his-name from in front of our door. I don’t want her seeing that when she gets back.”

—

The floor was frigid as ever. To which you didn’t understand, it was springtime. But Earth’s crust wasn’t something you took time to worry about. The left side of your head was throbbing and you were barefoot. Only your white nail polish is visible in this dark room. Your arms were bound to some wooden chair with…you jostled in the chair as best you could. Zip ties. Of course they were zip ties. Your feet too but your mouth wasn’t covered, big mistake on their end. 

You smelt of debris, cinders, and a bit of blood. But none of that mattered, you had to get the fuck out of here despite you not being able to see shit. Before you could concoct some sort of plan, the lights were turned on. Stinging your eyes as your pupils had to adjust to the new sensation. 

“Oh, babygirl. Are you okay? I know it’s been a long day.”

That voice. Sweet. Familiar. The kind that once called you baby while handing you fresh towels. The one that scolded Riki for forgetting to eat. The one you trusted.

Your blood ran like ice. 

“Clara?!”

It didn’t compute at first. Your brain tried to reroute it, convince you that maybe she’d been kidnapped too. Maybe she was checking on you. But then you saw her. Heels clicking across the concrete. Calm. Clean. Untouched.

Her hair was neatly pinned up, her blouse spotless, not a wrinkle in sight. She looked like she just came from brunch—not your kidnapping.

You blinked. “Clara?” you croaked. “What the hell—”

“Shhh.” She crouched down in front of you, cupping your chin like a parent checking a child for fever. “You poor thing. That gash on the head looks awful.”

You were too stunned to move but you quickly snapped out of it and jerked your head out of her grasp. “The fuck is this?”

The older lady stood up straight, towering over your torn figure. “This is retribution,” she gestured around the shithole bunker you were in. You stared up at her, heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out her words. “Retribution?” you echoed, like your brain was lagging ten seconds behind. “Clara, are you out of your fucking mind?”

She chuckled softly. Not like a villain. Like a teacher. Like a mother. Like someone who believed she had the moral high ground. “Don’t worry, your knight in shining armor is on his way here. Right to where you’re sitting. I can’t wait to inform him of his wonderful test results.”

Clara’s voice lilted like she was presenting a prize at a company banquet—like this wasn’t some underground dungeon and you weren’t zip-tied like a prop in a cautionary tale.

You scoffed, full of disbelief and blood in your mouth. “You’re sick.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said with mock sympathy, “you’re not the first girl who thought she was special.”

She circled you slowly now, her heels echoing through the cold, damp space.

“You think I didn’t know about the tracker in your ring? You think I didn’t let him find you? This is about control, baby. Not chaos. I want him to come. I need him to.”

You snickered, “Yeah well, I like it when he does.” If nothing else, you were great at pissing people off.

Clara paused mid-step.

And then she laughed. But not in amusement—in disbelief. A short, sharp sound, like a knife testing the surface before a deeper plunge.

“You’re really going to joke?” she said, turning toward you slowly. “Tied up like a pig in a butcher’s shop, and you’re making sex jokes. You really think you matter that much?”

You leaned forward as far as the zip ties would allow, blood crusting against your temple and your vision still swimming slightly. But your smirk was solid as a rock.

“He’s killed for less, Clara.”

Her nostrils flared, but she kept her composure. Barely. There was a twitch in her jaw now. You’d landed a hit.

“He loved me first,” she hissed. “He respected me. I built him. I made him.”

“No,” you said calmly, with that lethal kind of clarity only someone truly protected by love can wield. “You trained him. I made him human.”

For a beat, the only sound was the hum of the overhead lights and the crackle of Clara’s rage simmering just below her ribcage.

Then she smiled, too wide.

“Let’s see how human he stays when he finds your body,” she said sweetly, almost like she was offering a bedtime story. But you didn’t flinch. You nodded for her to come closer. Closer. Now your nose was nearing hers. “I fucking dare you to touch me.”

Two of her personal goons come in behind her, standing on either side of the door Riki was due to come in through. Clara’s eyes flickered to the guards like a general surveying her troops—calm, collected, but every muscle ready to snap. She stepped back, smirking like she’d already won some invisible game.

“You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” she said, voice silky but dripping with menace. “But this is my battlefield.”

The two goons cracked their knuckles, eyes cold and hungry, shadows stretching long across the concrete floor. The tension in the room thickened like fog, suffocating and heavy. You kept your breath steady, every nerve screaming fight or flight—but you knew better. The fight wasn’t here. It was coming. And it was coming fast. Outside the heavy steel door, you could almost feel the air shift—the calm before a storm that would shake foundations and burn everything to ash.

Clara glanced toward the door, lips curling.“Tick tock, babe.”

The door exploded inward, steel shrieking on its hinges as Riki stormed through like a bullet—rage crackling in his bones like wildfire.

His eyes locked on you instantly, wide with fury and fear, scanning your face for injury. “Baby—”

“Riki, watch out!” you screamed, voice cracking.

But it was too late.

One goon came at him from the left, the other from behind. Riki ducked, twisted, managed to land a vicious punch to the first one’s jaw—crack—but the second was already swinging with a steel baton, catching him in the ribs with a sickening thud. Riki stumbled, grunting through clenched teeth, his fury barely contained. He went for the blade tucked in his boot—only for a third man, hidden just outside the door, to grab his arm and twist it savagely behind his back. Another punch came flying, this one straight to his jaw. The force knocked him to the floor.

You cried out, struggling against your bindings, your wrists screaming in protest.

Clara watched it all unfold with the elegance of a queen watching gladiators bleed for sport. “Tsk. You boys and your dramatics.”

“Don’t fucking touch him!” you yelled.

They did anyway. Stripping him of every weapon on him—blades, a small pistol, even the tracker cuff on his wrist. Riki didn’t stop fighting, even as they dragged him up and slammed him into the chair beside you. Blood was already trickling down the corner of his mouth, but his glare was wildfire—aimed directly at Clara.

One of the goons zip-tied his hands to the arms of the chair with force, tightening them until his skin burned red.

“I should kill you right now,” Riki growled through grit teeth, eyes trained on Clara like a blade.

She approached slowly, as if savoring his fury. “You’re not in a position to make threats, Riki.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he snapped. “Touch her again and I swear to God—”

Clara only smiled sweetly. “Swear all you want, son. You’re both right where I want you.”

You turned to look at Riki, both of you battered, bound, but alive.

And somewhere beneath the weight of adrenaline and bruises, your fingers brushed the edge of his chair.

Even now—your pinky searching for his.

He found yours. Linked it. Tight. 

You were still here. And so was he.

Clara sent the men out with a wave of her hand as she pulled up a chair to sit down and face the both of you. After a few moments of silence between both of you, she finally spoke. “Wow, fine couple.”

“Bitch, shut the fuck up.” You spat out, rolling your eyes. “What are we doing here? What do you want? More money? We got that. Status, you have it. What more do you want?!”

The older woman smiled at your state. “I want Riki.”

You turned to Riki, who was so far removed from any place you’ve seen him. Your husband was right next to you but the troubled, anxious boy that he’s done such a good job at hiding was making an appearance. But you didn’t know which version of it was.

He bounced his knee up and down with extreme fervor, so fast that you had hardly even seen it moving. Hunched over, the top of his head facing Clara as he shook his head with his eyes glued shut. Lap dampening as what you could only perceive as angry tears misted his eyes and relentless, incessant thoughts bombarded his brain. Riki’s breath was shallow as ever and you could only hear him mutter threats that stemmed from that same fury. More to himself than anyone in the room.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you.” 

“You’re dead.”

“You fucking—”

“I swear on everything I love, I’m putting you in the fucking dirt.”

His voice cracked beneath the gravel, barely audible through the grind of his teeth. Every muscle in his arms strained against the zip ties, his body trembling like he was trying to hold back an earthquake. The air in the room grew thick, like the moment before a downpour—or an execution. You watched him, heart breaking and raging all at once. You’d never seen Riki like this. Not even close. The man beside you wasn’t your husband—not the one who made silly faces behind menus or kissed your shoulder every time he passed you in the kitchen. This was the version buried deep inside. The one he kept scrubbed clean and locked behind five layers of steel. The version built from years of betrayal and bloodshed. The boy no one ever loved right.

And Clara had dragged him out.

“I want Riki,” she repeated calmly, as if she were choosing an entrée off a menu. “Not the man you married. Not this polished little husband of yours. I want the real him. The one I raised. The one who knows how to destroy.”

“You didn’t raise him,” you snapped. “You groomed him.”

Her lips curled into a faint smile. “Tomato, tomahto.”

“Let her go,” Riki muttered, voice low and vibrating with rage. “Let her go, and I’ll give you what you want.”

You turned your head so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. “Riki—”

He still wouldn’t look at either of you. His shoulders trembled, breaths sharp and quick.

“Just let her go,” he said again, louder this time. “This isn’t her world. She doesn’t belong in it.”

Clara leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “Oh, honey. She entered this world the moment you put that ring on her finger. And now she’s in it until the end.”

Then she leaned forward slightly, that same maternal voice dripping venom: “Tell me, Riki…do you think your daddy would be proud of the little house pet you’ve become?”

That did it.

The room cracked open.

Riki lifted his head—slowly, deliberately—and his eyes found Clara’s with a fire that could level nations.

And for the first time since you met him, you were afraid of your husband.

You interjected quickly, “Seriously. Why are you doing this?”

Riki glanced at you with calmness behind his eyes momentarily, but something about hearing Clara’s voice sent the wrath of the scorned through him. 

“I want my son back.” She hummed as she folded her hands on her lap. 

Your brows furrowed, “He’s not your fucking son.”

Clara’s lips curled into a slow, venomous smile, like she was savoring every drop of poison she was about to pour.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she began, voice dripping with sickly sweetness, “you’ve been living a lie your entire life.”

She stood and paced slowly, every step echoing like a death knell in the cold room. “The woman you thought was your mother? The one who died when you were two? She was nothing but a convenient story.”

Your eyes locked on Riki’s, watching his jaw tighten, his entire body tense like a coiled spring.

Clara stopped just inches from him, voice low and deadly. “I am your mother. Your father’s mistress—the other woman. The one he never wanted you to know about.”

Riki’s fists clenched so tight the veins in his forearms pulsed visibly. “That’s a goddamn lie.”

“Is it?” Clara’s laugh was cold and bitter. “You want the truth? You’re my son, Riki.” She fished in her skirt pocket for a photo of her holding baby Riki as she had just delivered him. 

You swallowed hard, staring at the photo like it was some kind of sick puzzle piece finally clicking into place. The baby in Clara’s arms had the same sharp eyes and yes—the unmistakable mole just below his lips. “I was able to hold you for fifteen minutes before you were taken from me, son.”

His eyes screwed shut, “I’m not your son! I’m your child. I am not your fucking son! Oh my go—baby you better say something before I—” 

“What happened after? Why was Riki taken from you?” You chimed in, in an effort to calm your seething man. 

“Because, I was the mistress. In love with your father, wanted a future with him. But he was married. And…” 

Clara’s voice cracked just a little, the only crack in her otherwise steel mask.

“He made me promise to keep quiet, to stay in the shadows. But when my pregnancy came to light, everything exploded. The wife…she found out.” Her eyes darkened, haunted. “She made sure I lost you—took you away before I could even hold you properly again.” The more you looked at her, the more Riki favored her. The same mole, the same unwavering determination in their eyes. The eyes that can be kind when they want to be. “It was either I disappear from your life completely or I stick around as the help and swear to secrecy. And I couldn’t lose you again, Riki. Do you know how much it hurt me to see you call someone else ‘mama’ for the first two years of your life?” 

“I don’t give a fuck what hurts! It hurts that you had three big ass men jump me. It especially hurt that you had my wife taken from the safety of my fucking house—that I pay for you to live at—and lay a finger on her when you know how much she’s relied on you.” Clara’s eyes glazed over, “But you did too. I was like a mom. You came to me all the time, I was your Claraboo. Remember?” She shrugged as she resigned, tears in her eyes. “When Fumiko died, I thought it was a blessing in disguise.” She stood up. “But then you found her!” She gestured to you with unadulterated disgust. “Saying how great she was, wanting advice on how to dress for dates. So I thought, ‘Okay, this is his first time really taking someone seriously, it’s fleeting. No big deal.’ But then she started coming around. Family dinners, game nights. Then it became her spending the day, then sleepovers, then hearing you two go at it like rabbits when you thought no one could hear you. Fucking disgusting.” She snarled. 

You looked at Riki from the corner of your eye, as did he. Both of you purse your lips to refrain from laughter during this serious moment. Lives are at stake here. “Then, you got on one knee, Riki. At twenty-three, just throwing your best years away for one girl. And I kept thinking, ‘why does my son keep being taken from me? Why, why, fucking why?!” She grabbed one Riki’s pistol from a nearby table and whipped you with it. 

The crack of metal against your cheekbone rang out louder than your gasp. Your head whipped to the side, pain blooming instantly along your jaw, your vision fracturing for a second. But you didn’t scream. You didn’t give her that.

Riki did.

“NO!” His chair thrashed violently beneath him, muscles flexing so hard the wood creaked. “Don’t you fucking touch her! Clara, I will fucking gut you—DO YOU HEAR ME?!” His voice cracked with fury, something animalistic and unhinged bubbling up from his core.

You spat blood, your lip split open now, and still you turned to Clara and hissed, “You’re not a mother. You’re just some bitter bitch who couldn’t let go.” Clara’s hand trembled around the gun as she stepped back, her mask cracking further. “I raised him. I wiped his tears. I was the only one who gave a damn when he cried himself to sleep when his dad would be too hard on him. And you? You think your soft little hands and pretty smile can compare to that?”

Riki had stopped shaking. Now he was still—dangerously still. “You’re right,” he muttered. “You did raise me. Which is exactly why I know how to destroy you.”

Clara froze.

“You forget who you trained, Clara,” he said lowly. “You made me this way. You taught me how to survive. How to outsmart. How to kill.” And then he smiled. Sharp. Unforgiving. Blood drying on his lip.

“So congratulations,” Riki growled. “You just signed your own fucking death certificate. Maybe I really am your son.”

Clara blinked, eyes glassy. The gun trembled again in her hand. And then she raised it. But it wasn’t pointed at you. 

It was aimed at herself. 

You froze. So did Riki.

Clara’s finger hovered over the trigger, her eyes blank. “If I can’t have you,” she said softly, voice almost childlike, “then nobody will. Not her. Not the world. Not even you.”

“No.” Your voice dropped, pleading “Put the gun down.”

Riki sighed, looking down and mumbling to himself. “Damn bitch let me do the shit myself at least.” Rolling his eyes, knowing only you heard him and you refused to laugh at this moment. You clenched your jaw to keep the smile from betraying you, even as the absurdity of Riki’s comment floated in the air like a cracked window letting in too much cold. Clara’s hands trembled now. The gun shook between her fingers, and though it was aimed at her own temple, the tension in the room wrapped around all three of you like barbed wire.

“You think this is funny?” Clara snapped, eyes darting between you and Riki. “I’m baring my soul, and you’re making jokes?”

“Clara,” you said gently, the steel in your voice only thinly veiled by the concern beneath. “This isn’t the answer.”

“I gave up everything,” she whispered. “Everything. For him. For a son who looks at me like I’m a stranger—like I’m some monster.”

“You are some monster,” Riki muttered under his breath again, then louder, “but we don’t need a whole song and dance about it. Just...step away from the trigger, Broadway.”

You shot him a look this time. “Riki, please.”

Clara’s expression fractured—like a mirror that had been held together too long by spite alone. “I could’ve been someone,” she whispered, lip trembling. “I could’ve had a life with your father. With you. But I was the side note. The servant. Claraboo. Never mom.” Her voice broke. “You don’t understand what it’s like to watch someone else raise your baby. To be called help by the child you gave birth to.”

Silence. Then—

“I’m sorry,” Riki said quietly.

Clara froze.

“I’m sorry you went through that,” he continued, gaze steady. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the life you wanted. I’m sorry no one protected you when you needed it most. But this—” he nodded toward the gun, “—isn’t gonna bring any of that back.”

You took a breath. “Please,” you added. “Don’t make us leave here with another scar.”

You heard a low snap from your left where Riki was sitting, your eyes flitted that way. He had made free of the ties. Then, with every ounce of strength in his legs, jutted his calves out to free his legs. He slowly rose to his full height. Clara’s sobs only intensified, shaking as her eyes squeezed shut and pumped out tears. Her breathing shallow as she trembled, hardly able to even line the barrel up with her chin anymore. She pointed the gun at him mindlessly. Riki slowly edged to her, “Clara…please.” He nodded, “give it to me. I have a vest on, and I’m not going to let you do something you’ll regret.” His voice was low, steady—like a lifeline in the dark. Clara’s trembling hands faltered, the gun wobbled, and then, with a choked sob, she dropped it. The metallic clatter echoed in the cold room as it hit the floor.

You exhaled, relief crashing over you like a wave.

Riki quickly swooped up the gun as Clara plopped down on the chair in complete dejection. She looked up at her son, “are you going to kill me?”

He sighed, “I am,” he nodded with another smile he tried to smother.

She huffed out a laugh despite her tears and mucus, because if she taught Riki anything—it was that sometimes, survival meant knowing when to play the long game.

“Not today, son,” she whispered, voice raw but steady. “You’re smarter than me. You’ll make sure I pay in ways that cut deeper than a bullet ever could.”

Riki’s eyes flickered—half respect, half warning. “I’ll make sure you regret every breath you take until then.”

She nodded, somehow at peace with her fate. “Plus, if it makes you feel better—there was no real leak. I just used Yuna, Jo, and Sohee as pawns. Just distractions when I knew that Ms. Prada—” She nodded to you.

“Chanel.” You and Riki corrected simultaneously.

“...Whatever. But I knew that she was itching to get involved, I made you hyper aware of a leak. When there wasn’t anything to find. A perfect smokescreen to send you chasing ghosts while I set the real trap.” 

“So how does that explain their weird behavior?” You leaned forward despite your restraints. 

The older woman shrugs, “Sometimes people tell on themselves. But I did tell Jo to keep it from you. Said that you had other obligations and that if anyone got in the way you’d deal with them.”

Riki frowned, “Oh that pisses me off,” he pointed the gun lower and shot her kneecap. Eliciting a blood-curdling scream from the elder.

“Riki!” You yell, eyes wide as he just looks at you with humor in his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?!”

He waves you off, “Sorry,” he holsters his gun as he comes up behind you to free you. In oh-so-convenient timing, here comes Riki’s men down the bunker and into the room

The heavy metal door groaned open, and a squad of Riki’s men flooded in, their faces grim but ready. Flashlights cut through the dimness, illuminating the mess Clara had made trying to stall for time.

Riki didn’t waste a second—he tugged sharply at the zip ties binding your wrists, his hands steady but fierce. “You okay?” His voice was low, but laced with raw urgency.

You nodded, heart still hammering, eyes locked on Clara who was now clutching her injured knee, glaring daggers despite the pain. “Where were they?”

“The perimeter, you really thought I came solo?” He snickered, “I’m impulsive, not stupid.”

Riki’s men quickly secured the perimeter, eyes scanning every shadow. One of them whispered into a radio, “Target secured. Extraction ready.”

Riki glanced back at you, his expression softening just a fraction. “You’re safe now. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

You exhaled, relief flooding through you even as adrenaline kept you wired. Riki called out to all of them in the room as well as on the walkie-talkie he grabbed from one of the men. “Kobun! Clean up the mess. No loose ends. Take the old lady to the infirmary—alive. She’s got answers we’ll need later.”

He turned to you, voice low and steady, “You did good. Too good.” He brushed a stray hair from your face, the heat of his touch grounding you after the chaos. As the team moved efficiently, Riki’s eyes locked with yours—fierce, protective, and full of unspoken promises.

You smiled, “How did you break free?” 

Riki smirked, the tension easing just a fraction. He opened his mouth and lifted his tongue to reveal a tiny razor, glinting silver against the dark warmth of his mouth.

Your eyes widened. “You kept that in your mouth? What if you cut yourself?”

He shrugged, “Tongue is the fastest healing muscle. Plus, I’ve done it enough times to not get hurt.”

You blinked, “That’s not comforting.”

He took it out of his mouth and tossed it to the ground. “There. Let’s go home.” 

—

Later that night

—

The dust had settled a bit, the kitchen was still destroyed but that was tomorrow’s problem. You and Riki had been patched up on the way here. The moonlight spilled through the blackout curtains, painting silver streaks across the sheets—cold and unforgiving. Riki moved around the room with his usual quiet precision, the soft click of his boots replaced by the muted sound of him slipping out of his clothes. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch when he pulled back the covers and settled beside you in just his briefs. He liked sleeping this way.

But you didn’t let it simmer, you sat up. “Are you okay, my love?” You whispered in the still room—the still house.“Mhm, just another day at work.” He yawned as he turned to face you with a gentle smile. But you didn’t buy it. He always did this so he could be a big-bad-strong boyfriend, now he’s a big-bad-strong husband. 

“Riki, seriously?” You tilt your head in concern as you run your hand through his freshly washed hair.

He nodded, “Babe-asaurus, I’m cool as a cucumber.” 

You snorted softly, the nickname breaking through the tension like a warm breeze. “Cool as a cucumber? More like a slightly burnt pickle after today.” He chuckled, reaching out to tuck a stray strand behind your ear. “Yeah, maybe a little crispy around the edges. But I’m here. And you’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You purse your lips, you knew what he was doing. But you didn’t pry, you never liked to. “I love you.”

He sat up, pulling you in for a hug as he kissed your lips gently. “I love you more. You know I do.”

“I know,” You kissed his bare collarbone, nuzzling his smooth skin courtesy of the body scrub you made him use. 

“Let’s sleep, yeah?” He laid down on the smooth, clean linen.

You nodded against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat sync with your own. “Yeah. Sleep sounds good.”

—

But for some reason, cuddling wasn’t on the agenda. Subconsciously, you two had parted—but it wouldn’t be you or him if you didn’t touch at least. But somehow, you felt the bed tremble a bit—shaking and quivering in the midst of the silence of the room. You sat up, turning around with furrowed brows. Feeling a little groggy from the meds you were given but still cognizant enough to know what was happening around you. 

And with that, your husband is lying down with his back turned to you, on his right side. Chest caving in, breath shallow. You blinked, confusion curling into worry. That tremble wasn’t just from the meds—it was something else. Something deeper.

Riki’s shoulders shook slightly, the kind of subtle, silent tremor that only showed when no one was watching. Your heart tightened. The big-bad-strong husband was cracked open and raw underneath the armor you both pretended was unbreakable.

You reached out tentatively, fingertips brushing the edge of his arm. Before you could open your mouth, he turned around and fell right into your arms. Wrapping his arms tightly around you as he buried his face into your neck. Letting a sea of twenty-four years worth of pollution fall down your neck and onto your chest. 

Finally the dam broke, the iron curtain. The wall of stoicism was no more.

And this one time, you said nothing. You let him have it.

His bare skin pressed hot against yours, every tremble shaking through the thin sheets. The cold night air met the heat of his body, exposed and raw in nothing but his briefs—the armor stripped away, leaving only a man unraveling.

You felt the wetness against your neck before you saw it—the slick, hot tears silently tracing down his cheeks, the first you’d ever seen. His breaths hitched violently, chest rising and falling in ragged waves, his shoulders heaving with a grief he’d never let surface before.

He buried his face deeper, clinging to you like you were the last piece of solid ground. Your fingers trembled as they traced the curve of his spine, as if trying to stitch together the pieces of a broken man. You held your love through the quiet like you promised—the good, the bad, the ugly. And this was the worst of it and even then you’d rather die than give it up. Give him up.

You rubbed his back as you scooted back to lie down. Letting him put half of his weight on you as his grip didn’t relent. Not that you wanted it to. Your cold hands pressed against his warm body in effort to cool him down. But you couldn’t as seeing the strongest man in your life was at his weakest.

Tears pooled in your eyes.

You kissed the crown of his head, silent and steady—a quiet promise without words. The night held you both close, broken but unbroken, fragile yet fierce. And in that stillness, you understood something true: love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just holding on when everything else falls apart.

And you married a yakuza, but most importantly you married a man who lets you see the cracks—and still chooses to stay.

fin.

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✦ lettre six

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