Ariz

You were supposed to leave before sunrise.

That had been the plan.

One night on land.

One night with Hyunjin.

Then back to the ocean before things became complicated.

Instead, pale morning light spills through the windows of Hyunjin’s cabin while you wake slowly beneath one of his blankets.

Which feels significantly more complicated.

For a few quiet seconds, you genuinely forget where you are.

The room shifts softly beneath you with the movement of the ship.

Wood creaks somewhere overhead.

Waves crash gently against the hull outside.

Human sounds. Ship sounds.

Hyunjin’s space.

Your eyes drift sleepily around the cabin afterward.

Maps scattered across the desk.

Rings tossed carelessly beside an open journal.

A sword propped near the wall.

Clothes draped over the back of a chair.

Him.

The entire room somehow feels unmistakably him.

Saltwater.

Smoke.

Cinnamon lingering faintly beneath it all now.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly.

Dangerous.

Again.

Voices echo faintly somewhere above deck before footsteps approach outside the cabin door.

Then pause. Like whoever’s outside suddenly remembered something.

A second later, the door opens carefully.

Hyunjin steps inside carrying two cups in his hands before immediately stopping short the moment he notices you awake.

Something in his expression softens instantly.

Sleepy surprise melting into something warmer.

Gentler.

“Morning,” he says quietly.

Your voice comes out softer than intended. “…Morning.”

Neither of you moves for a second afterward.

The intimacy of it settles strangely through the room.

Daylight.

Quiet.

Just the two of you.

Hyunjin recovers first, stepping farther inside before holding one of the cups toward you as you swing your legs around from under the covers.

You blink down at the drink suspiciously. “Is this another human thing?”

Hyunjin laughs softly under his breath. “Tea isn’t that threatening.”

“That’s what you said about cinnamon rolls.”

“And was I wrong?”

"Unfortunately, no."

You carefully take the cup from him afterward, your fingers brushing his briefly in the process.

Warm.

Your heartbeat immediately stumbles again.

Hyunjin notices. Of course he notices.

His eyes flick toward your face for half a second too long before he quietly looks away again.

Which honestly feels worse somehow.

“You stayed,” he says after a moment.

The words are simple.

But something quieter hides beneath them.

Hopeful.

Like he still wasn’t entirely sure you would.

You look down into the steaming cup between your hands.

“…I wanted to.”

Silence settles softly between you afterward.

Not awkward. Just Full.

Hyunjin leans lightly against the edge of the desk nearby, watching you over the rim of his own cup now with that same soft expression he’s been wearing more and more lately.

The dangerous one.

The one that keeps making your chest ache.

Somewhere above deck, loud footsteps suddenly thunder overhead followed immediately by shouting.

“CAPTAIN—”

Hyunjin closes his eyes instantly.

“Nevermind,” he mutters. “Reality found us.”

A second later, the cabin door bursts open hard enough to slam against the wall.

“Captain, Chan said if Minho throws another knife at somebody during breakfast he’s legally allowed to mutiny—”

The sailor stops abruptly.

Silence.

Your eyes meet his.

His eyes widen.

Hyunjin sighs so deeply it sounds spiritual.

“Jisung,” he says calmly, “you are currently experiencing a very important moment called knocking.”

Jisung continues staring at you in complete disbelief.

“…There’s a woman in your cabin.”

“Excellent observation.”

“A very pretty woman.”

“Jisung.”

“Wearing your shirt.”

Jisung slowly looks between the two of you again before something horrifyingly excited flashes across his face.

“Oh my god.”

“No.”

“OH MY GOD.”

Hyunjin pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You have exactly five seconds before I throw you overboard.”

“Captain has a girlfriend,” Jisung whispers dramatically to himself.

“Girlfriend?”

“Not helping,” Hyunjin says immediately.

Jisung points at him in vindication, “SEE?”

The sheer chaos of the interaction leaves you blinking in confusion while Hyunjin looks moments away from sailing directly into a hurricane voluntarily.

“Why are you like this so early in the morning?” he mutters.

“Why are you like this suddenly?” Jisung shoots back immediately. “You disappear for one night and come back with a mystery girl?”

Hyunjin visibly freezes for half a second.

Ah.

Interesting.

So this really is unusual for him.

Jisung notices the realization crossing your face and gasps loudly. “Oh, you didn’t know?”

“Jisung.”

“Captain hates everybody.”

“That is not true.”

“You threatened a man for breathing too loudly yesterday.”

“He was doing it incorrectly.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

Hyunjin immediately looks over at you.

And there it is again.

That softness.

Like your laughter pulls it out of him automatically now.

Jisung sees it happen in real time.

Then slowly: “…Oh, he’s gone gone.”

“Get out.”

"Violently in love....WOW!"

Hyunjin grabs the nearest object off the desk.

Jisung disappears instantly before he can throw it and the cabin door slams shut behind him.

Silence settles again afterward.

Hyunjin stares at the closed door for a long moment before dropping his head into one hand.

“I need a new crew.”

You’re still trying not to laugh, “I thought pirates were supposed to be intimidating.”

“Mine are defective.”

“Mhm.”

Hyunjin glances over at you afterward, still visibly suffering.

“For the record,” he says carefully, “I did not tell him to say any of that.”

You tilt your head slightly. “The girlfriend part or the violently in love part?”

Hyunjin nearly chokes. “You are enjoying this entirely too much.”

“Maybe.”

He points at you accusingly with his cup. “Yuna corrupted you.”

“I think your crew just likes embarrassing you.”

“My crew enjoys violence.”

“And yet somehow you’re the one threatening to throw people overboard.”

Hyunjin groans softly under his breath while you finally laugh again.

The sound fills the cabin warmly.

Easier now.

Natural.

Hyunjin watches you through it with that same helpless softness that’s becoming harder and harder for either of you to ignore.

Dangerous.

Again.

“You really stayed,” he says quietly after a moment.

The teasing fades from his voice completely this time.

Leaving something more vulnerable underneath.

Your chest tightens slightly, “You sound surprised.”

Hyunjin looks down into his cup briefly.

“I think I expected you to disappear before morning.”

The honesty in the admission catches you off guard. Because somehow you hadn’t realized he’d been worrying about that too.

“I almost did,” you admit softly.

His eyes lift back toward yours immediately. “What stopped you?”

You should probably say: curiosity, exhaustion, the cinnamon rolls, the cat.

Instead, the truth slips out before you can stop it.

“You.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Hyunjin stills completely across from you.

Like the word physically hit him somewhere important.

Your heartbeat starts stumbling almost immediately afterward.

Gods.

Why would you say that out loud?

“I just mean—” you start quickly.

“No,” Hyunjin says softly.

You stop.

His gaze doesn’t leave yours now.

Warm.

Careful.

Entirely too intense this early in the morning.

“Don’t take it back.”

Your breath catches slightly.

The room suddenly feels much smaller than before.

Hyunjin slowly sets his cup down on the desk beside him afterward without breaking eye contact once.

Then takes a small step closer.

Just one.

But your pulse reacts to it immediately anyway.

“You know,” he says quietly, “for someone who was terrified of humans yesterday…”

Another step.

“You’re getting very comfortable in a pirate captain’s cabin.”

Heat floods your chest instantly.

“That sounds criminal when you say it like that.”

Hyunjin laughs softly under his breath.

Close enough now that you can see the sleep still lingering faintly in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Probably.”

Neither of you moves after that.

But the air changes anyway.

Something quieter settling between you both now.

Heavier.

Your eyes flick downward briefly.

His mouth.

Mistake.

Huge mistake.

Because when you look back up again, Hyunjin notices immediately. Of course he does.

His expression shifts almost imperceptibly afterward.

Softer.

Hungrier.

Your heartbeat becomes genuinely unbearable.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs quietly.

“You stare at me constantly.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Hyunjin’s mouth curves slightly, “I’m better at hiding it.”

“That’s not true.”

Hyunjin smiles slightly. “You noticing doesn’t count.”

“I think it counts significantly.”

“Unfortunate for me, then.”

The amusement in his voice softens the tension slightly, but not enough.

Not nearly enough.

Because he’s still standing too close now.

Close enough that you can feel warmth radiating from him in the cool morning air drifting through the cabin windows.

Close enough that if either of you leaned forward—

A loud crash suddenly echoes from somewhere above deck.

Followed immediately by yelling.

“THAT WASN’T MY FAULT!”

“YOU THREW A PAN AT ME!”

Hyunjin closes his eyes slowly, “I’m going to kill them.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

The tension snaps apart just enough for both of you to breathe again.

Barely.

Hyunjin shakes his head softly under his breath before glancing back toward the ceiling.

“I should probably make sure the ship is still functional.”

“Seems important.”

“Unfortunately.”

He doesn’t move immediately though.

Instead his eyes drift back toward you again.

Lingering.

Like he’s trying to memorize something.

Your stomach flips painfully beneath it.

“You can stay here if you want,” he says quietly.

“In your cabin?”

“It’s safer than dealing with my crew this early.”

“You make them sound feral.”

“That’s because they are.”

You smile faintly while Hyunjin reaches past you toward the edge of the bed to grab his coat.

His fingers brush your arm in the process.

Light.

Accidental.

Still enough to make your heartbeat trip over itself again.

Dangerous.

Again.

Hyunjin pauses too.

Just for a second.

His eyes flick toward where he touched you before lifting back to your face again.

Something shifts there briefly.

Wanting.

Real enough this time that it steals the breath directly from your lungs.

The moment stretches quietly between you.

Too close.

Too warm.

Too much.

Then—

“Captain!”

Hyunjin’s entire body goes rigid, “What?” he calls back flatly.

“Minho said if you don’t come upstairs right now he’s taking over navigation out of spite!”

A beat of silence.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Hyunjin mutters.

Another voice immediately shouts from above:

“HE ABSOLUTELY WOULD!”

Hyunjin sighs like a man carrying the weight of the world.

You’re openly laughing now, “Go save your ship, captain.”

He points at you once while heading toward the door.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

Hyunjin pauses with his hand on the door afterward.

Then glances back at you one more time.

And the softness returns immediately.

Warm enough to make your chest ache beneath it.

“Don’t disappear while I’m gone,” he says quietly.

The words land somewhere deep inside you before you can stop them from settling there.

Dangerous.

Very, very dangerous.

“…I won't,” you answer softly.

Hyunjin smiles.

Small.

Real.

Then disappears upstairs, leaving the cabin strangely quieter without him in it.

The silence after Hyunjin leaves feels strangely immediate.

Like the entire cabin notices his absence with you.

The ship creaks softly beneath your feet while muffled yelling continues somewhere overhead.

Human chaos. Constant.

You smile faintly to yourself before wandering slowly around the cabin instead.

It feels different looking at it now in daylight.

Smaller somehow. More personal. Less pirate captain.

More Hyunjin.

Your fingers brush lightly across the scattered maps on his desk first.

Messy handwriting curls across the edges alongside little ink marks and unfinished calculations.

One corner of the desk holds an untidy pile of rings he apparently removes whenever he remembers they exist.

There’s also: a compass, several loose coins, a dagger, and, strangely, a tiny carved wooden dolphin.

You pick it up carefully.

The carving is worn smooth around the edges like it’s been handled often.

Oddly cute.

Your chest warms unexpectedly.

A sudden knock interrupts your thoughts.

You nearly drop the dolphin immediately.

“Uh,” a voice, you actually recognize, says carefully from outside the door, “Captain said not to bother you but unfortunately we’re all extremely curious.”

Silence.

Then another voice:

“That was the worst possible way to start this conversation.”

“I’m trying my best!”

You blink toward the door uncertainly.

The crew.

Right.

Your stomach twists nervously again.

“We brought food?” the second voice offers hopefully.

You hesitate. Then slowly move toward the door.

When you open it carefully, three men immediately straighten outside like they’d been caught doing something illegal.

One of them you recognize instantly, Jisung.

Still looking far too excited about all of this.

Beside him stands a taller man with dimples and tired eyes carrying a tray, while another leans casually against the wall beside them watching the situation unfold with visible amusement.

All three stare at you for one long second.

Then: “Oh,” the taller one says softly.

“She’s real.”

Jisung looks offended immediately.

“I told you she was real.”

“You also said Captain looked ‘tragically in love,’” the other one points out.

“Which I stand by.”

“You told the crew that?” you ask in horror.

“In my defense,” Jisung says seriously, “it was incredibly obvious.”

“Jisung,” the taller man sighs, “you cannot tell strangers that our captain is in love with them.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

Your face immediately warms.

The third sailor snorts softly from beside the wall.

“He’s definitely doomed,” he says.

“See?” Jisung points triumphantly.

You’re beginning to understand why Hyunjin sounds exhausted constantly.

The taller sailor quickly steps forward afterward before the situation can somehow get worse.

“Sorry,” he says warmly. “I’m Chan.”

He gestures toward the others. “Unfortunately, those fools are Jisung and Changbin.”

“Rude,” Jisung mutters.

Changbin shrugs. “Accurate though.”

Chan carefully offers you the tray afterward. “Jisung said you might not know where the kitchen was yet.”

You carefully take the tray from Chan with a small smile. “Thank you.”

The three of them visibly relax almost immediately afterward.

Like they’d been worried you might slam the door in their faces.

Which honestly feels a little fair.

Chan smiles warmly once you take the tray from him.

“Okay,” he says softly, visibly relieved now. “Great. She likes us.”

“Barely,” Changbin mutters.

“I heard that.”

“Good.”

Jisung, meanwhile, is still staring at you with undisguised fascination.

“So,” he says carefully, “how exactly did Captain meet someone like you?”

You hesitate instantly.

Ah.

There it is.

The dangerous question.

“Jisung,” Chan warns.

“What? I’m being normal.”

“This is you being normal?”

“Unfortunately.”

You hide a small smile behind the edge of the cup Hyunjin left for you while Changbin watches the interaction beside the wall with visible amusement.

“To be fair,” he says casually, “we’re mostly shocked Hyunjin willingly spoke to someone.”

“He talks to you.”

Changbin looks deeply offended. “Debatable.”

Chan sighs like this conversation physically pains him. “Our captain has a reputation,” he explains carefully.

“For threatening people?” you guess.

“For avoiding people,” Chan corrects.

Jisung nods immediately. “Especially attractive people who are interested in him.”

“Jisung.”

“I’m helping establish context.”

Your eyes widen slightly, “…Really?”

Changbin snorts.

“Oh, absolutely.”

“The man once ignored an entire tavern after someone flirted with him too aggressively,” Jisung adds.

“That seems dramatic.”

“He’s deeply dramatic,” Changbin says.

“I am standing right here,” Hyunjin’s voice suddenly says from the hallway.

Every single person freezes.

Hyunjin stands near the doorway holding what looks suspiciously like a broken compass while staring at his crew with exhausted disappointment.

“We were being welcoming,” Chan says immediately.

“You were interrogating her.”

“Politely.”

Hyunjin narrows his eyes slightly, “That’s somehow worse.”

Jisung brightens instantly the second Hyunjin steps past them back inside.

“Captain, did you know she already figured out you’re obsessed with her?”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Hyunjin slowly closes his eyes.

“I’m begging you,” he says calmly. “Please learn fear.”

You’re trying very hard not to laugh again.

In which you're failing badly.

Hyunjin notices immediately, of course.

His expression softens the second he looks at you.

Automatically.

Like he genuinely can’t help it anymore.

The crew notices too. All three of them. At the exact same time.

Jisung looks seconds away from exploding.

Changbin immediately turns away to hide a grin.

Chan looks like a man finally understanding something important.

“Oh,” Chan says softly.

Hyunjin points at him instantly. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Hyunjin groans under his breath while setting the broken compass onto the desk beside you.

Then his eyes flick briefly toward the half-finished tea in your hands, then the tray of food on the side table.

“You ate yet?”

The question comes out quieter than everything else.

Gentler.

Concern wrapped so naturally into it that it catches you off guard slightly.

You nod once, “Your crew just brought it.”

“Against my better judgment,” Hyunjin mutters.

“You love us,” Jisung says immediately.

“Incorrect.”

“See?” Changbin says lightly to you. “This is how he flirts.”

Hyunjin looks moments away from sailing the ship directly into the sun.

“I hate every single one of you.”

“No you don’t,” Chan says calmly.

“Some of us maybe,” Changbin offers.

“Fair.”

Jisung gasps dramatically. “Captain admitted affection. Somebody write this down.”

Hyunjin grabs the nearest throw pillow and throws it directly at his head.

Jisung barely dodges it with a loud yelp while you laugh outright now, unable to stop yourself anymore.

The cabin immediately quiets for half a second afterward.

Because every single one of them looks toward you automatically.

Ah.

Right.

Humans do that.

Your smile falters slightly beneath the sudden attention.

Hyunjin notices instantly. Of course he does.

He shifts closer almost unconsciously, stepping between you and the rest of the room just enough to break the tension.

“Alright,” he says flatly. “You’ve all officially bothered her enough.”

“We literally just got here,” Jisung complains.

“And yet I’m already tired.”

Chan sighs softly before gesturing toward the door.

“Come on. Let’s leave the captain alone with his mysterious guest.”

“Future wife,” Jisung corrects automatically.

Hyunjin looks ready to commit murder.

“Go.”

Changbin is visibly trying not to laugh while Chan physically drags Jisung backward toward the hallway.

“You can’t silence the truth!” Jisung shouts dramatically as he disappears out the door.

“Watch me.”

The cabin door finally shuts behind them.

Silence settles immediately afterward.

Real silence this time.

Hyunjin exhales deeply beside you like a man barely surviving a natural disaster.

“I’m so sorry.”

You blink up at him.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

A laugh slips out of you again before you can stop it.

Hyunjin looks over immediately at the sound.

And there it is again.

That look.

Warm enough now that you’re beginning to feel it physically every time it lands on you.

“They’re not what I expected,” you admit softly.

Hyunjin leans lightly against the edge of the desk beside you.

“That’s usually people’s first mistake.”

“No,” you murmur, glancing toward the closed door thoughtfully. “I mean… they’re kind.”

The words leave the room quieter than expected.

Something shifts subtly across Hyunjin’s expression afterward.

Like the answer matters to him more than he anticipated.

“Yeah,” he says softly after a moment.

“They are.”

You look down at the cup between your hands again.

“I thought humans would feel…” You hesitate slightly. “Scarier.”

Hyunjin goes very still beside you.

The teasing disappears from his face entirely now.

“And now?”

Your heartbeat stumbles a little at how gently he asks it.

Honest.

Careful.

Like he genuinely wants to know.

You glance back up at him slowly.

“Now I think maybe I was taught to fear the wrong things.”

Silence.

Heavy this time.

Hyunjin stares at you for one long second afterward like the words physically knocked something loose inside him.

Then quietly: “You really shouldn’t say things like that to me.”

Your breath catches slightly.

“Why?”

Hyunjin’s eyes flick toward your mouth before returning to your eyes again.

Slow enough that you notice this time.

Intentional enough that your pulse immediately loses all stability.

“Because,” he says softly, stepping just a little closer again, “I already like you more than I’m supposed to.”

The confession settles between you both heavily.

Quietly.

Like something inevitable finally being spoken out loud.

Your heartbeat becomes almost unbearable beneath it.

Hyunjin watches your expression carefully afterward.

Not teasing now. Not hiding. Just honest.

Gods.

You don’t think anyone has ever looked at you this carefully before.

Like he’s trying to understand every thought crossing your face in real time.

“Maybe,” you say softly, “I also like you more than I’m supposed to.”

Something in Hyunjin’s expression breaks a little after that.

Not painfully.

Just...Gone.

Whatever restraint he’d still been clinging to loosens visibly.

His eyes drift slowly toward your mouth again.

This time neither of you pretends not to notice.

The air between you feels warmer suddenly. Smaller.

Your pulse stumbles harder the closer he gets.

One careful step.

Then another.

Close enough now that you can feel the warmth of his skin.

Close enough that your breathing starts matching unconsciously.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs softly.

The fact that he asks nearly undoes you more than the moment itself.

Because he would.

You know he would.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the fabric of his sleeve.

“I don’t want you to.”

Hyunjin exhales shakily at the words.

Then his hand lifts carefully toward your face.

Slow enough for you to pull away.

Gentle enough that your chest aches beneath it.

His knuckles brush softly against your cheek first.

Warm. Reverent almost.

Like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real.

Your eyes flutter briefly at the touch.

Dangerous.

Very, very dangerous.

Hyunjin’s thumb slides lightly along your cheekbone afterward before settling carefully beneath your chin.

Tilting your face upward just slightly.

Giving you every possible chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

His forehead rests briefly against yours first.

The moment surprisingly soft.

Intimate in a way that steals the breath directly from your lungs.

You can feel him smiling faintly when he whispers:

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Then he kisses you. Softly.

Like he’s been trying not to for days.

Warm lips brushing carefully against yours at first, almost hesitant despite everything else about him.

Your breath catches instantly.

The kiss deepens slightly the second you lean into it.

And Hyunjin makes the quietest sound against your mouth. Like that tiny bit of encouragement completely ruins him.

One hand settles carefully at your waist while the other remains against your face, holding you gently like something precious.

The tenderness of it nearly makes your chest ache.

Because you expected hunger, intensity, recklessness.

But this?

This feels devastatingly careful.

Like he’s kissing you with the same softness he’s looked at you with since the beginning.

Your fingers curl tighter into the front of his shirt instinctively, pulling yourself closer without even realizing it.

Hyunjin immediately responds. The kiss turns deeper afterward.

Slower.

Warmer.

His thumb brushes softly beneath your jaw while he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of it already.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, you realize something terrifying; You don’t want to leave anymore.

He kisses you like he’s afraid of rushing you.

Like he’s spent days wanting this and still can’t quite believe it’s happening.

The realization makes your chest ache in ways that feel far more dangerous than the kiss itself.

Your fingers remain tangled loosely in the front of his shirt while his hand stays warm against your waist, grounding you every time your thoughts start drifting too far.

The ship rocks softly beneath you both.

Waves against the hull.

Distant gulls somewhere outside.

Everything else feels impossibly far away now.

Hyunjin pulls back only slightly after a moment, just enough for the two of you to breathe.

His forehead stays resting against yours.

Eyes still half-lidded. Lips still dangerously close.

“You’re real,” he murmurs quietly, almost to himself.

Heat floods your face immediately.

“That’s a strange thing to say after kissing someone.”

A soft laugh slips from him. Warm against your mouth.

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, you do. Because this still feels a little unreal to you too.

A pirate captain.

A bakery.

Human laughter.

His hands on you.

Somehow your life became this.

Hyunjin studies your face quietly afterward like he’s still trying to understand how he got this lucky.

It makes your stomach twist nervously beneath his gaze.

“What?” you whisper.

His thumb brushes softly along your waist absentmindedly.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

You smile faintly.

Hyunjin’s expression softens immediately at the sight of it.

There it is again.

That look that keeps undoing you completely.

“You keep doing that,” you murmur quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

Something quieter settles across his face afterward. More vulnerable than before.

“I can stop,” he says softly. The answer comes too quickly.

“Don’t.”

Hyunjin exhales shakily at the word. Like it affects him more than it should.

Then he kisses you again.

Slower this time. Less hesitant.

Like he’s finally letting himself enjoy it now that the line’s already been crossed.

Your hand slides upward instinctively, fingers brushing lightly through the hair at the back of his neck.

Hyunjin visibly melts beneath the touch.

The reaction immediate enough to make warmth bloom across your chest.

“Careful,” he murmurs softly against your lips.

“Why?”

His eyes lift toward yours again.

Darker now. Still soft.

But something else lingers there too.

Wanting.

“Because I’m trying very hard to behave right now.”

Your heartbeat nearly stops entirely.

The confession sends heat rushing through you instantly.

Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth afterward, softer now. More affectionate than teasing.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you whisper.

“What thing?”

“Looking too pleased with yourself.”

“Can you blame me?”

Your pulse stumbles embarrassingly hard beneath the warmth in his voice.

Hyunjin’s hand slides slightly higher along your waist before stopping himself deliberately.

The restraint somehow affects you more than if he hadn’t stopped at all.

Dangerous.

Again.

“You know,” he murmurs softly, “you’re significantly less afraid of me than you were when we first met”

“Maybe you stopped being scary.”

Hyunjin laughs quietly under his breath.

“Pretty sure I was never scary.”

“You’re literally a pirate captain.”

“And yet here you are.”

His forehead nudges lightly against yours again while his thumb traces absentminded circles against your side.

Comfortable now.

Familiar.

The intimacy of it settles deeply beneath your ribs.

You’ve known him for such a short amount of time.

And somehow it already feels like this.

Like your body recognizes him before your mind can catch up.

Hyunjin watches something shift across your face then, his expression softening immediately.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Your eyes lift toward his.

“You alright?”

The concern in his voice is so genuine it almost hurts.

You nod slowly. “I think this is just… a lot.”

Understanding flickers across his expression instantly.

“Yeah,” he admits softly. “Me too.”

That makes you smile a little.

Because somehow you hadn’t considered the possibility that Hyunjin might feel just as overwhelmed by this as you do.

He smiles back immediately.

Warm enough to make your chest ache again.

“C’mere,” he murmurs quietly afterward.

Before you can fully process the words, Hyunjin gently pulls you closer against him until your head rests naturally beneath his chin.

His arms settle loosely around you.

No tension.

No pressure.

Just holding you.

The steady sound of his heartbeat fills the quiet cabin while the ship rocks softly beneath you both.

Safe.

The realization hits unexpectedly hard.

Hyunjin presses a soft kiss against the top of your head after a moment.

“You know,” he murmurs into your hair, “this is probably the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You snort softly against his chest.

“That sounds dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“Because you kissed me?”

Hyunjin tilts his head slightly. “Because now I’m attached.”

Your heart genuinely hurts a little at the honesty in his voice.

He says things so simply sometimes.

Like they aren’t devastating at all.

Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

“Good,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

Hyunjin goes very still above you.

Then slowly tightens his arms around you just a little more.

The movement feels almost involuntary.

Like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

Your cheek rests against his chest while the ship sways gently beneath you both, steady enough now that you barely notice the movement anymore.

Hyunjin’s heartbeat thuds slowly beneath your ear.

Calm.

Until your fingers absentmindedly trace along the fabric of his shirt.

Then suddenly, not calm at all.

A quiet laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.

“You’re nervous,” you murmur softly.

Hyunjin huffs quietly above you, “You noticed that?”

“Your heartbeat practically changed languages.”

That earns a real laugh from him.

Warm enough that you feel it vibrate through his chest.

“This is unfair,” he mutters.

“What is?”

“You.”

Heat creeps immediately into your face again.

Dangerous.

Again.

Hyunjin leans back slightly afterward, just enough to look down at you properly.

One hand lifts instinctively toward your face again, brushing a loose strand of hair carefully behind your ear.

The tenderness of it almost hurts.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I really did try not to do this.”

“Kiss me?”

His mouth curves softly. “Like you.”

Your breath catches slightly.

“That seems dramatic considering we officially met, what, four days ago?”

“Five.”

“You counted?”

Hyunjin looks completely unashamed.

“Obviously.”

Your heart nearly folds in on itself.

Because of course he counted. Of course he did.

Hyunjin watches your expression carefully afterward before smiling faintly to himself.

“There’s that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one where you realize you’re in trouble.”

You narrow your eyes slightly.

“I think you’re the one in trouble.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

The honesty in the answer makes you laugh softly.

Hyunjin’s gaze immediately drifts toward your mouth again at the sound.

Slower this time.

More deliberate.

Your pulse reacts instantly.

The room feels warmer suddenly.

Smaller.

Hyunjin notices every single change in your expression like he’s learned how to read you already.

“Tell me if I’m moving too fast,” he says quietly.

Your chest tightens painfully beneath the words.

Because even now

even like this

he’s still careful with you.

You shake your head slowly.

“You’re not.”

Something soft breaks across his face again.

Affection.

Relief.

Maybe both.

Then his hand slides gently beneath your jaw once more before he kisses you again. Deeper this time.

Not rushed.

Just wanting.

Honest wanting.

The kind that’s been building quietly between you since the moment he first looked at you in the ocean.

Somewhere outside the cabin, the ship shifts harder beneath your feet.

The movement pulls a quiet breath from Hyunjin before he reluctantly leans back slightly.

Not far.

Still close enough that his forehead brushes yours.

“I really do have responsibilities,” he murmurs softly, sounding deeply offended by the fact.

A smile slips across your face before you can stop it.

“Tragic.”

“You’re making fun of me in my own cabin.”

“You kissed me in your own cabin. I think we’re past formalities.”

Hyunjin stares at you for half a second afterward before laughing quietly under his breath.

Warm.

Real.

Your chest aches beneath the sound.

Then another rough shift rolls through the ship beneath you both.

Different this time.

Enough to pull Hyunjin’s attention immediately toward the windows.

And just like that —

he changes.

Not completely.

The softness never fully disappears around you now.

But something sharper settles into him almost instantly.

Hyunjin steps back toward the desk automatically, eyes flicking toward the darkening horizon outside while one hand reaches absentmindedly for the compass laying nearby.

“Is something wrong?” you ask quietly.

“Weather changed faster than I expected.”

Calm. Certain.

Somehow that affects you more than it should.

Hyunjin glances back toward you afterward, expression gentling again immediately. “Stay here for me?”

The request lands strangely warmly in your chest.

You nod once, “Okay.”

His shoulders loosen slightly at the answer.

Then he’s moving toward the door, already halfway back in captain mode before he even reaches it.

You follow a few moments later anyway. Quietly.

Curiosity pulling you upstairs despite yourself.

The second you step onto the deck, wind whips sharply across your skin. The crew moves quickly around the ship: tightening ropes, adjusting sails, securing loose cargo.

No panic. Just preparation.

And at the center of all of it: Hyunjin

You learn quickly that Hyunjin becomes a different person while captaining the ship.

Softer with you.

Sharper with everyone else.

Not cruel....just certain.

The crew follows him without hesitation, and somehow that affects you more than the kissing did.

“Secure the starboard side before the rain hits,” Hyunjin calls over the wind.

Immediate movement follows.

No questioning.

No panic.

Just trust.

The ship rocks harder beneath your feet while sailors move quickly around the deck, ropes tightening overhead as dark clouds gather heavier across the horizon.

You stay near the stairs at first, uncertain where exactly you’re supposed to stand without getting in the way.

Hyunjin notices anyway. Of course he does.

His eyes find you instantly despite everything else demanding his attention.

“You should be below deck,” Hyunjin says the second he notices you standing there.

“You said stay in the cabin,” you correct.

“That was before you ignored me.”

“You noticed surprisingly fast.”

Hyunjin gives you a look. “I notice everything on this ship.”

Dangerous.

Again.

Wind catches sharply against the sails overhead while another wave knocks against the side of the ship hard enough to make you stumble slightly.

Hyunjin’s hand catches your waist immediately.

Steady.

Familiar already.

Your breath catches embarrassingly fast beneath the warmth of his grip.

Hyunjin notices that too. Of course he does.

But instead of teasing you for it, his thumb brushes lightly against your side once before he reluctantly lets go again.

Captain first.

“Careful,” he murmurs quietly.

The concern in his voice settles warmly beneath your ribs despite the cold wind.

“You make this look easy,” you admit softly.

Hyunjin glances briefly toward the crew adjusting the sails overhead before looking back at you.

“It’s not.”

Honest. Simple.

Somehow that affects you more than confidence would have.

Chan appears beside the helm a moment later, calling something toward Hyunjin about changing currents.

Hyunjin’s attention sharpens instantly.

Not colder. Just focused.

You watch him move across the deck afterward: giving orders calmly, adjusting ropes himself when needed, steadying the younger sailors when the ship shifts too hard

Everyone watches him. Listens to him. Trusts him completely.

And somehow, standing here in the middle of rough water and growing storm clouds, you finally understand why.

Hyunjin doesn’t command the ship loudly.

He commands it like someone carrying responsibility carefully.

Like everyone onboard matters to him.

The realization settles heavily in your chest.

Because somehow that feels infinitely more dangerous than a pirate captain who only cared about himself.

Rain starts properly a few minutes later.

Cold droplets scatter across the deck while the crew moves faster beneath the darkening sky overhead.

You barely notice at first. Too distracted watching Hyunjin move through the chaos like he belongs inside it.

Until suddenly, warmth settles across your shoulders.

You blink in surprise.

Hyunjin’s coat.

He’s already pulling away before you fully process it.

“You’re freezing,” he says simply.

“What about you?”

Hyunjin glances toward the storm clouds once before tightening a rope beside the mast.

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

Captain.

Again.

Your fingers tighten unconsciously around the fabric of his coat while ocean wind whips harder across the ship.

And beneath all of it, something uneasy twists low in your stomach.

The sea feels wrong.

Not rough.

Not dangerous in the normal way storms usually are.

Just....wrong.

The feeling crawls beneath your skin slowly, instinctive enough that it makes your stomach tighten before your mind can fully understand why.

Another wave crashes hard against the side of the ship.

Your eyes immediately snap toward the water.

Too dark. Too restless.

Like the ocean itself is agitated by something deeper beneath it.

The wind sharpens again. Cold enough now that it bites against your skin through the heavy rain.

Around you, the crew continues moving quickly across the deck, focused entirely on the storm building overhead.

They can only see the surface of it.

Your heartbeat stumbles unevenly.

Because whatever this feeling is, it’s underneath.

“Hey.”

Hyunjin’s voice cuts through your thoughts immediately.

You look up too quickly.

His expression changes the second he sees your face.

Concern replacing focus almost instantly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you answer automatically.

Hyunjin gives you a look.

One that very clearly says,

absolutely not.

Rain drips slowly from his dark hair while he steps closer, lowering his voice despite the chaos around you both.

“You’ve been staring at the water for the last five minutes.”

Your stomach tightens slightly.

Because of course he noticed.

“I just…” You hesitate, glancing back toward the ocean again. “Something feels strange.”

Hyunjin follows your gaze automatically.

The ship rocks harder beneath your feet.

This time you barely notice.

“Strange how?”

You struggle briefly for the words.

“The ocean feels…” Your brows pull together. “Agitated.”

Hyunjin’s expression stills slightly. Not panic.

Worse.

Recognition.

“You can feel that?” he asks quietly.

Your eyes flick back toward him immediately, “You can’t?”

Another silence settles between you.

Wind screams sharply through the sails overhead.

Hyunjin studies your face carefully for a second before glancing back toward the water again.

Thinking now. Calculating.

But when he looks back at you again, the softness returns immediately beneath it all.

“Okay,” he says calmly.

Too calmly.

Your chest tightens.

“Hyunjin.”

He steps closer before you can spiral any further, one steady hand settling against your waist again despite the crew surrounding you.

Grounding.

“Hey,” he says softly over the storm. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Whatever this is,” he murmurs carefully, “I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

The promise settles heavily somewhere deep inside your chest.

Dangerous.

Again.

Except this time, it doesn’t feel dangerous because of him.

It feels dangerous because you believe him.

previous | next

When the company you worked for merged with another, you expected new rules, new systems, maybe even new friendships.

What you didn’t expect was Minho.

The first time you saw him, you thought he was simply the type who wore his seriousness like his suit jacket—stiff, formal, but nothing a smile couldn’t soften. You’d always believed people had gentler sides waiting to be uncovered, so you gave him the benefit of the doubt.

A week into working alongside him, you learned that’s just how he is. Sharp words cut through the air like knives when he caught a junior making a mistake. He didn’t yell, but the low, pointed tone was enough to freeze everyone within earshot. A misplaced report, a late submission, even a typo—Minho noticed it all, and he wasn’t afraid to call people out on it.

Soon, people began steering clear of him like he was a ticking bomb. Words spread across the office—cold, harsh, distant. You should have joined them in keeping your head down, but instead you found yourself watching him.

In the same week you worked alongside him, you also learned something no one knows about Minho. Behind every cutting remark, he was precise. Behind every scolding, there was a strange kind of care—because he wanted things done right, not out of cruelty, but out of pride for the work itself. His standards were high, but he held himself to them, too.

And what began as respect, an admiration for his dedication, slowly grew into something else. Something you didn’t dare say out loud.

Because somewhere between watching him stay late nights to finish projects and catching rare glimpses of him rubbing his tired eyes when he thought no one was looking, your admiration twisted into a secret crush.

-

The weekly strategy meeting—usually a blur of charts and numbers—feels different the moment Minho speaks.

He sits across the long table, posture straight, every word rolling off his tongue clear and precise. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess himself. His voice carries with it a weight that demands attention, and everyone in the room listens.

You try to look casual, but your eyes keep drifting to the way his crisp white shirt stretches neatly across his shoulders, to the silky blue tie that looks far too elegant for such a dull Monday, to the way he leans forward slightly when he’s emphasizing a point. Eloquence drips from every sentence, intelligence carved into the lines of his expression.

You can almost feel yourself melting into your chair just watching him. How is it fair that someone so stern, so terrifying to others, can be so impossibly attractive to you?

All of a sudden, Minho’s eyes flick your way. Sharp, direct, like he knows.

Your heart skips a beat and heat rushes to your face as you quickly duck your head, scribbling nonsense into your notes just to look busy as if you weren’t just openly staring at him a second ago. You pray he didn’t notice. You pray the room is too full, too loud, that you’re nothing more than another coworker in his periphery.

But even as you keep your head down, the image of him—confident, composed, devastatingly beautiful in that blue tie—burns behind your eyes.

-

Not long after the meeting wrapped up, your landline rings and you pick it up. It’s a muscle memory at this point.

The secretary ditches formality and goes straight to the point. “The director wants to see you.”

There’s no need to respond anyway. When the director calls, you come even though the summon usually means extra work, and sure enough, when you step into the office, you find Minho already there, sitting opposite her, one leg crossed over the other, looking maddeningly composed.

“Ah, you’re here,” the director says, gesturing for you to sit. “I’ll get straight to the point. They moved up the new product presentation to tomorrow so I asked Minho to prepare the initial draft. But…”

She briefly glances at him and Minho’s lips curl into the faintest smirk.

“I can’t do it alone.” His voice is even, but there’s something in the way he says it—like he’s already a step ahead. “This project is too detailed for one person to handle without risking mistakes.”

The director nods in agreement. “That’s why I want you to work with him. Tonight, if possible. The draft needs to be on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.”

Tonight? With him? Just the two of you? You can feel your pulse pick up.

Minho turns his head, and his gaze lands on you. His eyes don’t waver, don’t soften—just steady, dark, unwavering. But beneath the formality, there’s something else there. Something that feels like… anticipation. Almost like he’s curious to see what you’ll say. Almost like he’s looking forward to it.

You swallow air, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat sounds in your own ears. Being alone with Minho… the thought is equal parts terrifying and thrilling. You’re not sure you’re ready for whatever comes with it.

Then again, this is work. A task directly handed to you by your superior. You can’t say no.

So you straighten in your seat, clear your throat, and force out, “Of course. We’ll get it done tonight.”

The director smiles, relieved. “Good. I’ll leave it in your hands then.”

When you rise to leave, Minho does too. As you pass each other in the doorway, his arm brushes against yours—light, fleeting, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. And then, in the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest trace of a grin tugging at his lips.

-

The office begins to empty as the evening creeps in. Desks that buzzed with chatter just hours ago now fall silent, one by one. You’re still at your computer, finishing up a few loose ends, when a co-worker passing by pauses at your desk.

“Hey, you’re not leaving?” she asks, slipping her bag over her shoulder.

You shake your head with a small smile. “No. I’ve got to work late tonight… with Minho.”

Her eyebrows jump and then she leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice so no one else can hear. “Good luck.”

Before you can reply, she slips away with a knowing shake of her head. You exhale slowly, sinking back into your chair and stretching your arms above your head, shoulders loosening from a day of tension.

The quiet is almost soothing until you catch the sound of footsteps approaching. You glance up to find Minho stands beside your desk.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, voice low but steady. Then with deliberate motions, he undoes the buttons at his wrists and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. The fabric slides back, revealing the lean lines of his forearms.

You straighten, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “We should probably divide the tasks,” you suggest, trying to keep your voice even. “That way, we won’t overlap.”

You try to focus on his words as he talks about a way to divide the task but your eyes keep drifting down to the veins coiling beneath his skin, prominent with each flex of his hand as he smooths the sleeve into place. It’s such a simple movement, ordinary even, but it makes your stomach flip in a way it shouldn’t.

“...and you can handle the visuals,” he finishes.

You force your gaze back up to his face, hoping he didn’t notice the split-second detour of your eyes. “Right. The visuals. I can do that,” you answer a little too quick, a little too casual.

He tilts his head just slightly, studying you with that unreadable expression and then, as if nothing happened, he nods and sits down, pulling his laptop closer.

It’s just you and him in the office tonight. And you know it’s going to be harder than ever to concentrate tonight.

-

Minutes stretch into hours and you’ve buried yourself deep into your slides, eyes locked on the screen, pen tucked between your teeth as you work through numbers and charts.

But even in your focus, thoughts of coffee creep in. Your body aches for the warmth, the caffeine, the small break, the excuse to stretch your legs. You hesitate, though. Should you offer to make one for Minho too? Would he even want you to? He doesn’t exactly seem like the type who accepts favors easily.

You nibble the cap of your pen, debating on it, until the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. You can’t shake the feeling that he’s looking at you.

Slowly, you turn your head and sure enough, Minho’s eyes are already on you. Not casually, not by accident—just steady, dark, fixed in your direction.

You force your voice low, hesitant, as if the silence between you might break if you speak too loudly. “I… I was going to make coffee. Do you want one too?”

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, like he’s searching for something behind your question. Then, finally, his lips part. “Yeah, sure.”

He doesn’t look away, not even once, and it makes your chest flutter in a way that feels dangerous.

You clear your throat, breaking the spell, and push back your chair. The scrape of its legs against the floor sounds louder than it should. With shaky hands, you gather yourself, stand, and head for the pantry, your pulse quickening with each step, as if you’re fleeing from the pull of his gaze.

The coffee machine whirs as you press the power button on and it’s the only sound that fills the pantry. You stand in front of it, arms raised as your fingers knead into the tense muscles of your neck. A sigh slips from your lips, low and drawn out, almost a moan, as you try to ease the ache from sitting at your desk too long.

“Oh, that felt good…” you murmur under your breath, pressing harder on the tension on your shoulder.

The sound of footsteps makes you jolt and you quickly turn on your feet, eyes widening when you see Minho standing at the doorway with his hand tucked in his slacks pocket.

“Why are you so surprised?” he asks evenly, a brow quirked.

You shake your head too fast, clutching for composure. “N–Nothing.”

The smirk that curls on his lips tells you he doesn’t buy it. It’s small, sly, almost like he’s reading straight through your lie. He steps further inside, leaning against the counter with infuriating ease, arms crossed over his chest. His head tilts, his gaze steady, following your every movement as you fumble with the machine like it suddenly became rocket science.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice cuts through the silence. “Am I scary?”

The question makes you laugh awkwardly, too quickly, like it’s a ridiculous thing to ask. “What? No, of course not.” You wave a hand, trying to dodge it, but your laugh dies a little too soon.

Minho doesn’t move but his eyes sharpen. “I know everyone in the office is scared of me,” he says simply, like he’s stating a fact.

You shake your head, stubborn. “They just don’t know you the way they should.”

His gaze lingers, piercing through you, holding you in place. “What about you?” His voice drops lower, intimate in a way that makes the room feel smaller. “Are you scared of me?”

The words trip out of you instantly, almost desperately. “No.”

But your smile is too quick, too awkward, as though you’re trying to hide something.

He studies you, silent for a long beat. Then he nods slowly, almost like he’s solved a puzzle. “You’re not scared of me,” he says at last. “But you’re afraid of me.”

His eyes lock on yours, unwavering, and you feel yourself unraveling under his intense stare. He’s too close to the truth, too close to the secret you’ve been keeping.

Panic, you abandon the half-brewed coffee and turn on your heel. “I’d better get back to work,” you mutter in a rush, desperate to escape.

But you barely make it two steps before his voice snaps across the room. “You like me, don’t you?”

You can feel the blood drains from your face as your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. The silence that follows is deafening, your halted body betraying you more than any words could.

Behind you, Minho exhales a laugh—low, knowing, edged with triumph. “Don’t bother denying it. I can see it all over you.”

You walk fast, your heels clicking against the floor as if putting distance between you and Minho could erase what just happened. But the office is nearly empty, and the echo of his footsteps follows close behind, relentless.

You make it to your desk and try to busy yourself by tidying the cluttering pens and papers,. But of course, it’s useless because his desk is right across from yours. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide until the task is done and Minho knows it.

“I’ve noticed the things you do when you think I’m not looking,” he says from behind you. His smooth, low voice peeling away your defenses.

“The way you stare at me in meetings. That little look you give me when you think I’m too busy to notice. You chew your lip when I speak, like you’re holding something back. And just now…” His tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around steel. “…that face you made when I caught you in the pantry.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as embarrassment and frustration mixing until you can’t take it anymore. You spin in your chair, facing him head-on, your words spilling out before you can stop them.

“Yeah, okay, I like you.”

The confession slices through the silence and for a moment, the world holds still. Then, slowly, a smirk curves across Minho’s lips. He steps closer, closing the space between you with unhurried strides.

“Want to know something?” His eyes glint, dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. “I can actually do this job myself.”

Your lips quiver as you mutter, “What?”

He plants a hand on the edge of your desk, leaning in. “I asked for you because I wanted to be alone with you.”

Before you can react, he presses a hand against the desk beside your hip, then the other, caging you in. The wooden surface digs into your back as his body looms over yours, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from him.

You’re pinned, trapped, your pulse hammering in your throat. His eyes sweep over your face, lingering like he’s quietly measuring you, observing you and then he smiles—not cruel, not mocking, but dangerous in its certainty.

“Now that I’ve got you…” his voice drops, low and intimate, “…what should I do with you?”

The smirk on his lips deepens, and for a moment you swear you see something feral flicker in his eyes.

Your lips part, trying to come up with an excuse, or shift the attention back to the task at hand, just anything to escape this situation but before any words can leave your mouth, he crashes his lips against yours.

The kiss is harsh, searing, all teeth and tongue and pent-up tension. The papers you’re holding slip from your hands and scatter across the floor as you clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer. He presses you harder against the desk, one hand gripping your jaw to tilt your face, forcing you to open for him as his tongue claims yours without hesitation.

When he finally pulls back, your lips are wet, swollen, your breath shaky. Then his voice dips into a growl.

“We could’ve had this all along.”

Before you can respond, his hand skims down your waist, sliding under the hem of your blouse, fingers teasing the bare skin of your stomach. Your back arches involuntarily, a needy sound slipping past your lips, and that’s all the permission he needs. He dips his head, capturing your mouth again, deeper this time, hungrier.

The constant hum of the computer fills the silence between gasps and muffled moans as he devours you, his hands roaming shamelessly now, palming your waist, cupping your ass, pulling you flush against the hard press of his body.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he mutters against your lips, biting at your lower one before sucking it into his mouth.

You’re dizzy, drunk on him, your fear completely eclipsed by the way he’s kissing you like he’s starved, like he’s wanted this just as badly.

“Minho—” you sigh between kisses, but the words die as he lifts you onto the desk, scattering pens and files onto the floor.

He steps between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs. “Here,” he says, voice rough, dark. “We’re doing it here.”

Your body already trembling at his words. “Here, what? Why… here?”

A smirk curls his lips as he leans in, his mouth ghosting over your ear. “Because I want you to remember this every time you sit at this desk. I want you to think about me fucking you so good you can’t focus on your work.”

Heat floods all over you at his words, your stomach twisting with anticipation. You try to hide your shiver, but his knowing grin tells you he noticed.

He doesn’t give you time to protest as his mouth crashes against yours again, hungrier than before, his hands sliding up your thighs until his fingers slip beneath your skirt, dragging the fabric higher.

The desk creaks beneath your shifting weight as his palm cups you over your panties, and you can’t hold back the gasp that escapes your lips. He swallows it eagerly, deepening the kiss as his fingers press harder, teasing your clothed sex until your hips are rocking against his hand.

“Already so wet,” he murmurs against your lips, smug, savoring every sound you make. “You wanted this too, didn’t you? Sitting across from me all day, pretending you weren’t staring.”

You bite your lip, unable to deny him. Your silence only makes his grin widen, his fingers curling around your panties to tug them aside.

The office is quiet, eerily so but the thought of someone maybe being just down the hall makes every touch feel dirtier, hotter. Without warning, Minho slips his fingers inside you, stretching you slowly. The sudden intrusion makes your mouth fall open, a sharp moan escaping before you can stop it. The sound echoes too loud in the empty office, and Minho’s eyes go wide. In an instant, his other hand clamps over your mouth, muffling the desperate sound you let out. But there’s a flicker of amusement behind his eyes like he enjoys how reckless you are for him.

“Shh,” he whispers low, his voice hot against your ear. “You want the whole building to hear how needy you are?”

You shake your head quickly, but it doesn’t stop the way your body clenches around his fingers as he pumps them deeper. He curls them just right, dragging out another muffled whimper that vibrates against his palm.

The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. It must be the security guard doing their round. Panic sparking in you, your wide eyes meet his, but Minho just smirks like this is all part of his game. He slows his pace, almost lazy now, each thrust of his fingers driving you insane while his hand stays firmly over your mouth.

“Quiet,” he breathes, his lips brushing your cheek as he leans in closer. “Be good for me. Don’t make a sound.”

The footsteps come closer, so close you swear they’ll stop at your door. Minho’s eyes stay locked on yours the whole time, his fingers never stopping, his expression daring you to hold it together.

Your chest heaves as the guard’s shadow passes by, lingering for a second that feels like eternity… before moving on.

Only when the steps fade away does Minho finally ease his hand from your mouth, his fingers glistening as he pulls them from your cunt. He brings them up between you, studying the shine with a crooked grin before slipping them past his lips, sucking them clean like he’s savoring you.

“Who needs coffee when I have this,” he says, his voice husky, gaze dark as he looks at you trembling on your own desk.

Then his hands are on you again, this time reaching for your blouse, unbuttoning it open but his patience wears thin on the third one so he yanks it open, the buttons scatter across the floor.

“You…” his voice is low and rough, as his eyes rake down your body, “…you hide this under those boring office clothes?”

He mutters it like he’s cursing himself for not noticing sooner, his fingers already tearing at your blouse, ripping the thin fabric open until your bra is exposed. His breaths quickening as he pushes the fabric aside to bare your skin.

“Fuck,” he exhales, almost reverent, running his hand down the front of your body.

Minho doesn’t waste time. He’s tugging at your skirt now, shoving it up around your hips, his fingers digging into your thighs. His eyes burn as he takes in the sight of you spread out across your desk, your clothes clinging in pieces.

“This…” he mutters, almost to himself as his hands trace the curve of your waist, your breasts. “This is what I’ve been missing?”

His mouth finds your skin then, hot and demanding, biting at your collarbone before dragging his lips down your chest. Each mutter against your flesh is half-groan, half-praise, as if he’s talking more to himself than to you.

“Hmm… Perfect,” he breathes, tugging your bra down and cupping your breast in his hand, squeezing like he needs to prove you’re real. His tongue flicks over your nipple, and his muffled voice groans against it, “Absolutely perfect.”

Minho doesn’t rush even though you can feel how badly he wants to. His hands are everywhere, greedy and rough, but his pace is agonizingly slow, like he wants to unravel you piece by piece.

“You know what’s fucked up?” he murmurs against your skin, his lips grazing the underside of your breast before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers circling just above your waistband, teasing but never quite touching where you need him most.

“The whole office is terrified of me…” he chuckles darkly, dragging his teeth over your nipple until you gasp, “…but if they saw you like this? Spread out, dripping for me on your desk? They’d know who really has the power over me.”

Your body arches, chasing his hand, but he pulls back, shaking his head with a wicked grin. “Not yet.”

His fingers finally dip under your skirt, brushing over your soaked panties. The low groan he lets out vibrates against your chest. His thumb presses harder on your clothed clit, making you whine.

“Beg for it,” he demands, slipping one finger beneath the fabric but not inside. He drags it up your slit, collecting your slick, then holds it up for you to see glistening under the dim office light. “Beg for me to touch you.”

You try to buck against him, but he pins your hips to the desk with a firm hand, his smirk growing as you squirm. “God, you look so hot like this. All dressed up, torn open, begging me to ruin you.”

His finger dips in just the slightest, barely pushing past your entrance before pulling out again, making you whimper. He leans close to your ear, his voice husky as he whispers, “I’m going to make sure every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember how desperate you were for me.”

His words, the way he said it while intensely gazing into your eyes, it undoes something in you. Shakily, breathlessly, you mutter, “Minho, please…”

He triumphantly smirks and without another ounce of restraint, he pushes two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust. The sudden stretch makes you cry out, but the sound barely leaves your mouth before he clamps his other hand over it, muffling you.

“Shhh,” he warns, his breath hot against your cheek. “You don’t want them finding out what a needy little slut you are for me, do you?”

His fingers work inside you relentlessly, curling just right, pumping faster each time you clench around him. The wet sounds echo indecently in the quiet office, and you can feel yourself unraveling quickly, the tension winding in your belly like a spring about to snap.

He watches your face intently, eyes dark and burning with hunger. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight. You gonna come for me? Right here on your desk?”

You nod frantically, your muffled whimpers spilling against his palm. He leans closer, whispering filth into your ear as his thumb finds your clit and presses down. “Do it. Make a mess for me. I want to see you fall apart.”

The combination of his filthy words, the ruthless rhythm of his fingers, and the dangerous thrill of being caught sends you tumbling over the edge. Your whole body shakes, convulsing around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. He holds you firmly, hand still over your mouth as your muffled cries vibrate against his palm.

Minho groans low in his throat, watching the way you shudder and spasm for him. He doesn’t stop until you’re a trembling, breathless mess slumped against your desk. He doesn’t give you a moment to recover as he grips your waist and pulls you off the desk, turning you around, making you face the desk. “Bend over,” he orders, voice like gravel. His hand presses between your shoulder blades until your chest meets the cool surface of your desk, your skirt bunched indecently around your hips.

He lets you go but then you hear the clinking of metal and then zipper being pulled open from behind you, heightening the tension in the room. The next time he has your hands on you again, you feel the thick head of his cock sliding against your soaked entrance, smearing your slick across your folds. He doesn’t push in all the way, just the tip breaching you, then pulling out again, over and over, until you’re whining with frustration.

“Please…”

“Please?” He leans down over you, lips brushing your ear, his cock nudging just barely inside before retreating again. “You think you’re ready to take all of me? Hm?”

You arch your back, desperate, your fingers clawing at the desk. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

He chuckles darkly, savoring your begging as he pushes in just a little deeper, stretching you slow, inch by inch. The burn makes you gasp, your body instinctively clenching around him.

“God,” he hisses through gritted teeth, pausing to control himself. “So fucking tight. You feel like you’re going to tear me apart.”

You whimper, pushing back against him, but he grips your hips hard, refusing to let you take more than what he allows. His cock slides another inch deeper, the pace slow, almost torturous.

“Slow down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your neck like a cruel comfort. “I want you to feel every single inch of me. I want you to remember this stretch every time you sit at this desk.”

By the time he finally bottoms out, the pressure is overwhelming, your walls pulsing around the fullness of him. He stays buried deep, not moving, forcing you to take the sensation of being completely filled. Then, he pulls back just slightly, only to push it in, hard. You cry out, the sound muffled by your own arm as you bury your face in it.

Minho smirks in satisfaction. “Oh, yeah. That’s the sound I’ve been dying to hear.”

For a moment, he holds himself deep inside you, his thrusts slow yet intense, dragging against every nerve ending. His hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he leans down, his mouth grazing your ear.

“You know how many days I sat across from you at this desk,” he murmurs, hips rocking just enough to make you gasp, “watching those perfect little legs of yours cross and uncross? Made me want to rip that skirt off and see what was underneath.”

You clench around him at his words, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter. He pulls back and slides in again, slow enough to make your toes curl.

“And that tight skirt,” he continues, voice dripping with filth, “hugging your hips, your ass—fuck, every curve showing, but just out of reach. Do you know how hard it was not to bend you over and take you right then?”

Your moan slips out before you can stop it, your face pressing harder into the desk to stifle the sound. Minho smirks against your skin, picking up just a little more pace but still keeping it torturously measured.

“And when you’d sit there,” he says, remembering in vivid detail, “biting your pencil between your teeth as you thought? Drove me fucking insane. All I could think about was how those lips would look wrapped around my cock, how you’d sound with your mouth full.”

You whine, your body trembling, and he growls low in his chest, clearly loving your reaction.

“But the worst,” he groans, thrusting in slow and deep, making your knees buckle, “the worst was wondering what kind of sounds you’d make when I finally got inside you. I used to sit across from you every day, imagining your moans, wondering if you’d be sweet and needy…” His thrust punctuates each filthy word. “…or if you’d scream for me.”

Your walls flutter around him at his confession, and he curses, kissing the side of your neck as though he can’t help himself. “And now I get to find out. Every fantasy—right here, on your desk.”

Your whole body shudders, the tension breaking all at once as his filthy words unravel you. You cry out his name and it’s echoing too loudly in the quiet office. His hand clamps over your mouth instantly, muffling the sounds as your orgasm tears through you, walls spasming around his cock.

“Fuck,” he groans into your ear, holding himself deep inside as he feels you pulse around him. “You really came just from that?” He chuckles low, dark and smug, his hand still pressed against your lips. “All it took was me telling you how I’ve been thinking about you and you’re already falling apart for me.”

Your muffled whimper makes him smirk even more. He pulls his hand away just long enough to whisper, “Pathetic little thing, aren’t you?” before replacing it again when another moan escapes.

Instead of slowing down, his thrusts grow harder, deeper, relentless, each one knocking the breath from your lungs. Your body’s already oversensitive, still reeling from the orgasm he just pulled out of you, but he doesn’t give you time to recover.

“You came a second ago but your cunt’s still clinging to me like it’s begging for more.”

Your mouth falls open in a cry, but it barely escapes before his hand presses over your lips again, muffling your sounds.

The office is silent except for the wet slap of his hips against you and your muffled moans. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, burying himself to the hilt. “That’s it. Take it,” he growls. “Every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember how I fucked you senseless on it.”

Your body trembles, pleasure coursing through your veins until it’s unbearable. You try to hold it back, but the pressure coils tight and fast, snapping all over again.

You convulse around him, muffled cries spilling against his palm as your second orgasm crashes through you, harder than the first. Your knees buckle, your nails scrape across the desk, and he groans deep in his chest as your walls clamp down around his cock.

“Fuck—there it is. That’s it. That’s my good girl,” he hisses, thrusting through your climax, dragging out every pulse, every flutter. “I’m not stopping until you’re dripping all over this desk for me.”

Your body jerks, overstimulated, yet the heat won’t let go. He doesn’t give you a break, using your quaking, trembling body to chase his own edge, rutting into you like he owns you. His breath fans hot against your ear as he leans over you, chest pressing into your back, his hand sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head so you can’t escape the rasp of his voice.

“You could’ve told me,” he says, almost scolding, but with a hint of hunger in it. “All this time, you were sitting across from me, looking at me like that… and I had no idea you wanted me too.”

Your mouth parts, words caught in your throat as your body clenches tight around him at the confession. He lets out a dark chuckle, dragging his cock all the way out before sinking back into you slow, making you feel every inch of his swollen length.

“If you’d told me sooner,” he continues, his pace torturously unhurried, “we could’ve been fucking each other’s brains out every night by now.” His hand slides down your side, squeezing your waist before dipping between your thighs, his fingers pressing against your swollen clit. “All those nights you went home aching for me? You could’ve been screaming my name instead.”

You shiver under him, the words, the rhythm, the overwhelming stretch of him inside you—every part of it coils together until you’re trembling on the edge again.

Suddenly, his tone shifts softer. His lips brush the back of your neck, then your jaw, before he finds your mouth and kisses you. Slow, sweet, devastating in contrast to how he’s been fucking you.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” he murmurs against your lips, his thrusts still rolling steady yet deep, each one more intense for its restraint. “Scares you a little, doesn’t it?” He smirks when your body clenches, when you nod against him. “Good. I want you excited. I want you desperate.”

The push and pull, the sweet kiss and the filthy words, it’s all too much. Your body arches into him, your legs trembling as his thrusts finally grow just a little rougher, just enough to drive him to the edge. He buries himself deep inside you one last time, his hand gripping your hip as he groans, spilling his seed into you.

The sound of his raw, broken groan of your name, echoing in your head long after the moment passes.

He stays buried in you, his chest pressed to your back, both of you breathing hard, bodies damp with a sheen of sweat. Then, slowly, he pulls out. The stretch makes you gasp, and the emptiness leaves you trembling. You barely have time to catch your breath before you feel the warmth spilling down your thigh, his release sliding out of you in a messy trail.

Minho leans back just enough to watch, his dark eyes fixed on the sight. His lips curve into a wicked smirk, and he lets out a low, satisfied hum.

“Fuck. Didn’t expect to see you like this,” he mutters, dragging his thumb along the curve of your hip possessively. His gaze never leaves the way you’re dripping for him. “Ruined and dripping for me… on your own desk.”

The office feels too quiet now, the hum of fluorescent lights a reminder of where you are and the stack of unfinished files is still scattered on the desk beneath you.

When he finally meets your eyes again, there’s no teasing in his stare, just a quiet, dangerous claim.

“You’re mine now. Every time you sit here…” his hand cupping your jaw, forcing you to look back into his eyes. “…you’ll remember who you belong to.”

-

The next day, everything at the office feels the same on the surface but you both know it’s not.

You’re at your desk, leaning forward slightly as you skim something on your computer screen, unaware of the eyes burning into you.

Minho sits across the room, looking as composed as ever to everyone else. But inside, he’s replaying that night in vivid detail—the way you clutched the desk, the way you cried out his name, the way his release dripped down your thighs.

He pushes back his chair and strolls toward you, his expression perfectly neutral, nothing to raise suspicion. He stops at your side, one hand braced casually on the desk as if to ask about the document you’re reading. But beneath the facade, he places his other hand on the curve of your ass, hidden from everyone else’s view.

He leans down, close enough that only you can hear him, and whispers in that low, dangerous tone. “If you keep bending over like that, I’ll take it as a sign you want another round right here.”

His hand slowly strokes over the round of your ass before he pulls back, face still blank, as if he only asked about numbers on a spreadsheet. He walks away like nothing happened, leaving you there, outwardly composed but inwardly seething with need, already plotting when he’ll get you alone again.

-

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

The story doesn’t begin with the end. It begins with laughter, loud music, and the glow of cheap string lights at a college party. You remember squeezing through a crowd of strangers with a plastic cup in hand, rolling your eyes at the noise, ready to leave—until you stumbled into Han Jisung.

He wasn’t trying to be the life of the party. He was perched on the arm of a couch, sketchbook balanced on his knee, doodling instead of drinking. His hair fell into his eyes when he looked up at you, startled, as if he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.

“You draw at parties?” you asked, half amused, half curious.

“Only when they’re boring,” he replied, holding the page out like proof.

On it were a pair of cartoon characters—lopsided, messy, full of charm. A boy with wide eyes and messy hair, a girl rolling her eyes at him with affection. You laughed, because somehow, they already looked like the two of you.

“What’s their story?” you asked.

And just like that, the night stopped belonging to the party. You and Han sat in the corner, spinning backstories for his characters: the boy was a dreamer who always ran late, the girl the realist who kept him grounded. They fought about what to eat for dinner, shared umbrellas in the rain, argued over silly things, but never went to bed angry.

Han’s pen flew across the paper while you talked. By the time the night ended, he had already turned your words into panels, rough sketches capturing your laughter.

That was how it started—your story told through his ink.

-

From there, the two of you created these little moments:

Late-night study sessions that turned into takeout dinners on the dorm floor. You reading aloud half-serious reviews of albums while he filled the margins of his sketchbook with doodles of the two of you. His grin when you teased him for never finishing assignments until the last second, the way he stole fries from your plate like it was his birthright.

There are coffee dates where you’re buried under piles of notes for an interview, and he distracts you by drawing faces in the foam of your latte.

There are nights when he insists on cooking, only to set off the fire alarm, and you end up sitting on the kitchen floor with burnt noodles but laughter so big your stomach hurts.

There are quiet afternoons spent on park benches—your hand holding a book, his head resting against your shoulder. He doesn’t read a word, but he hums while you turn the pages, content just to exist there with you.

One night, you hunched over your laptop, typing furiously, while Han sprawls on the couch behind you with his sketchbook. Every so often, he leans over your shoulder to read what you’re writing—half-annoying, half-endearing—before you swat him away with a laugh.

“Don’t you have your own work to do?” you ask.

“Already doing it.” He shows you a page full of doodles of the two of you in ridiculous scenarios: you chasing him with a frying pan, him hiding under a desk.

Later, when you flip through the pages of his notebook, you see the real story taking shape.

You became his favorite character. He became yours.

-

A little after graduating college, he showed you something different. A comic, inked and bound in his careful handwriting.

You remember curling up on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, flipping through page after page of the two characters you’d created together. They argued, they loved, they stumbled their way into adulthood, all with a tenderness that mirrored the two of you.

And then you turned the page.

There it was: the boy, down on one knee, ring in hand. The girl, wide-eyed and stunned.

Your heart caught. Your hands trembled.

“Keep reading,” Han whispered, nervous in a way you’d never seen him before.

You did and when you looked up from the page, he was mirroring the panel—kneeling in front of you with a real ring.

“Marry me?” he asked, soft, hopeful, eyes shining.

You laughed and cried all at once, and when you said yes, he sketched the moment into his memory with a grin that never faded.

From there, it was a thousand little pieces of happiness stitched together into a life:

Sunday mornings with tangled hair and pancakes that never came out quite right. Long walks where he held your hand in his pocket because yours was always cold. Your playlists and his doodles colliding into shared creations, silly and sincere all at once. Falling asleep with the TV still on, your legs tangled, his sketchbook on the coffee table.

A life built from ordinary things, the kind that don’t make headlines but feel infinite when you’re living them.

A happy life, once.

-

EIGHT YEARS LATER

The memories fade like sunlight through glass, and suddenly it’s the present—Han is driving the car, windows cracked open, the late morning air rushing in. Your favorite song comes on the radio, and before either of you can stop yourselves, you’re both singing at the top of your lungs.

“—and I don’t mind if we take our time!” Han belts out, voice off-key but unbothered, his hands drumming on the steering wheel like a makeshift drum kit.

You laugh so hard you almost forget the words, clutching your seatbelt with one hand and pointing at him with the other. “You’re so flat!”

“It’s called style,” he insists, turning the volume up even louder. “It’s called artistic freedom!”

You shake your head, but you join in anyway, the two of you shouting the chorus together so loudly the windows tremble. For a moment, it feels like nothing has changed like you’re still the same couple who once stayed up until 3 a.m. harmonizing with each other on dorm room floors, your laughter echoing through thin walls.

The last note of the chorus fades, and you’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes in the cup holder. The caller ID flashes—work. You sigh, turning the volume down and answering.

“Hello? Yeah, this is she,” you say, your voice slipping into its professional register as you balance the phone between your ear and shoulder.

Beside you, Han makes a face, mouthing exaggerated words like he’s part of the call. His lips form silent blah, blah, blahs, his brows scrunched in mock seriousness. When that doesn’t break you, he starts mouthing along to the faint music still playing under your conversation, his head bobbing as if he’s performing for an invisible audience.

You angle your body away from him, fighting the smile tugging at your lips, but he only leans closer, rolling his eyes dramatically like you’re the most boring thing in the world. Finally, he goes for it—crosses his eyes, sticks out his tongue, and lip-syncs the bridge with full conviction.

Your hand shoots out automatically, swatting his arm and he yelps, clutching the spot as though you’ve mortally wounded him.

“Abuse! I’m a victim!” he cries, though no sound leaves his lips because you’re still mid-call. His shoulders shake with suppressed laughter anyway.

You cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to snort into the receiver, finishing your sentence as quickly as you can. When you hang up, you turn to glare at him, but the sparkle in his eyes makes it impossible to be mad.

“You’re an idiot,” you mutter.

“And yet, you married this idiot,” he shoots back with a grin, as if the words don’t sting just a little now.

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as the car rolls to a stoplight. Your gaze drifts out the window and there, at the end of the block, a building catches your eye—sharp angles jutting out in odd directions, all glass and steel stacked like someone gave up halfway through playing Jenga.

“Who built such a thing?” you mutter, almost to yourself. “It looks like… like a spaceship crashed into an office block and they just left it that way.”

Han snorts, glancing at it only briefly before smirking at you. “That’s modern architecture, babe. Very high concept. It says, ‘I have money, but I’m confused about it.’”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s just stupid.”

“No, no,” Han insists, nodding seriously as he turns down your street. “See, those windows up top? That’s where the rich aliens live. And the bottom part? That’s their attempt at blending in with humans. Total giveaway, though.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop your smile. “You should really pitch that story to Netflix.”

“Already did,” he deadpans. “They said it was too realistic.”

You swat at his arm, and he yelps dramatically before both of you dissolve into laughter, the strange building shrinking behind you in the mirror. For a few seconds, it’s quiet except for the hum of the engine and then you slip the question in casually, almost too casually.

“So… how’s that job application going?”

Han’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He doesn’t meet your eyes, just shrugs. “Still in process, I think. Haven’t heard back yet.”

You glance at him. He’s vague, evasive—like he always is when the subject makes him squirm. You bite your tongue, then pivot. “Well, at least there’s the project I gave you. The artwork for the company website? Deadline’s Friday by the way”

That gets his attention. He finally glances at you, eyes twinkling again. “Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.” He even throws in a mock salute, grinning like a kid.

“Not funny,” you warn, though your voice softens.

“Very funny,” he counters, tapping the steering wheel like it’s the rimshot of a drum. “You’re lucky I work well under pressure. It’ll be my best piece yet.”

“You say that every time.”

“And every time, it’s true.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest warms in spite of yourself and the car hums along as the conversation drifts back into something lighter.

“That café this morning wasn’t bad,” you say, leaning against the window. “Coffee was decent.”

“Decent?” Han throws you a look, scandalized. “That croissant was life-changing.”

 “Life-changing? You said that about the one diner, remember? The one with the watery eggs.”

He gasps, pressing a hand to his chest as if betrayed. “Those eggs were charming in their own way. And don’t act like you didn’t steal half my toast.”

“That was because your toast was the only edible thing on the plate,” you shoot back, grinning.

He groans dramatically, shaking his head. “First you disrespect my artistic vocals, now my culinary adventures.”

You’re still laughing as the car turns into the driveway. The moment feels effortless, almost too easy, as though none of the cracks exist.

Han parks, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. You pop your seatbelt off and open the door, stepping out into the fading light. He stays in the driver’s seat, engine still running.

“I need to borrow the car to run a few errands,” he says, putting his head out of the car window. “Won’t be long.”

You narrow your eyes, pointing at him with mock severity. “Be back before six. And showered.”

“Showered?” His brows shoot up. “Why?”

“Because Niamh and Josh invited us for dinner tonight, remember?”

He groans, sinking lower into his seat. “Right. The perfect couple.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“Too late.” But then he sighs, sitting back up. “Fine, fine. Back before six. Clean and sparkling.”

“Good.”

You step away, shutting the door. He puts the car in reverse, and just before he pulls out, you lean down toward the window one last time.

“Back at six,” you remind him firmly.

He just nods, flashing a grin as he raises his hand in a lazy wave. “Bye, babe. Love you.”

“Love you,” you reflexively shout back.

And then he’s gone, taillights glowing as he disappears down the street, leaving you standing in the quiet driveway with a smile you don’t quite realize has slipped.

-

By the time six o’clock rolls around, Han does show up—hair damp from a quick shower, shirt only half tucked in like he got distracted midway. You give him a once-over and bite back a comment, choosing to be satisfied that he at least listened.

Dinner at Niamh and Josh’s is warm and buzzing with chatter. Their apartment smells like roasted chicken and fresh bread, candles flickering on the dining table. Niamh greets you at the door with a tight hug, her eyes sparkling.

“Finally! We thought you two got lost,” she teases, ushering you inside.

Josh claps Han on the back as he slips off his shoes. “Man, it’s been forever. Glad you made it.”

You all gather around the table, plates passed, glasses filled. It feels easy and familiar because the four of you have been friends since college — until the conversation drifts where it always does lately.

“So,” Niamh says, eyes bright as she glances at Josh, “we finally picked a venue for our wedding.”

Josh’s grin widens. “By the lake, just outside the city. You guys will love it—it’s perfect.”

You smile politely, nodding. “That sounds beautiful.”

“It is,” Niamh says, practically glowing. “We’re going to do the ceremony outdoors, under those big oak trees. And Josh’s cousin is handling the music—remember Daniel, Han? The guy who used to DJ at those college parties?”

Han chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Oh yeah. I remember him trying to scratch records while drunk. Brave choice for a wedding.”

Josh laughs, shaking his head. “He’s actually good now, I swear.”

The conversation spirals into details—flowers, seating charts, cake flavors. You nod along, chiming in when asked, but there’s a weight under your ribs. Watching them, it’s impossible not to feel the contrast. The way they lean into each other unconsciously, the ease of planning a future together. Meanwhile, you and Han are here—still laughing, still close—but with no future left to plan.

By the time dessert rolls around—Niamh’s homemade berry tart, still warm from the oven—the conversation drifts from wedding plans to nostalgia, old stories about college days, late-night parties, and the kinds of things you laugh about only with people who’ve known you for years.

It’s light, comfortable… until Niamh sets her fork down with a decisive little clink.

“So,” she begins, eyes darting between you and Han. “Can I ask you something?”

You glance up, tart halfway to your mouth. “Sure.”

She hesitates for half a beat, then blurts, “What are you two doing?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy. Josh clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably, but Niamh barrels on. “I mean, you guys have been separated for six months, you’re getting divorced yet you still act like—like nothing’s changed. You’re laughing, singing, inside jokes every two seconds… it’s confusing. Honestly, it drives me crazy.”

You exchange a quick glance with Han, then plaster on a practiced smile. “We’re fine,” you say, a little too brightly. “We’re just… really good friends.”

“Best friends,” Han adds, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Forever and ever. Right, babe?”

You swat his arm under the table, trying not to laugh. “Don’t call me that.”

But he does, stretching out the word just to annoy you: “Baaabe.”

Josh tries to chuckle, but it comes out thin. Niamh, however, doesn’t even try to hide her frustration.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” she says sharply. “You’re still so good together. You still are together, whether you admit it or not. And it just—it kills me that you’re not. You’re sitting here pretending like this is normal when it’s not. It’s not normal, it’s… it’s heartbreaking.”

Her voice wavers, and suddenly the table is too quiet, the weight of her words pressing down on all four of you.

You glance at Han, expecting him to say something, but he’s looking back at you with the same expression you feel etched across your own face: a mix of confusion and discomfort, like neither of you quite knows how you got here or how to answer the question that no one wants to ask out loud.

The silence stretches, and the taste of berry tart turns bitter on your tongue. You shift in your seat when Han suddenly clears his throat.

“Well…” he begins, eyes darting around the table. “At least if we ever get back together, we won’t need a wedding planner. Niamh’s got it covered.”

He lifts his fork like it’s a microphone, flashing a boyish grin. “And Josh, you can DJ. Full circle.”

Josh huffs out a laugh, though it sounds more like relief than amusement. Niamh, however, shoots him a glare sharp enough to slice through the tart.

“Han—” she warns, but he only holds his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling.

“Hey, I’m just saying,” he insists, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Save money, recycle the old wedding playlist… boom, instant party.”

You roll your eyes, kicking his shin under the table. He yelps dramatically, nearly dropping his fork. “Ow! See? Domestic abuse! Everyone saw it!”

Despite yourself, you snort, trying to smother the laugh bubbling up. The tension cracks, just a little. Even Josh smiles, shaking his head.

Niamh, though, doesn’t laugh. She looks down at her plate, lips pressed into a thin line and then suddenly, she gets up and leaves the dining table. The awkwardness doesn’t fully leave the room—it just lingers, quieter now, tucked between the four of you.

And once again, when you catch Han’s gaze across the table, all you can do is trade the same bewildered look.

-

The drive back is quieter than usual. You’ve taken the wheel, eyes fixed on the stretch of empty road ahead, the glow of passing streetlights slipping over the windshield in waves.

Han sits slouched in the passenger seat, uncharacteristically subdued, fiddling with his phone. Then, without warning, music fills the car—the opening chords of one of his favorite songs. You glance sideways, and he shoots you an innocent smile, already mouthing along.

Except he doesn’t actually sing. He butchers it. Purposefully. Loud, off-key, dragging every note so horribly you nearly choke on a laugh.

“Oh, my god. My ears!” you groan, tightening your grip on the steering wheel as he howls through the chorus like a dying cat.

“What?!” He clutches his chest, feigning offense. “You don’t understand true talent.”

“You sound like a drunk karaoke machine.”

He cranks the volume higher and leans closer, practically singing in your ear now. It’s so ridiculous you finally crack, laughing until your stomach hurts. The knot of tension from dinner loosens, replaced by that familiar, maddening warmth only he knows how to pull from you.

When the song ends, the laughter fades into a softer quiet and the hum of the tires against the asphalt fills the space between you.

“So,” Han says finally, his voice low but not heavy. “That thing Niamh said…”

You sigh, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. “Yeah. That was… a lot.”

“Mm.” He leans his head against the window, watching the blur of streetlights. “But she’s wrong, you know. It’s not weird.”

You glance at him. “You don’t think so?”

“Nope.” He turns to look at you, a small, stubborn smile tugging at his lips. “We’re just us. Always have been. People don’t get it, but that’s fine. We get it.”

For a moment, you let yourself believe that. That it really is that simple. That the two of you can keep this balance forever, no matter how messy it looks from the outside. You don’t answer, but when he reaches over to nudge your arm playfully, you don’t pull away either.

“Okay, but… tell me the berry tart wasn’t the best part of the night,” he says.

You nod, smiling despite yourself. “The tart? Hands down.”

“Mm.” He closes his eyes dramatically, as though tasting it all over again. “Flaky crust, perfect berries, not too sweet, not too tart. A masterpiece.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Trust you to give a food review.”

“Hey, I take dessert very seriously.”

The conversation fizzles into a comfortable quiet after that, the hum of the car filling the silence as you pull into the driveway. Neither of you rush to fill it. By the time you kill the engine, the night feels heavy, the quiet stretching thin.

You both climb out of the car without a word, footsteps crunching softly on the gravel. You turn, offering him a small smile as you murmur, “Goodnight.”

“’Night.”

You’re halfway up the steps when he calls after you. “Hey.”

You turn back and he’s still standing by the car, shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. For once, the grin is gone, replaced with something more serious, more fragile.

“Thanks,” he says, voice quiet. “For… letting me stay out back. In the studio.”

You blink, then soften. “Hey, don’t thank me. You can stay as long as you want—it’s your studio anyway.”

Something in his face shifts, loosens, though he doesn’t quite smile.

“And…” you hesitate, then add, “it’s nice having you around.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Me too.”

The corner of your mouth lifts, small but sincere. “Goodnight.”

He nods, then turns toward the side path that leads to the guesthouse. You’re about to head inside when you hear him mumble, almost absently, “Goodnight. I love you.”

Without thinking, you toss the words back over your shoulder: “Love you too.”

It isn’t until the door clicks shut behind you that you realize the weight of what you’ve said—and the way it still slips out so easily.

-

Morning slides in soft and golden, the kind that makes the whole world feel washed clean. You slip into your sneakers, earbuds in, and hit the pavement before the neighborhood fully wakes. The run clears your head, the rhythmic thud of your steps syncing with the pulse of the music in your ears.

Back home, it’s the usual rhythm: shower, hair towel-dried as you crack eggs into a pan, sip coffee while scrolling through work emails. The kitchen hums with a quiet efficiency, your every move practiced, deliberate. You dress for work, crisp and neat, slipping into shoes with one hand while typing a quick reply to your boss with the other.

By the time you’re juggling your keys and bag, ready to head out the door, you feel steady. Composed. Exactly the way you’re supposed to be.

Stepping into the driveway, you spot movement out of the corner of your eye.

Han emerges from the studio out back, yawning wide enough to crack his jaw. His hair sticks up in every direction, yesterday’s hoodie still clinging to his frame, drawstrings uneven. He rubs at his eyes, squinting against the morning light like a kid dragged out of bed for school.

When he notices you by the car, he lifts one hand in a lazy wave, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips.

“Morning, babe,” he croaks, voice still heavy with sleep.

You smile. The kind of small, unthinking smile that feels automatic around him. You lift your hand in return, a quick wave, before sliding into the driver’s seat. As the engine purrs to life, you catch one last glimpse of him in the rearview mirror: standing there barefoot in the driveway, messy and blinking, watching you go.

And somehow, despite everything, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

-

Work greets you with the usual chaos: the hum of phones, the shuffle of papers, and the faint smell of burnt coffee drifting through the office. You drop your bag onto your chair and open your laptop, half-expecting the day to swallow you whole.

But Chris, the head editor of the magazine you’re working for, already perched across from your desk, raises an eyebrow as soon as you sit. “So,” he says, drawing out the word, “how was dinner last night?”

You pause mid-sip of coffee. “Oh, you don’t want to know.”

He leans forward, grinning. “That bad?”

You sigh, setting your mug down. “Let’s just say Niamh broke down halfway through dessert. She basically accused Han and me of still being together is weird. It got… awkward.”

Chris winces in sympathy, then tilts his head. “Well, to be fair, you two do seem like you’re not ready to let go of each other yet.”

You shoot him a look. “We’re fine. Han and I—we’re good. We know what we’re doing.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Chris shrugs, spinning a pen between his fingers. “I just don’t think there’s anything wrong with it either. Sometimes people don’t have to let go right away. Doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

You study him, his calm tone gnawing at you. “…So what do you really think?”

Instead of answering, he smirks and swivels his laptop around, sliding it across your desk. A headline glares up at you: EXCLUSIVE: Our Coverage of Felix’s Record-Breaking Concert.

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Why on earth are we doing exclusive coverage of Felix’s concert? His lyrics are corny. And obnoxious. He rhymes ‘heart’ with ‘start’ in every other song.”

Chris chuckles. “Doesn’t matter. He’s huge right now. The fact that the magazine landed this coverage is a jackpot.”

You groan louder, pushing the laptop back toward him like the sight alone makes you nauseous. “Ugh. He’s huge because the ladies love his deep voice.”

Chris only shrugs, unfazed.

You rise from your chair, brushing off your skirt as if to physically rid yourself of Felix’s presence. You’re halfway to the door before you stop, remembering. “You never answered me. What do you really think about Han and me?”

Chris looks up from his screen, deadpan. “I think you need to start dating again.”

You groan, throwing your hands up. “Unbelievable.”

He just smirks, already back to typing.

As you walk away, his words stick like burrs. Start dating again. As if it’s that easy. As if you aren’t too busy, too buried in deadlines and responsibilities. You tell yourself it’s fine—you have plenty of more important things to do. And yet, the thought lingers, trailing you down the hall like an unwelcome shadow.

-

Han stabs at his scrambled eggs, the corner booth bathed in the late-morning glow. Across from him, Luke nurses a coffee like it’s his lifeline as he rambles about his latest idea.

“I’m telling you, man, the dispensary thing could work,” Luke says between sips. “Clean branding, cool space, good atmosphere. Not some sketchy corner shop. Like, a place people want to be in. Chill, welcoming.”

Luke stops talking as his eyes are fixed on the counter, where a girl in a sundress is waiting for her latte. “You should ask her out.”

Han blinks, thrown off. “What?”

“That girl.” Luke jerks his chin subtly toward her. “Cute, right? Get her number. Go on a date.”

Han doesn’t even look. He just shakes his head. “Nah. I think… it’s not over.”

Luke finally drags his attention back to him. “What’s not over?”

“Me and her,” Han says simply, as if it’s obvious. He shrugs, pushing his eggs around. “She’s just overwhelmed right now, confused. She’ll come around.”

Luke frowns. “Han, it’s been a while. You can’t keep hanging onto this fantasy. At some point you have to accept it’s done and move on.”

Han smirks without humor. “Says the guy who dates like he’s speedrunning Tinder.”

“Yeah, well.” Luke leans back, sipping his coffee. “Maybe you should call Isla again.”

That makes Han freeze. He shoots him a sharp look. “That was a one-time thing. And don’t ever mention it again. Especially not to her.”

Luke raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. I won’t. But does that mean you didn’t even like Isla?”

Han sighs, finally glancing at the girl at the counter, though his gaze slides past her. “She was cool. Just… she’s not her.”

Luke groans, dragging a hand down his face. “God, you’re hopeless. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to remind her you can still pull, you know? Make her sweat a little.”

Han snorts, but the sound lacks conviction. “Yeah, I guess.” He leans back, staring at the condensation sliding down his water glass, voice softening almost to himself. “I just… don’t want to start all over again.”

Luke doesn’t answer, just drums his fingers against his mug, the silence thick with everything he isn’t saying.

Han shifts in his seat, glancing once more toward the girl at the counter. She’s laughing at something the barista said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and for the first time, he actually looks. Really looks.

He imagines what it would be like to walk up, ask her name, maybe get her number. Start something new. Prove Luke right—that he can still pull, that he isn’t stuck. That he could move on, if he wanted to. But even as the thought forms, it feels heavy, wrong. Like shoes that don’t fit.

Han sighs, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “Maybe,” he says finally, the word tasting uncertain on his tongue. “Maybe I’ll try.”

Luke grins, satisfied, but Han looks back down at his plate, untouched eggs gone cold. His chest aches with the truth he can’t quite shake: the only person he wants to start and end with is you.

-

The bell above the café door chimes softly as you step inside, scanning the room until you spot Niamh already seated by the window. She waves, tentative, as though she isn’t sure you’ll wave back.

You cross the room, set your bag down, and slide into the chair across from her. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The clink of cups, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the hum of chatter around you fill the silence between you like static.

Finally, Niamh exhales, fiddling with her napkin. She looks at you as if words are fighting to leave her mouth but she’s holding them hostage.

You sigh, exasperated. “Just say it, Niamh.”

Her eyes meet yours. “I just… need to say something. First off, I’m sorry. About dinner. I shouldn’t have lost it like that.”

You nod, letting the apology settle. “Okay.”

“But,” she presses on, “I still think it’s stupid. You and Han not being together. You’re best friends—that’s the hardest part to find. And you already have it.”

You let out a long exhale, the weight of the truth pressing on your chest. “I do love Han,” you admit, voice low. “But love isn’t enough. He’s not… a father material. He doesn’t even have a car. Heck! He doesn’t even own dress shoes. And if the father of my future children can’t hold a steady job…” You trail off, shaking your head. “I just can’t. But one thing I know for sure—Han will always be my best friend.”

Niamh studies you for a moment, then gives a small nod. “That’s what I had to say. I won’t bring it up again.”

Relieved, you flag down the waiter, ready to shift the mood. “So—should we order?”

But before the waiter even reaches your table, Niamh leans forward, lowering her voice. “It’s a huge mistake, you know. Letting him live in your guest house. You’re slowly breaking his heart by doing that.”

You stiffen, forcing a polite smile for the waiter as you order your meal. When he leaves, you meet Niamh’s gaze squarely. “Han is fine. We’re fine. The two of us—we’re fine.”

-

You pull into the driveway, mailbox tucked under one arm, flipping absently through the pile. Bills, junk flyers, glossy postcards, and a handful of envelopes with Han’s name scrawled across the front. You pause, staring at them a beat too long before deciding to carry them out back.

From the faint sounds leaking through the sliding door—soft strings and whimsical dialogue—you know instantly: a Ghibli movie. Han’s comfort food for his soul.

You push the door open and step into the chaos. Easels and canvases lean haphazardly against the wall, tubes of paint oozing color onto stained rags. Dirty laundry nests in the corner. You try to ignore it, setting the mail down on the nearest table.

And there he is—Han sprawled on his bed, eyes glued to the TV screen, fork in hand as he demolishes an entire cheesecake. No plate, no shame. Just him and dessert.

“Hey, you’re not working?” you carefully ask, arching a brow.

Without missing a beat, he recites a line from the movie, voice pitched like the character’s, as if that’s an answer.

“Han,” you press, stepping closer. “Did you finish the artwork for the website yet?”

He finally glances at you, fork dangling lazily in his hand. “Not yet. But you’re gonna like it, I promise.”

You cross your arms, trying not to sound like you’re nagging. “Deadline’s today. Can you finish it tonight?”

That finally makes him pause. He switches off the TV, shoves the half-eaten cheesecake aside, and sits up straighter. His tone shifts, softer. “Hey… do you have a second? I need to tell you something. It’s important.”

He pats the empty space beside him, and after a moment’s hesitation, you sit. “If this is about the work you owe me—”

You look at him, expecting another excuse for the late artwork. Instead, he goes quiet, his fingers drumming restlessly against his knee before he blurts, “I’m going on a date tonight.”

For a moment, everything inside you stills. The faint sugar smell from the cheesecake, the mess of canvases and clothes around you—it all blurs into background noise. A date. The word rattles inside your chest like something foreign.

It takes you a beat too long, but you finally nod. “That’s… great.” Your voice comes out steady, even though your stomach feels like it’s been tugged down a few notches.

Han squints at you, almost disbelieving. “It is?”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and force a small laugh. “Yeah. I don’t know why you had to psych yourself up with a Ghibli movie to tell me that, but… good for you.”

He chuckles, though it sounds strained. “It doesn’t bother you?”

The question hangs between you, sharp and testing. For a second, your honesty teeters dangerously close to the surface—you want to tell him that of course it bothers you, that you hate the idea of him smiling at someone else the way he smiles at you. But you pull yourself back, clamp down on the words. You promised yourself you’d be the adult in this, the one who handles it gracefully.

So you shake your head. “No. I think that’s great.”

Han’s shoulders relax, and he leans back against the pillows. “Luke set it up. Some girl he knows.”

You roll your eyes, trying to lighten the air. “Please tell me it’s not one of his stoner friends.”

That makes him laugh, real this time, his gummy smile breaking through. “No. Just… a date. That’s all.”

That earns a real chuckle out of him. “Relax. Just a normal girl. It’s just a date.”

“Good,” you say, trying to keep it light. “But it’s not like you’re out shopping for wife number two.”

He snorts, and for a moment, the air shifts easier between you. But something in your chest softens at the sight, even though it aches. You reach up before you can stop yourself, cupping his jaw with your hand, your thumb brushing the corner of his smile. “That’s a big move. I’m proud of you.”

His eyes flicker, caught off guard by the tenderness, but he smiles into it.

For a moment, you sit in that soft silence, the kind that feels too familiar, too dangerous. Then you clear your throat, pulling your hand back. “Okay, so… are we done with the talk?”

Han nods.

“it’s going to be great,” you mutter but it sounds more like you convincing yourself instead of him. You stand, heading toward the door, but glance back at him over your shoulder. “Tell me all about it when you get back.”

“Ew, no,” he groans, flopping dramatically onto the bed.

But as you walk back across the yard, the truth gnaws at your chest: you knew one of you would have to move on eventually. You just didn’t think it would be him. Or that it would be this soon.

And you still don’t know how to feel about it.

-

Han smooths down his shirt in the cracked mirror above his desk, tugging at the collar until it sits just right. The studio around him is still a mess—canvases leaning against the walls, laundry piling in the corner—but at least he looks presentable. Sort of.

He grabs his keys, then pauses at the back door. Through the glass, he spots you moving around the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. For a moment, he just watches. The shape of you in your work clothes, the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear as you scroll on your phone—it makes his chest ache with something unspoken.

When you finally glance up, he forces a smile and raises a hand in a wave. You wave back, easy, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t twist him up inside.

He mouths a silent “bye,” then steps out, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

The date is at a bar Luke insisted on—dim lights, too-loud music, sticky tables. Han slides into the booth across from her, a girl with glossy hair and a bright smile. She can’t be more than a few years out of school.

Almost immediately, she launches into stories about her job, her friends, the classes she hated in college. Her voice is cheerful, animated, bouncing from one detail to the next without pause. Han nods when it feels right, sips his drink, lets her words wash over him.

But his mind isn’t here. Not really.

It drifts back to earlier, to the way you smiled at him in the studio, the way your hand cupped his jaw, warm and sure, when you told him you were proud of him. And then, the way you said—so easily—that it didn’t bother you at all that he was going on a date. That you thought it was great.

Great.

The word stings every time it circles through his head.

He forces another polite smile as the girl keeps talking about herself, about her plans for the weekend, her favorite cocktail, the shoes she bought on sale. Han tries to listen, but all he can think is that this isn’t you. And no matter how many times he tells himself this is good, that it’s what moving on is supposed to look like, the truth sits heavy in his chest.

It doesn’t feel good at all.

-

Later that night, you sit cross-legged on your bed, laptop balanced against your thighs. The glow from the screen paints your room in cool blue light, the silence broken only by the tap of your keys. You try to focus—emails, drafts, schedules. Work. Something to anchor yourself.

The crunch of footsteps in the driveway, muffled laughter floating in through the thin walls. His laugh—bright, boyish, familiar—followed by a girl’s higher, softer tone.

The sounds shatter your focus but you don’t move, you keep your eyes glued to the half-written sentence on your screen, blinking hard as if staring at it long enough will make the sound outside fade away.

A door clicks, then shuts. More laughter. You grip the edge of your laptop a little too tightly, knuckles pale.

You tell yourself to ignore it because this is what you agreed to. This is what moving on looks like. He’s allowed this and you… you’re supposed to be happy for him.

So you inhale slowly, force your fingers back onto the keys, and type another line, but your mind doesn’t follow. It lingers outside, with him and the girl whose name you don’t know, wondering what she looks like, what she said to make him laugh like that.

You blink at your screen, realizing the words you just typed don’t make sense at all. With a groan, you backspace until the page is blank again, the cursor blinking like it’s mocking you.

In the end, you close the laptop, set it aside, and crawl under the covers. Eyes wide open in the dark, you press your face into the pillow, willing yourself to pretend you didn’t hear any of it.

-

The morning air still clings to your skin when you return from your run, a sheen of sweat coated your skin. As you stretch by the kitchen counter, your gaze slips toward the studio at the back of the house. The curtains are drawn tight, no sound leaking through the walls. No sign of him.

You shake it off, pour yourself a glass of water, and start breakfast. Still, while the toast is browning, your eyes drift back. Nothing.

Later, hunched over your laptop, typing replies to emails with a fork in hand, you catch yourself staring through the window once more, toward that silent space. It’s as if you expect movement—a shadow across the blinds, the muffled thump of music—but the quiet holds.

You huff a laugh at yourself, shaking your head. “Ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself.

You need a distraction so you open a new tab and pull up Felix’s latest songs. Just out of curiosity and who knows you’d change your mind on the second listen?

The track begins with that infamous low, throaty voice he’s known for, dripping in drama. You freeze, spoon halfway to your mouth.

“Bleurgh!” you groan, and hit pause immediately, groaning into your hands. Corny. So corny. The kind of faux-deep that makes your teeth ache.

You slam the laptop shut, deciding that you’d refuse to do the coverage than torture yourself any further. Instead, you head upstairs, shower, and pull on your work clothes, brushing the thought of both Felix and the quiet studio from your mind.

At least, you try.

-

Han’s halfway through a bowl of cereal when the studio door flies open. You stand there, flushed from the morning air, hair a little windswept, eyes alight with purpose.

“Come with me,” you announce.

Han blinks, spoon still in his mouth. “Uh—what?”

“Just come. You’re not doing anything, right?”

He looks around at the mess of sketchbooks and unfinished canvases. Nothing pressing. Nothing urgent. He shrugs, sets the bowl aside, and grabs his jacket. “Fine. But if this ends up being a pyramid scheme, I’m telling your mom.”

You roll your eyes and tug him out the door.

Minutes later, you’re dragging him through the aisles of a bookstore, straight to the newsstand. Han shoves his hands into his pockets, bemused. “You know, considering you literally work at a magazine, you could just, I don’t know—ask for a copy?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, eyes glinting. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

Before he can answer, you grab a fresh issue off the shelf, tear through the plastic, and toss a quick smile at the staff giving you a glare. “I’ll pay for it,” you assure her, then flip through the pages, searching.

Han watches as your fingers pause, then spread the magazine open. His eyes catch on the artwork immediately—his artwork—printed in crisp color, taking up half a page. He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “You dragged me out here for this?”

You grin, smug. “Told you you wouldn’t regret it.” With that, you hand the magazine to him and wander down the aisle to browse the other racks.

Han stays where he is, staring at the page. His drawings, yes—but your words wrapped around them, alive with that way you have of writing about music like it can be held, touched, breathed in. Like it’s more than sound—it’s something human, something real.

His chest tightens as he reads, memory tugging him backward: nights when the two of you sat side by side, the glow of your laptop screen next to the scratch of his pencils. You tapping away at an article, him sketching until his fingers smudged gray, the quiet broken only by your absentminded humming or his half-baked commentary. The easy companionship of working in parallel, lost in your own worlds but still together.

He runs a thumb over the glossy paper, tracing the curve of a line he drew, then lingers on the words you chose to frame it. Pride swells, but so does something else—something warmer, heavier.

A light tap on his shoulder snaps him out of it. He immediately turns, startled, to find a familiar face smiling back at him. Isla.

“Han,” she says warmly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Oh—Hey, hi.” He blinks, caught off guard. “Wow, how are you doing?”

Isla sweetly smiles as she presses the book she’s holding to her chest. “I’m good. How about you?”

“I’m good, yeah,” Han scratches the back of his head, suddenly flustered. “So uh… what are you doing here?”

“Just looking for something new to read.” She lifts the book in her hand with a small shrug. “And you?”

Han hesitates, then turns the magazine around, showing her the page. “This.”

Her face lights up. “That’s your work?”

He nods, a little sheepish.

“You’re still working on your drawing series, then? It’s called The Bottlemen, am I right?” she asks, suddenly flustered.

The question surprises him almost as much as running into her. “You… remember that?”

“Of course,” she says easily. “You should keep going with it. It’s unique. Beautiful, really.”

Her words hang in the air a beat too long before she laughs nervously. “Sorry. That probably sounds corny.”

Han shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “No. I think—That’s very sweet of you.”

The compliment makes something twist in his chest, a pang of guilt. He hadn’t called her back after their date—not because it wasn’t good, but because it was easier to retreat into the comfort of you. Now, standing here, he feels the weight of it.

“I, uh…” He clears his throat. “I had fun that night. I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

Isla’s smile softens, kind and forgiving. “Me too. And it’s okay. I get it.”

Before Han can say more, your voice cuts through the aisle. “Are you just gonna stand there getting sentimental, or are you coming to pay for that?”

He flinches, snapping the magazine closed. Then you appear at the end of the row, curiosity sparking in your eyes as you take in the scene. You look at him before looking at Isla and back to him.

“Ah—this is Isla,” Han blurts, stepping slightly aside. “We, uh… we met a while back.”

To his surprise, Isla’s gaze shifts to you, recognition flickering. “Wait—you’re the one who writes those music reviews, right? I love the way you write. The way you describe sound—it’s incredible.”

You blink, startled, then smile warmly. “Thank you. That’s… really nice of you to say.”

Isla nods, shooting Han another quick smile before stepping back. “Well, I should get going. It was nice seeing you both. Bye.”

“Bye,” you echo, waving as she disappears around the corner.

The moment she’s gone, you turn to Han with raised brows. “Who was that?”

He shrugs, forcing nonchalance. “Well, I just introduced her to you.”

You huff a laugh, tilting your head. “I mean, yeah, but I need story.”

Han scratches the back of his neck, eyes darting to the “New Releases” table like it holds the answer. “She’s just… someone I met a while ago. That’s all.”

You nod easily, your grin quick and playful. “She’s pretty. Like a young me.”

Han chuckles under his breath, watching you walk off toward the register with the magazine tucked under your arm. He exhales slowly, the words he doesn’t say sitting heavy on his tongue, and follows after you.

From the end of the aisle, he pauses just long enough to see you plunk five copies of the same magazine onto the counter. The cashier raises a brow, and you beam proudly.

“I’m sharing it with my friends,” you announce, not caring who hears. “The music issue is excellent.”

The volume of your voice turns a couple of heads in the quiet bookstore, but you don’t seem to mind as long as you can freely promote your article. Han stays hidden half-behind a bookshelf, watching the way you chatter with the cashier, absolutely unbothered. His lips curve into a quiet chuckle he doesn’t even realize he’s holding back.

-

Han feels the bass still buzzing in his chest as the band wraps up, the noise of the crowd spilling into the night when he and Luke stumble out of the bar. The warm air hits them like a blanket, and they’re both lightheaded, laughing too loudly as they belt the chorus of some song completely off-key.

Luke throws an arm around Han’s shoulders, swaying with him like they’re college kids again. “After-party, bro!” Luke slurs, making exaggerated smoking gestures with his fingers. “C’mon, I got the good stuff.”

Han is about to nod, lips forming a half-drunk why not, when his phone buzzes in his jacket pocket. He fumbles it out, sees your name lighting up the screen, and without a second thought presses accept.

“Hey,” his voice is still rough from singing, but his tone softens instantly.

“Where are you right now?” you ask.

“Just got out of the bar,” Han answers, weaving a little on his feet. “It was great—band killed it tonight.”

You pause a beat, then ask, “Are you busy?”

Han doesn’t even hesitate. “Nope, not busy.”

Luke smacks his chest with the back of his hand, mouthing a dramatic what the hell, man?! but Han ignores him, straining to hear your voice over the city noise.

“I, um… I bought this dresser,” you say. “And I can’t do it alone. I need you.”

Those last words slip into him like a match catching flame. “Yeah,” Han blurts out, maybe too quickly. “Yeah, of course. I’m coming.”

He hangs up, tucks the phone back in his pocket, and turns to Luke, who’s staring at him in disbelief.

“Gotta head home,” Han explains, still stumbling as he starts walking away.

“What about the after-party?!” Luke protests, throwing his arms out.

“She’s alone,” Han says, his hands rising to make big, exaggerated quotation marks in the air, “and she needs me to ‘build’ a dresser.”

Luke squints at him, then bursts into laughter, pointing an accusing finger. “Ooh… someone getting some tonight. You’re getting some.”

Han grins, half-slurring his words, stumbling but walking with a strange confidence. “I told you, man. She only needs more time. I’ve got this.”

-

Han stumbles up your driveway, humming the last chorus of the song he and Luke were screaming at the bar. By the time he pushes open your front door, the tune has devolved into a full-blown off-key performance.

“I said ooooh, I’m blinded by the liiights—”

The sight that greets him makes him lose his place: you, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, an open bottle of wine half-empty beside you, surrounded by boards, screws, and crumpled instruction papers. The so-called dresser looks more like a collapsed tent than a piece of furniture.

You look up at him, cheeks flushed, lips in a dramatic pout. “This thing hates me. I swear it’d be easier to build the London Bridge.”

You pour more wine into your glass and lean against the couch. “Fuck Sweden, man!”

Han can’t help but laugh, his gummy smile breaking across his face. He kicks off his shoes and crouches down beside the wreckage, eyeing the mess of mismatched boards and lopsided screws.

“It’s just a dresser,” he says, waving your words away with drunken bravado. “I’ve got this.”

Your eyes narrow, though amusement curls at the edges. “Famous last words.”

Han grabs the instruction manual, flips it upside down, then right-side up again, pretending to study it with utter seriousness. His head is still buzzing from the bar, but the warmth of your wine-flushed face and the way you’re watching him makes his chest thrum harder than the alcohol ever could.

It doesn’t take long until Han experiences your struggle. He squints at the half-folded manual in his hands, the tiny diagrams swimming in front of his eyes. “Why do they even sell furniture that requires a college degree to assemble?” he mutters, tossing the booklet over his shoulder like it personally offended him.

From the couch, you burst out laughing, clutching your glass of wine as you watch him struggle with two identical boards that don’t seem to belong anywhere. “Because they want to test your patience. And clearly, you’re failing.”

“Failing?” Han scoffs, wobbling a little as he tries to line up two screws with the wrong holes. “No, no, no. I’m innovating. This dresser… is about to be the Tesla of furniture.”

You howl at that, nearly spilling your wine, and the sound makes Han grin even wider. He abandons the screws, grabs a random board, and props it up like a makeshift wing. “See? It doesn’t need drawers. It needs… imagination.”

Another glass of wine disappears into you, and Han starts humming again as he works, only now he’s building something entirely different—more abstract sculpture than dresser. “Look at this beauty,” he declares proudly, holding up what looks suspiciously like a crooked shelf balanced on uneven legs.

You’re laughing so hard you’ve curled onto your side on the couch, glass raised in mock toast. “To the world’s first anti-dresser.”

Han bows, dramatically, wiping fake sweat from his brow. He can feel the dizziness of the bar mixing with the cozy haze of wine, but more than that, he feels the warmth of this—your laughter, the easy glow of the lamp, the way it feels like nothing has changed and so he keeps going, determined to finish his masterpiece.

A long moment later, Han stretches his arms wide as if presenting a masterpiece at an exhibition. The "dresser" now stands in front of you both—a lopsided structure with extra panels sticking out, screws poking at odd angles, and a top piece that looks suspiciously like a head.

“It’s not a dresser,” Han declares proudly, wine glass raised in salute. “It’s a robot. My son.”

You nearly spit out your sip of wine, giggling as you scoot closer on the couch. “Your son looks like he’s been through war.”

Han gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “How dare you! He’s sensitive.”

You grin at him, cheeks warm from the wine. “What’s his name?”

Together, you sit there tossing out increasingly ridiculous suggestions—Mr. Wobbly, Sir Screwsalot, Captain Collapse—until finally, you say one that makes Han freeze.

“He’s from Sweden so he needs a Swedish name,” you suggest, bringing your wine glass close to your lips as you think hard. “How about Stellan Koontz-smith… Hanson?”

He repeats it softly before cooing, “Aww… I think that’s cute.”

You laugh, leaning toward him, and with a playful smile you reach out and gently poke his cheek. “No,” you counter, voice dropping just a little, “you’re much much cuter.”

Han blinks at you, suddenly very aware of the warmth of your finger against his skin, of how close you’re sitting. His chest tightens, though he doesn’t move—doesn’t even breathe.

Your eyes meet his, and for a heartbeat, neither of you look away. The world narrows down to your flushed cheeks, your lips parted like you’re on the verge of saying something—or maybe not saying anything at all.

Han doesn’t know who leans in first. All he knows is the soft press of your mouth against his, hesitant, testing, sweet. His pulse skips, and before he can stop himself, a chuckle tumbles out of him against your lips.

You laugh too, your forehead brushing his, both of you tasting of wine and nostalgia. For a moment, it feels like the kind of kiss two kids would share behind a school gym, shy and giddy.

Then your eyes lock again, breath mingling, and without thinking, you both lean in once more. The kiss this time is hungrier, needier, colliding with more urgency, as though months—years—of holding back are cracking open at once.

Han’s glass slips from his hand onto the rug as his fingers instinctively find your waist, pulling you closer. Your laughter melts into a hum against his mouth, and suddenly the makeshift robot isn’t the only thing in the room about to fall apart.

-

The kiss deepens, but this time it doesn’t stumble. It lingers. Your mouths fit together like they never stopped knowing how, and for the first time in a long time, Han lets himself stop pretending that this isn’t what he’s wanted.

You climb into his lap with a soft, surprised laugh, your wine glass abandoned on the coffee table. His hands slip under your blouse, palms splaying over your waist like he’s relearning you, tracing every familiar curve.

When you tug his sweater off, Han doesn’t resist. It lands somewhere on the floor, and he finds himself staring at you in the low light, chest rising and falling too fast. He should say something. He should stop this. Instead, his fingers hook in the hem of your shirt, pausing just long enough for your small nod before he pulls it over your head.

You sit there, bare from the waist up, hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes hazy from wine and want. Han swallows hard. It’s not just desire—it’s reverence. It hits him all over again how much he’s missed this. Missed you.

“You’re staring,” you whisper, a shy smile tugging at your mouth.

“Yeah,” Han murmurs back, almost dazed. “I forgot how beautiful you are.”

Your smile falters into something softer. You cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek, and he leans into it like he’s starving. Then you lean down, kissing him slow, tender, deliberate.

The rest of your clothes come off piece by piece, each one tugged away with quiet urgency but also hesitation—as if both of you need to admire the other again, to remember. Han drags his fingers down your sides, memorizing skin he never really forgot, while you unbuckle his belt, pausing to look up at him, waiting. He nods, breathless, and you slide it free, exposing his cock that is already swollen, the tip glistening with precum.

By the time you’re both bare, neither of you are laughing anymore. The air feels heavy, weighted with years of love and loss and something that never quite burned out. You straddle him again, and Han’s hands grip your thighs, his eyes locked on yours.

“Are we really doing this?” he playfully asks but he can’t mask the trembling in his voice.

Instead of answering, you lean down, kissing him with a tenderness that breaks him open. Slow. Deep. Certain.

Han can’t stop kissing you either. Your lips, your jaw, your throat, on each swell of your breasts—everywhere he can reach. Each kiss grows hotter, deeper, until he’s no longer content with you hovering above him. With a sudden shift, he grips your waist and flips you onto your back, pressing you down into the couch cushions with his weight. You gasp, half surprised, half thrilled, your fingers instinctively curling into his hair.

Han hovers above you, his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, his voice low, trembling with restraint.

The way you nod, the way your thighs part just enough to pull him in closer—it wrecks him.

“Fuck,” Han groans, kissing you again, slower this time, savoring it. His hands slide down your sides, spreading your legs wider until he settles between them, his hips pressing against yours.

He rubs his length between your slick folds, slow and deliberate, and your soft moan nearly undoes him.

“Missed that sound,” he mutters against your skin before trailing kisses down your throat, his tongue teasing, his teeth nipping just enough to make you shiver.

When he finally pushing his cock into you, the both of you gasp, clutching each other as though to anchor yourselves. Han stills, pressing his face into your neck, overwhelmed by how right it feels, how easily your body still remembers his.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching your face. Searching for you permission. Instead of answering him with words, you pull him down for another kiss, desperate and deep.

That’s all the permission he needs.

Han starts moving slowly, rolling his hips with careful precision, making sure you feel every inch of him. Each thrust is unhurried but heavy, pulling quiet gasps and whimpers from your lips. He holds your wrists above your head with one hand, the other roaming over your body, tracing curves like he’s memorizing you all over again.

Your back arches, pressing your chest against his, and he ducks down to take your nipple into his mouth, teasing with his tongue until you writhe beneath him. He grins against your skin, breathless.

“Still sensitive here,” he murmurs, voice rough, before trailing back up to kiss you again.

The pace builds, slow but sure, the kind of rhythm that makes every thrust linger. Your moans mix with his groans, filling the room with heat and history and something dangerously close to love.

“Look at me,” Han whispers, his forehead pressed to yours, his thrusts deep and steady. When your eyes meet his, it feels like the years apart vanish. You’re his again, even if just for this moment.

Your climax builds slowly, winding tight, until you’re trembling beneath him, gasping his name like a prayer. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t let you look away, thrusting harder as he chases his own release.

When it finally hits, it’s overwhelming—your walls clenching around him, his groan muffled against your lips as he spills into you, holding you impossibly close as though afraid you’ll disappear the second it ends.

And afterward, when you collapse against his chest, sweaty and trembling, Han presses a kiss to your temple, his voice raw when he whispers against your hair:

“God, I missed you.”

-

You wake slowly, a heavy ache pressing behind your eyes, your body sore in ways that only remind you of last night. Before you can fully stir, you feel it—Han’s lips ghosting soft, lazy kisses along your chest, your collarbone, the curve of your neck. A quiet hum slips from him, like he’s content in this private little ritual.

Your lashes flutter open, vision hazy, and in a sleepy voice you murmur, “Hey, what are you doing?”

Han’s grin is playful, his lips brushing your skin again. “Trying not to wake you with my kisses.”

And just like that, it all comes rushing back—the wine, the laughter, the robot dresser, the way his body felt pressed against yours, inside you.

You scramble upright, clutching the blanket to your chest, realizing with a jolt that you’re both completely naked under it. The air feels too sharp, too real. You run a hand through your tangled hair, your heart racing with the weight of regret.

“That was a bad idea,” you mutter, the words heavy, sharp with guilt. “I’m so sorry.”

Han doesn’t flinch. He only shifts closer, burrowing against your side, his arm draped lazily across your waist. He presses a kiss to your bare shoulder as though nothing’s wrong.

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs. “This is nice.”

Then he tilts his face up to steal another kiss from your lips.

You push at his chest gently, breaking the contact, your voice low but firm. “Han, come on. We were drinking, the dresser and… you’re seeing other people.”

That finally makes him pause. He leans back just enough to study you, the playfulness fading. For a moment, it looks like he’s about to say something—some excuse, some denial. But then he exhales sharply, runs his hand roughly through his hair, and groans.

“Oh, yeah, I’m an idiot.”

Before you can respond, he’s pushing away, standing, fumbling for his clothes scattered on the floor. You stay curled under the blanket, clutching it tighter against your chest, your pulse hammering as you watch him yank on his jeans like every movement is fueled by frustration.

“I wasn’t clearly thinking,” you explain, your voice softer, desperate. “And if I was, I wouldn’t let that happen… and you know, I didn’t even think we were getting back together.”

The words hit him like a slap. His jaw tightens, and he doesn’t look at you as he pulls on his shirt, movements rough and clipped.

“You know, there’s an Ikea guy you can call,” he snaps, shoving his arms into his jacket. “He’ll help you build the dresser—and he’d probably fuck you too.”

“Han—” You reach out, your voice a plea, trying to calm the storm in his tone, but he’s already moving.

“Fucking. Fuck… fucking idiot!” He curses under his breath, grabs his jacket fully, and heads for the door without glancing back.

“Han, come on. Just wait—”

But it’s useless. The door shuts hard behind him, leaving you alone on the couch, clutching the blanket to shield yourself from the cold morning air and the sudden, aching emptiness he’s left behind.

-

Work feels like a blur. You sit at your desk with your laptop open, eyes fixed on the glowing screen, but nothing sticks. Every line of text you read shifts into fragments of last night—Han’s mouth on yours, his laugh as he tossed the instruction manual aside, the way he kissed your shoulder this morning, soft and gentle.

And then — the way he looked at you after. The sharp edge in his voice. The door slamming behind him.

You rub at your temple, trying to will it away, but the uneasiness clings stubbornly to your chest.

A knock at the side of your cubicle snaps you back. Chris stands there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. His expression is light but laced with that older-brother kind of concern.

“Your flight’s in four hours,” he reminds you. “You should head home, pack, shower, whatever you need. Don’t cut it too close.”

You blink at him, your mouth opening like you might say something else—like you might unload everything swirling in your head right now. About Han. About the night you wish you could rewind and undo. But the clock is ticking, and there’s no space for long confessions.

So instead, you swallow the words and just nod. “Right. Thanks, Chris.”

He gives you a small smile, one that lingers like he knows you’re not okay, but he doesn’t press. “Safe flight,” he says simply, and disappears down the hall.

When you get home, the house feels too quiet. You set your bag down, tugging at the zipper of your suitcase, but something compels you to move—your feet carrying you straight out the back door.

You push the door open to Han’s studio, expecting to see the familiar chaos: sketchbooks piled on the table, pens scattered, the faint smell of coffee that always clung to the air.

Except that it’s empty. The walls are bare, the table cleared, every trace of him gone.

Your throat tightens as you grip the doorframe, staring at the hollow space where his life once spilled out in color and paper. He didn’t tell you. He just… left.

On the ride to the airport, you can’t stop yourself—you pull out your phone, tapping his contact. The call doesn’t even ring; it goes straight to voicemail. You press the phone closer to your ear anyway, your voice trembling with the weight of what you don’t know how to say.

“Hey, um… I’m on my way to the airport,” you start. “I wanted to talk to you. I don’t know what happened last night, but uh… I hope you’re okay.”

You hesitate, biting down on your lip, wishing you could take more time, find the right words. But the car rolls on, the city blurring outside your window.

“Please call me,” you add quietly, before hanging up.

Unease curls deep in your chest, heavy and suffocating, as you stare out at the skyline slipping away behind you. The farther you get, the worse it feels, like you’re leaving something unfinished—something fragile you can’t patch once it’s broken.

-

It’s been five days of moving from meeting to meeting, smiling, nodding, working—at least on the surface. But underneath, Han has been there the whole time, lingering in the corners of your mind.

You try calling him between appointments, thumbing his name on your phone screen as if the sheer repetition might finally make him pick up, but each time it’s the same—straight to voicemail.

By the time night falls, you’re back in your hotel room, shoes kicked off, hair undone, the silence pressing in too close. You sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, debating whether to try again.

You do and when voicemail picks up, you let out a small laugh, one that’s more hollow than amused. “Hey. It’s me again.” You pause, biting your lip. “I’m coming home tomorrow. I… I miss you. Call me, okay?”

You hang up, your thumb hovering over the screen as if you could undo it, but it’s done. The message is floating somewhere in the digital void now, waiting for him.

With a sigh, you set the phone aside and glance out at the skyline. Cars snake through the streets far below, people moving about their lives with no idea how your heart feels split open.

And your head—God, your head won’t stop replaying everything. The way you pushed him away that morning. The sharpness in his voice as he dressed. The anger in his eyes when he left. And your own words—careless, defensive—echoing back at you now, sounding so much worse than they did in the moment.

You bury your face in your hands, groaning softly. You should’ve handled it differently, shouldn’t have let the wine blur your judgment, should’ve told him the truth—that it scared you, not that it was a mistake.

But still, a stubborn part of you clings to hope. You and Han, you’ve always found a way back to each other. Through college, through fights, through every stumble and pause in between. You convince yourself this is no different. You’ll go home tomorrow. You’ll talk. You’ll fix it. You always do.

And yet, as you lie back against the stiff hotel pillows, staring up at the ceiling, the uneasiness lingers—like maybe this time, you’re not so sure.

-

The taxi pulls away, leaving you with your suitcase at your feet and the familiar sight of your house in front of you. You’re bone-tired from the trip, but the second your phone buzzes in your pocket, everything in you jolts awake. His name lights up the screen and your heart leaps to your throat as you swipe to answer. “Han?”

“Hey, heard you came home today,” his voice comes through, rough but steady.

For the first time in a week, the tension in your chest eases. A wave of relief washes over you so strong you almost laugh. “God, finally. Yeah—it’s me. I just got back. Literally just stepped out of the taxi.” You push your suitcase up the walkway with one hand, balancing the phone against your ear.

“Are you home now?” he asks. There’s something weighted in his tone, but you’re too caught up in the joy of hearing him to press it just yet.

“Yeah, just walking inside,” you say, juggling your keys, dragging your bag over the threshold. The house smells faintly of dust, the quiet pressing in around you. “I missed you, Han. I wanted to—”

He cuts in, not unkindly. “I need to talk to you.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t hesitate. “Good. Because I need to talk to you too. It’s been a week, and I… I have so much to share with you.” You drop your suitcase by the wall and sink onto the arm of the couch, clinging to the phone as if it’s tethering you to him.

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’m on the way to your house right now.”

The words land like sunlight breaking through. You close your eyes, the corner of your lips tugging upward despite everything. “Okay,” you whisper, then stronger, warmer, “I’ll be waiting.”

And as the call ends, you sit there for a long moment, staring at the phone in your hand, heart thudding with a mix of nerves and hope.

-

The groceries you ordered came around the same time Han steps into the house. You line up jars, tuck vegetables into drawers, fill the fridge like you’ve done a thousand times, talking the whole while about the events you covered on your trip—the bands, the late nights, the energy of it all.

Han leans against the kitchen island, quiet, letting you ramble. That’s his thing—always listening, always soaking in your words like they matter.

Until he interrupts, saying. “I really got something to tell you.”

You freeze, cereal box in hand, and glance at him. His face is too serious. Too still.

Setting the box down, you cross your arms and stand across from him with the kitchen island between you. The distance feels sharper than it should. “Okay. You have my full attention now.” You reach out across the counter, grab his hands, trying to soften the moment. “Wait. Are you gay? Please tell me you’re gay, cause that’d be funny.”

His lips twitch in a quick chuckle, but it fades fast. “Nah. Not gay.”

The heaviness returns to his features, his eyes dropping before lifting to yours again. “This is going to be hard to believe…”

You cut in without thinking. “That… you’re going on another date?”

But the answer that comes isn’t even on your list of possibilities.

“I’m having a baby.”

The laugh that spills out of you is sharp, nervous, meant to break the tension—but it falters, empties out of your chest the second you see he isn’t joking. “Huh?”

Han inhales air before he says it again. “I’m having a baby.”

The floor tilts beneath you. You grip the edge of the counter to steady yourself. “What—What do you mean?”

“I’m having a child.”

It’s like ice water pouring down your spine. Your voice cracks as you spit out the obvious question. “With uh… with another person?”

He nods. “Yes. With another person.”

You stumble back a step, heart hammering, vision narrowing around him. “Wait, what? What the fuck?!”

The words echo too loud in the kitchen. You can’t stop them, can’t stop the way your chest tightens until it hurts to breathe. You push air out of your lungs, force yourself to think, to connect the dots. “With who?”

Han’s voice is careful, apologetic. “You actually met her the other day. At the bookstore.”

Your mind reels. The bookstore? Two weeks ago. Isla. The name slams into you like a blow.

“But that was two weeks ago,” you choke out, confusion and betrayal tangling together. “That’s not possible.”

“I—The truth is…” Han stammers, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but you. “I slept with her like three months ago.”

Three months. Your ears ring. All you can remember is the night he told you about the date—the one you thought was recent, harmless. Your stomach flips violently.

“Shit, I don’t know about that but—fuck, that’s not important right now.” Your hand presses to your forehead, trying to keep the pressure from caving you in. You suck in a sharp breath, force yourself to focus. “What do you need me to do?”

His brow furrows, genuine confusion on his face. “Oh, no. You don’t have to do anything.”

For a second, hope stirs—maybe he needs advice, support, maybe this is still fixable. But then his eyes meet yours, and his voice drops like a weight:

“I really want to make it work with her.”

Your chest caves in on itself as if all of the air disappears from your lungs. You blink, hard, but the sting behind your eyes rises anyway. The world is crumbling beneath your feet, and the one person who’s always caught you before is the one letting you fall this time.

You force the words out, barely above a whisper. “Excuse me for a second.”

And before he can see your face crack open, before he can watch the dam burst, you spin on your heel and walk away as fast as your legs will carry you.

The second you’re hidden from his sight, the sob breaks free. It tears through your throat, unstoppable. You press your fist to your mouth to muffle it, but the tears spill hot and fast, your chest heaving as the ache inside you turns unbearable.

Han’s voice still lingers in your ears—I really want to make it work with her—and it feels like every beat of your heart is breaking itself against those words.

You lean against the wall, pressing your hands to your eyes, trying to steady yourself, trying to find something—anything—to anchor you. But every memory you touch burns: the car rides, the quiet mornings, the laughter that used to fill this house like sunlight. And now, the silence feels cruel, as if the walls themselves are mocking you for believing things could ever be simple.

It hits you, sharper than before, that you don’t just love Han. You’ve built pieces of yourself around him—your routines, your memories, your sense of home. And now, in one breath, he’s carved a canyon between you, filling it with a future that doesn’t have you in it.

Tears blur your vision until you can’t see the outlines of the room. You swipe them away, angry at yourself for crying but unable to stop.  You stay there until your body is too tired to keep trembling, until your breaths slow into shallow hiccups, until the wet patches on your sleeves dry against your skin.

Even when you finally stop crying and calm yourself down. Your chest still aches and the thought clings to you, bitter and small:

We were supposed to be forever.

And for the first time, you’re terrified that forever really is over.

-

✨ FOREVER: CHAPTER TWO is available on Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!